Captured By a Viking! Bundle

Citation preview

Captured by a Viking! Bundle Debra Lee Brown, Julia Byrne and Helen Kirkman

Table of Contents Ice Maiden By Debra Lee Brown The Viking's Captive By Julia Byrne A Moment's Madness By Helen Kirkman

Ice Maiden By Debra Lee Brown Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five

Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One The Shetland Islands, 1206 H e was dreaming. Aye, that explained everything. Grit and salt stung his eyes. Icy water rushed over his body in a bone-chilling wave. He couldn’t feel his legs anymore. If only he could move or cry out. “He is perfect,” a feminine voice whispered close to his ear. A soft fingertip grazed his jawline. “Perfectly dead, I’ll wager.” The rough voice was a man’s, the accent fair strange. He cracked an eye to the flat, white light of dawn and tried to focus. “You wager poorly, Lawmaker. Look, he wakes.” Nay, he wasn’t dreaming at all. He was dead. The vision floating above him was enough to convince him. He’d heard of them, of course, in legends told around campfires late at night by seafaring Danes and Norwegians come to trade in Inverness. But he was a Christian and believed not in such tales. Yet there she was, looming over him, waiting.

“Valkyrie,” he breathed. The vision frowned, narrowing ice-blue eyes at him. “You’re right,” the male voice said somewhere at the edge of his consciousness. “He’s not dead, just daft.” Oh, he was dead, all right. How else could he explain such a creature? Two thick, flaxen braids secured with rings of hammered bronze grazed his bare chest as she studied him. She wore a helm, as might a warrior, embossed with strange runes— the kind he’d seen on ancient standing stones near the Bay of Firth—and a light hauberk of finely crafted mail. But she was a woman, of that there was no doubt. The blush of her cheek, the ripeness of her lips, belied her garments and her hard, calculating expression. His gaze drifted lazily along the curve of her neck and the narrow set of her shoulders. Her arms were bare and sun bronzed, adorned with more of the same hammered metal. With each measured breath, her breasts strained ever so slightly against her hauberk. “Am I—” he rasped. “Is this—” He coughed up another lungfull of seawater, then met the Valkyrie’s penetrating gaze. “Valhalla?” Men’s laughter shattered the eerie harmony of cawing terns and cormorants. “Likely the farthest place from it,” the Valkyrie said. “This is Frideray. Fair Isle.” His head spun and a wave of nausea gripped him. “But then…” He tried to sit up. She pushed him firmly back down onto the sand. Another icy surge washed over his numb legs and he started to shiver. “Wh-who are ye?” “I am Ulrika, daughter of Fritha.” “Rika,” he breathed, fighting to stay conscious. At her command, a half-dozen hands clutched him and hefted him from the beach. Pain shot through his limbs, and he bit back a groan. “Thor’s blood, he’s heavy,” the man she’d called Lawmaker said. “We need another man.” Instantly another set of hands supported his limp, sea-battered body. Her hands. They were small, softer than the others. His head lolled to the side and found her crystal gaze. “My ship,” he mouthed, unable to make the sounds. “Lost,” she said, “and every man with it.” A searing pain twisted his gut, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Nay, it canna be. My… my brother?”

“All.” The backs of his eyelids blazed with horrific visions of the shipwreck. The storm had come upon them in the night without warning. Biting sleet and lightning, gale-force winds the like of which he’d ne’er known in the Highlands. The howling haunted him still—a high-pitched railing, the shriek of the devil himself. The hull of their ship had shattered like a child’s toy against rocks that had no reason to be there. At least not from the charts they’d carried. His brother. His men. All dead. “May God have mercy on their souls,” he whispered. The woman snorted and tightened her grip on him. His eyes fixed on the hard set of her jaw as they bore him up a steep hill. She neither faltered nor slowed her pace, ignoring the labored grunts and winded breaths of her male companions. He was vaguely aware of the landscape around him. Rocky and barren, with a chill deadness about it that was reflected in the woman’s eyes. She didn’t look at him, not once, until the thatched roofline of a long, low house came into view. They stopped outside the stone structure. He sucked in a breath as his bearers dropped him unceremoniously onto a bench in the courtyard. “You’re a Scot,” the woman said, and eyed him speculatively. He nodded, trying to focus on her face. “Grant. George…Grant.” His head throbbed as the white winter sky spun above him like a dervish. “Grant,” she said. “An odd name.” “I…I am…The Grant.” “A chieftain?” Lawmaker said. “Well, then, Ulrika, he is a good choice after all.” The woman slid a wicked-looking dagger from the scabbard at her waist. He tensed as she cut away his sopping plaid. God knows what had happened to his weapons. Likely lost at the bottom of the sea. He was too weak to struggle, or even protest. In a matter of seconds he lay naked before her, shivering uncontrollably. Her gaze roved over him coldly, eyeing a sheep for the slaughter. Aye, well, if he wasn’t already dead, he would be shortly. He mouthed a silent prayer. “He’ll do,” Rika said, and sheathed her weapon. To his astonishment she covered him with a thick woolen blanket. “Do for what?” A vision of pagan sacrifice flashed in his mind’s eye.

Lawmaker stood over him and arched a peppered brow. “For her husband.” “H-husband?” His stomach did a slow roll, his head throbbed in time to the dull aching in his bones. “Sleep now, and regain your strength,” Rika said. “We’ve much to prepare before the wedding.” He watched her as she turned and walked away, the short hauberk clinking with the gentle sway of her hips. Her companions lifted him from the bench. “Wh-what’s happening?” he breathed, and met Lawmaker’s stoic gaze. “Something I never thought to see.” The older man smiled cryptically, then followed the woman warrior, Ulrika, daughter of Fritha, into the haze of the longhouse. “Vikings,” he mouthed. A band of bloody Vikings. Rika sucked down the draught of mead and cast her drinking horn aside. “So, old friend, what think you of my plan?” Lawmaker toyed with the end of his beard and looked at her for what seemed an eternity before answering. “You’re sure you wish to do this?” “It’s the only way. You know that as well as I. The dowry my marriage brings with it will buy Gunnar’s release.” “So it would. But we know not where your brother is held.” “Dunnet Head,” Rika said. “On the mainland. I heard Brodir’s men speak of it.” “You are certain?” “Ja.” Lawmaker nodded. “Brodir will not be pleased. He expects to come home to a bride— and a dowry that will buy him fine goods and timber for ships.” Rika looked away and swallowed hard. She did not wish to think of Brodir. Not now, not ever. True, they were betrothed in the Christian way—her father had arranged it when she was a child—but Brodir had gone a-Viking months ago, and she prayed each day that some evil would befall him and he’d not return. Absently she twisted the bronze bracelets circling her wrists, and mustered her resolve. “Brodir will return to a penniless divorcée who will no longer be of interest to him.” So she hoped.

“And her brother restored to his rightful place as jarl,” Lawmaker said, finishing the thought for her. “Exactly. It will work. It must.” Her brother, Gunnar, meant the world to her. He was the only family she had left. Her estranged father didn’t count, of course. All she wanted from him was the dowry. She’d do anything to free Gunnar. Anything. Lawmaker eyed her again, silently, while she fidgeted on the bench, impatient. She must have the elder’s blessing and his help. The henchmen Brodir had left behind to watch her were dangerous men. Without Lawmaker’s consent, her plan was doomed. Finally he said, “It will be dangerous—and complicated.” Rika flew off the bench in elation, ignoring the warning in Lawmaker’s implied consent. “I’m prepared for danger. As for complications, I leave those to you.” “Ja, well…” Lawmaker’s gaze drifted to the bed box at the end of the longhouse where the Scot had thrashed all day in a fitful sleep. “He might have something to say about it.” Rika smirked, triumphant. The Scot had little choice but to comply. “He’ll do as I bid him.” “He is a chieftain, a laird. Think you he’ll agree to wed you just like that?” “Chieftain, indeed.” She made a derisory sound. “He’s a weakling. Look at him.” Her gaze washed over George Grant’s unremarkable features. “Why, he doesn’t even have a beard.” Lawmaker cast her one of his ever-patient smiles—the kind he reserved for children, and for her. “Don’t underestimate the man. A beard is not the quintessential mark of virility among all peoples, Rika—only ours. You’ve much to learn about the mainland and its folk, should you think to venture there.” “Perhaps,” she said absently, and continued to study the Scot. He was more formidable than she’d first thought. Broad of shoulder and well muscled, though she hadn’t seen him on his feet yet, so it was hard to judge his height. Surely he wasn’t taller than she. Few men were. Her gaze fixed on his long, tousled hair. Rich and tawny, it spilled across the pillow like a river of honeyed mead. Thin braids, like a woman’s, graced each temple. Never had she seen a man plait his hair so. She smiled inwardly. Ja, this chieftain would be easy to control.

George woke with a start, fumbling for weapons that weren’t there. “What the devil —?” All at once he remembered—the voyage, the shipwreck, the Viking woman. He blinked the sleep from his eyes as a barrage of peculiar sounds and smells assailed his senses. He lay in a strange sort of bed at one end of the longhouse. ’Twas more of a box, really, elevated off the hardened dirt floor. In the center of the room a fire blazed, curls of smoke drifting lazily upward and out a hole in the roof. Strangely clad folk—men and women and children—gathered around a long table for what looked to be the evening meal. His gut tightened as he recalled the last meal he’d eaten. A bit of bread and cheese shared with Sommerled, his younger brother. Dead. All of them dead. Grief gnawed a hollow inside him. He pushed through it and, moving carefully, swiveled naked from the bed box, pulling the soft blanket with him. The sea had had her way with him. Every muscle cried out, and he grimaced against the pain. Before his feet touched the ground, she was there. Rika, daughter of Fritha. He stared at her, tongue-tied. She looked different without her warrior’s garb. Her hair shone white-gold in the firelight, falling loose about her shoulders. She was dressed simply in a gown of pale wool, girded with the same finely tooled belt she’d worn that morning. Her hand twitched on the hilt of her sheathed dagger. “You must eat,” she said. “I’ll have something brought to you.” “Nay, I willna lay here like a—” He grunted as he tried to rise. She instantly placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him. ’Twas warm, surprisingly so, given the coldness of her eyes. “Lay back,” she ordered, and pushed him down onto the soft pillows. “You’re hurt and must rest.” She spoke matter-of-factly, with not a hint of compassion. Could he not see with his own eyes that she was a woman, he would not have believed it, so cool and authoritative was her demeanor. He obeyed, and slid back into the bed box. She called for a woman to bring food, then settled next to him on a bench, her back arrow-straight, her expression unreadable. “You are Grant,” she said. He nodded. “Aye, George of Clan Grant—of Scotland.”

“George?” She wrinkled her nose. “Not a manly name at all.” Her impertinence stunned him. “’Tis a proper Christian name. But I expect ye wouldna know of such—” “I shall call you Grant.” She turned to accept a trencher of food from a woman who bore a babe straddled across her hip. ’Twas then he noticed the scar. An angry, razor-sharp line running from her left ear under her chin. He’d not noticed it that morning on the beach. Someone had cut her throat—or had tried. The tiny bairn squealed, his hands flailing madly. Rika reached out—on impulse, it seemed—and captured the infant’s chubby fist in her hand. A warm, bittersweet smile blossomed against her cool features. The contrast startled him. ’Twas as if she were a different person altogether. The moment was short-lived. Rika caught him staring at her, and the smile vanished from her lips. She scowled at the babe and waved the woman off. “Take it away.” Hmph. As he’d suspected, she had not a compassionate bone in her body. And yet… “Here, eat.” Rika thrust the trencher toward him. The woman shot him a cautionary glance, then hurried back to table. No one else seemed to pay them any mind—save Lawmaker, who watched his every move, and a sandy-haired youth whose twisted scowl and dark eyes were reserved entirely for George. Nodding at them, George grasped the trencher and accidentally brushed her fingers. A shiver shot through him. She, too, felt something. He watched her eyes widen as she snatched her hand away. He had no appetite, but forced himself to eat some of the food. ’Twas fish mostly, both salted and pickled, and a gruel of what smelled suspiciously like turnips. He picked at the meal while she studied him. As his head cleared and his strength returned, he took stock of his situation. ’Twas not the best of circumstances he found himself in. Shipwrecked and alone, without a weapon to his name. His hosts, if one could call them that, were folk the likes of which he’d ne’er seen. They spoke his tongue, but mixed it with strange words. Norse words. Though they were not like any Norsemen he knew. They were grittier, more primitive—as if time had passed them by.

He counted at least a dozen men in the smoky room, and half again that many women. Somehow, he knew this wasn’t all of them. This was but one house, and he seemed to recall others when they carried him up from the beach. Fair Isle. George knew not where it was. Only that he’d been bound for Wick from Inverness, and a winter gale had blown them off course, far to the north. Past the Orkneys, if he had to venture a guess. How would he ever get back? “You wish to go home,” Rika said, reading his mind. He dropped the bit of fish back into his trencher and met her gaze. “That I do.” “You shall, as soon as you’re fit.” “Ye have a ship then! Thank Christ.” His spirits soared. They would leave immediately, of course. “Who shall take me? Whoever it is shall be well paid for his trouble.” “I shall take you, as soon as our business together is finished.” “What business?” His brows collided in a frown. Something in her voice, and the way she seemed to look right through him, caused gooseflesh to rise on his skin. “Simply this,” she said. “You wish to return home, and I can arrange that. But first, there is something you must do for me.” George set the trencher aside and sat up in the bed. “What, pray tell?” He wasn’t used to dealing with women, and this one had rubbed him the wrong way from the start. For a long moment she didn’t answer, just sat there staring at him. He could almost see her mind working. Once, she opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. His gaze lingered on her lips. They were lush, ripe, as they’d been on the beach that morning when she hovered over him, her breath hot on his face. He felt an unwelcome tightening in his loins and grasped the edges of the wool blanket that covered him. Finally she spoke. “You and I shall marry.” “What?” His eyes popped wide. He thought he’d dreamed that bit of conversation she and Lawmaker had had on the beach. God’s truth, it had seemed more nightmare than dream. “Say again?” “You heard me. We shall marry.” Her eyes were inscrutable, yet her lower lip trembled, belying her confidence. “I need a husband to claim my dowry. Once I have it, you may go home.” “Ye’re daft, woman.” He’d be on his way now, thank you very much. He glanced around the bed box for his plaid, but saw neither it, nor any kind of garment. Wrapping the

blanket around his waist, he again tried to rise. This time, when Rika tried to stop him, he slapped her hand away. “I have a bride,” he said, and rose shakily to his feet. “’Tis all a—” Rika rose with him. Sweet Jesus, the woman was nearly as tall as he. “Arranged,” he croaked. “By William the Lion, my king.” Her eyes widened as she stared up at him, as if he’d said or done something unexpected. She eyed him up and down, then frowned. “You’re tall, Scotsman.” “As are ye.” He raked his eyes over her body with a lack of tact that matched her own audacity. “Not like a woman at all.” She flinched at his words. “It matters not.” Oh, but it did. Women should be small and delicate. Submissive. A proper Christian woman wouldn’t dream of talking to a strange man. Her brash demeanor repelled him, yet his body felt strangely stirred. “About your bride, I mean. Once we are divorced you may go home and claim her. The dowry is all I want. It’s mine by right, by law, and I will have it.” He shook his head, not understanding her at all. What kind of scheme was this? “There can be no divorce. Ye are mistaken. A man weds for life.” He tried to move past her, but she stepped into his path. The sandy-haired youth at table shot to his feet, eyes blazing. George had guessed the lad would be trouble. No matter. George was about to snatch the dirk from Rika’s belt when Lawmaker reached up and yanked the youth back down to the bench. “Not always for life,” Rika said, ignoring the lad’s move. “Ask Lawmaker. He’ll tell you. Divorce is not common, but does occur among my people and suits my purpose well.” The woman was clearly touched. “And what purpose is that?” “I told you. I want my dowry—nothing more. Once we are wed, you shall acquire it for me from my father. When the silver is in my hands we’ll declare our divorce before the elders.” She shrugged. “After that, I care not what you do. Our ship will take you anywhere you wish.” George opened and closed his mouth. Twice. He shook his head again, as if he didn’t understand her, but every word was clear despite her strange accent. “Just like that,” he said. “Ja, just like that.” What she proposed was unthinkable. Outrageous. ’Twas a blasphemy against God. Did she think to use him to gain her fortune, let her think again.

Marriage was a sacrament and, at its best, an arrangement designed to secure an alliance between clans. ’Twas not a pagan ritual to be done and undone on a whim, simply to gain the bride her coin. “I willna do it,” he said. “Fine.” She stretched her lips into a thin, tight line. “I hope you enjoy our island, Scotsman, for you’ll be here a very long time.” She turned her back on him and marched toward the table, where all eyes were now trained on him. “A lifetime, perhaps,” she called over her shoulder, and didn’t miss a step. Chapter Two T he Scot was stubborn beyond belief. For days Rika and her people watched, amused, as Grant worked in vain to build a seaworthy raft of driftwood and pitch and bits of rotten rope. She stood on the cliff overlooking the beach, her cloak pulled tight about her, and observed him. The wind whipped at his hair and the loose-fitting tunic one of the men had given him to wear. His legs were bare though booted, and she knew not how he could stand for so long in the icy water, his gaze fixed on the southern horizon. Winter was at its height. A thin crust of snow clung to the rocky outcrops and grasscovered moors of the island. Daylight was short, and no sooner did the sun rise each day then the wind waxed with a vengeance. She turned her face skyward and breathed of the salt and dampness. All she knew was the sea, what it gave up and what it kept. As she fixed her eyes on Grant she found herself wondering what Scotland was like in the spring. “He’s given up.” Rika turned at the sound of Lawmaker’s voice. “Not yet, old man. Still he believes there must be a way. I see it in the set of his shoulders and in the way he clenches his fists at his sides.” Lawmaker smiled and spared a backward glance to the sheep he tended on the moor. Rika slipped her arm through his, as she often did, and huddled close. “You might have been right. This chieftain may not agree after all.” “He’ll agree,” Lawmaker said, as they watched Grant in the surf. “In his own time.” “Hmph.” They had precious little of that. Her patience wore thin. “He’s done naught but rage and pace the beach all this morn.” “With you stood here openly watching?” She nodded.

“Ha!” Lawmaker shook his head. “No wonder the man’s enraged.” “What do you mean? I don’t understand his anger. The solution is a simple one. He has only to agree and we can move ahead with our plan.” “You make it sound so simple.” “It is.” It wasn’t, but she could see no other way. “Have you thought what you will do after?” She hadn’t, in fact. “I’ll do what I always have done—take care of you and Gunnar. Until my brother takes a wife, of course.” Lawmaker flicked her a sideways glance. “And what of you, Rika. Have you not thought about a husband for yourself ?” She frowned at him. “You know well I have not. How can you suggest it knowing how my father treated my mother? And how Brodir—” she turned away and bit down hard on her lip “—what he did to me.” Her arm slid from his. “Had I known of Brodir’s misuse of you—” She raised a hand to silence him. “It’s of no import now. All is behind me. Gunnar’s freedom is what matters.” “Not all men are like Brodir, you know. Or your father.” That she could not believe. She sought Lawmaker’s eyes, prepared to make some retort, but caught him studying Grant. The Scotsman moved with purpose up the beach toward them, eyes fixed on her, his face a grim fusion of unconcealed hate and barely controlled rage. “He is,” she said. “Just like them. I see it in the way he looks at me.” Lawmaker shrugged. “The man’s out of his element, here in this place. Fair Isle is a world apart from his, and you a woman unlike any he has known, I’ll wager.” “Ha! So he’s made it plain each time I’ve spoken with him. This wager I shan’t take.” “Have you never thought to marry for love?” Lawmaker asked. Thor’s blood, would the old man not let the subject go? “Love.” She snorted. “An emotion for the weak of spirit. Men use it to bend women to their will. Some, to crush them. And I won’t be crushed like an insect under a man’s boot.” Lawmaker sighed. He’d heard it all before, but she cared not, and continued. “You speak to me of love, and conveniently forget that you yourself never wed. You and I are alike, old man. We need not such weaknesses.”

“Ah, but there you are wrong. I have loved, more deeply and fiercely than you can know.” He looked into her eyes and smiled bitterly. “One day I shall tell you the story.” She had never seen him like this, so direct and forthcoming with his feelings. “Tell me now.” “Nay, for you are not ready to hear it. Besides, look—” He nodded toward the beach. “Your bridegroom comes.” He did come, and at a pace that caused her to take two steps back. She met Grant’s gaze and saw his rage had subsided. She hardened her heart against what remained. Hate. Disgust. For her. She felt it as keenly as she’d felt Brodir’s fist on numerous occasions. Rika knew she was not like other women, and she certainly didn’t look like them. Nay, she was far from the ideal. Perhaps that was another reason she’d evaded marriage. Who would have her? Who, besides Brodir, who favored the arrangement only for the coin, and for the humiliation he could wreak on her? Nay, wifery was not for her, and as Grant scaled the craggy hill before her, she took comfort in the fact that her marriage to the Scot would be mercifully short. “Woman!” Grant called. She did not answer. Out of nowhere, Ottar appeared on the hill behind him, and moved with a speed Rika had not known the sandy-haired youth possessed. “Ottar, no!” she cried. Too late. Grant turned on him, and Rika froze. “I must help him,” she said, and started forward. “Nay. Be still.” Lawmaker grabbed her arm. “But—” “Quiet. I’m trying to hear what they say.” Lawmaker jerked her back, and she watched, her heart in her throat, as Ottar confronted Grant. The howling wind made it impossible to hear their conversation. “He’s only ten and six,” she said. “Grant will kill him.” Lawmaker shook his head. “I think not. For all his rage, methinks George Grant is not a man who’d harm a reckless youth.” “How can you be certain?”

Ottar went for Grant, and Rika shot forward, prepared to intervene. Lawmaker yanked her back. “I’m a good judge of character.” One hand on Ottar’s shoulder, Grant held the youth at bay. Rika held her breath, her arm burning from Lawmaker’s steely grip, and watched as the two exchanged some unintelligible dialogue. Finally Grant released him, and Ottar scaled the cliff. Rika breathed. “See?” Lawmaker said. “I thought as much.” Ottar shot her a dark look as he brushed past her. “The boy’s jealous,” Lawmaker said. “Jealous? Of whom?” “The Scot. I told Ottar about the marriage.” “That’s preposterous,” Rika said. “Why would Ottar be jealous? He’s just a boy. Besides —” “He’s smitten with you. Has been e’er since he was old enough to walk and you to lead him by the hand.” “Nonsense. We’re friends.” “He’s nearly a man. Take care to remember that, Rika.” She had no time to reflect on Ottar’s peculiar behavior or Lawmaker’s explanation of it, because Grant had scaled the cliff and now stood before her. Rika drew herself up, ignoring her fluttering pulse, and looked the Scot in the eye. “You will agree to my plan?” She pursed her lips and waited. “I will not,” Grant said between clenched teeth. She had expected him to yield. Could he not see that he’d lost? That she would prevail? “In that case,” she said, “there’s more driftwood on the opposite side of the island. I’m certain some of the children would be pleased to help you gather it.” The fire in his eyes—slate eyes, she noticed for the first time—nearly singed her, so close did he stand. She was uncomfortably aware of his size, his maleness, and let her gaze slide to the stubble of tawny beard on his chin and the pulse point throbbing in his corded neck. Perhaps she’d been wrong to so quickly dismiss his masculinity. Yet there was something different about him. He was not like the men she knew. She had not the feeling of foreboding she did as when Brodir loomed over her in anger. After a long moment, she realized why. Grant dared not lay a finger on her.

Likely because he knew Lawmaker would kill him if he did. Or mayhap, as Lawmaker had said, Grant wasn’t the kind of man who…Nay. They were all that kind. Besides, it didn’t matter the reason. The knowledge of his reserve gave her power, and power was something she’d had little of in Brodir’s world. “How far is it?” Grant snapped, holding her gaze. “To the mainland.” “Three days’ sail—by ship.” Lawmaker glanced pointedly at the makeshift raft on the beach. “In fair weather.” Grant’s eyes never left hers. “Three days. No so far.” He brushed past her, deliberately, and stalked off onto the moor. Bleating sheep scattered before him. Her skin prickled. “You’ve not much time left,” Lawmaker said to her as they watched him go. She knew well what the elder meant. Brodir was long past due and could return any day. When he did, Rika’s one chance to save Gunnar would be lost forever. “This is one of the complications you mentioned,” she said as she watched Grant charge a ram in his path. “Precisely.” “Well, then, old man, I leave it to you to sort it out.” George settled on a bench in a corner of the village brew house and wondered how the devil to go about getting a draught of ale to slake his thirst. He’d been given free range of the island, much to his surprise, and since he’d been strong enough to walk he’d covered every desolate, wind-whipped inch of it. Save sprouting wings and flying off, for the life of him he couldn’t fathom any way of escape. Damn the bloody woman and her clan. All had been instructed—by her, no doubt, though she seemed to hold no great position in the eyes of her own folk—to speak nary a word to him save what was necessary to feed and shelter him. What little he’d been able to learn about the place and its people, he did so from his own observation and from snatches of overheard conversations. The village was small, housing less than a hundred folk, and sat atop a cliff on the south side of the island. Below it lay a thin strip of rocky beach, boasting a tiny inlet at one end that harbored the single craft Rika had called a ship. ’Twas not much of one in George’s estimation. There was no natural timber on the island. Clearly the byrthing, as the locals called it, was built of scrap wood gleaned from

shipwrecks. The low-drafting vessel looked barely seaworthy, but was heavily guarded all the same—likely due to his presence. Right off he saw ’twas too large for one man to sail alone. Though sleet and the occasional snow flurry pummeled the surrounding moors, George was comfortable enough in the furs and woolen garments the islanders had loaned him, and with the food and shelter he’d been offered. He was neither prisoner nor guest, and felt a precariousness about his situation that was intensified by the fact that he had no weapons. ’Twas not the first time he’d been forced to use his wits in place of his sword to get what he wanted, though he’d feel a damn sight better about his chances with a length of Spanish steel in his hand. He supposed he could just wait it out. If it were spring, he’d do exactly that. But few ships dared negotiate even coastal waters in the dead of winter, let alone chanced an open sea voyage. It could be weeks, months even, before another craft lit in Fair Isle’s tiny harbor. The memory of the shipwreck burned fresh in his mind, though no trace of it, save scattered bits of wood, was left along the rocky shore of the island. He’d hired the vessel and its crew out of Inverness, and had taken a dozen of his own men as escort, including his brother. Oh, Sommerled. He raked a hand through his hair and blinked away the sting of tears pooling unbidden in his eyes. What had he been thinking to let the youth talk him into such a daft scheme? They should have traveled up the coast by steed, as was expected. Expected. Sweet Jesus, the Sinclairs! Even now, they must wonder what had become of him and his party. His wedding to Anne Sinclair, youngest daughter of their chieftain, was to take place—he mentally counted off the days—two days hence! He’d never get back by then. He cursed, and a dozen sets of eyes turned in his direction. Not at this rate, he wouldn’t. The door to the brew house banged opened, wrenching him from his thoughts. Needles of sleet blew across the threshold instantly chilling the room. On its heels drifted another frosty presence. Rika.

She did not see him, half-hidden as he was in the shadowed corner, as she made her way to an empty table well within his own view. The youth, Ottar, who’d made it clear to George the previous day he styled himself Rika’s protector, settled beside her on a bench. The woman needed no protector. She was half man herself. Just as he decided she was, indeed, some freak of nature, Rika threw off her heavy cloak and absently brushed the snow from her hair. ’Twas a decidedly feminine gesture, and George found himself fascinated by the dichotomy. In fact, he could not take his eyes from her. ’Twas his first opportunity to observe her undetected, and there was something about it he enjoyed. She called for horns of mead and, once delivered, she chatted easily with the youth. Ottar looked on her with a kind of boyish awe. God knows why. The youth had actually warned him off her. What nonsense. He had no intention of touching her, though he didn’t like anyone—man or boy—telling him what he could or could not do. No matter. The youth was harmless enough. Yesterday on the cliff, George could have snapped his neck with one hand, if he’d had a mind to. At the time, he’d been more concerned with throttling the woman. Even now, as he looked at her, he could feel his hands close over her throat. The scar she bore told him he was not the only man who would see her dead. The brew house door swung wide again, and Lawmaker came in from the cold. He spied George immediately and nodded. Rika followed the elder’s gaze and, when her eyes found George’s, her fair brows knit in displeasure. He read something else behind that perpetual mask of irritation she reserved for him, but what it was, he could not say—only that he felt strangely warmed by her cold scrutiny. Lawmaker settled beside her. He was an unusual man—patient and clever, with an air of intellect about him that was refreshing in what was otherwise a barbaric wasteland of humanity. Rika pulled her gaze from his and cocked her head to better hear Lawmaker’s conversation. She looked up to him, relied on him. George could see it in the way she seemed to consider the old man’s words before replying—as a daughter would reflect on a father’s advice. Lawmaker was clearly not her father, though he figured all important in her scheme. The elder was, in fact, the man in charge at the moment. Their laird, or jarl, was away. Gone a-Viking, the children had told him. What surprised George most was that Lawmaker apparently condoned this marriage scheme. Mayhap the man had not the sense he’d charged him with.

Regardless, ’twas time George learned more of this plan, exactly what would be expected of him. At the moment, he had no other option for quitting this godforsaken place. He rose and moved slowly toward their table. Rika froze in midsentence, then drew herself up to acknowledge him. Christ, the woman was irritating. “Have you something you wish to discuss?” “Aye,” he said. She nodded for him to sit. Why he waited for her consent in the first place, he knew not. He took a place on the empty bench opposite her. “I have questions about this proposed…marriage,” he said. Her face brightened. ’Twas the first spark of cheer he’d seen from her, and it made him feel all the more strange. Ottar snorted, and drained the cup before him. “I’ve work to do,” he said, and pushed himself to his feet, his eyes on George. “I’ll see you later, at table?” The question was for Rika. “Of course,” she said. Ottar quit the brew house like a young bull elk gone to sharpen his sheds against the nearest tree. The lad itched for battle, and George had the distinct impression he was the enemy. “Now,” Rika said. “What would you know?” “This…marriage,” he began. She raised a hand to silence him. “’Twill be a marriage in name only, of course. And short-lived at that. You do take my meaning, Grant.” ’Twas not a question but an order, and George took orders from no one, least of all heathen women. Her confidence irked him. Yet a hint of color tinged her cheeks, and he could swear she was unnerved by the topic. “I understand ye well.” Good luck to the poor sod who dared breach that icy exterior. George was happy to have none of it. “In name only,” she repeated, louder this time. “Name only?” A silver-haired man at the next table rose abruptly at Rika’s words. “Name only?” To George’s astonishment—and Rika’s, too, from the look on her face—in a voice both commanding and strangely melodic, the elder recited a snippet of verse: “‘When a man is wed Ere the moon is high

He shall bed his bride Heed Frigga’s cry”’ Hmm. What the devil did that mea—? “He shall not!” Rika slammed her fist on the table, and her drinking horn clattered to the floor. Now here was something unexpected. George’s interest in the matter grew tenfold with her response. He watched as the silver-haired man exchanged a pregnant look with Lawmaker. “Who is Frigga?” George asked, intrigued. The silver-haired man smiled. “Goddess of love—and matrimony.” Rika swore under her breath. “And who are ye, if I may ask?” George said. “Hannes,” the man said. “The skald.” “Skald?” George frowned, trying to recall where he’d heard the word before. “He’s a poet,” Lawmaker said. Rika shot Hannes a nasty look. “Not much of one, in my opinion. There shall be no —” she crossed her arms in front of her, and George saw the heat rise in her face “— bedding.” She spat the word. “Oh, but there must be,” Hannes said. “It’s the law.” He arched a snowy brow at Lawmaker, who sat, seemingly unmoved by both the skald’s declaration and Rika’s outrage. “Hannes is right,” Lawmaker said finally. “It is the law. Without consummation, there is no marriage—and no dowry.” Rika shot to her feet. “You said naught of this to me before.” Lawmaker shrugged and affected an expression innocent as a babe’s. “I thought you knew.” Until this moment, George had not seen her truly angry, and it fair amused him. The self-possessed vixen had finally lost control. Her cheeks blazed with color, setting off the cool blue of her eyes. Those lips he favored twisted into a scowl. Somehow he must use this opportunity. “If the coin is all ye want,” he said to her, even as the idea formed in his mind, “ye need not a marriage to get it.” Her scowl deepened. “Explain.”

“I told ye,” George said. “I shall pay ye well for my transport home.” “How much?” Her eyes narrowed. He hesitated, wondering how little he could get away with offering. His clan was comfortable, but not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination. He had his own brideprice to pay for Anne Sinclair’s hand. That silver had gone down with their ship and would have to be raised anew. Lawmaker cleared his throat. “It makes no difference, Rika, what the Scot offers. If your dowry remains intact, with your father…” George watched as her mind worked. “Ah, you’re right, of course,” she said. “It solves not my other problem.” George had no idea of what they spoke, yet the matter intrigued him more than it should. “So marriage it is,” Lawmaker said. Hannes made for the bar. “And consummation,” he called back over his shoulder. “I refuse to submit to such a thing! He’ll not touch me.” Rika fisted her hands at her sides and seized George’s gaze. He was certain, if she held it long enough, those crystalline eyes would burn holes right through him. Her breathing grew labored, and George was all too aware of her breasts straining at her gown. ’Twas cold in the room, and before his very eyes her nipples hardened against the thick fabric. All at once, he felt something that startled and disturbed him. Arousal. He shifted on the bench and adjusted his tunic. The thought of bedding such an offensive woman—and one so tall at that—was repugnant. She was everything an alluring maiden should not be: domineering, opinionated, and with a roughness about her that was appalling in one of her sex. Aye, should they do the deed, the hellion would likely wish to mount him. His mouth went dry at the thought, and for the barest instant he recalled how her braids had grazed his chest the first moment he laid eyes on her. Rika stiffened, as if she read his thoughts. Unconsciously she bit her lip, and George’s eyes were drawn to her mouth yet again. An unsettling thought possessed him. Mayhap heeding Frigga’s cry would be not so disagreeable after all. Chapter Three

T he woman disgusted him. And intrigued him. ’Twas late and the fire in the longhouse waned, smoldering embers casting a reddish glow about the smoky room. George sat on the bench near his bed box and watched discreetly as Rika bested Ottar at some kind of board game. She shot him an occasional glance, her eyes frosting as they met his, then warming again in the firelight as she laughed at one of Ottar’s jokes. Lawmaker sat with Hannes in whispered conversation, seemingly oblivious to everything around them. But George knew better. The old man didn’t miss a trick. Rika had avoided all of them, save Ottar, since the incident in the brew house the afternoon before. At table she’d been silent, and when George caught her staring at him, he’d read something new in her eyes. Apprehension. It should have pleased him. After all, decent women should fear him. Respect him. But all he felt was surprise, and a mild disappointment he was at a loss to explain. ’Twas the talk of consummation that had changed her. Of that George was certain. Her entire demeanor seemed altered since the skald’s matter-of-fact proclamation. George ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. It wasn’t his idea, this bloody marriage. ’Twas hers. He wanted no part of it. He was daft to even consider such a proposal. Nay, he wouldn’t do it. There must be another way. He scanned the faces of the men still at table, and those seated around the fire on crudely hewn benches. Blowing snow whistled across the moors outside and flapped at the sealskin coverings draping the windows. A young woman rose from the central table and caught his eye. She was small and blond, exuding a delicate beauty and an air of sensuality that George found rather appealing. She held his gaze while she poured a draught of mead into a horn, then moved toward him with a feline grace. “Are you thirsty?” she asked, and offered him the drink. “Aye,” he said, and took it. Were he on his own shores, he’d consider flirting with this one. “My thanks.” He drained the horn and grimaced at the sweetness of the libation. “You don’t like it?” The woman pouted prettily. “I prefer a stout ale.” “My name is Lina,” she said. “Perhaps I can find you some.”

His gaze slid unchecked over her body, and she giggled. A chill snaked its way up his spine. Rika. George glanced toward the gaming table and, sure enough, found Rika’s icy stare. Her hand closed over one of the carved stone pieces and squeezed. The message was not lost on Lina, who slipped quietly back to her place at table. Rika released the game piece. George marveled at the subtlety of this power play. Aye, all had been told not to speak with him, but the islanders had grown lax on that account these past two days, and Rika had seemed not to care. Until now. The uneasiness he’d read in her eyes just moments before had vanished. The old Rika was back. Frigid. Authoritative. Mercenary. All a man could want in a bride. George snorted and looked away. What in God’s name had he gotten himself into? He had to find a way off the island. Lina had been friendly enough. Mayhap there were others who would help him. He studied the small groups of men and women lounging by the fire and settled on the benches hugging the walls of the longhouse. Some smiled at him cautiously. Others scowled. He was an oddity to them. ’Twas clear the folk of Fair Isle didn’t get much company. George had lived among them nearly a sennight now, and one fact rang clear from the snippets of conversation he’d been privy to. Some sort of dissention was at work. Not all of the islanders spoke highly of their absent jarl. Brodir was his name. Even now, in the dim firelight, George saw two camps taking shape—those who were loyal to Brodir, and those who were not. Two of the loyalists sat watching him from their bench by the fire. The rougher of the two, Ingolf they called him, honed his knife on a whetstone, turning the blade slowly so that it caught the reddish light. The other man smiled wide, revealing a nearly toothless mouth, though by the look of him he could not have been much older than George. Thirty at most. Nay, not even. “Whatcha lookin’ at, Scotsman?” the toothless one said. George shrugged. Ingolf continued to eye him silently, then rose and moved toward him, pocketing the stone but not the knife. The toothless one dogged his steps.

“Methinks we should join him,” Ingolf said to his friend. “What say you, Scotsman? Might Rasmus and I have a few words?” They did not wait for his reply, and sat one on each side of him on the bench. Rasmus, the toothless one, stank of seal oil and mead. George could see immediately that he was Ingolf ’s puppet, and would do whatever the man bid him. Ingolf wiped his knife on his leather tunic, then held it up to the light. “Think you to wed the tall one?” he said, examining the blade. The question caught George off guard. No one had yet spoken to him of this illconceived match between Rika and him, but they all knew. ’Twas the talk of the island. Mayhap these two, unsavory though they seemed, might help him find an alternative to this sham of a wedding. George searched for the right words. “Well?” Rasmus said, sliding closer. “Think you to wed her?” Under any other circumstance, George would have wasted no time in teaching these two heathens a few Scottish manners. He could disarm them both in an instant and have them whimpering for mercy at his feet—and he would have done so had he not been outnumbered nearly twenty to one by their kinsmen. “Mayhap,” he said, controlling his instincts. “What of it?” Ingolf eyed him, and his half smile turned to something more dangerous. “I wouldn’t even dream it, Scotsman, were I in your shoes.” Rasmus fidgeted beside him, and let out a depraved little chuckle. “But ye’re no in my shoes, now are ye?” George said, and straightened his spine. “We ain’t,” Rasmus said. “’Cause if we was, we’d be dead men, just like you.” George studied his fingernails for a moment, then shot them each a steely glance. “Are ye threatening me, lads?” Neither replied. The room felt suddenly over warm, the air close and rank with the stink of them. George was aware of other eyes on him. Lawmaker’s. Was this another test then? Like that morning on the beach with young Ottar? The old man watched George closely, as he had that day, waiting to see what he would do. Lawmaker’s was not the only gaze trained to him. Two others—young men he’d overheard speaking ill of their jarl—watched him, as well. Hang the lot of them. No one threatened him.

No one. “The tall one belongs to Brodir,” Ingolf said finally. George narrowed his eyes at the man. “What d’ye mean?” He couldn’t fathom Rika belonging to anyone. “If you touch her…” Ingolf slid a dirty finger along the blade of his knife, leaving a crimson smear of blood on the hammered metal. “Be warned,” he said, and stood. Rasmus grinned over his shoulder as the two of them snaked their way to the door of the longhouse and disappeared into the night. Lawmaker resumed his conversation with Hannes. The two young dissidents returned their attention to their mead horns, and the mood lightened. George glanced at Rika and saw that her game with Ottar was finished. She sat rigid, her expression cool, her eyes unreadable. What in bloody hell was going on here? Rika poured a thin stream of seal oil onto a rag and worked it into the chain mail of her brother’s hauberk. The armory had been quiet since Brodir went a-Viking last summer. Rika enjoyed the solitude, the smells of leather and burnt metal, the icy kiss of the mail where it rested against her knee. Ottar worked beside her, carving an ancient design into a shield he had fashioned from a timber hatch that had washed ashore after a shipwreck last year. The day was clear and cold, and Ottar had built a small fire in the smith’s brazier in the corner of the small hut. Rika set the hauberk aside and warmed her hands. “Why do you marry the Scot?” Ottar said abruptly. She turned to him, prepared with an answer, knowing he’d ask her sooner or later. “There are things I must—” “If you’ve need of a husband, why not me?” He paused and met her eyes, which widened before she could disguise her shock. “Ottar, you don’t understand.” “I do. You need protection—from Brodir.” He gouged a knot in the wood, abandoning the delicate skill required for such art. “I will safeguard you. You think of me as a child, I know. But I’m not.” Rika smiled and placed a hand over his to quell his attack on the ruined shield. “Nay. I have eyes, and I see you are a man.”

He smiled, and in that moment she thought he looked more boyish than ever. One day the dark down on his chin would sprout into a man’s beard, but not this year. “Then marry me, instead,” Ottar said, and set the shield and the awl aside. “We’re well suited to each other. You cannot argue that.” Nay, she could not, for they spent a good part of every day together and had been naught but the best of friends for as long as she could remember. “It’s what Gunnar would have wanted were he here.” Rika arched a brow at him. Gunnar would not have wanted it, nor would he have condoned the scheme she was about to launch in order to buy his freedom. No one knew of her plan, save Lawmaker and two of Gunnar’s closest friends. All thought she was merely after her dowry as a way to thwart Brodir. She’d been careful never to speak of her plans for the silver in front of Ottar and the others. Regardless of his loyalty to her brother, Ottar’s tongue was far too loose. She’d tell him when the time was right. Ottar had worshiped Gunnar until the day her brother was taken from them—carried off in the night and sold into slavery on a ship bound for the mainland. Few believed Brodir was to blame, but Rika knew the truth each time the huge warrior looked into her eyes and grinned. The memory of him evoked a shudder. Ottar continued to look at her, waiting for her answer. She must think of a way to crush this foolish idea without harming the youth’s feelings. Lawmaker had been right, after all. “I’m not a suitable bride for you,” she said finally. “I’m not—” How could she tell him? “Brodir has already—” She fisted her hands in her lap and searched for the right words. “I know what he’s done, and had I known sooner I’d have killed him.” Ottar knelt before her. “I would…marry you anyway.” A bittersweet chord tugged at her heart. “I know you would, and I’m grateful to you for the offer.” But were Ottar her only choice, she would never allow such a thing. It was unthinkable. Brodir would kill him, as he would any man of her clan who dared such a bold move in his absence. As for the Scot, who cared what happened to him? Besides, if they moved quickly, both she and Grant would be long gone by the time Brodir returned. “Come,” she said, and rose from her stool. “We’ve worked long enough this day. Let us take our evening meal with the others.” Ottar opened his mouth to speak, and she put a finger to his lips to quiet him.

“We will speak no more of this,” she said, and stepped outside into what promised to be a brilliant sunset. Ottar followed, dragging his feet in the crusty snow. Rika smiled inwardly. Honor and chivalry were rare among her folk. One day, Ottar would make a woman a happy wife. But not this year, and not this woman. “Ho!” a voice boomed behind them. Rika turned to see Lawmaker jogging toward them from the bathhouse, his breath frosting his peppered beard. “I’ll see you inside,” Ottar said to her, and continued toward the longhouse. She nodded, then smiled at Lawmaker. Strange that the old man would bathe midweek. She glanced at the small hut on the opposite side of the courtyard and saw that, indeed, a whisper of steam puffed from the hole in its roof. “It is but Thursday,” she said as he approached her. Lawmaker took her arm and led her toward the cliff overlooking the water. The sun was nearly spent. “Ja,” he said, “but my old bones cannot seem to get warm. I thought a good long soak would do me good.” Rika shivered and pulled her cloak more tightly around her. “And me.” “I shall leave the fire lit when I’m finished, if you like.” She nodded, and stepped closer to him. The wind whipped at her unbound hair and chilled her to the bone, but she would not miss a winter sunset on so clear a day. They often stood like this together, she and Lawmaker, watching as Odin’s fiery orb kissed the sea. Someone else watched, as well, below them on the beach. Grant. He sat alone with his back to them, unaware of their presence. Rika felt a sudden stab of pity for the lone Scotsman, but quickly pushed the unbidden emotion away. Compassion, like love, was for the weak. “Once you start down this path,” Lawmaker said, his eyes trained on the Scot, “there can be no turning back.” Rika had no intention of turning back. Gunnar must be freed. She would free him, and this was the only way she could conceive of to do it. “You think it will not change you, this marriage.” Lawmaker looked at her, and in his eyes she saw the experience of a thousand lifetimes. “But it shall.”

A shiver coursed through her. “Nay, it shan’t.” The subject unnerved her, and she grasped at the first unrelated thought that crossed her mind. “Ingolf warned him off, you know. Last night, in the longhouse.” “Ja, but the Scot was not afraid. Far from it. Did you not see the fire in his eyes? I swear his hand itched to rip the blade from Ingolf ’s grip and slit both their throats. A lesser man would have tried.” Rika had seen, and was impressed by Grant’s judgment and control. “Perhaps you should speak with him,” she said as she watched Grant rise from the rocks and walk along the surf line. “Tonight,” Lawmaker said. “He’s had time enough to think on it.” George pushed back from the supper table, sated, and made for the door. The two young dissidents who’d watched him all week offered him a horn of mead and a seat by the fire. He declined, wanting some air and a bit of solitude before bed. The time had come to make a decision. Today was his wedding day. In Wick, Anne Sinclair and her family waited for a bridegroom who would not come. George closed the longhouse door behind him and sucked in a draught of wintry air. The king and the Sinclairs would have his head. There was no way to send word to them or to his own clan about what had befallen him and his men. Mayhap they’d think him dead. Nay, no one knew they’d gone by ship. It had been a last-minute decision, made on the docks at Inverness. He remembered the look of wonder on young Sommerled’s face when his brother had first spied the bonny ship in the harbor. Stupid, stupid decision. George would never forgive himself. All lost. Rika’s dispassionate words echoed in his mind. What kind of woman could be so callous? A woman who dressed like a warrior, who drank and gamed with men, and showed not a whit of the softness and grace expected of her sex. He’d never agree to her plan. Never. Not if he lived a hundred years on this godless island. “You’ve made up your mind,” a voice called out in the dark. George whirled toward the sound, his hand moving instinctively to the place at his waist where a dirk should rest. Damn! This lack of weaponry grew tiresome.

“Who’s there?” he called back, ready for a fight, and walked toward the dark shape lurking in the shadow of the longhouse eaves. “Lawmaker.” He relaxed. In the past week he’d formed a cautious association with the old man. He reminded George a bit of his dead uncle, a man who had shaped his thinking as a youth. “It’s a fair night,” Lawmaker said. “Come and sit.” He gestured to the bench hugging the wall, and George obeyed. There was no moon, and the stars hammered a brilliant path of light across the midnight sky. The wind had died, as was its wont after dark, and the sound of the sea filled his ears. Lawmaker sat silent beside him, and he knew the old man waited for him to speak first. George had a dozen questions, and began with one that had been on his mind from the start. “What is your true name?” The old man chuckled. “Now there’s a question I’ve not been asked in years. You likely couldn’t pronounce it.” “Why, then, are ye called Lawmaker?” “It’s an ancient custom we still abide. There must always be one who speaks the law, one who remembers.” “And ye are that one,” he said. “I am. Since I was a very young man.” George could well believe it. The elder had a patience and temperament well suited to such a position. ’Twas not unlike the role of the elders of his own clan. “And Rika,” he said. “In her father’s absence ye are her guardian?” “I suppose I am, as much as any man could be, given her nature.” George laughed. “She is unlike any woman I have known.” “That is not surprising.” He recalled the first moment he saw her, there on the beach looming over him. “Explain to me why a woman would don a helm and a suit of mail—here of all places, on an island where there is little threat of danger.” Lawmaker sighed. “There is more danger than you know—for Rika, in particular. Her life has not been easy. She’s fought her own battles and bears the scars of such experience.” He remembered one such scar, and imagined tracing it along the curve of her neck.

“And we did not know, when first we saw you lying still on the beach, were you friend or foe, if you lived or nay. Rika is hotheaded, reckless even—save where men are concerned. There she tends to be overcautious.” He looked at the old man’s face in the dark. “And with good reason,” Lawmaker said. George would know that reason, and that unsettled him. Why should he care? “It’s her brother’s battle gear, not hers.” “Brother?” No one had said anything about a brother. “Where is he? Why have I no met him?” Lawmaker didn’t respond. “Will he no have something to say about—” “He is gone,” Lawmaker snapped. “No one knows where.” The old man was irritated, but why? There was more to all of this than he let on. An estranged father. A lost brother. An absent jarl. Whisperings among the women, and tension among the men. There was a mystery here, and Lawmaker held the answers. George knew the elder would not reveal all to him in this night. Still he pressed for more. “This Brodir, your jarl,” he began. “Rika is…” How had Ingolf put it? “She belongs to him?” “Who told you that?” George shrugged. Lawmaker knew exactly who had told him. “Rika belongs to no man. Not yet,” the old man added, and shot him a wry look. He took Lawmaker’s meaning, and the presumption annoyed him. “Why me? There are plenty of men here. If all she wants is her coin, why no wed one of her own? Someone who’s willing?” “Nay, that would be too…complicated. You are the perfect choice. You have no interest in the dowry or her. Am I right?” He snorted. “Too right.” “Well then. What say you?” George rose from the bench and kicked at the thin veil of snow under his boots. What choice did he have? He shook his head, unwilling to give in. There must be another way. “Do not answer yet,” Lawmaker said, and stood. “You’re tense, and still angered over your situation. Angry men make poor choices.”

The old man had a point. “Go,” Lawmaker said. “Have a soak in the bathhouse.” He pushed George toward the small hut at the end of the courtyard. A fire was lit within, and a warm glow spilled from under the closed door. Aye, mayhap a hot soak would do him some good. At least ’twould warm his icy flesh. “Ye shall have my answer later,” he called back over his shoulder, and tripped the bathhouse door latch. ’Twas hot and close inside. Steam curled from under the inner door leading to what the islanders called a sauna. George had never seen such a thing before. He noticed that the bathing tubs in the outer chamber were empty. Strange. Lawmaker had said a soak would be good for him. No matter. He would try this sauna. George peeled off his garments and laid them on a bench next to a coarsely woven cloak. Someone else was within. One of the other men, by the look of the garment. He sought solitude, but there was damned little of it to be had anywhere in the village. To hell with it. The heat felt good. Already he could feel the tension drain from his body. He pulled open the inner door, stepped into the cloud of steam, and drew a cleansing breath of moist air tinged with herbs. Ah, heavenly. There would be a bench somewhere. A place to rest. Cautiously he took a step. Another. The heat grew intense, and a healthy sweat broke across his skin. Christ, he couldn’t see a thing. Where was the bench? It should be right— A vision materialized in the vapor. A woman. She sat with her back to him, long damp hair clinging to her nude body. George swallowed hard. How long since he’d had a woman? Too long. In one languid motion, the vision drew a ladle of water from a bucket at her feet and poured it over her head. She turned, and the rise of one perfect breast came into view. Water sluiced over her skin. One shimmering droplet clung like honey to the pebbled tip of her breast. He wet his lips. As the vapor cleared, their eyes met. “Rika.” She gasped, but did not cover herself, nor did she look away.

He was aware of his heart dancing in his chest, of the heat, and the closeness of her. He fisted his hands at his sides because he didn’t know what else to do. Her eyes roved over him in an entirely different manner than they had that first day when she’d stripped him naked like a beast in the courtyard. Finally she turned away. He breathed at last. Seconds later he was dressed and stumbling out the door into the courtyard. The cold air hit him like a hundredweight stone. He felt drugged, hungover. Not himself at all. A shape stepped out of the shadows and Lawmaker’s peppered beard glistened in the starlight. “What say you, Scotsman? Will you wed her?” Time stood still for a moment, a day, a lifetime, as the sound of the sea filled his ears. “Aye,” he heard himself say. “I will.” A sliver of moon rose over the water, and in the pearly light Lawmaker smiled. Chapter Four S he didn’t feel like a bride. Rika stood naked before Sitryg, the woman who had been her mother’s closest friend, and frowned. “Come now.” Sitryg slipped a light woolen shift over Rika’s head. “Is this not what you yourself wished? To wed the Scot?” “Ja,” she said, but would not meet the older woman’s eyes. “I will say this much for him,” Sitryg said, then pushed Rika down onto a stool and began to work a tortoiseshell comb through her hair. “He’s fair handsome, and canny as any man I’ve known.” “Hmph. That’s not saying much. Who have you known?” Sitryg clicked her tongue. “Enough, girl. In a few hours he shall take you to his bed. If you’re half as smart as I think you are, you’ll change your mood before then.” “Why should I?” The comb pulled harder. “Ow!” “Because it will go easier for you if you do. A man expects a compliant bedmate, not a sharp-tongued serpent in women’s clothes.” At least she’d agreed to wear women’s clothes. She would have preferred Gunnar’s hauberk and helm. It seemed, somehow, more fitting to the occasion. Rika crossed her arms over her chest and ground her teeth. Ja, compliant she’d be for as long as it took. And if her experience with Brodir was any indication, it wouldn’t take long.

She’d do it for Gunnar. Nothing else mattered. After all, how much worse could it be than what she’d already experienced in Brodir’s bed? Rika toyed with the wide hammered bracelets circling her wrists. “I suggest you remove those,” Sitryg said. “They don’t belong with your gown.” Rika ignored her. She never removed the bracelets. Not ever, except in the bathhouse, and only when she was alone. A shiver ran up her spine as she recalled Grant’s eyes on her in the sauna last eve. He could have taken her then, in the heat, on the birch-strewn floor. Brodir would have. But Grant hadn’t, and she knew why. She repulsed him. Disgusted him. Her size and plain features, her scars—Thor’s blood, had he seen her with her bracelets off ? He’d stood not an arm’s length from her and had said not a word save her name—yet she’d felt his contempt. Oh, she knew well that sensation. Her father had taught her young that she was less than nothing. She and her brother—their mother, too. Why Fritha had stayed married to him all those years, Rika could not understand. When her mother died, it seemed almost a blessing. So peaceful did she rest on her funeral pyre, Rika longed to go with her to the next world. Then there had been Brodir’s lessons. Rika closed her eyes and swallowed against the taste souring her mouth. By rights, she should have told someone and Brodir would have been punished. But she had not. The humiliation had been too great. Too, she feared he would exact some worse revenge. Instead, she’d borne his abuse in silence. And she could bear it once more at the hands of a stranger. She must. “Leave me now,” she said, and rose from the stool. Her pale woolen gown lay strewn across a bench in the small cottage where she and Grant would pass their wedding night. Most of the islanders slept in the four longhouses that ringed the central courtyard, though some couples built cottages of their own after they wed, in the style of the mainlanders—and the Scots, she supposed. “Let me help you finish dressing.” Sitryg reached for the gown. “Nay, I can manage on my own.” “But—” “Sitryg, please.” Rika put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. Only then did she realize she was trembling. This was ridiculous. She must compose herself. “Leave me now. I shall see you at the ceremony.”

“As you wish.” The old woman covered Rika’s hand with her own. “Your mother meant the world to me, you know. I would help her daughter in any small way I could.” She smiled, remembering how close the two of them had been. “I know that, and I thank you.” Sitryg squeezed her hand, then left. Rika collapsed on the freshly made bed and whispered “I must be strong” for the hundredth time that day. As strong as her mother had been. As strong as Gunnar would have to be to stay alive until she could reach him. This wedding was only the first of the trials she must endure. Her father’s wrath would come later and, after she returned, she’d have Brodir to face. The fire in the room did little to warm her. Rika rose and snatched the gown, pulled it on and smoothed it over her shift. Perhaps she wouldn’t return to Fair Isle at all after Gunnar was freed. She could stay on the mainland and make a new life. Now there was a thought. She donned her sealskin boots and secured her hair with a kransen, a plain bronze circlet that rested lightly on her forehead. It would have to do. She was no beauty, and it made no sense to fuss over her appearance. Besides, what did she care how she looked? It wasn’t a real marriage, after all. Following the celebration, Grant would do the deed—damn Hannes to hell—and she’d never have to suffer it again. An image of the Scot looming over her naked in the sauna shot through her mind like a lightning bolt. It was not the first time that day she’d thought of him so. Last night in the heat and close air Rika had felt something so overpowering, so foreign, it frightened her. Desire. “It’s time,” a voice called from the other side of the door. “Your bridegroom waits.” George paced the dirt floor of Lawmaker’s cottage and shook his head. “She must be mad if she thinks I’ll recite such pagan words.” Lawmaker arched a brow in what George knew was exasperation. They’d been over the details of the ceremony a dozen times that day. “It’s not up to her. It’s the law. You have your rituals, and we have ours.” “But it’s…heathen.” He didn’t want to offend the old man, but there it was. “It’s a Christian ceremony for the most part.”

“Oh, aye? Well where’s the priest then?” Lawmaker shrugged. “The only one we had died years ago. Besides, the people like the old ways. There is little left to remind us of our ancestry. The wedding rites are something we all enjoy.” “Hmm.” Well he wasn’t enjoying it one bit. He supposed he should be relieved there was no priest. ’Twas not a proper Christian wedding and, therefore, ’twould not be recognized by God or king. That was some consolation. No one would have to know about it once he was home. Home. Again, he thought of Sommerled. “Take this,” Lawmaker said. To George’s astonishment, the old man offered him the hilt of a sword. His fingers closed instinctively over the finely crafted weapon. The weight of it felt good in his hand. Lawmaker grinned. “It suits you.” “Why now? And why a weapon so fair?” He ran his hand along the rune-covered blade. “Oh, it’s not for you to keep. The ceremony requires that you bestow on your bride your family’s sword—as a vow of protection.” George frowned. “You have no family here, so I offer you my weapon.” Lawmaker looked at him, waiting for his acceptance, and George knew from the elder’s expression that the gesture was no small honor. He was moved by the man’s trust in him. “Thank ye,” he said. “Rika, in turn, will offer you her family’s sword. Her brother’s.” “As a sign of…?” “Obedience.” “Ha!” “And loyalty,” Lawmaker said. “Do not scoff. I told Rika this, and I shall tell you—” Lawmaker snatched the sword from him and sheathed it. “This marriage will change you both—for the better, methinks.” He snorted. “The only thing ’twill change is my location. For if I do this thing, I expect to see the bonny shores of Scotland posthaste.” “Hmm, Latin. You are as I thought—an educated man. It will be a fine match.”

“Stop saying that.” The old man annoyed him to no end. He’d sent George into that sauna deliberately, knowing Rika was there. George knew it, and Lawmaker knew he knew it. Damn him. He’d not been in his right mind when he agreed to the wedding, but by the time he’d come to his senses, the news was all over the village. He’d given his word, and he was not a man to go back on it. Lawmaker knew that, the canny sod. “Take this, as well.” “Huh?” He hadn’t been listening. Lawmaker handed him a small, devilishly heavy tool—a hammer. “What’s this for?” “Put it in your belt. It’s a symbol of Thor’s hammer. For the ritual.” He looked at it skeptically before tucking it under his belt. “What does it signify?” Lawmaker smiled. “Your mastery in the union. And a fruitful marriage, if you take my meaning.” “Oh, aye.” George shot him a nasty look, and the old man laughed. What fruit ’twould bear would be bitter at best. “Bear with me, son. We are nearly ready.” ’Twas a good thing, too. He didn’t know how much more of this pagan nonsense he could stand. “Now, about the bride-price. I expect—” “Bride-price? Surely ye dinna expect me to pay for her? And with what, pray tell?” This was too much. “Calm down.” Lawmaker placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “I was about to say, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. When you meet Rika’s father.” “Fine.” “For now, all that’s needed is for you to present her with a morgen gifu—a morning gift, after the, uh…consummation.” George felt his eyes widen of their own accord. “Well, on the morrow sometime.” Lawmaker fished something out of a chest behind him. “Here, give her this,” he said, and dropped it into his hand. “What is it?” He examined the delicately crafted silver brooch and marveled at the workmanship. For all their roughness, these islanders were excellent craftsmen. “Something I’ve had for years. It was Rika’s mother’s, in fact. It’s time she had it.”

George slipped the brooch into the small pouch at his waist and nodded. “Well, are you ready?” “As ready as any man who faces the hangman’s noose.” Lawmaker smiled like a cat who’d cornered a tasty field mouse. “Come, your bride awaits you.” Rika turned into the courtyard and was not prepared for what she saw there. The whole of the village was assembled and fell silent when she appeared. Hushed whispers and children’s laughter rose around her, threatening to swallow her up as she walked slowly along the path that opened before her. A sullen Ottar followed in her wake, bearing her brother’s sword. She was not used to such attention, and her kinsmen’s stares unnerved her. Lawmaker stood with Grant by the well at the courtyard’s center. Mustering her resolve, she fixed her gaze on the old man’s calming features, and moved one foot ahead of the other until she was there. For a long moment, no one spoke. The weather was blustery, the sky white, and her thin woolen gown afforded her little protection from the chill air. Sitryg stepped forward, and Rika stooped so the small woman could remove the bronze kransen from her head. It was a symbol of virginity, and after today Rika would wear it no more. Few knew why she’d ceased to do so months ago. Most of the islanders thought her strange anyway and paid her actions no mind. Lina held the bridal crown. Fashioned from straw and last year’s wheat, it was garlanded with dried flowers, and set with a few precious pieces of rock-crystal gathered from the beach. Sitryg seated the crown, and Rika stood tall, turning her gaze for the first time on her husband. Grant’s expression was stone, his eyes cool steel. Attired in rare leather and borrowed fur, he looked every bit a Viking bridegroom. To her surprise, he wore Lawmaker’s broadsword. She glanced quickly at the old man and caught him smiling. Lawmaker cleared his throat, then nodded at the Scot. Grant stepped forward, and she fought the ridiculous urge to step back. He looked pointedly at her as he unsheathed the sword. His eyes were so cold, for a moment she thought he might use the weapon to slay her. What did she expect?

This wedding was forced on him. The Scot hated her, and she knew he’d use that hate tonight in their bridal bed, much as Brodir had on many occasions. So be it. She was prepared. Rika swallowed hard and forced herself to hold his gaze. Grant presented her with the weapon’s hilt and she took it from his hand. Hers was shaking. She motioned for Ottar, but he did not step forward. When Rika turned to prompt him, she saw that his dark eyes were fixed on Grant and that his face twitched with what she knew was pent-up rage. “Ottar,” she whispered. “The sword.” The youth thrust it toward her. She nearly dropped it when he let it go and stormed off into the surrounding crowd. Later she would find him and again try to make him understand. Lawmaker nodded at her to proceed. She studied Gunnar’s sword. Though it had been their father’s, she had always thought of it as Gunnar’s, and was now loath to part with it. She had little left of her brother, and the weapon had been one of his most treasured things. “Rika,” Lawmaker said. She met Grant’s eyes, and read something new in them. Amusement? Ja, the corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. Lawmaker must have explained the significance of the ritual. Her hackles rose. She gritted her teeth behind tightly sealed lips and thrust the sword toward him. Grant’s hand closed over it, and for a moment she hesitated. He jerked the weapon from her hand and smiled. Thor’s blood, she hated him. That hate fed her resolve, and her confidence. She knew men, and the Scot was no different. They fed on power and domination. Tonight’s victory would be his, but she would win the war. Lawmaker fished something out of the pouch at his waist, and Rika’s eyes widened as she recognized what he held. Wedding rings. No one had said anything about rings. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he merely shrugged. Hannes stood behind him, grinning. Grant had obviously been well instructed, for he proffered the hilt of her family’s sword while Lawmaker set the smaller ring upon it. She pursed her lips, and did the same with the weapon Grant had given her.

They exchanged the rings, each on the hilt of their newly accepted swords. Without flourish Rika jammed the silver circle on her finger. Grant followed suit. There. It was done. Save for the speaking of vows—a Christian custom Rika never much cared for. Grant raced through the lines he’d been taught, and Rika mumbled her response. A shout went up in the crowd, and others echoed it. Lawmaker grunted, satisfied, and Rika supposed she should be happy, as well. It was, after all, what she’d wanted—the first step in her carefully crafted plan. She turned to the crowd of onlookers and searched for the two faces she knew would be there. Erik and Leif. Her brother’s closest friends. They nodded soberly when she met their eyes. The two young men shared her secret, and their stalwart faces buoyed her confidence. “Wife,” Grant’s voice boomed behind her. Her head snapped around. The Scot had the nerve to offer her his arm. “Come, there is a celebration, is there no?” She scowled. “I don’t wish to celebrate.” “Ja, she does,” Lawmaker said, and pushed her toward the path opening before them. Her temper flared. She shot both of them murderous glances, then stormed toward the longhouse. “Wait!” Lawmaker called after her. She looked back, but kept walking. “Rika, watch—” “Unh!” She tripped over the threshold and hit the packed dirt floor with a thud. Thor’s blood! A collective gasp escaped the mouths of the onlookers. Grant was there in an instant, looming over her but offering no help. Lawmaker pushed him aside and pulled Rika to her feet. “What’s wrong?” Grant said, obviously bewildered by the shocked expressions all around him. “You should have been here waiting, as I instructed you,” Lawmaker scolded. “Aye, but she beat me to it. So what?” Grant shrugged.

“It’s an ill omen, you fool.” Lawmaker shook his head at Grant. “You were to carry her across, remember?” Grant snorted. “She’s so big, I wasna certain I could manage it.” Of all the— Her kinsmen roared, and Rika felt the heat rise in her face. She tested the weight of the sword Grant had given her, and was sorely tempted to unman him on the spot. Instead, she glared at him until the smile slid from his face, then she blew across the threshold into the midst of the celebration. George followed her into the longhouse, which was already packed with people. Tables were jammed into every available space, and laden with fare—roasted mutton, bread, and a half-dozen kinds of cheese. Flagons of honeyed mead were placed within easy reach of every diner. The air, as always, was thick and smoky. The central fire blazed. George welcomed the heat, for the weather had turned. By nightfall snow was expected and, from what the elders predicted, in no small measure. “Ho, Scotsman!” A burly islander slapped George on the back. “Have a go at this rooftree, man, so we can see of what you’re made.” The man pointed at one of the thick timber pillars supporting the low longhouse roof. George had no idea what the man wanted him to do. Rika beckoned him to the high-placed table where she sat with Lawmaker. “Nay, you need not partake of such foolishness.” “Come on, man,” the islander said. “Draw that fine sword she’s given you and see how far you can sink it into the wood.” George followed the man’s gaze to the timber pillar, which he now noticed was riddled with scars. Still he did not understand. Men crowded around him, spurring him on. “’Twill predict the luck of the marriage,” one of them said. “Oh, I see.” George nodded his head, but he didn’t see at all. “It’s a test of virility, of manhood.” The burly islander slapped his back again. “The deeper you sink your weapon…” He cast a lusty smile toward Rika, who blushed crimson with rage. “Well, you…understand, do you not?” George understood, all right. “Why not?” he said, enjoying Rika’s discomfort. He drew the sword and raised it double-fisted over his head as instructed by the men. The room went deadly quiet.

Rika glared at him, her eyes twin daggers. He grinned at her, drew a breath and, with all his might, plunged the sword into the wood. “Hurrah!” The shout went up as a dozen beefy hands slapped him on the back, a few reaching up to rumple his hair. ’Twas all fair amusing. The burly islander grunted as he pulled the sword from the timber, carefully measuring off the length that had been embedded. Apparently, George had done quite a good job of it, for the men howled as the burly one held the weapon aloft for all to see. After George had been congratulated a dozen times over, the crowd pushed him toward the table where his bride waited, her face the color of ripe cherries. “You did not have to do that,” she seethed. “I know, but I enjoyed it.” He smiled again, just to taunt her. He had enjoyed it, but reminded himself that his brother was dead, and that he was far from home. Too far. ’Twas easy to forget amidst such revelry who he was and why he participated in such pagan rites. He scanned the faces in the room, and nodded at those he recognized. Most of the men seemed to accept him, which he thought odd. Others—Ingolf, in particular—spared him naught but menacing glances. “Here,” Rika said, and pushed a strange-looking vessel toward him. “The bridal cup. You must drink from it, and I will do the same.” The handles were carved into the likeness of a fantastical sea creature. Never had he seen such a thing. George grasped the handles, brought the cup to his lips, and drank. What else? Honeyed mead. Another cheer went up. He screwed his face up as the sweet liquor hit his senses. Nay, there was no hope of a decent ale for fifty leagues. Three days’ sail. He passed the cup to Rika and she drained it. “There,” she said to Lawmaker. “It’s done. All rituals complete.” “All but one,” Hannes said, and rose from his seat on the opposite side of the table. “Grant,” he said, “your hammer.” “Nay.” Rika visibly stiffened beside him. “I won’t have it.” “It’s custom,” Hannes said, and the crowd cheered him on. George wondered what, exactly, this custom signified, to cause her such distress. He rose at their beckoning, slipped the hammer from his belt and handed it to the skald.

“It’s ridiculous,” Rika hissed, and turned to Lawmaker as if he would put a stop to Hannes’s antics. George had no idea what was about to happen, but ’twas clear Lawmaker had no intention of stopping it. Hannes moved behind Rika, whose fists were balled on the table. So profound was her anger, it radiated from her like an icy heat. “Get it over with, poet,” she said to the skald. Hannes placed the hammer in her lap, and every man, woman and child in the tightly packed room let out a howl. Lawmaker smiled. “What does it mean?” George leaned behind the fuming Rika to ask him. “Hannes invokes Frigga, who is also the goddess of childbearing.” George could not stop his eyes from widening. “The gesture is meant to bless the bride’s…er, womb.” Lawmaker arched a brow at him. “I see,” George said, and decided he’d best have another cup of that insufferable mead, after all. Hours of feasting and drinking ensued, during which Hannes recited a host of verses —many of them love poems, to Rika’s enormous displeasure. George relaxed for the first time since he’d arrived on Fair Isle, and decided, after all, that this marriage was no great burden. ’Twas harmless, really. A pagan rite, nothing more. Had he agreed to it immediately, he might have been home by now. His obligations to king and clan, and to the families of his men who’d perished at sea, weighed heavy on his mind. Surely they’d sail on the morrow. His bride was as anxious to secure her dowry as he was to return home. As for tonight…he’d make the best of it. Rika sat not inches from him, but had barely glanced in his direction all evening. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “This was no my idea, ye know.” His closeness startled her, and she drew back. “I know. It will all be over soon.” Her expression was cool, but her eyes were troubled. “No soon enough,” he said, and wondered why this much celebrating was really necessary.

She whispered something in Lawmaker’s ear, and the elder rose. “It’s time!” he shouted over the din. “The night is on us.” “Time for what?” George asked to no one in particular. Rika’s grim, pale expression gave him his answer. “Oh, the—” “Ja,” Rika said, cutting him off. “We will retire now to our…” She drew a breath, and if George didn’t know her for the icy thing she was, he’d think it was for courage. “To the cottage,” she finished weakly. Without preamble, he and Rika were whisked from the bench and carried outside on the shoulders of a small throng of drunken islanders. ’Twas snowing. Billowy white flakes blustered down on him, clinging to his hair and garments. He sucked in a breath and realized, too late, that he’d had far too much mead. His head began to spin. Moments later, the door to a small cottage at the other end of the courtyard was kicked open, and Rika was dropped unceremoniously onto the bed within. George was set on his feet in front of her. Before he knew what was happening, three men relieved him of his weapons, his boots, and his tunic, leaving him next to naked in naught but his leggings. He snatched a fur from the bed and held it in front of him. He wasn’t usually this modest, but the strangeness of the situation unnerved him. Two women hovered over Rika, and when they drew back he saw that she, too, had been stripped of her outer garments. Her undershift was thin, nearly transparent. In his mind’s eye he saw her as she’d been in the sauna last eve—her skin pearled with sweat, her hair damp and clinging to the curves of her body. He drew a sobering breath. One of the women, an elder, said, “Remember what I told you, girl.” Rika did not respond, nor did she move a muscle. Hannes and Lawmaker and the few others packed into the tiny cottage fell silent. Finally she tipped her chin at George and said, “Do it then. Get it over with.” He looked at her, uncertain of her meaning. She set her jaw and eased back onto the bed. “I’m ready, Scotsman. Finish it.” “What?” he croaked. Truth dawned, and his mouth gaped. “Ye mean…” He glanced at the others in the room, and shook his head. “She canna mean what I think she means?” “Ah, what’s that?” Lawmaker said, his face as innocent as a babe’s.

Oh, nay. Surely they didn’t expect… “It must be witnessed,” Hannes said. “It’s the law.” George stood speechless, clutching the fur. “Go on then,” the burly islander said, and slapped him on the back for what had to be the hundredth time that night. “With all of ye here? Ye’re daft.” In truth, since the third or fourth flagon of mead he’d been thinking he wouldn’t mind it so very much. And why not? Any port in a storm, so the Inverness sailors were fond of saying. But this, this was unthinkable. Rika sat up in the bed. “You must, or it won’t be legal. Am I right?” She looked to Lawmaker for confirmation. “Unless of course, we don’t have to do it at all?” Her face lit with hope. “We’ve been all through this,” Hannes said. “Have we not?” “Ja, we have,” Lawmaker said. “But it need not be witnessed. That’s an ancient custom we rarely practice. I, myself, shall attest to the legality of the marriage when the time comes. Now, let us away.” “But—” Rika flew from the bed as Lawmaker herded the onlookers from the room. “Nay, you must stay!” Her eyes widened in what George could swear was fear. “Sitryg, Lawmaker, do not leave me here alone with him.” Lawmaker paused in the doorway and cast her a hard look. “He’s your husband now. You must trust him, as he has trusted you in agreeing to this bargain.” She started toward the door, and on impulse George reached out and grabbed her braceleted wrist. Her whole body went rigid at his touch. “Remember, too, what I have told you,” Lawmaker said to her. “Not all men are the same.” George looked into the blanched face of his bride and, as Lawmaker closed the door on them, wondered what the devil the old man meant. Chapter Five A ll men were the same. Rika backed onto the bed in the cottage, drawing her legs up under her, and waited. And waited. Grant stood for what seemed a lifetime with his back to her, the fur wrapped around his waist, warming himself by the small peat fire blazing in the hearth.

The moment she had been dreading had come at last, and now that it was here she was anxious to have done with it. “What are you doing?” she asked lamely, not knowing what else to say. “Trying to clear my head.” This surprised her. Brodir had never been concerned with such matters. In fact, he’d been deep in his cups most every time he’d taken her. “Perhaps this would go…better for you, were it not entirely clear.” He turned to look at her, and she could tell from his expression he thought it a strange thing for her to say. Their eyes locked, and he let the fur slip from his waist. Thor’s blood! Grant was nothing like Brodir. Heat suffused her face as the Scot dispensed with his leggings and cast them aside. His eyes raked her up and down, and she braced herself for what would come next. He moved toward her in the firelight, and for the second time in as many days she was acutely aware of his size and strength. He exuded a feral maleness that startled her. Lawmaker was right. She had underestimated the Scot. Rika drew herself up to meet him, fisting her hands at her sides. Fear was not an option. She would never give him that satisfaction. Never. Let him take her and be done with it. Her pulse raced as he eased himself onto the bed beside her. “Do it,” she demanded. “Do it now.” He cocked his head, studying her face. Why did he hesitate? Thor’s blood, just do it! All at once his expression softened. “Never in my life have I taken a woman against her will, and I’m no about to do so now.” Her heart stopped. Of all the words he might speak, those were the last she expected to hear. “But…you must.” “Nay, lass.” He shook his head. “Ye dinna want me, and…well…” He shrugged. The truth of it stung more than any blow Brodir had e’er dealt her. Grant didn’t want her. Her belly tightened. She knew all along he didn’t, so why did it hurt? She should be relieved, elated, even, but she wasn’t. Something else occurred to her. “It doesn’t matter what you or I want. It’s the law. You heard the elders—without consummation the marriage is not legal and I cannot claim my dowry.”

He shook his head. “This coin is of great import to ye—to willingly give up your virginity to a man ye canna stand, and one you’ll ne’er see again.” She closed her eyes against the rage of memories blasting across her consciousness. There was no reason to keep the truth from him, for he was about to learn it for himself. “I am no maid, and therefore give up nothing.” The silence that followed was unbearable. She felt her cheeks blaze hot. Finally he said, “We can say that we did it, and no one will be the wiser.” Rika opened her eyes. He really didn’t want her. She almost laughed. That would never have stopped Brodir. His hate stoked his lust, and he wreaked it on her not as a lover, but an enemy. Nay, she did not understand the Scot at all. “Lawmaker sees all,” she said. “The old man will know we lie.” Grant laughed, and warmth flooded his eyes. “Aye, methinks naught gets past him.” Rika smiled, unable to help herself, and worked to instill a measure of gentleness in her words. Everything depended on the Scot’s cooperation. “Will you do it, then, as agreed?” “Aye,” he said, and slid his hand across the furs to cover hers. “I will.” The warmth of his touch startled her. She drew her hand away and, gathering her courage, stripped her shift off over her head. Grant sucked in a breath. “I will not struggle,” she said, and eased back onto the pillows. “Do as you will.” For a long time he did nothing—he simply sat there looking at her body in the softness of the fire’s glow. She feared to look at him, but curiosity overcame her apprehension and she stole a glance. His face was shadowed in the firelight, his hair awash in gold. Her gaze drifted lower, across the muscled expanse of his chest, which rose and fell with each measured breath he drew. His body was hard and lightly furred, all burnished gold as if the sun had kissed him. Her own breathing grew quick and shallow under his scrutiny. And when their eyes finally met, what she read in his stirred her blood. Desire. Nay, it could not be.

Yet even as she formed the thought, his hands trailed lightly over her thighs. She gasped at his touch. “I willna hurt you,” he breathed, and slid closer on the bed. How could she believe that? She tensed as he leaned over her, and when she looked into his eyes she knew she’d believe anything he told her. “Wha-what are you doing?” “Just this,” he said, and his mouth covered hers in the gentlest of kisses. The world slipped out beneath her, and she floated weightless in the tender wash of the kiss, his breath hot and sweet, his tongue smooth as glass as she opened to him. What was happening? “Rika,” he breathed against her mouth. “Put your arms around me.” She obeyed without thinking, and he deepened the kiss. His body settled atop hers, the weight of him solid, comforting, nothing like Brodir’s oppressive bulk. His mouth moved over her skin like a firebrand, and she gasped with a spiraling sensation she could not comprehend. “Touch me,” he whispered in her ear. It was not a command, but a plea, invoked with such sweetness she could do naught but respond. Her hands roved his back and buttocks with a will of their own. He moaned in pleasure, and his surprising response spurred her on. She kissed him with a ferocity that shocked her, clawed at his back as he thrust against her. “Grant,” she breathed, lifting her hips to meet his. “Will ye no call me George?” Her eyes flew open. Thor’s blood, what was she doing? Her body stiffened beneath him. Ja, she would submit, but never would she succumb. Oh, she’d heard about men like this, though she’d not believed it. They wielded pretty words and tenderness like a double-headed ax. Their weapons were tenfold more deadly than the brutal domination at the core of Brodir’s armory. She tried to push him off her, but when his mouth slipped to her breast and he began to suckle, all thoughts of stopping him vanished. “George,” she breathed involuntarily, and fisted handfuls of his hair. Heat spread from her center like molten steel.

His thighs parted hers in one swift motion, and she knew the inevitable had come at last. He was ready, and so was she, yet it was not the velvety tip of his manhood that brushed against her—it was his hand, his fingers playing her like some rare instrument. “Don’t.” She struggled against him. “Aye,” he breathed against her lips before his tongue continued its silken exploration of her mouth. Nothing in her experience with Brodir prepared her for Grant—for the unbearable urgency mounting within her, centered at the place where his fingers worked their magic. Her heart thrummed in her chest, her limbs writhed beneath him, and when she felt certain she might die from the pleasure he wrought from her, he spread her thighs wide with his own and drove himself inside her. She drew breath with the shock of it, and knew naught but him—his scent, his power, the slick heat of his skin as she bit into his shoulder. He cried out and thrust again. A bright-edged wave of something that was, until this moment, unfathomable gripped her, jolting her near senseless. Somewhere at the edge of consciousness she felt not submission, but a visceral power that surged beyond all sensation as Grant found his own pleasure. In her. George pulled a fur over the sleeping woman beside him, and wondered what the hell had come over him. The hearth fire burned low, and in its waning light he looked at Rika, daughter of Fritha, with new understanding. Her naiveté had stunned him, for true to her word, she was no maid. Her kisses were artless, her response to his own surprising passion uncontrived. She was, in her lovemaking, as open and straightforward as she was in her other dealings with him. Nothing like the women he knew at home. He shouldn’t want her, but he did. Even now, his desire for her surged anew. This could not be. ’Twas the drink. That was it. What other reason could there be for this irrational hunger? He’d bedded dozens of women, but never had he felt the ache of wanting that consumed him now. He knew if he touched her, chanced the simplest caress, she’d wake and look at him in wonder, as she had when first he’d touched her, as if he’d done something remarkable. As if she’d never before been made love to. The tall one belongs to Brodir.

He understood now what that meant. The jarl was her lover. What kind of a man was he to have never shown her pleasure? For clearly this had been her first experience of such things. His gaze drifted to the scar on her throat, and he recalled the panic in her eyes when first he kissed her. What had this Brodir done to evoke such fear in a woman who styled herself fearless? The bracelets. He’d tried to remove them before she drifted off to sleep, but she’d grown panicky again and had refused. He hadn’t pressed the issue. Now, one slender, bronzed arm splayed across the pillow over her head. He leaned over her and slowly, carefully, tripped the latch on the bracelet. She sighed dreamily. He froze. The bracelet fell away onto the pillow when she turned and reached for him in her sleep. “Sweet Jesus,” he breathed, catching her wrist in his hand. She was horribly scarred. Aye, she’d been bound, and on more than one occasion. What kind of a monster could do such a thing? Absently he drew her wrist to his lips and planted a gentle kiss on the purplish scar, then laid the bracelet to rest on the chest flanking the bed. His anger surged. Christian or pagan, a man who abused a woman so deserved a slow and painful death. George wished the whoreson were here now, so he could teach him a lesson in— What the devil was wrong with him? What did he care what went on between these heathen people? ’Twas none of his affair. He had his own bride waiting, in Scotland, and she, unlike Rika, was everything a woman should be—so the king had promised. George shook off the momentary stupor. He must forget this Viking woman. What had happened between them tonight was brought on by drink—nothing more. He hadn’t even wanted her, not at first. She’d insisted. What could he do? He was a man, after all, not a monk. He edged away from her and squinted in the near dark, looking for his clothes. Ah, the bastards had taken them. Fine. He’d pass the night here, but would freeze to death before he touched her again. A shiver shot up his spine. With the fire gone out, ’twas cold as a tomb in the cottage. He burrowed under the furs and turned his back on her, edging as far from her as he

might without falling off the bed. Tomorrow they’d sail for her father’s island, and in no time he’d be home. After a while he drifted into an uneasy sleep, and dreamed of serpents bathing in a bridal cup of mead. Rika dressed at dawn in the everyday garments she’d stashed under the bed the afternoon before. Grant was gone, but his scent lingered on her skin. She’d bathe quickly before breaking her fast. It was Saturday, and the bathhouse fire would be lit, the tubs filled with heated water, the moist air of the sauna redolent with herbs. The sealskin drape on the window flapped in the rising wind. She drew it aside and was blasted with sleet. A shiver raced up her spine. Donning her cloak and boots, she took one long look around the room. The rumpled bed stared back at her accusingly. “You enjoyed it,” she whispered to herself. Nay, she hadn’t. She couldn’t. It was horrible. It was… Wonderful. She’d wanted him, and he her. Rika shook her head fervently and pulled her cloak tight about her. It would never happen again. Never. She tripped the door latch and walked into a blizzard. Thor’s blood, where had the weather come from? They couldn’t sail in this. The courtyard was deserted; everyone must be inside. Her bath would have to wait. Rika jogged to the main longhouse where she took her meals and burst inside. “There you are.” In the entry she stamped the snow from her boots, and turned toward Lawmaker’s familiar voice. “Come and break your fast. Your husband waits.” Husband. She bristled at the old man’s words, but knew there was no escaping it. Grant sat beside him on the bench, and from the look of their full trencher, it appeared neither had yet eaten. Grant didn’t spare her a glance as she crossed the room and seated herself facing him. Fine. She had naught to say to him, either, and was glad for his disinterest.

What they’d shared last night—what he’d done to her, rather—meant nothing. Not to her certainly. Nor to him, from the cool expression he bore. It was over now, and time to move ahead with her plan. Sitryg brought a flagon of mead to the table along with two drinking horns. “Nay,” Grant said, and waved her off. “None for me.” “But you must,” Sitryg said. “A bride and groom partake of honeyed mead—together —until the moon is new again.” Grant scowled at the old woman, and for the first time Rika shared his sentiment. “It’s your honeymoon,” Sitryg said. Rika shot her a dark look and pushed the flagon away. “Go, and take this back to the brew house.” Sitryg flashed a loaded look at Lawmaker, and left without a word. “The blizzard,” Rika said, changing the subject. “Can we sail?” Lawmaker shook his head. “You know as well as I we cannot.” “Why the devil not?” Grant said. His expression twisted into a mask of disbelief. “What, are you so eager to repeat your last experience at sea?” Lawmaker arched a brow at him. “Was losing a brother not enough for you?” Grant ground his teeth, and behind his stoic expression she read his pain. Compassion was not an emotion she fostered. It led to weakness, especially where men were concerned. Still, a curious wave of empathy breached her well-schooled heart. She pushed the emotion away, and focused instead on the weather. She wanted nothing more than to quit this place. Every day they waited was another day of bondage for her brother—and another day closer to Brodir’s return. “It’s not the snow, but the wind that is the danger,” Lawmaker said, and Rika knew he was right. It would blow the byrthing to bits before they lost sight of the island. Grant rubbed the tawny stubble of beard on his chin. Rika recalled the feel of it on her skin and shivered. “How long must we wait?” he said. Lawmaker shrugged. “Who can say?” Grant swore under his breath, some Christian curse she’d never heard. It sounded wicked, whatever it meant. She must remember to ask him about it, although now was clearly not the time.

She watched him as he stared at nothing in particular, then wet her lips absently, remembering their coupling. He’d wanted her. Perhaps not at first, nor afterward. Certainly not now. But last eve, for one fleeting breath of eternity, the ardor of his kisses, the passion in his eyes, had been for her. Grant caught her watching him and, for an uncomfortable moment, she held his gaze. What did she expect to see in those steely eyes? Love? What nonsense. Men didn’t love, they controlled. Oppressed. She was smart enough to know that, and knew—too well, perhaps—how to beat them at that game. She broke his stare and began to pick at some of the food on the trencher. “What now, old man?” “Ah, well.” Lawmaker cleared his throat authoritatively. “Methinks your hu—” She shot him a look icier than the blizzard without. “Uh, Grant, I mean—” Lawmaker paused and nodded to him “—has something for you.” Rika frowned at them both. “What?” Grant looked equally befuddled, then his face lit up. “Oh, right.” He drew something from the pouch at his waist and slapped it on the table before her. “What’s this?” “’Tis your…” Grant looked to Lawmaker, apparently for help. “Morgen gifu? Aye, right. Your morning gift.” How dare he? Her eyes widened, and she felt suddenly over warm. “I…I don’t want it.” “Suit yourself.” Grant slid the trinket toward Lawmaker. “I was just doing as instructed.” “Take it,” Lawmaker said, and pushed it toward her. “At the least, have a look at it.” She arched a brow at him in annoyance, then glanced at the gift. It was a piece of jewelry—a silver brooch. Something about it seemed familiar to her. She picked it up and turned it over in her hand. “What’s wrong?” Grant said, reading her suspicion. She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just…” Where had she seen this before? She narrowed her eyes at Lawmaker, and he cast her one of those all-innocent looks she

loathed. “Nothing,” she repeated, and set the brooch on the table. “I won’t accept it, is all.” “Fine,” Grant said. “It doesna matter a whit to me.” She could murder the old man. Had she known he was going to meddle like this…“Tell him, old man. Tell my husband why I can’t accept such a gift. He doesn’t know, does he?” Lawmaker shrugged. “The morning gift compensates the bride for her…availability to her husband.” Grant’s eyes widened. “Ye mean…” “Exactly.” And she had no intention of ever allowing him into her bed again. “So you see why I won’t accept it.” “Aye, fine.” The Scot put up his hands in a gesture of compliance. “I could no agree more.” Her blood began to heat, and she knew if they continued the conversation it would reach dangerous temperatures. She rose to take her leave, feeling the need for that bath more than ever. “What I said last night, about trust,” Lawmaker said quickly. “What about it?” She was not in the mood for more of the old man’s preaching, nor was Grant from the sour look on his face. “It seems you have taken my advice.” She frowned. “What do you mean?” Save Ottar and her brother, she trusted no man, especially the Scot. Lawmaker, himself, was fast losing her good opinion. She turned to leave, and Lawmaker caught her wrist. Her wrist. Thor’s blood, her bracelet! She wrested herself from Lawmaker’s grip and protectively covered her bare wrist with her hand. Where was her bracelet? Her eyes flew to Grant’s. He looked at her expressionless, his eyes unchanged. Cool slate, like the sea on a winter’s day. “I…it fell off. In the bed,” he added. “I set it on the chest.” He lied. Her cheeks grew hot, serving only to fuel her anger. “I’ve work to do,” she said flatly, then threw her cloak around her shoulders and made for the door. “We can use the time,” Lawmaker called after her.

She turned in the open doorway, sleet blowing past her into the room. “What time? For what?” “Until the weather clears and we can sail,” the old man said. He turned to Grant. “The Scot has much to learn if he would woo your father into giving up your coin.” She hadn’t thought of that. Lawmaker was right: Grant knew nothing of their culture. The unclaimed brooch sitting on the table was evidence enough. “You must indoctrinate him,” Lawmaker said. “Indoctrinate?” Grant scowled, and shifted restlessly on the bench. “I dinna wish to be indoctrinated.” Rika drew herself up, taking strength from his displeasure and from the biting sleet whipping at her garments. Oh, how she loved the winter. Whatever had she been thinking to wonder about Scotland in the spring? “Your wishes do not concern me,” she said. “Your training begins today.” Chapter Six H e simply wouldn’t do it. “Why should I?” George let the question hang there, and ignored the two young warriors who’d spent the better part of an hour trying to convince him to comply. The dark one, Leif, said, “If you master our ways, ’twill ensure a fruitful meeting with Rollo.” Rollo. Rika’s father. George doubted the man could be more difficult to deal with than his sharp-tongued spawn of a daughter. The air in the brew house was hot and close. Packed with men, the small building reeked of wet wool, sweat and the cloying odor of mead. Erik, the fair one, called for another flagon of the stuff, and George screwed up his face. “You wish to go home, do you not?” Erik said. George thought the question so absurd, he didn’t bother to answer. Leif whispered something to Erik, and Erik said, “Methinks Rollo’s dwelling is not so far from your own.” “What?” “A few days’ ride,” Leif said. “A sennight at most.”

“Ride?” How could that be? George had assumed Rika’s father lived on some other island—in the Shetlands or Orkneys. It hadn’t occurred to him that they’d be sailing straightaway to—“Her father lives in Scotland?” Both men nodded. “On the mainland, at any rate,” Erik said. “Whether it’s held by Scots or Norse, one never knows from one day to the next. Rollo’s wife is a Scot, and his loyalties lie with those from whom he can best profit at any given moment.” This was news, indeed. George might be out of this mess sooner than he’d thought. Once they landed on the coast, what was to stop him from hanging this dowry nonsense and going his own way? He’d been bound for Wick, which was off the northernmost tip of the mainland. Mayhap they’d sail right into the town’s harbor. Ha! The thought brightened his spirits. “So,” Erik said. “You’ll allow us to teach you some of the things you’ll need to know?” George was barely listening. He was thinking of August Sinclair, and Anne, his brideto-be. “We’ll start with some simple games,” Leif said. “What?” What the devil were they going on about? George turned his attention back to the two young men. “I told ye both. I need not learn your ways.” A loud belch cut the air behind him. “He’s too stupid, if you ask me.” George turned slowly, bristling at the familiar voice. Ingolf sat at the table behind him with the doltish Rasmus and a half-dozen other men. Brodir’s men, so George had come to learn. “No one asked you,” Erik said. “Ignore him, Grant.” George was unaccustomed to ignoring insults, especially those delivered by illmannered heathens. He sized Ingolf up, and wished he still had Rika’s brother’s sword or that handy hammer tucked into his belt. The weapons had been stripped from him after the celebration. “Scots are not built for it.” Ingolf drained the drinking horn in his hand. Mead ran in rivulets down his heavily bearded chin. “The Viking way, our skills, cannot be learned. One is either born to it, or one is not.” Bollocks. He had a mind to teach this unschooled heathen exactly what the Scots were built for. “What kind of skills,” George said, and looked to Erik and Leif for an answer. Leif shrugged. “Tests of wit and strategy.”

“Bah. Tests of manhood.” Ingolf scowled. “Those, too,” Leif said. George turned his back to them. “I told you,” Ingolf ’s voice carried over the din in the room. “He’s not man enough.” Brodir’s men laughed behind him, and George’s blood boiled. ’Twas time he imparted some lessons of his own. “When do we begin?” Leif and Erik smiled. “Straight away,” they said in unison. “Besides,” Erik said. “What else is there to do in weather so foul?” The youth had a point, George thought. He must do something beyond sitting on his arse all day, or he’d go mad. The door to the brew house banged open, and Rika blew in with the wind. Ottar pulled the door shut behind them, and the two settled on a bench across from George. Rika spared him not a glance—not that he expected her to. ’Twas the first he’d seen of Ottar since the wedding. The angry youth had avoided the bridal feast. No small wonder. George had stepped into a role Ottar fancied himself filling. Or so it seemed, by the fierce protectiveness he displayed toward Rika. The youth glared at him. Rika was strangely quiet. He hadn’t seen her since they’d broken their fast that morning. The incident over the bracelet had enraged her. He saw that she’d recovered it from the cottage. Both hammered bronze bands were strapped snugly in place over her wrists. At first he’d thought Brodir made her wear them, then he realized the truth. She wore them because she was ashamed for anyone to see what that animal had done to her. He’d read the humiliation in her eyes, and sheer will alone had prevented him from offering a word or a look of comfort. Looking at her now, he marveled at her stoic behavior. ’Twas as if last night and this morning had been like any other for her. That Valkyrie’s shell of hers was tough as burnished leather, but he knew what lay beneath it. He knew her warmth, her passion, the feel of her yielding beneath him. George, she’d called him—just the once—in the heat of their lovemaking. His Christian name had never sounded so exotic as it had when breathed from her lips. As of the dawn, he was merely Grant. She hissed the word as if it were some blasphemy.

Now that he knew her better, he realized she had to work at maintaining her indifference. She was not so comfortable in her icy skin as she would have the world believe. There was a natural femininity about her that one could see if one looked. And he was looking. Nonetheless, she took pleasure in crushing to dust any attributes exemplifying her sex. Compassion, tenderness, generosity. Oh, she’d been generous with him between the furs last night. God’s truth, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He needed a diversion. Something to keep his mind occupied while they waited for the weather to clear. Mayhap these tests of strategy would provide some amusement. “Your drink,” a feminine voice said. Lina. She was all the diversion a man could want. George looked up into the girl’s doelike eyes. She set the flagon of mead on the table and batted her lashes prettily at him. “Our thanks,” Leif said, and winked at her. Lina was a woman a man could truly appreciate. And one he had no problem understanding. “I have found a keg of ale.” Lina smiled demurely at him. “In the storage shed. ’Tis a bit young, but methinks you would prefer it.” She leaned closer so that her breasts were level with his eyes. “Would you not?” Oh, he understood her perfectly. “Only, I cannot lift it.” She batted her lashes again. “It’s far too heavy for my delicate frame.” George grinned. He was familiar with a woman’s wiles. They connived, manipulated, never came right out and told you what they wanted. “But not for mine,” an icy voice said. Rika appeared out of nowhere and towered over Lina’s small form. “Go on—” she pushed the girl toward the door “—and I’ll be along directly to help you.” George opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “As for you, Grant, meet me in the courtyard. There are things I would show you before we sail.” She turned her back on him, snatched her cloak from the bench, and quit the room with the same blast of chill air she’d come in on.

“Our work together can wait,” Leif said to him. Erik merely smiled. George filled his drinking horn with mead. As the honeyed liquor burst upon his tongue he decided that some women had wiles, and others simply did not. Rika waited for him near the stable, under the cover of an open shed. Her favorite pony nickered softly in the straw beside her and nudged her hand for the treat he knew she had brought. She opened her palm and the pony made short work of the small turnip. She smiled and scratched his head. “It wouldna hurt to do more of that, ye know.” His voice startled her. Grant stood in the snow outside the shed watching her. “Do what?” she snapped, annoyed that she’d not heard him approach. “Smile. No matter. ’Tis just…ye look more…” She tensed, waiting for him to finish the thought. “Christ, forget that I said it.” He moved under the overhang and studied the pony with more than mild interest. “What in God’s name is it? ’Tis no like any colt I’ve e’er seen.” “It’s not a colt, it’s a horse full grown.” “Go on. It canna be.” “Ja, of course he is.” She frowned. The Scot had much more to learn than she could ever teach him if he didn’t even know a colt from a horse. “He’s too small to be full grown.” She clucked her tongue. “He’s the biggest and sturdiest on the island.” “Ha!” “Lawmaker imports them from the Shetlands. Shetland ponies we call them.” Grant reached out and stroked the pony’s neck. “Fair Isle, where the women are big and the horses small.” Rika bristled and bit back the curse she was tempted to let fly. The unschooled idiot wouldn’t have understood it anyway, she surmised. “Follow me,” she said curtly, and stalked off toward the moors, heedless of the wind and sleet. It was the first time she’d been alone with Grant since last night. Now she wondered at the wisdom of it. Being with him unsettled her, made her feel…strange. Not like herself at all.

After a short, steep hike to a ridge top, she stopped and turned, prepared to wait until Grant caught her up. He nearly plowed her over. “Thor’s blood!” “Whoa, sorry,” he said, displaying not a hint of breathlessness. He was fit, she’d give him that. More so than most of her kinsmen, who whiled away the winter months indoors, growing soft and flabby. Grant had not an inch of spare flesh on him. He was pure muscle. A dizzying image of him naked and powerful, spreading her thighs wide with his own, caused her to suck in a breath. He could have forced her last night, but he had not. He’d wooed her with gentle kisses and caresses so soft his fingers might have been dove’s wings. Oh, she must stop these thoughts! They rushed over her unbidden and unwelcome, at the slightest provocation. She must get hold of herself, and quickly. Difficult days lay ahead, and she would not allow one night with a stranger to befuddle her thinking. Or alter her convictions. Men used women for their own purpose, and this man was no exception. A home and a bride awaited him in Scotland, and she must remember that the things he did here and now he did solely to speed his return to them. “What is that place?” Grant said, snapping her out of her thoughts. “Down there.” He pointed at the graveyard on the moor below them. “Some of my ancestors rest there. Come, there are things you might learn.” She started down the other side of the ridge toward the graveyard, and Grant bounded along beside her, the wind whipping at his hair and clothes. He seemed not to mind the weather, and that struck her as odd. She envisioned Scotland as a lush, green place, sheltered from ravaging winds and the sea’s fickle temper. Sleet bit at her face, and she pulled the collar of her cloak higher to protect herself from its icy blades. “Here, take mine,” Grant said. “It has a bigger hood.” Before she could protest, he whipped off his cloak, wrapped it snugly about her and pulled the hood low over her face. “There.” Their eyes met, and his flashed a hint of the warmth they’d held last night. For the barest moment it seemed they were truly husband and wife. She looked away, and the spell was broken.

“Thank you,” she said awkwardly, and continued down the slope. A few minutes later they stood amidst the graves, a sea of ships bound for other worlds. Each mound was ringed with stones set in the shape of a Viking long ship. Grant marveled at their construction. Apparently Scots did not practice this custom. “Some have the cross,” he said, rather amazed, nodding toward a grave that bore the Christian symbol. “Ja, we are not as godless as you imagine. True, we practice the old ways, but most of us are Christian.” “So Lawmaker has said.” He ran his hand over the rough stone of the ancient cross. “And ye? Are ye a Christian?” The question took her by surprise, and she found herself hesitating. Why? Did she care what he thought? Did she wish her answer to please him? “I was,” she said, dismissing her concerns. “Until my mother died and my father left. After that—” she shrugged “—I cared not for any god.” “When was that?” She turned away and stared out to sea. “Long years ago. I was still a child.” “And Lawmaker watched over ye e’er since?” “Lawmaker—and Gunnar, though he is the younger of the two of us.” “Where is your brother, Rika?” He moved closer and pulled her hood aside so he could see her face. “Why did he leave ye alone?” A flood of memories washed over her. God, how she missed him. “He was…Brodir’s men came and—” She caught herself before spilling the truth. What was she thinking? Rika snatched the hood and pulled it over her face, then made for the circle of standing stones near the beach. Grant jogged after her. As she reached the outer circle, he grabbed her arm. “Let go of me.” She shot him a warning with her eyes. “Tell me about Brodir.” Her heart leaped to her throat. His grip on her tightened. “What are you talking about? Let me go.” “Nay. What is he to ye besides your jarl?” “He is nothing.” She wrenched herself free and realized she was trembling. “Less than nothing. Don’t speak his name again.”

“Why not? What did he do to ye?” Grant edged closer and she backed into one of the towering stones. “Move away,” she said, and tipped her chin at him. “I’m no inclined to.” He placed his hands on the stone, hemming her in. “Those marks on your wrists. He did that to ye, didn’t he?” Whoreson. He had lied. He’d slipped the bracelet from her wrist while she slept. “He did nothing. Now move away.” She pushed against his chest, but he was as immovable as the stone cutting into her back. “He’s no your lover, then, as Ingolf said.” “Ingolf ? What lies has he been spreading?” She pushed at him again, but it was useless. “He said ye belonged to Brodir. That if I touched ye—” “Stop it!” She tried to sidestep him, but he gripped her shoulders like a vise. “I belong to no one! No one, do you hear?” Her breath came in ragged gasps. She fought to control the anger boiling within her. He caught her chin and wrenched it high so she’d have to look at him. “He forced ye, didn’t he?” Oh, God. “Stop it!” “Didn’t he? Say it.” “Nay!” A sting of tears glassed her eyes. She’d be damned if she would cry. “The marks on your wrists, the scar on your neck—’twas his doing.” She shook her head vehemently as Grant’s fingers traced the path along her neck Brodir’s knife had journeyed the night before he’d left for the mainland. Sleet turned to rain, pummeling her face and washing away the tears she could not stop. “Don’t,” she breathed, reading the intent in his slate eyes. Too late. His mouth covered hers in a kiss that was neither tender nor controlled, and that screamed with a frantic possessiveness that shocked her nearly off her feet. Her instinct to fight him crumbled instantly under the weight of some deep longing that she did not understand. A need for him that was more than physical. A yearning for closeness, for— She broke free of him and ran.

Lightning flashed overhead, and a crackling thunder split the air. She threw off his cloak, and hers, and scrambled up the ridge, the wind lashing at her hair, icy sheets of rain battering her on. By the time she made the village, she was soaked to the skin. Ottar stood in the closed doorway of the longhouse, waiting for her, as she knew he would be. She slowed to a walk in the courtyard and tried to catch her breath, rein in her wild emotions. “Rika, what’s happened?” Ottar cast aside the bit of bread he’d been eating and rushed to her. “Nothing, I’m fine.” She pushed past him. “Where’s your cloak?” “Nowhere. It’s…” They reached the cover of the eaves, and she collapsed against the whitewashed stones of the longhouse. “I lost it.” “But—” Grant rounded the corner, clutching her sopping cloak, and stopped short when he saw the youth. Ottar whipped a blade from his belt. “Blackguard! Did he hurt you?” “Nay. Ottar—” She grabbed his arm. “He’s done nothing. Sheathe your weapon.” Grant approached them. “Your cloak…wife.” The muscles in Ottar’s forearm tensed at Grant’s words. “Go inside now,” she said, and pushed the youth toward the door. “I would speak to my—to Grant, alone.” After Ottar had gone, she realized she had nothing to say to the Scot. His kiss had stunned her, but it was her reaction to it that made her afraid. They stood there, silent, in the rain until the light went out of his eyes and the warmth of her indifference returned, buoying her strength. All was right again. He held the door for her, and she went inside to join the others. “You’re not concentrating,” Lawmaker said. He snatched the carved game piece from the board and placed it back where it had been before George had moved it. “Try again, and this time think what you mean to accomplish.” “Aye, I know, I know.” George ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. “I must capture your king before he escapes to the edge of the board.”

“Exactly,” Lawmaker said. “And you have twice as many attackers as I do defenders. So, get on with it.” “It’s no like any chess I’ve e’er played.” And he’d played plenty, against some of the finest minds in the Highlands. “I told you, it’s not chess. The game is tafl.” George made a derisory sound in the back of his throat. “Well, whatever the devil it is, I canna concentrate with her lurking over me and grunting every time I make a move.” He glanced over his shoulder at Rika, who eyed the board with an arched brow. “See what I mean?” Lawmaker shrugged. “She’s your wife. She’s entitled to lurk.” He swore under his breath and moved the carved game piece for the third time. “Good.” Lawmaker nodded, satisfied at last. Rika snorted. “Och, what now?” George had had enough of her arrogance. She’d been in a foul mood since their walk that afternoon. And while what had happened between them had been his fault, he grew tired of her unrelenting punishment. At supper, she’d snapped at him over the slightest infraction against their customs. Customs he was beginning to hate. Leif and Erik had spent the whole meal lecturing him in Norse history—tales of bloody battles, for the most part. The two young men sat watching him now, and he wondered—not for the first time—what stake they had in this dowry business. ’Twas not for nothing they offered their friendship. The two of them, along with Rika and Lawmaker, were thick as thieves. Meanwhile, Ingolf slouched in the corner with his rat-pack, watching Rika’s every move. George mouthed a silent prayer for clear weather. The sooner they sailed the better. For him and for Rika, too, he suspected. “It’s your move, Grant.” Rika poked him in the back. “D’ye think ye can do better?” He shot her a nasty glance. “Here, take my place and show me how ’tis done.” George started to rise, but she pushed him firmly back down on the bench. “Nay, you must learn to master this game if you’re to win my father’s favor.” So he’d heard a dozen times that night.

“Perhaps you should play against him, Rika.” Lawmaker rose and offered her his seat. “It would be an excellent test of his concentration.” George could swear the old man suppressed a smile. “Pff! Nay, I will not play him.” George had sought all afternoon for a way to soften the tension between them, for it served no purpose and only made for misery in the close quarters mandated by the weather. Perhaps this tafl was a way to ease her out of her mood. Lawmaker asked her again, and George recognized his opportunity. “Dinna force her,” he said. “After all, women have no the wit for games of strategy. ’Twould only embarrass her.” He hoped she wasn’t armed. Looming there behind him, ’twould be easy enough for her to slit his throat. He resisted the urge to turn around, but did not have long to wait for her reaction. “Out of the way, old man,” she said, and plucked the elder from his seat. “As you wish.” Lawmaker put his hands up in defense and sidestepped out of her way. He smiled discreetly at George, then moved to the hearth where Leif and Erik sat grinning in amusement. Fine. He’d play her if that’s what everyone wished. “It’s your move,” Rika said, and propped her elbows on the table. This was going to be fun. George was good at games, particularly those that required forward thinking. Lawmaker had taught him all the moves and basic strategies, and George was certain he could beat her without much trouble—should he wish to. He did not. ’Twould be better to let her win. It might brighten her mood. Besides, women truly did not have a mind for such things. Oh, he’d seen her best Ottar, but the youth was smitten with her, and for certain let her prevail so he might win her favor. George moved one of his pieces and stole a glance at her while she studied the board. He felt a strange remorse for his actions that afternoon. He should never have mentioned Brodir—and should have known she would deny the jarl’s mistreatment of her. George didn’t know what had possessed him. He’d felt suddenly angered by the whole affair, and couldn’t stop himself. What had he expected? That she would collapse in his arms and beg him to protect her from the brute?

Any ordinary woman would have. Rika, daughter of Fritha, was no ordinary woman. She moved her king with confidence and raised a brow at him. “Who taught ye to play?” George moved one of his men in turn. “Lawmaker, after my father abandoned us.” “Why did he go, your father?” Her expression darkened, as it did each time Rollo was mentioned. “He remarried when my mother died.” “Ah, right. A Scot.” “Who told you that?” “Erik. Or Leif.” He shrugged. “I canna remember which.” “I allow them to school you, but do not bother them with unnecessary questions.” “I’ll ask what I—” “I shall tell you the things you need to know.” Haughty bitch. Perhaps he’d not let her win, after all. He had a mind to beat her soundly, in fact, and studied the board while she made her next move. She called for more mead, and the old woman Sitryg brought another flagon to their table. George hadn’t seen Lina since that morn. It amused him that Rika found the girl threatening. He had no real interest in the lass. She was entertaining only in that she provided such a marked contrast to Rika. He lifted a game piece from the board. “I wouldn’t make that move,” she said. “Why not?” The woman was increasingly irritating. The move would put him in a position to win, and she knew that. The scheming little vixen. Mayhap she was not so unlike Lina, after all. “My move stands,” he said, more determined than ever to best her. “Suit yourself.” She dropped one of her pieces onto a square that did absolutely nothing to protect her king. She had lost the game already but did not see it. George grinned at her, and slid one of his attacking pieces toward her king. Rika arched a brow. “Careful.” He laughed, savoring his triumph over her, but three moves later the smile slid from his face. “Raichi!” she cried, and stood. “You’ve lost, Scotsman.”

“But—” George stared at the board, incredulous. How the devil had she done it? A few of the men who watched them laughed. “Perhaps you should go back to playing chess.” She sauntered around the table, dragging her finger across the edge of the board. “What was it you said earlier?” He ignored her, shaking his head, going over the moves in his mind again. Lawmaker’s steady hand lit on his shoulder. “He said that women had not the wit for games of strategy.” Damn her! George rubbed a hand over his stubbly beard. Finally he relented and looked her in the eye. Rika stood tall, smiling down at him—nay, gloating. His blood boiled. “One must conclude,” she said, “that until now the only women he’s known were witless, indeed.” George swore under his breath, as she turned her back on him and took a seat by the fire between Erik and Leif. “I told you she was an unusual woman.” Lawmaker settled onto the seat she’d vacated. “Come,” he said, and moved the game pieces back into place. “Let us start again.” Chapter Seven T he weather worsened. Rika feared they would never sail. She stood at the window in the small cottage where she and Grant had spent their wedding night, and stared out to sea. Gunnar went missing nearly a year ago, and it was months before she’d pieced together the evidence of foul play and Brodir’s involvement. By then, Brodir had installed himself as jarl, and few would listen to her accusations. She was alone in this. She and Lawmaker, and the few young warriors who remained loyal to Gunnar. Where was he now? she wondered. In some work camp at Dunnet Head, cold and starving—or dead, mayhap? Nay, she refused to believe that. Gunnar was alive. He was young and strong, and nearly as willful as she. Ja, he was alive, and Rika would find him and bring him home. She drew a cleansing breath of sea air, and let the sealskin cover fall back into place over the window. Her bed lay untouched from the previous night. She’d had trouble sleeping ever since she and Grant had… Oh, that was days ago now. Why couldn’t she stop thinking of it? At her request, Grant slept in his usual place in the longhouse. She could not bear to be near him at night, and so she slept in the cottage alone, with the door barred—just in case.

Not that she expected company from Grant. She’d made it clear to him she wanted no dealings with him save what was necessary for his instruction. He’d complied with her wishes all too readily. That was something, at least, they agreed on. Her kinsmen seemed to think naught of this arrangement. They’d always thought her unusual, and she’d done little to convince them otherwise. Most accepted Grant readily and didn’t question her motives for wedding him. On Fair Isle a woman with no family was free to choose her own mate if the one chosen for her had been gone as long as Brodir had. More often than not, men who went a-Viking never returned. All save those in on her plan had no idea Grant would be leaving—and she with him. The truth would come out the day she and Gunnar returned to Fair Isle. Until then, it was her secret, to be shared only with Lawmaker and those loyal to her brother. A knock sounded at the door. Rika drew back the bolt and opened the door cautiously. Ingolf and his men had it out for her, and she’d been careful since the wedding not to be caught alone with him and his cronies. Lawmaker’s bright eyes peered at her through the cracked door. “Come,” he said. “There is something afoot I think you’ll wish to see.” She didn’t wait for an explanation, just grabbed her cloak, threw it around her shoulders, and followed him into the courtyard. “The Scot does battle this morn with all comers.” “What?” She grabbed his arm. “Where? With whom?” Thor’s blood, what if he were killed? Lawmaker smiled. “Not to worry. Mock battle. Leif and Erik have been instructing him in the use of some of our weapons.” “Ah.” Her pulse slowed. That was a spectacle she did, indeed, wish to see. She took Lawmaker’s proffered arm and he led her to the longhouse flanking the stable, the one used for odd work and weapons practice in winter when the weather was bad. The house had been cleared of the few bits of furniture it normally housed. Only the central fire remained, to both warm the room and serve as an interesting obstacle to be negotiated during battle practice. Her kinsmen packed the benches on each wall and stood three deep in the doorway. The Scot’s indoctrination to their ways provided the folk of Fair Isle endless entertainment. In fact, they’d followed Grant’s progress with a relish she’d not seen since

the quarterly games Gunnar used to hold when he was jarl, to encourage fitness and sportsmanship. Wagering was at a peak. Her kinsmen bet on everything from Grant’s skill—or lack thereof—at the tafl table, to his memory for verse, which was a pastime much revered in her culture. Rika pushed her way through the crowd and squeezed onto a bench next to Lawmaker. “What’s happening?” she said, and tried to make sense of the knot of men hovering around Grant at one end of the longhouse and around Ottar at the other. “They are nearly ready.” Lawmaker nudged her. “Look, he makes a splendid Norseman, do you not agree?” Rika’s eyes widened as Grant stepped forward. She did agree. He was clad only in breeks and boots, his chest bare, his long tawny hair loose about his shoulders. He bore a halberd, a spear whose linden-wood pole was as long as most men were tall. Grant was far taller than most men, and the weapon seemed dwarfed in his grip. Ottar was similarly garbed and armed, but appeared a gangly youth next to the Scot. Rika was annoyed at this matching of boy against man. “Ottar has no chance against the Scot. Grant has two stone on him at least.” Lawmaker seemed unperturbed. “Ottar has more at stake. It is a good match, and one that is long overdue.” Rika watched as the two opponents circled each other. “You speak in riddles, old man. What has he at stake? I don’t understand.” “Nay, you wouldn’t. You’re a woman.” Rika snorted. “Ottar hovers on the brink,” Lawmaker said. “He has the body of a man—well, nearly so—coupled with the hotheaded emotions of youth. A dangerous combination. His pride is easily wounded.” “Hmm, methinks you are right.” “Of course I’m right.” She smirked at the old man and turned her attention back to the match. Ottar was as tense as she’d e’er seen him, circling Grant as a predator would its prey, jaw set, eyes afire. Grant, conversely, appeared relaxed, loose, and lighter on his feet than she would have expected for a man of his size.

The two of them parried awhile, jabbing and ducking, taking care to avoid the central fire. Matches usually lasted until the first serious blood was drawn. However, the definition of what was serious and what was not was left up to the audience. Glancing around the room, Rika spied more than a few who she knew thirsted for serious blood sport. Ingolf among them. And she suspected he cared not which of the two combatants did the bleeding. Ottar grew impatient with Grant’s lack of offense, and moved in to strike. Rika gasped as the youth’s blade grazed the Scot’s chest. The crowd let out a collective roar. She breathed again when she realized it was just a scratch. A thin red line materialized ’neath his curling chest hair. To her amazement, Grant nodded at Ottar and smiled. Was he not angry? Brodir would have been furious had a youth of Ottar’s inexperience drawn first blood. Brodir might have killed him over the insult. Not in public, mind you. He’d find some private place for his revenge. Rika shivered, remembering the times she had crossed him. Ottar’s confidence exuded from every pore. He grew bold and reckless, and more than once nearly backed into the fire pit. Grant worked him around the room, allowing the youth an occasional harmless strike. Again Lawmaker was right. To Grant this was merely an afternoon’s amusement—a chance to hone his skills with a foreign weapon. But to Ottar, it was serious business. He was hell-bent on besting the Scot. She could read it in his eyes, in the fierceness of his expression. Grant read it, too, and she wondered how the Scot would deal with him. She knew what Brodir would do, or any man of her clan. He’d crush the youth at the first opportunity. Dominate. Destroy. That was the way of things on Fair Isle. The Scot, she surmised, was not much different in his thinking. All men were the same. Or so she’d thought. Grant backed Ottar toward the fire. She held her breath when the youth nearly slipped. He used the butt of his spear to brace himself from falling, leaving his right side unprotected. Grant had his chance. And did not take it.

Rika was astonished. An instant later, Ottar regained his balance and delivered an unexpected jab to Grant’s torso. Unexpected to all, save Grant. He saw it coming in time to thwart it. She read the hesitation in his eyes. Then something extraordinary happened. Grant froze, his decision made, and Ottar’s blade licked him cleanly across the chest. Blood seeped from the wound, and a shout went up amongst the men. Rika was on her feet, choking back a cry, and would have rushed to aid the Scot had Lawmaker not grabbed the skirt of her gown. “This is men’s business,” he said. “Do not interfere.” Interfere? Grant was hurt. She must go to him and— Rika stopped dead. Thor’s blood, what had she thought to do? Grant looked at her, breathless, sweat beading on his brow. After a long moment that made her insides tingle, he smiled. A smile she would remember. In the ensuing uproar, Ottar was lifted off his feet by a throng of men and carried on their shoulders as befit a victor. The jubilation on his young face made her heart swell with new-found admiration. Not for Ottar, but for Grant. “You are a fortunate woman, Ulrika,” Lawmaker said. “Only you do not know it yet.” Night fell and the wind died. The rain had stopped hours ago, and Rika prayed the weather would hold. She took one last glance at the clearing sky before stepping into the warmth of the longhouse. Spirits were high and the honeyed mead flowed. Ottar sat by the fire, at his feet a knot of younger boys who bid him tell them one more time how he bested the Scot that afternoon. Likely, the tale would be told a dozen times more before the night was over. Lina brought him a plate of sweet cakes. Her eyes washed over him with predatory intent. Ottar smiled wide. The vixen was far more dangerous to the youth than was Grant, though Ottar was too stupid to see it. “Come hither, girl!” Rika turned toward Hannes’s voice and was surprised to see Grant sitting with him at a gaming table in the corner.

“So, you have not yet tired of the tafl board?” She felt good tonight, better than she had in a long time, and spared the Scot a rare smile. His behavior at the mock battle that afternoon had won him her respect, and that was something she bestowed not lightly. “I’d be willing to give it another go,” Grant said, “but beware, Lawmaker has schooled me in some of the finer points of the game.” His eyes flashed mirth, and his cheeks were tinged with a ruddy glow. She’d ne’er seen him so…relaxed. If she didn’t know better—how he loathed their honeyed drink—she would swear he was in his cups. Hmm. Mayhap that silly chit Lina had discovered a keg of ale, after all. Of course there had been no barrel that day Rika accompanied her to the storehouse. It was deceitful ploys like that which caused men to think women underhanded. “Nay, there will be no gaming tonight for you,” Hannes said to Grant. “You have yet to master the task I set for you days ago.” “Which is?” Rika nudged the skald aside so she might share his bench. “Och, I told ye I canna do it.” Grant refilled his drinking horn. “The words mean naught to me, and are too bloody hard to pronounce.” What on earth was he talking about? “I taught him some verse to recite for your father,” Hannes said. “Really?” Now this impressed her. Few of her own kinsmen took the time to learn such things. “And a poem,” Hannes added. “Aye, let me see if I can remember it.” Grant drained his drinking horn and rose from his seat. No one paid him any mind, and Rika was grateful. She did not wish to see him make a fool of himself in front of the others. He cleared his throat ceremoniously and began. His accent was terrible, and though he butchered the words he did not falter. He was confident, and her father liked confidence. She was beginning to think Grant would win Rollo’s favor after all. Then, on the third stanza, she recognized the poem. Her teeth clenched instinctively behind thinned lips. The Scot rambled on, and with each new stanza her temperature rose. Her reaction was not lost on Hannes. Finally Grant collapsed onto the bench and grinned. “I’ll be damned if I know what it means, but I did a fair job of it this time, did I no?” Rika’s face flushed hot.

“What’s the matter?” Grant frowned at her reaction, and looked to Hannes for some explanation. “Did I say it wrong?” “Nay, ’twas dead-on, was it not, Rika?” The skald’s face was a mask of pure innocence. He no doubt learned that little trick from Lawmaker. “You’re skating on thin ice, old man.” She shot him a deadly look. “I got the words right,” Grant said, and looked at her with what she believed was honest bewilderment. “Hannes said ye would like the poem. That I should recite it to ye at the first opportunity.” “Oh, did he?” Hannes sputtered beside her. “I didn’t exactly say that—” “Did he tell you what it meant?” she snapped, and eyed Grant for the slightest sign of duplicity. “He did.” “I ne’er actually said that—” “Quiet, old man.” If Hannes so much as opened his yaw again he’d be eating her fist. “He called it a drottkvoett—a warrior’s meter. ’Tis a poem paying tribute to some great victory. Am I right?” The blood in her veins hardened to stone. “A great victory for the warrior in question, ja.” “Well then—” “Won not on the battlefield, but in the bridal bed.” Grant’s face reddened. “Oh. I hadna thought of that.” He reached for the flagon, but Rika snatched it from the table. “Methinks you’ve had enough. As for you, poet—” she cast Hannes an icy look “— school’s over.” Both of them sat there like idiots. Grant was clearly drunk. Thor’s blood, that’s all she needed—a husband who couldn’t hold his liquor. Her father would laugh him right out of his house. Rika moved to an open bench as far from the Scot as she could get. On the way, she sniffed at the flagon. Hmm, ’twas mead after all. She handed it off to the nearest man, and he hiccuped in response. She mouthed a silent curse.

Tomorrow they would sail, clear weather or not. She was sick of this waiting. And the longer they delayed, the greater the chance of others discovering their plan. Grant had promised not to speak of their bargain, and so far he’d kept his word. But honeyed mead had a way of loosening a man’s tongue, and secrets were never long kept on Fair Isle, given the close quarters in which she and her kinsmen lived. Ingolf dogged her every step. Even now, he sat in a corner watching her, honing his knife as he had that first night when Grant had come to them. How much, if anything, did he know? And what did he plan? Had there been a way to send word to Brodir, Ingolf would have done it in a heartbeat when her plan to wed the Scot became known. But no one knew Brodir’s whereabouts, not even the trusted few he left behind to keep a watchful eye on things in his absence. Besides, no one sailed in winter save to avert some pending disaster, and her marriage to the Scot hardly qualified as that. Lawmaker and the other elders would have had to agree to any such voyage, and Ingolf knew enough not to dare ask. Lawmaker had set guards to watch the byrthing. She cast Grant a sideways glance and saw that his head was lolled back against the wall, his eyes barely open. The Scot, no doubt, thought the guards were there for his benefit. Ha! As if he could sail such a vessel on his own. She met Ingolf ’s gaze head-on. The guards were for him and his cronies, should they think to commandeer the ship and sail in search of their jarl. Rika smiled at him, and the blade of his knife stilled on the whetstone. She was exhausted, and longed for sleep. Perhaps she’d stay in the longhouse tonight with the others. The cottage sat off the far end of the courtyard, isolated from the other houses. Ingolf moved the blade over the stone again in a slow circular motion, his eyes riveted to hers. If some evil should befall her out there in the night, no one would hear her cries for help. Rika closed her eyes and drew a deep, calming breath. Get hold of yourself, Ulrika. This nightmare will be over soon. George watched the two of them through slitted eyes. Rika looked drained, as if she hadn’t slept in days. Ingolf ’s gaze burned into her with a malevolence that kept George perpetually on his guard.

’Twas long past the hour at which Rika normally retired to the cottage. Mayhap tonight she wouldn’t go. George prayed she would not. No one else seemed aware of Ingolf ’s malice toward her. Not even the youth Ottar, who was always the first to rush to her defense when danger reared its head. The boy was a good ally for Rika to have, but he was just that—a boy—and had not the experience to deal with vermin like Ingolf and his henchmen. Besides, the youth had other dangers to thwart this night. Lina sat on Ottar’s lap and tittered prettily at every word he spoke. George suppressed a smile. A boy had to grow up sometime, he guessed. Ottar would grow fast in that one’s clutches. A bittersweet chord tugged at his heart. He was reminded of another youth. His brother, Sommerled. Oh, how he missed him. A wave of raw emotion gripped him, and he gritted his teeth against the agony it wrought. He must get home. That’s what mattered. He’d been on Fair Isle nearly a fortnight. By now his clan would have sent riders to look for him and for Sommerled. Mayhap they’d stumble on the news of their taking to ship from Inverness. News of the wreck. Mayhap they thought him dead. He ought to be dead. It wouldn’t bring his brother back, but ’twould be just payment for his own negligence. He breathed a silent curse and vowed to rid his mind of this misery. There were other matters to deal with now. Once he was safe in Scotland and had made good on his contract with August Sinclair, he could grieve without distraction. But for now— Rika shot to her feet, and George’s mind snapped to attention. He let his head loll sideways against the wall, feigning drunkenness, and peered through a fringe of lashes at Ingolf and his pack. The henchman was on his feet, his dagger in hand. George’s own hand closed surreptitiously over the hilt of the dirk he’d been allowed to carry since that afternoon at the match. He would have preferred a broadsword, but the dirk would do. Not that he couldn’t dispatch a man like Ingolf with his bare hands. But given the heathen’s half-dozen friends eager for a piece of him, the weapon was an added comfort. Rika spared George’s seemingly lifeless form not a glance as she snaked her way through the tables toward the door. On the way, she slipped a short ax from the belt of a passed-out kinsman and shot Ingolf a backward glance. A warning.

As soon as she was out the door, Ingolf and his pack followed in her wake. George watched them until they quit the room, then bolted to his feet. “Ho!” Hannes started beside him. The skald had been dozing. “Where are you off to, lad, with so grim a look on your face?” “Nowhere. Go back to sleep.” He suspected that Rika would rather have cut off an arm than beg protection from any man, but he didn’t intend to offer her a choice in the matter. No one else questioned him as he moved swiftly to the door and stepped into the night, the dirk itching in his hand. He squinted in the dark. Aye, ’twas as he’d feared. Rika stood backed against the well in the middle of the courtyard, brandishing the short ax, Ingolf and his men spread out in a half circle around her. In five strides George was there. Ingolf whirled on him. “Dinna even think it,” George said, and had the point of his dirk against the henchman’s throat before Ingolf could even blink. The others drew their weapons, and George tensed, prepared to take them all. “Not so fast,” a voice called from behind him. Erik. George pushed Ingolf away. “What have we here?” The Norseman flanked George. Leif and a half-dozen others whom George did not know fanned into a line behind them. For a moment no one said a word. “We were just having some sport is all.” Ingolf nodded casually at Rika, then sheathed his weapon. “With the new bride.” “Ja, well, we’ll reserve that for her husband, eh?” Erik said, and beckoned Ingolf toward him. “Come, let us share a flagon and leave the newlyweds to their pleasure on this fine, clear night.” The weather had cleared, George realized. He glanced up and marveled at the spray of stars peppering the sky. A moment later, he and Rika were alone. She cast the ax into the dirt and turned away from him, bracing herself against the wide lip of the well. “Ye may have need of this later,” George said as he retrieved the ax from the dirt and offered it to her.

“I would feel more assured of your safety if ye kept it.” “What concern of yours is my safety?” He moved up behind her and sensed her anger—nay, not anger. Fear. She was trembling. George leaned the ax against the well and gripped her shoulders. She tensed under his touch. “What do you want?” “Nothing. Just to make certain ye’re all right.” She shrugged out of his grasp. “Why do you care?” “Because—” Why did he care? Merely because she was a woman, and in no small danger from Ingolf and his men? Or because she was his wife? As ludicrous as it seemed, he had to admit there was some truth to this last explanation. “Promise me ye’ll take Ottar with ye should ye venture away from the village.” She turned and frowned at him. The moon was not yet risen, and her eyes reflected the pale light of the stars. “I would thank you for what you did for him today.” “For Ottar? I did naught. The lad bested me fair and square.” He patted his chest gingerly. “Aye, and it still stings.” “No Norseman would have done such a thing.” He looked into the silver depths of her eyes and read something new there. “I am no Norseman.” All at once he was aware of the blood heating in his veins, of his heart beating strong in his chest. His mouth went dry, and he longed to quench his thirst. “Nay,” she breathed. “You are not.” He dipped his head to kiss her. “Look!” Rika sidestepped him and pointed to the northern sky. ’Twas as if someone had dumped a bucket of icy water over his head. George followed her gaze. “Sweet Jesus, what’s that?” A tingle of horrific fascination snaked its way along his spine as he fixed his eyes on a living veil of red and green shimmering against the midnight sky. “The northern lights,” she said. “Aurora borealis. I, too, know some Latin.” He stared rapt at the eerie display. “I have heard of this, but never in my life had thought to see it.”

“It comes only in the winter months, when the sky is clear and the weather cold.” She shivered, and he instinctively stepped closer. “Is it always this brilliant?” He watched as the veil of color waxed and waned, washing across the sky in a seductive dance of light. “Nay, it is not. In truth, the red is strangely rare. Only once have I seen it before. The night my brother was—” She hesitated. “The night he left.” A film of tears glassed her eyes, and for some unfathomable reason, it pained him to see her so distraught. No sooner did his arm slip around her shoulder than she turned into him, clutching his waist and burying her face in the hollow of his neck. He kissed her tears away and, before he could stop himself, his lips found hers. Chapter Eight I t was the drink in him, but she didn’t care. Rika’s lips parted to the gentle prodding of Grant’s tongue, and she lost herself in his honeyed kiss. “You’re drunk.” She made a show of trying to push him away. He knew she didn’t mean it. “I’m not.” Grant pulled her tight against him and kissed her again. This time she kissed back. His hands roved her body and began to work the magic that no man, save him, had worked on her before. Why did she allow it? When he rolled his hips against hers she felt his hardness and his heat. It was by sheer will alone she mustered the strength to break the kiss. “You were right,” she breathed against his lips. “About what?” He kissed her again, more passionately this time, and she knew if she did not stop him now she’d succumb to his lovemaking all over again. Rika felt blindly behind her for the ax resting against the well, and drew the weapon slowly upward between their bodies. “This.” Grant jumped back. “Christ, woman, what are ye about?” The hint of fear tinging his voice brought a smile to her lips. “It seems I might have need of it after all, to—what were your words? Ensure my safety.” He ran a hand through his tousled hair and looked again to the northern sky. But the lights had gone out, and with them the passion in his eyes.

She’d been right to stop him. “I…I’m sorry,” he said. “No matter.” She hefted the ax over her shoulder and turned toward the cottage. “About the poem, I mean.” She glanced back at him, and knew from his sober expression he was not toying with her. “I didna know what it meant.” “I’m certain you did not.” The moon rose over the sea and caught him in its light. For the barest moment she thought him the most beautiful man she’d e’er seen. She had decided not to tell him but suddenly changed her mind. “The poem speaks of a warrior’s strength and a valor born of love for his new wife.” He said nothing to that, but as Rika made her way to the cottage and locked herself inside, she felt his eyes on her, and knew that, once again, Lawmaker had been right. This marriage would change them. Had changed them already. It was up to her to ensure it did not change them overmuch. Dawn came, and with it an incredible calm. The sea spread out in all directions, a silvered mirror reflecting the sun’s white light. George stood on the cliff overlooking the beach and counted the hours until they would sail. He’d hardly slept last night, and wasn’t certain which had been more responsible for keeping him awake—Ingolf ’s threats or Rika’s kisses. He told himself it didn’t matter. They’d sail on the night tide and in three days’ time Fair Isle would be but a memory. As agreed, he hadn’t spoken of their planned departure to anyone. The two young dissidents, Leif and Erik, seemed to know all about it, though. More, even, than George knew himself. The other islanders naturally assumed that he, as Rika’s husband, would claim her dowry at some point. They had no idea how soon that day would come—or, rather, that it would never come. Once their ship reached the mainland, he would be a free man. “You are thinking of your homeland.” He whirled, startled, and met Lawmaker’s gaze.

“D’ye always sneak up on a man like that?” ’Twas damn unsettling. Lawmaker smiled. “What is it that you most miss?” Together they turned toward the sea and stared out across the water toward Scotland. “It doesna matter what I do or do not miss. I am a laird, and have many obligations— to clan and king, and to the father of the woman to whom I am betrothed.” “Ah. You are a man who takes his duty seriously.” “Most seriously.” Lawmaker nodded. “I would not have expected less. Tell me about this bride, this woman who waits for you.” “Anne Sinclair?” He shrugged. “I know her not.” “And yet you are intent on taking her to wife?” “Of course I am. I must. ’Tis all agreed.” How could the elder think he’d do otherwise? A pelican drafted low along the surf line and dove with graceful precision upon its breakfast, an unwitting school of perch. “Is she remarkable, this Anne Sinclair?” Lawmaker said. George thought it an odd question. “So my king tells me. But of what consequence is her remarkability? As long as she is obedient and fair of face, she will suit me well.” “Will she?” He frowned at the old man. “Why would she not? What more could a man ask in a wife?” “There is much.” “Oh? Such as…” Lawmaker raised a peppered brow at him. “A sharp mind, for instance. Courage. Strength of character.” George laughed, and together they turned onto the rocky path leading back to the village. “Those things a proper wife dinna make. I would have a woman obey me, unconditionally. Fear me a little, if that served to fortify her obedience.” “I see. You would not have your wife challenge your thinking in any way?” “Ye mean like she does?” He nodded at the row of longhouses in the distance. Rika stood, fists on hips, barking orders to Leif and Erik. “Nay, I would not. ’Tis no a woman’s place to question a man’s decisions.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the edges of Lawmaker’s mouth curl into a smile. “Ofttimes a woman’s questions can lead a man to better answers.”

The old man was daft. George knew what he wanted in a wife—exactly the opposite of what Lawmaker suggested. His gaze raked over Rika as they approached. Exactly the opposite of her. And yet… He watched as she hefted the end of a chest Erik was dragging and helped him to set it on a bench. Last night in the courtyard she’d faced Ingolf and his men with valor, not fear. Her courage had fortified his own. Och, he was as daft as the old man. The woman meant nothing to him. Aside from his occasional physical response to her, which was not something a man could always control, he was entirely certain he loathed her. She glanced up at him suddenly, and smiled. Didn’t he? “Come,” Lawmaker said. “Let us take to my cottage and break our fast together. I expect the others have already eaten.” George shook off the unsettling feelings eating away at his convictions, and followed Lawmaker past the central courtyard and into his tiny abode. The air was damp and musty. Bread and cheese sat on a trencher on the table. His stomach growled. “Sit, eat.” Lawmaker threw off his cloak and gestured to the bench. George obeyed. The remnants of a peat fire smoked in the brazier behind him, giving off just enough heat to warm the cottage. He hadn’t donned a cloak that morning, and didn’t realize how cold he was until he sat down. “I have something for you,” Lawmaker said. “Aye?” He devoured a hunk of cheese. “What?” “This.” To George’s astonishment, the old man handed him his weapon—the strangely runed broadsword he’d loaned George for the wedding. “I dinna understand. ’Tis your weapon, is it no?” Lawmaker set the sheathed sword on the table before him. “It’s yours now. Methinks you will have need of it before our voyage is over. Or even begun.” He remembered well the malice smoldering in Ingolf ’s eyes last eve. “There are some who would stop us from sailing. Is that what ye mean?”

“They would if they could, but they’d dare not try. They are small in number and should we wish to, we could call a score of kinsmen to our aid—though I’d prefer not to risk such bloodshed. Besides, as long as your tongue’s not wagged, no one knows we sail.” Lawmaker looked at him hard. “And once we’ve made the mainland, there will be other dangers. But you know that.” The elder’s penetrating gaze unnerved him. ’Twas almost as if the old man read his mind about abandoning them once on Scottish soil. “Take it.” Lawmaker pushed the weapon toward him. His hand closed over the finely crafted hilt, and a stab of guilt twisted his gut. “What about ye?” “Oh, I have other swords. Besides, my fighting skills are not what they were. I’ve no need of so fine a weapon.” ’Twas an honor George couldn’t refuse. He met the old man’s eyes and nodded. “All right, then. Thank ye.” “We set sail as soon as the night is full on us.” “Does it have a name?” George unsheathed the sword and held it aloft, marveling at the workmanship. “I’ve heard that Norsemen name their weapons.” Lawmaker pointed to a runic inscription on the weapon’s hilt. “She is called Gunnlogi —Flame of Battle.” “Battle Flame,” George repeated. “I like it.” He ran a hand over the runes peppering the blade. “And this? What does this say?” “It’s a series of spells—for luck.” He eyed the spidery engraving and frowned. Lawmaker laughed. “Don’t worry. No longer do we invoke such magic.” “That’s comforting. I think.” He sheathed the sword and returned his attention to breakfast. “This may be the last opportunity for us to speak alone before we sail.” Lawmaker settled on the bench beside him. “There are things I would have you know.” “What things?” He cast the bread he’d been eating back onto the table. “About Rika’s father.” “Ah, the infamous Rollo.” “Ja, the very same. Make no mistake, Grant, he is a shrewd man.”

George snorted. “No shrewd enough to marry off his daughter before she took matters into her own hands.” “She was betrothed.” “What?” His heart skipped a beat. “Rollo saw to it before he left Fair Isle.” “But then, why—” “To Brodir.” George looked at him, incredulous. “When I asked ye about that before, ye said she wasna.” “Nay, I said she belonged to no man. There’s a difference.” “No where I come from. Her father will have my head—and hers. She’ll ne’er get her coin.” Not that he intended to ever meet her father. He was not hungry anymore, and pushed the trencher away. “Relax. You shall win his respect and gain the dowry. It matters not what covenants were broken between him and Brodir.” Brodir. The heathen who raped her. Her betrothed. “Rollo looks out for his own interests. An alliance with a Scottish laird is a boon too precious for him to cast aside.” George pushed back from the table, his gut roiling, sick of the whole scheme. “I will see ye at the ship.” Lawmaker nodded, and rose with him when he made to leave. “Ja, tonight, and don’t forget this.” Lawmaker nudged the sheathed broadsword toward him. Bloody tricksters, the lot of them. He picked up the weapon and eased the shoulder baldric over his head. “Tonight,” he said, and left the door gaping as he stormed off into the chill of the morn. A finger of afternoon sunlight streamed through the window warming the otherwise cheerless cottage. Rika carefully arranged her brother’s hauberk and helm on top of the cloak she’d spread on the bed, then reached for Gunnar’s sword. “I thought we sailed in search of a dowry, no a battle.”

She whirled toward Grant’s unmistakable voice. He stood in the open doorway, eyeing the possessions she’d assembled on the bed. “Thor’s blood, do you never knock before entering?” “We are marrit, are we no?” He sauntered into the room and closed the door behind him. “I didna see the need.” The forced casualness in his expression and offhand tone of his voice put her on her guard. “What do you want? I’m busy here.” “I can see that.” He grazed a hand over the polished chain mail, then pushed it aside and settled onto the bed. “Get off! Get out of here now.” He ignored her and picked up Gunnar’s helm. “This might come in handy, after all.” “What do you mean? Here, give me that.” She went for the helm. “No so fast,” he said, and snatched it out of her reach. “Methinks ’twill take more than board games and poetry to win your coin. I might be able to use this.” She frowned at him. “What’s happened? Why do you say these things?” A chill uneasiness washed over her. “Naught has happened. I just wish to be prepared. Your father expects another man in my place.” He flashed her a cold look. “A jarl.” She clenched her teeth, prepared for another confrontation. She’d be damned if she’d allow his prodding to reduce her to tears, as it had that day on the moor. “Your betrothed.” The way he said the word made her want to wretch. “Ingolf again. I told you not to listen to him.” “Nay, ’twas not Ingolf.” “Who then?” “Your guardian—Lawmaker.” Rika cursed under her breath. “On our wedding day, did ye conveniently forget about your obligation to this man?” She snatched Gunnar’s helm from his hand, placed it on top of the hauberk and bundled them both into the cloak. “I owe him nothing. He’s lower than a dog.” Before she could move from the bed, his hand closed over her wrist, his eyes fixed on the bracelet. “On that last account, I willna argue.”

“This matter is of no consequence to you.” She wrested herself out of his grasp and continued to gather up the few things she’d need for the voyage. “Methinks it is. Especially if it’s no a chest of silver that awaits me, but your father’s sword.” She made a derisory sound. “You don’t understand our ways. If you did, this betrothal would not concern you.” He crossed his arms behind his head and eased back onto the pillows. “Enlighten me.” “Thor’s blood, you are a nuisance.” She pulled up a stool and sat down, resigned. “It’s true, I was promised to him—long ago when Brodir and I were children. But you must understand, it’s not a custom widely practiced among our people. Engagements are a Christian habit that suit not our style of living.” “Go on.” “If a man and a woman are to wed, they simply marry. There is no waiting once the woman’s father has agreed.” “Why then—” “When I came of age I would not have him. Besides, Brodir is gone and may never return.” Oh, if she were only that lucky. “My people know that. Why do you think so few opposed our marriage?” He frowned, and she could see his mind working. “So, with Brodir gone, ye are…fair game.” “Precisely.” Although she was loath to think of herself in those terms. It was… degrading. She rose from the stool and continued with her packing. “My father will see it that way, as well.” At least, she hoped he would. “You have naught to fear from him.” “I fear no man.” He shot to his feet. “But neither will I be played for a fool. What else have ye no told me?” She watched as the pulse point in his neck throbbed in time to her own escalating heartbeat. She gathered up Gunnar’s things and set them by her satchel near the door. “Nothing. You know all that you need to carry out your part of our—” He grabbed her arm, and she froze. “Bargain?” he said. “I had better. For if ye’ve lied to me…” Blood heated her face. “Then what?” She jerked out of his grasp. “What will you do?” She tipped her chin at him and stood statue-still as he traced the line of her scar from ear to throat with his fingertip. A shiver snaked up her spine. “Ye dinna wish to know.”

Before she could come back with some smart retort, he turned and left. She slammed the door after him and slid the bolt. Think he to threaten her? She ran her hand over the hilt of her brother’s sword. Let him think again. Chapter Nine T heir departure was surprisingly uneventful. George stood aft and watched until the dark shadow of Fair Isle melted into the blackness. He drew a breath and could no longer smell the sheep, the fermenting grain of the brew house, or peat fires smoldering in longhouse braziers. All that remained was the brackish sea air, and a whiff of pickled herring wafting from the barrels stacked amidships. Their cargo was precious. Preserved fish, cheese and kegs of mead, dozens of yards of homespun cloth. Erik and Leif had secretly stashed the goods in an unused cave along the rocky bluff, a few barrels at a time over the past week, in the wee hours before dawn when all were abed. It had been dead easy to roll them down the hard packed beach the last few yards to the ship. Lawmaker thought to trade it all for horses once they reached the mainland. George didn’t have the heart to tell him that for the lot they’d be damn lucky to get a nag or two —not enough mounts to carry them all. He was surprised how few men it took, after all, to sail the byrthing. ’Twas a small ship, meant for trading in coastal waters, and sported but a single square-rigged sail. Save for the massive keel, which extended high out of the water both fore and aft and was carved into the shape of some mythical sea creature, the vessel little resembled the Viking ships he’d seen at harbor on the mainland. Because their cargo took up so much space, only four sets of oars were used on the byrthing, and only then, Erik had told him, for specialized tasks such as docking or steering the bow into the wind during a storm. They were only six in the end. He and Rika and Lawmaker; Erik, Leif and the everpresent Ottar. George had expected more hands for such a voyage. As he gazed south at the midnight expanse of sea that lay before them, a chill washed over him. Gooseflesh rose on his skin. He pulled his fur-lined cloak tight about him and recalled his last sea journey. It had been what…a fortnight? Three weeks since the wreck? It seemed months since that illfated voyage. A lifetime since he stood on the deck of the coastal frigate with Sommerled and drank of the salt air.

Once they made the mainland, if he never saw another ship again, ’twould be too soon. Lawmaker huddled with Rika ahead of the sail. Every few moments he’d point skyward, and Rika would nod her head. Everyone knew that Norsemen were excellent navigators. George had heard tell of their strange instruments and wondered if any were useful by night. He had naught better to do. Mayhap he’d join them and learn something. Erik, Leif and Ottar were busy trimming the sail to best catch the wind. George had already asked them once if they needed his help. Ottar had made it clear they did not. ’Twas fine with him. He skirted the cargo and joined the navigators. Lawmaker clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Ah, here you are. Do you read the stars?” “Only those spinning above his head when he’s in his cups,” Rika said. He smirked at her in the dark. “Verra funny.” She’d been avoiding him since their confrontation in the cottage that afternoon. The moon was not yet risen. He could not read her expression, but felt her chill demeanor. “Well, I shall leave you two to it,” Lawmaker said. “There are things I must discuss with the lads.” He nodded behind them where the others worked, then joined them. George stood silent for a time, gazing at the brilliant map overhead. As a boy he’d thrived on pagan legends describing the constellations, but his parents had forbid such tales as they kept a devoutly Christian household. “So,” Rika said abruptly. “Do you read them?” “What, the stars? Aye, certainly.” “Tell me, then, what is that?” She pointed overhead to a familiar grouping. “Och, that’s easy. ’Tis the Plough.” “Ha! You’re wrong, Scotsman. It’s called Woden’s Wagon.” “’Tis not.” He frowned at her. “’Tis the Plough.” “And the Lady’s Wagon is there—” she pointed again “—with Tir, the Nail, at its tip.” “Tir?” The woman knew nothing, just as he’d suspected. “Nay, ye’re wrong. That’s the pole star.” She clucked her tongue. “She’s right,” Lawmaker called out as he coiled a length of walrus-skin rope atop a barrel behind them. “Of course I’m right,” she snapped. “But—”

“And Grant is right, as well.” “What?” Rika turned to George, and he shot her a nasty glance he was certain she could not see in the starlight. “You’re both right,” Lawmaker said. “There are as many names for the stars as there are peoples on the earth. Each race conjures its own tales of the night sky.” The old man had a point, though George had never thought of such a thing before. He’d always assumed that his view of the world was the right one. The only one. By God, it ought to be. He was a Christian, after all. Rika stared rapt at the sky as if she waited for it to reveal something promised yet long in the coming. Aboard ship, away from the island, she seemed more of a mystery to him than before. Never had he known a woman to take to ship—for any reason. The sea was a man’s domain, fraught with adventure and unexpected peril. Ulrika, daughter of Fritha, likely did not see it that way at all. Her strange beliefs and unconventional behavior flew in the face of the very foundation on which he was reared. His fascination with her was dangerous. She corrupted his sense of what was right and wrong, of what a woman should be. The only woman he had ever known well was his mother. She was a quiet thing, so fragile in body and spirit that, after his father died, George had taken it upon himself to protect her from the world outside their home. A blast of wind rushed over them, and he heard the chattering of Rika’s teeth. The urge to put an arm around her and shelter her from the elements was nearly too strong to resist. But resist it he did. She had made it plain to him, time and again, that she sought not a man’s protection. Nay, not even his kindness. Mayhap she’d ne’er known such comforts, save for the friendship bestowed on her by an old man and a boy. He stared at her in the dark and willed her meet his gaze. After a moment he felt her eyes on him and he smiled. What kind of a woman was she, to venture forth on such a journey? A fool’s mission. A woman of intellect, of courage. A woman of character. He turned away from her and shaded his eyes against the salt spray blowing over the bow. Vega rose in chilling brilliance on the southern horizon.

The shores of Scotland seemed far, indeed. Dawn ushered in a fog so dense Rika could barely make out the water beneath their low drafting vessel. She squinted ahead into the diffuse light, pulling her cloak tight about her, and tried in vain to discern the position of the sun. “We’re lost.” Grant’s voice sounded behind her. “We are not lost.” She didn’t bother turning around. He moved up beside her, shrouded in mist, the waxing wind ruffling his damp hair. “How d’ye know? I for one canna see a bloody thing.” “I don’t need to see.” “Then how d’ye know where—” “I know.” She cast him a sideways glance, dismissing his concern. The Scot knew less about sailing than even the simplest child. She supposed she should remedy that. Although why she should bother… “Oh, all right.” She drew the braided sealskin cord from around her neck and thrust it toward him. Few were allowed to handle the precious stone dangling from the cord’s end, but she’d make an exception this once. “Here. This is how I know.” Grant’s eyes widened as she dropped the stone into his palm. “What’s this? Some heathen magic?” She smirked at him. “It’s a sunstone. You led me to believe you were skilled in the ways of navigation.” “Nay. I said I knew the stars.” “Ja, well, one cannot use the stars by day. Mayhap you were searching for the Plough when your ship was scuttled.” As soon as the words slid from her lips she was sorry she’d said them. His expression hardened, but in his eyes she read pain. The loss of his brother weighed heavy on his mind. As did the loss of her own. “Grant, I—” “Show me how this works,” he said abruptly, and held the sunstone aloft. She swallowed her apology and launched into an explanation of how the crystal worked. “Andalusite. Hmm.” Grant fingered the crystal in wonder. “It catches the light then, and shows the position of the sun, even in a fog?”

“Ja, but…” Rika peered at the crystal and frowned. “It tells us little today, so dim is the light.” She fished a small homespun pouch from the pocket of her cloak. “Here, we shall try the lodestone.” “Lodestone?” For lack of a better place to put it, Grant hung the crystal around his neck and opened his palm in time for her to spill the contents of the pouch into his hand. “I will show you,” she said, and knelt. A few seconds later, she’d pried the lid off a small keg of mead resting at the edge of their cargo. “What, are ye thirsty?” “Nay.” She arched a brow at him. “Open your hand.” Grant did as she instructed, and she plucked the iron needle and the dark heavy stone from his palm. “Watch.” She stroked the needle across the stone three times in the same direction. “All right, now hand me the straw.” Grant proffered the short length of straw, watching her every move with an interest that surprised her. She inserted the needle into the hollow straw and set it to float on the sloshing surface of the mead. “There. You see?” Grant’s eyes widened as the straw aligned itself with the prow of the byrthing. He snatched it out of the mead, turned it around, and set it to float again. As she knew it would, the straw again aligned itself with the prow of their vessel. “Bloody hell,” he breathed. Rika smiled. “The needle points north-south every time.” “I have heard of such a thing, but never thought to see it.” He looked at her, and she was drawn in by the warmth of his eyes. “Ye were right, then. We are in no danger of losing our way.” Oh, but they were. She felt it as surely as she felt the familiar heat spread from her center. His eyes lingered on her lips overlong, and her mouth went dry. “What’s this?” Lawmaker’s voice boomed from behind them. Rika snapped from her momentary stupor. “Get that out of there! It will taint the cargo.” Lawmaker leaned down and snatched the floating straw from the mead. Grant pressed the lid back onto the keg, while she slipped the lodestone, the needle, and straw back into their pouch. “Well then, is our bearing sound?” Lawmaker asked her.

“Ja, dead on south.” “Good.” The old man nodded satisfaction, then clapped a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Take heed, son. There is much you might learn from Ulrika, should you wish to.” Grant flashed her a look that spoke new understanding. “Aye, it seems that there is.” She felt the warmth of his admiration, and her own heat spread, despite the chill weather. “Come,” Lawmaker said to Grant. “Ottar needs help trimming the sail—though he won’t admit it.” Grant smiled at her, and she felt the edges of her own mouth turn upward. She watched as he followed the old man aft and disappeared into the fog. Hunkering down between a couple of kegs of cargo, she pulled her cloak tight about her, eluding the frigid wind. A thunk sounded from one of the kegs. Rats? Surely not. Then again, God knows what Lawmaker had packed inside some of them. With luck, two days hence she’d catch her first glimpse of the mainland. Rika drew a breath of salt air and held it in her lungs. She’d sailed before—lots of times, in fact—but only to the Shetlands. Never south. South was where her father lived, and in all the years since he’d abandoned her and Gunnar, never once had she ventured in that direction. Until now. She exhaled slowly. All had gone according to her plan. Soon, God willing, she’d be reunited with her brother. The trials yet to endure she ignored for now. It was enough to know that at the end of it, Gunnar would be freed. Oh, how he’d chastise her and Lawmaker for daring such a scheme. Rika smiled inwardly. She suspected she’d changed much over the year, since Gunnar’s abduction. Mayhap he’d see her with new eyes. As Grant had seen her this morn. She peered aft into the mist and could just make him out, working with Ottar to secure the vathmal sail with ropes of oiled walrus skin. An uneasy peace had settled between them, and it pleased her, though why she could not say. She told herself it was because she needed him to gain her coin, and that all would go smoother should they strive to get along. That was true enough, but there was more to it. She liked him.

Her admiration had grown out of a begrudging respect she was compelled to afford him. He was a good man—for a Scot. Not that she had ever known any Scots. That day at the match, Lawmaker had said she was lucky. Mayhap she was. A blast of salt spray hit her full in the face. She scrambled to her feet, choking. “Are ye all right?” Grant called out to her. He started toward her, but she waved him off. Thor’s blood, she must stay focused. She’d gone soft in the head since the night Grant bedded her. His noble actions of the past weeks served only to befuddle her thinking further. She must hold fast to her convictions, rid herself of the tender feelings blooming inside her. Such feelings were dangerous. They weakened a woman’s resolve, left her open and vulnerable. Ja, they were as dangerous as succumbing to Grant’s feigned admiration. For that’s surely what it was. Feigned. He had his own motives, she must remember. Just as she had hers. The brief moments of intimacy they’d shared meant nothing—to him or to her. Once her dowry was secured, she’d rid herself of the Scot and be glad of it. The fog thinned, and she could see him clearly now. He worked closely with Ottar, though the youth’s sour expression told her Grant’s help was not appreciated. Dark clouds massed overhead. Rika glanced skyward and a premonition of something evil snaked through her. All the light went out of the sky. “The weather’s turning,” Lawmaker called to them. “We’d best secure the cargo.” Rika steadied herself on the gently pitching timbers and whispered a prayer for the weather to hold. A Christian prayer. One her father had taught her long ago. “Look to your head, man!” George ducked a split second before Erik dropped the sail; the vathmal sheet came crashing down. The byrthing pitched starboard and he lost his footing. “Bloody—unh!” He crashed backward into a row of kegs. “Grant!” Rika’s voice barely carried over the deafening roar of the wind. “Where are you? Are you hurt?” “Nay, I’m…” He pushed the heavy sailcloth aside and scrambled to his feet. “I’m fine.” Rika grasped the front of his soaking tunic and pulled him toward her, inspecting him for signs of injury. She looked half-drowned herself with her gown soaked through— where was her cloak?—and her sopping hair plastered to her face.

He almost laughed. “D’ye no believe me? I’m fine.” “Rika!” She let him go and turned toward Lawmaker’s voice. The old man worked to secure a couple of barrels rolling around near the front of the cargo. George sidestepped her and rushed to help him. “Och, these are heavy. What in God’s name have ye packed into them?” A blast of seawater hit him full in the face. Bloody hell! They were mad to continue in this weather. The storm had come upon them out of nowhere late that afternoon. “There, that’s it.” Lawmaker fastened a length of rope around the barrels and tied them to the rest of the cargo while George held them fast. The byrthing pitched again. He grabbed for something, anything, to steady himself. The wind raged like a madman, drowning out all other sound. As if she would devour him whole, the sea rose up on all sides like some living, breathing predator. Visions of the wreck that had cast him into this hell flashed across his mind in hideous bursts of color. The screams of his men, the terror in Sommerled’s young face. A thousand times over George felt his brother’s hand slip from his own and watched, helpless, in his mind’s eye as the sea claimed him. “Grant!” Lawmaker waved him toward Leif and Ottar and the others who huddled around the naked mast. He made his way toward them, stepping carefully between the barrels, hanging on to whatever he could as the byrthing rolled and pitched beneath his shaking legs. Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating for a second the grim faces of his companions. Rika was not among them. He wiped the icy salt water from his face and peered, slit eyed, toward the stern. “Where is she?” “She’s there.” Ottar pointed to the stacks of sopping homespun nestled between rows of kegs at the rear of the cargo. The woman was impossible. She should be here, with them, clutching the mast, where they could protect her from the storm. “What the devil is she doing?” George shook his head, amazed at her lack of regard for her own safety. “God knows,” Lawmaker said. Without a second thought, George started toward her. Ottar grabbed his arm. “Nay. I’ll go.” George wrenched out of the youth’s grasp and pushed him back into the mast. Ottar lunged at him.

“Idiots!” Lawmaker said, brushing past them. “Both of you stay here. I’ll go!” “Fine,” they said in unison. George caught Ottar’s murderous glare before the two of them grabbed hold of Erik and Leif ’s outstretched hands. “What now?” he cried. Leif shook his head. “We wait it out.” “And if it doesna pass?” The three youths exchanged sheepish glances. He realized that none of them was an experienced seaman. What had they been thinking to chance such a voyage in the dead of winter? This dowry scheme of Rika’s was insane. Och, he was as much at fault as any of them. He’d have done anything to get off that island. George narrowed his eyes against the icy needles of rain and salt spray blowing over the side. Where was Lawmaker? “What’s keeping th—” A flash of lightning lit the sky, and the words froze in his throat. Lawmaker stood backed against the low-timbered sides of the byrthing, clutching the top rail, the tip of a dagger poised at his throat. Ingolf ’s dagger. A split second later George’s dirk was in his hand and he was snaking toward them through rows of barrels and stacks of homespun. Rika lay sprawled at Ingolf ’s feet and, as the sky lit up again, he saw her slip her own weapon from its sheath. His gut tightened. Three more strides. Two. “Rika, wait!” Ottar cried, and tried to push past him. The byrthing pitched again, and they all tumbled to port. George was the first to his feet. One barrel lay between him and Ingolf, who had Lawmaker pinned to the side. Rika crawled toward them on hands and knees, her weapon gleaming in the sharp flashes of light. “Stay put!” he cried, and skirted the last barrel. Its top flew off. A split second before Rasmus shot from the barrel, ax in hand, George lurched sideways. Rika screamed. “I’ll kill him!” Ingolf cried, and thrust the dagger at Lawmaker. “Nay!” Rika lunged at him. George shot forward, barely aware of Rasmus thudding to the deck behind him under Ottar’s weight. A second later, Erik and Leif flanked him, weapons drawn.

“Turn the ship around!” Ingolf edged his dagger higher on Lawmaker’s throat. “I’ll kill him, I swear!” “Do it!” Rika cried. “Erik, turn us around.” She knelt at Ingolf ’s feet, her own dagger poised in midair. “Nay.” Lawmaker shook his head. “Don’t turn back.” One more step. “Grant, no!” Lawmaker caught his eye, and George hesitated. “The dowry, get it for her.” The elder smiled, then grabbed Ingolf by the throat. The henchman lunged. Rika screamed as Ingolf ’s dagger slipped neatly between Lawmaker’s ribs. A second later, to George’s astonishment, Lawmaker cast himself backward into the sea, pulling Ingolf with him. Erik and Leif exploded across the deck as George lunged for Rika. “Nay!” she screamed, and eluded his grasp. “Lawmaker!” An enormous wave crashed over them, pummeling George backward into a roil of bodies—Rasmus, Ottar and the rest. By the time he got to his feet, she was halfway over the side. “Rika!” He shot forward and grabbed her wrist. Too late. She hung there, half in the water, struggling against him. “Let go of me! I must save him. Let go!” With each roll of the ship, she went under, shrieking and sputtering. George held her fast, his heart pounding, his lungs burning against the blasts of sea water threatening to choke him. “Let go!” Lightning flashed, so close the sopping hair on the back of his neck prickled. For a moment their eyes locked, but ’twas not Rika’s fearless gaze he saw—’twas Sommerled’s, eyes wide and terror-glazed. She jerked herself from his grasp, and the sea swallowed her whole. “Rika!” Ottar pulled himself up beside George and shrieked her name over and over. George’s hand was still outstretched, as if he thought by some miracle the sea would cough her up and she’d take hold of it once more. Another wave rolled toward the boat like a dark phantom. Rika’s head broke the surface just before the water hit them. He could save her, she was that close. Instinct drove him to reach for her. Then he froze. What if she drowned?

He’d be free, would he not? Free of the bargain. Free of her. Free to go home—if he survived. The icy wave crashed down on them, and through the stinging spray he saw her hand shoot from the water, reaching out to him, fingers splayed, the eerie light of the storm beaming off her braceleted wrist. Chapter Ten H e would let her drown? So be it. The sea sucked her under, and this time she did not struggle. Why should she? Lawmaker was dead. Gunnar, too. She must stop fooling herself. A year in hard labor in the dank caves at Dunnet Head. She’d heard tell of the beatings, the torture. What man could survive such abuse? Nay, they were both lost to her, and there was not another on this earth who cared whether she lived or died. The look in Grant’s eyes when she slipped from his grasp, for a moment she had thought… Nay, she’d been wrong. Rika let her body go limp, and mustered the courage to suck the chill water into her burning lungs. And then his hands were on her. Grant’s hands. Strong and sure, circling her waist, pulling her tight against him. Together they broke the surface and her lungs exploded. Thor’s blood, she could not get enough air. She fought him, choking and sputtering. “Be still!” He pulled her under with him, and something slipped around her waist. Rope. They crashed to the surface again and she sucked in air. Grant pulled the tether tight. “Put your arms around me, woman!” “Nay!” She beat at him with her fists. “Let me go!” She knew he would not. Grant slipped his arms under hers and pulled them along the tether, hand over hand, toward the ship, which bobbed like a cork in the dark water. Ottar and Leif hung over the side, their hands outstretched, reaching for her. Erik held the other end of the line to which Grant had tied her. The wind screamed. The sea raged. Her legs were numb, her fingers ice. She was barely aware of them hauling her into the byrthing. The deck pitched beneath them, and she went down hard on a rolling keg of mead.

“My…head.” Rika felt blindly along her damp scalp. Her eyes, glued shut, stung with salt. “Dinna move.” Grant. The calm authority in his voice made her head stop spinning. The Scot had saved her life. She cracked an eye and was instantly blinded by the light. “The…storm…” “’Tis past.” Her throat burned. “How long?” “A few hours. Ye hit your head on a barrel. ’Tis a wee bump. Ye’ll be fine.” She squinted up at him as he knelt before her, proffering a cup. “Here, drink this.” “What is it?” “Water.” Her stomach lurched, and she waved him off. “I’ve had my fill of that.” “Try this, then.” Ottar’s wet boots came into her line of sight. He squatted beside her and Grant and offered her a ladle. “It’s mead.” “Ah, good.” She tried to sit up, and both of them moved to help her. “I…I’m fine. Leave me be.” The two exchanged a look she could not read, and allowed her to right herself on her own. The sweet libation brought her to her senses. “Ah, that’s better.” She blinked into the sun until her eyes focused. The byrthing’s sail billowed white against the unbearable blue of the sky. Perhaps she’d dreamed the storm. “Where’s—” Lawmaker’s name died on her lips. She remembered now. “He’s gone,” Grant said. “Nay.” She shook her head, not wanting to believe. Ottar’s filming eyes and the empty ache she felt inside told her it was true. “Nay,” she breathed, and met Grant’s sober gaze. “Aye, lass, ’tis true.” He pulled her to her feet and held on to her until she felt steady on the gently rolling deck. She closed her eyes and breathed deep of the salt air. Oh, God, what would she do now? “Grant, she should rest,” Ottar said. “Nay, I’m fine.” She pushed past them both, gripped the top rail and blinked at the southern horizon. Was that land she spied? “Where are we?” “On course, by some miracle,” Ottar said. “Erik says—”

She spun toward the byrthing’s bow. “Erik! Leif! Where are they?” The events of the previous night crashed over her. “Ingolf, Rasmus. How did they—” Grant stepped in front of her, blocking her way. “The lads are well. Erik and Leif are sleeping—over there, on a pile of homespun.” “And—” “Tied up.” Grant nodded toward the center of the cargo, where the back of Ingolf ’s dark head lolled against one of the barrels. “He lives?” Rage boiled up inside her. Grant read it in her eyes, and placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. “But then—” “Nay,” Grant said. “I know what ye’re thinking, but there was naught to be done. Lawmaker was dead before he hit the water.” A sick feeling welled inside her as she remembered the flashing lightning reflected off Ingolf ’s blade. “Erik fished the murderer out,” Ottar said, and cast Ingolf a deadly look. “God knows why.” Grant’s gaze drifted out to sea and his expression tightened. “Because no man should let another drown.” He was remembering his brother. She recognized the anguish in his eyes and felt the staggering weight of his pain. He held himself responsible for Sommerled’s death. She, too, felt responsible—for Lawmaker’s untimely demise. He had purposefully sacrificed himself for their mission. Rika closed her eyes and offered up a silent prayer for his soul. “Rasmus is still out cold.” Ottar’s voice wrested her from her entreaty. He drew himself up straight and tall before her. Rika pushed her own pain away and smiled at him. “You did well last night. Thank you.” The youth wiped a hand across his ruddy, tearstained cheek and beamed at her. “Aye, ye did,” Grant said. The two exchanged glances, and Rika sensed a fragile sort of peace between them. It pleased her. Ottar glared over the barrel tops at their captives. “We should have killed them both straightaway. What good are they alive? They’re Brodir’s men.”

Grant snorted. “Aye, all the more reason to slit their bloody throats.” “Yet you yourself would not have let Ingolf drown.” Rika arched a brow at him. Grant shrugged. The Scot’s initial reaction evoked in her a strange sense of satisfaction. Still, they were not killers. Lawmaker himself would not have condoned murder. She lusted for vengeance more than any of them could know. But she would wait and let Gunnar decide a fair punishment. “Nay, we will not touch them.” “But—” Ottar silenced himself at her upraised hand. “Make certain their binds are tight.” She caught herself rubbing her own braceleted wrists. Grant looked at her with a heady measure of understanding. It unnerved her, and she turned away. “Come,” she said to Ottar. “I wish to check our bearing.” The sun was enough of a gauge, and the islands to the southwest, but she needed the diversion. Her thoughts raced, and she was not yet ready to confront them. The pouch at her waist was still damp, but intact, and she drew comfort from knowing the lodestone was safe within it. At least that was something. She was alone in this now. True, she had Ottar and Erik and Leif—but while the youths were valiant and loyal, they had neither Lawmaker’s wisdom nor his foresight. Rika gripped the top rail and ground her teeth. Once you start down this path there can be no going back. The wind toyed with her hair. Absently she reached back and began to braid it. It was up to her now. She’d see them safe—and Gunnar, too, God willing. George stood starboard and squinted against the setting sun. The sky warmed red then cooled to violet as the brilliant orb slid behind the dark silhouette of the islands. “Orkney,” Ottar said. George arched a brow at him. “How d’ye know?” “It must be. Lawmaker said we’d pass east of the islands near to the third day.” “So he did.” George felt the old man’s loss as keenly as did the others, and that unsettled him. He gripped Gunnlogi’s hilt. The sword would ne’er leave his side again. Had he worn it from the start, Lawmaker might still be alive. “We’re nearly there, then,” Ottar said.

“Aye.” “A day at most? What think you?” George met the youth’s gaze and read something in those dark eyes he’d not seen before. Uncertainty. The events of last night had had a sobering effect on them all. ’Twas the first time Ottar had asked his opinion on any matter. The first time, in fact, the youth had shown him any measure of civility. His hotheaded pride and misplaced rivalry had quelled with the storm. Erik and Leif had consulted George throughout the day, as well. They were boys, he reminded himself, and though he was a foreigner and traveled with them not quite of his own free will, he was older, more experienced, and they looked to him for advice. Ottar waited, his anxiety manifest in the twitch of his beardless cheek. “Aye, a day,” George said, and saw the tension drain from the youth’s expression. In that moment, Ottar reminded him much of his brother Sommerled—the exuberance of youth all but crushed under the sobering weight of manhood. For Sommerled, that exuberance was extinguished forever. “Erik is preparing some food. Are you hungry?” George wasn’t, but he supposed he should eat. “I could do with a bit of something.” He turned his face into the wind and his eyes to the sea, which had gone a pearly slate under the darkening sky. The first stars blinked at him low on the horizon, their violet backdrop cooling to indigo. “Shall I wake her?” Ottar said. “Rika?” His gaze was drawn to her sleeping form, curled like a cat on a bale of homespun nestled amidst the kegs. “Nay, let her sleep.” Ottar smiled—George felt it more than saw it—then made his way aft to where Erik and Leif were rearranging some of the cargo. Aye, much had changed between them since he’d pulled Rika from the sea. Why had he done it? Looking at her now, he wondered that he had ever hesitated. In sleep she seemed small, defenseless—a woman like any other. Oh, but she was not like any other. A gust of wind blew her cloak open and, without thinking, he knelt beside her and smoothed it back over her damp gown. She’d lost her boots in the water. Her feet were ice. Quickly he stripped off the fur wrap covering his tunic—’twas nearly dry—and wrapped it around her feet. She stirred, a tiny sigh escaping her lips.

He had an overpowering urge to lie down beside her, cradle her in his arms, brush a kiss across her temple. But he did not. He told himself he’d have braved the chill waters to save her no matter who she was. ’Twas the Christian thing to do. He would have done it for anyone. All at once, he recalled the shipwreck—watching in horror as Sommerled pitched over the frigate’s top rail into the churning water. George had leaped after him but caught a foot in some twisted rigging hanging off the side. He’d managed to grab Sommerled’s outstretched hand as the youth worked madly to keep his head above the surface, but the drowning ship lurched starboard and his brother slipped from his grasp. “Sweet Jesus,” he breathed. “There is naught sweet about him,” Rika said, startling him. She opened her eyes and fixed them on his. He could see in the waning light that she’d been crying. “He is a cruel and merciless God.” For a long time he just looked at her. “Aye, that he is.” She shivered and pulled her cloak more tightly about her. Fisting his hands at his sides, he willed himself not to help her. Then her eyes lit on the fur wrap covering her feet. Their gazes locked. After a long moment she said, “Thank you.” He nodded, then rose, suddenly uncomfortable under her scrutiny. “Why did you do it?” “The fur?” He shrugged. “Och, ’twas just that your feet—” “Nay, not that. Last night—” She sat up and looked at him with those guileless eyes. “Why did you fish me out?” Why had he? The answer he’d prepared for her died on his lips. He shrugged stupidly. “Grant!” Ottar’s voice carried over the rushing of sea and wind. “Come—eat with us.” The youth waved him over. He stood there a moment longer, looking at her in the last of the light, wondering what she was thinking. Then he left to join the others. The cawing of seabirds woke her just before dawn. It was a frigid morn. Her bare feet burned with cold as she stood near the byrthing’s prow and watched the sun rise. Shrouded in a whispery veil of mist, she saw it, and her breath caught.

Land. “We shall finally have done with this hellish voyage,” Grant said as he came up behind her. “Ja.” “Where d’ye plan to put in?” He eyed her in a way that made her suspicious of his intent. “Gellis Bay,” she said, visualizing the crude map Lawmaker had drawn for her in the snow the afternoon before they sailed. “We seek the man MacInnes.” “A Scot. Fine. But there must be dozens of MacInneses. ’Tis a fair common name in the north. If that’s all ye’ve got to go on, then—” “Thomas MacInnes, and he lives just above the bay.” Lawmaker had described the place to her many times. “Ye’re certain?” She nodded. “Lawmaker said he would not be hard to find. His is the only family for leagues and leagues.” “It doesna surprise me. ’Tis a godforsaken place.” His face brightened. “Gellis Bay it is, then.” “You know the place?” “I know of it.” Thank God. He was the only one of them who did. Brodir had taken all of the charts of the mainland with him when he left. She had thought to rely on Lawmaker’s memory to guide them. Now she’d be forced to rely on Grant. “It lies just there—” he pointed to the rugged, mist-cloaked coastline “—due east of Dunnet Head.” She bit back a squeak, and her eyes widened involuntarily. “Ye know it? Dunnet Head?” “Nay, I do not.” She shook her head fervently and turned away from him. “I’ve never heard of it.” “Ye could have fooled me.” She risked a glance back at him, and caught him frowning, studying her. Not once since they’d sailed had she or Erik or Leif even mentioned Gunnar’s name. She had thought to tell Ottar of their plan once they were at sea, but now that Ingolf and Rasmus were aboard she dared not breathe a word of it.

“Are ye still intent on this harebrained scheme of yours?” “Wh…what scheme?” For a moment she wondered if he’d read her thoughts. “Oh, collecting my dowry you mean?” She drew herself up and faced him. “I am most certainly intent on it.” He muttered something unintelligible under his breath. “And you shall help me. We’ve come all this way, and at no small cost.” Lawmaker’s death lay heavy on her conscience. “Aye, there’s that. All the same, ’tis a fool’s mission, and one that is not mine.” “You gave your word—husband.” Their eyes locked. He said nothing, and she feared with Lawmaker dead the Scot would abandon their bargain. In the short time he’d lived among them, Grant had shown them all he was a man of his word. A man of honor. But such virtues were bought and sold cheap on Fair Isle, and Rika had little experience with them since Brodir’s rise to power. She had thought to rely on Lawmaker’s strange bond with the Scot to ensure his compliance. But with her guardian dead, who knew what Grant intended? She was in a precarious situation, and she knew he knew it. “What d’ye intend for them?” Grant nodded toward their captives. Rasmus snored loudly, whistling as he sucked breath through his near toothless mouth. Ingolf was awake, she realized, and she wondered what, if anything he’d overheard of her conversation with Grant. “MacInnes shall keep them for us until we return from my father’s house.” She’d thought long and hard about what to do with them, and this seemed the only answer. She prayed Tom MacInnes was the friend Lawmaker had made him out to be. Grant shrugged. “’Tis of no import to me what ye do with them. I was merely curious.” Ingolf twisted his head around and grinned at them. “More cowardice than curiosity if you ask me.” Rika started toward him. Grant grabbed her arm. “Stay away from him. He’s dangerous.” “Not trussed up like a goose he’s not.” She wrested herself free and approached Ingolf, her hand resting comfortingly on the hilt of her sheathed dagger. Just in case.

Grant followed. “I would speak to him alone,” she said, and shot one of her well-practiced jaded looks over her shoulder. “Suit yourself.” Grant pulled up a keg out of earshot—a dozen paces from where Ingolf and Rasmus lay bound—settled atop it, and stared across the gray water toward land. Rika knelt before the henchman, taking care not to get too close. “As I said, you’ll remain with Tom MacInnes until we return for you.” “Who’s we? You and the Scot?” Ingolf smirked in Grant’s direction. “You’re a fool, woman. Surely you don’t think he means to keep his word?” Rika stopped breathing. “What do you mean?” Her hand twitched on the dagger’s hilt. “Think you I’m a dolt like this one?” Ingolf kicked at his companion’s feet. Rasmus snorted a few times but did not wake. “Husband or no, the man will ne’er stay with you now that he’s on his own turf.” She was tempted to slit his throat, but stilled her hand. “If you return at all, ’twill be alone, with but your snot-nosed dogs.” He meant Ottar, and Erik and Leif. Surly whoreson. “When I return, it will be with—”She bit her tongue a second before saying Gunnar’s name. “Who?” Ingolf narrowed his eyes. He might have already guessed her plans for the silver, but the questioning look on his face told her that he had not. Ingolf lunged against his bonds. Rika fell backward as the ship lurched. “I’ll enjoy watching Brodir punish you, you bitch—after he’s had a bit of sport.” His eyes raked over her, and her stomach did a slow roll. “Perhaps he’d allow me a go. Why not? You’re damaged goods now.” “Shut your mouth before I shut it for ye.” Grant stepped over her and poised the tip of Lawmaker’s sword at Ingolf ’s throat. Rika scrambled to her feet, pleased by Grant’s intervention. “Ho! What’s this?” Erik jogged toward them from the stern, Ottar and Leif in his wake. “’Tis naught,” Grant said, and sheathed his weapon. “This one needs a lesson in manners, is all.” He cast her a stony look, then retreated to his perch on the keg.

“Look!” Ottar stopped short and pointed southwest off the starboard bow. “The mainland! There, peeking out from the mist.” They all looked. Even Ingolf twisted his head around in an attempt to see. Rika drew a sobering breath. Salt and sea and something else. “Scotland,” Grant said. “I can smell it on the wind.” Chapter Eleven H e was home. Thank Christ. George and the youths worked the oars while Rika stood on the prow and guided them into a tiny, sheltered bay. The fog was thick and deadly chill. He rowed faster, harder, putting his back into it, working to stave off frostbite and still his chattering teeth. He caught a glimpse of the desolate shoreline as the mist swirled and eddied about them, thinning for the barest moment only to swallow them up again. ’Twas impossible to make out landmarks. While he’d ne’er journeyed this far north before, he was good with maps and remembered well the shape of the coastline from the charts he’d seen on the Wick-bound frigate. George had directed them to put in as close to his recollection of where Gellis Bay lay as they could manage, given the fact that none of them could see a bloody thing. “Hold!” Rika called from the prow. Through the mist he saw her peer ahead into the whiteness, a hand raised in caution. The byrthing scraped bottom and lurched to a stop. “Ja, this will do.” She turned and bade them disembark. Ottar was the first ashore. He kicked at the sea-tumbled rocks peppering the beach and screwed his face into a frown. “This is it?” George vaulted over the top rail into the shallows. “Aye, lad, this is it.” On shaking legs he waded ashore then dropped to his knees. He dug his hands into the sand, relishing the feel of it between his fingers. Scotland. Near enough, at any rate. Who knew what king held these distant lands? They’d best be bloody well careful. The fog, mayhap, was a blessing after all.

Erik tossed him the end of a thick-braided rope. He and Ottar secured it around a jagged boulder halfway up the beach. “That should hold her,” he said, and the youth nodded. “What about them?” Leif nodded at the two bound henchmen. George waved him ashore. “Come, we shall decide who’s to stay behind and watch them. I dinna trust them on their own.” “Since when do you give the orders?” Rika’s head popped up from the center of the cargo. “Since we landed in my country—wife.” Even at twenty paces, he could see her sour expression. He waited on the beach for her, wondering why in hell he didn’t just bolt. He had Lawmaker’s fine weapon, but neither mount nor coin. Soaked to the skin and bone cold, it seemed not the best of ideas at this point. Rika appeared at the byrthing’s prow, and George squinted through the fog to make certain he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. Aye, he was seeing it, all right. She had donned men’s clothes—breeks, boots, and a belted tunic from which hung her brother’s sheathed sword. Her hair was swept back off her face and refashioned into two severe-looking braids. But for the lack of hauberk and helm, she looked much the same as she had the day he first laid eyes on her. He caught himself smiling, and that troubled him. A minute later she stood beside him on the rocky beach. “What are you staring at?” “Your…attire.” “This is a foreign place. We know not who or what we’ll encounter. It seemed… prudent. Besides, it’s drier than my gown.” He could not argue with her logic, but said nothing. “What now?” Ottar said. His face was flushed ripe as cherries from the cold. George realized that the icy temperatures would do them all in should they not find shelter, and soon. Three days in an open ship in the dead of winter—they were lucky to have made it this far. He realized they were all looking at him, Rika too, as if he knew something they did not. George shrugged. “Why ask me? We’re here on her account.” He arched a brow at Rika and waited to see what she would do. She drew herself up and fixed that annoyingly authoritative expression on her face— the one that made him want to slap her, or kiss her, he was never certain which. “We

shall…” She hesitated, peering into the fog up the beach, then down. “We shall find MacInnes.” “Just like that,” he said. “Ja.” She tipped her chin at him, but he read an uncertainty in her eyes that belied her confident exterior. Nay, ’twas more than that. ’Twas fear. “Lead the way, then.” He swept an arm inland and waited for her to take the lead. The three youths watched, disheartened by their lack of a better plan. George felt rather satisfied, smug even. The woman had no idea what to do. She’d not thought this far ahead. As he strode up the beach in her wake and watched her study the elusive bits of cliff and rock peeking out of the fog, he realized just how defenseless she was. Damn her. “All right,” he snapped. She stopped and turned, arching a brow at him in question. “Stay here, the lot o’ ye. I’ll scale the cliff and see what’s on top.” The youths muttered their agreement. “You will not,” Rika said. “Think you I’m that big a fool?” “What, d’ye think I’d leave ye here in this—” “In a second.” The thought had crossed his mind, in fact. “I will go with you,” she said. “Fine.” He turned to the youths. “Go back to the ship and wait for us there. Mind ye keep a watchful eye on the other two. We willna be long.” Ottar protested, but Rika waved him off. “Come on,” Leif said to him. “I’m not at ease leaving Ingolf and Rasmus so long on their own. Someone should go back.” Ottar frowned, resigned, and followed Erik and Leif back to the byrthing. “Shall we?” George said, and nodded toward the cliff. Rika strode off ahead of him. An hour later they were still wandering on the moor above the beach, no wiser about their location than they’d been when first they landed. There was not a soul in sight—nor was there any evidence of habitation. Neither sheep, nor croft. Not so much as a wagon

track or a hoofprint. The only sounds they heard were the wind and the sea, and the occasional cawing of a tern. George noted a marked change in Rika’s behavior since leaving the ship. She was wary, almost fearful, and had stuck uncharacteristically close to him on their reconnaissance, venturing no farther than a few paces from his side. There was something about this last bit he liked. A frigid wind gusted through them and his teeth began to chatter. His hands and feet were ice. He looked at Rika and realized she, too, was shivering. “Here,” he said, and opened his cloak to her. A second later she was clinging to him. He reminded himself that she was far out of her element here. The landscape was not so unlike Fair Isle’s, but this was a foreign land, and she, a woman alone. How could he leave her? How could he not? ’Twas madness. He was, what, a two-day ride from Wick? Barely a sennight’s walk. As he held Rika in his arms, warming in her embrace, he thought of Anne Sinclair. His bride. Och, what did it matter? He was already a fortnight late for the wedding. What was another sennight? “Come on,” he said, and took her hand. “Let’s go back to the ship. When this damnable fog lifts, we’ll find this MacInnes and go from there.” She looked up at him, her face ruddy from the icy wind, her eyes vitreous. “Truly? You will keep your word?” He met her gaze, but didn’t answer. “Come on,” he said finally. “Let’s go.” They could hear Erik’s shouts long before they reached the cliff ’s edge. Tiny alarms went off in George’s head. “Something’s happened!” Rika scrambled down the rocky slope and took off at a run. George sprinted ahead, drawing his sword as he ran. “Rika! Grant!” Leif ’s shrill voice carried through the mist. “Here! We’re he—” George collided with the youth and nearly lost his footing. “Bloody Hell! What—” “Ingolf and…and Rasmus,” Leif said, trying to catch his breath. Rika skidded to a stop on the flat, slick rock beside them. “Where are they? Where?” George spun right then left, brandishing Gunnlogi, peering into the whiteness. “Gone,” Leif said. “Long gone.”

“Oh God, we must find them!” Rika started forward, and George grabbed her arm. “Let go of me!” “It’s m-my fault.” “Ottar!” Rika stiffened in George’s grip as Ottar staggered out of the mist, grasping his bloodied thigh. Erik was right behind him. Both youths collapsed at their feet, gasping for air. Panic shone in Rika’s eyes as she took in the blood dripping from their wounds and weapons. “It’s…it’s nothing,” Ottar said. “A flesh wound.” “Here, let me see.” Rika knelt before him. Ottar grimaced as she tore away the fabric of his breeks and inspected the wound. Leif sheathed his weapon, and Erik followed suit. “Are ye hurt?” George spared a quick glance at both lads. They seemed fit enough if a bit bloodied. “Fine,” Leif said. “Just scratches really.” “Me, as well.” Erik scrambled to his feet. “What happened?” George lowered his sword and watched as Rika finished bandaging Ottar’s wound with a strip of cloth torn from her tunic. “Tell me.” Ottar looked up at him. “Erik and…and Leif were on the beach, scavenging a bit of driftwood for a—a fire. I—was supposed to be watching I-Ingolf, but…” The lad gritted his teeth and looked away. George recognized too well the pain of self-reproach in his eyes. “He…drifted off,” Erik said. “And…” Ottar waved Rika away and struggled to his feet, swearing when she tried to help him. “We were close by, thank God, when they slipped their bonds.” George read fear in Leif ’s tight expression. “Ottar wounded Rasmus, but we couldn’t overcome them, even three against two.” All three youths looked away, shamed. George’s heart went out to them. Christ, they were barely men. Against seasoned killers the likes of Ingolf and Rasmus they’d stood not a chance, and were probably lucky to be alive. ’Twas his fault, not the youths’. He cursed himself twice—once for leaving them alone, and again for not having killed Brodir’s men when he’d had the chance. He clapped a firm hand on Ottar’s shoulder. “It

might have happened to any of us, lad. God knows we’ve had damned little sleep these last days.” Ottar shrugged his hand away. “You’ll be fine,” Rika said. “A bit sore, perhaps. As for Ingolf and Rasmus…we must go after them, find them.” Surely she wasn’t serious? “Ja,” Leif said. “They can’t have gotten far.” “Hang on.” George sheathed his weapon as he considered their options, and following two murderers into the mist in a strange land was not one of them. “The fog’s too thick. We’ll ne’er find them. Besides, ’tis of no great import now. We’ve other problems to deal wi—” “You don’t understand!” Rika spun toward him, her face white with alarm. Never had he seen her so distressed. Regardless, his decision was made. “It matters not. So they’re gone. No harm done. We’ll get your coin, and ye shall return home.” “Nay, nay.” Her eyes glassed, and she bit her lip so hard it raised a droplet of blood. There was more here than met the eye. If anything, she should be glad to be rid of them. “What d’ye fear? Retribution?” She strode off toward the cliff, but kept changing direction. ’Twas plain she had no idea what to do next. George caught her up. “Dinna fash. As long as I’m with ye, I’ll see ye come to no harm.” As soon as the words left his lips, he wondered why he’d said them. He was daft—gone soft in the head over this whole affair. If he were smart, he’d leave them now and get on with his life. Rika stopped short as a spray of rocks tumbled onto the beach from the cliff just above them. George glanced up, and froze dead in his tracks. “Thor’s blood,” she breathed. A good-sized man dressed in breacon and boots and a fur-lined cloak stood on the rocky promontory above them, mist swirling around his bonneted head. A broadsword swung from his beefy hand. George slipped Gunnlogi from his shoulder baldric. “Who are ye, and from whence d’ye come?” the man called down to them.

Rika backed against George. Unconsciously, he wrapped a protective arm around her waist. “We…we hail from Fair Isle,” she called up to the man. “I am Ulrika, daughter of Fritha.” “Fritha, ye say?” The burly man squinted at her through the mist. “Ja. And this is—” George squeezed her, hard. “What, d’ye intend to introduce us all?” He stepped in front of her, brandishing Gunnlogi. “And who might ye be?” he called out to the man. He was a Scot, surely—clothed in the fashion of a Highlander, his speech thick with a comforting brogue. And yet…George tensed as two other similarly garbed men stepped out of the mist and flanked the stranger. One whispered something in his ear. Here it comes. Scots they may be, but these men were no friends. He cast cautionary glances to Ottar and Erik and Leif, who’d fanned out beside him and Rika. They nodded, weapons at the ready. Rika inched forward and clumsily drew her brother’s sword. Damn her! He scanned their surroundings for a suitable place to safeguard her. All hell was about to break loose. The last thing he needed was a headstrong woman on his ha— “I am MacInnes!” the stranger called down to them. What? George swapped wide-eyed looks with Rika. The stranger sheathed his weapon, and his companions did the same. “Come, Ulrika, daughter of Fritha—” he beckoned her scale the cliff “—ye are welcome here.” “You are Thomas MacInnes?” Rika stared at the craggy faced Scot. Up close, he looked older than first she’d thought him to be. “Aye, but most call me Tom.” He nodded at Grant and the others. “We saw your ship early this morn, off St. John’s point, and figured ye’d make for the bay.” “Ye sought us out then.” Grant stood between her and MacInnes, eyeing the stranger and his kinsmen, his weapon still in his hand. “Why?” MacInnes shrugged. “To find out who ye were and what ye were about. We get few visitors here. Most ships put in at Wick, or around the head to the west.” “Dunnet Head?” Rika held her breath. “Aye. D’ye know it?” She shook her head with far too much vigor. “Nay, I do not.”

MacInnes cocked his head to see past Grant and looked her up and down. “Ye dinna look much like your dame. More like your sire, methinks.” Rika shivered, stunned—less from the cold than from MacInnes’s words. “You knew them?” When first she’d called her name out, she’d read the surprise in his face. It was as if he already knew her. “But…how?” “Och, we met years ago on Fair Isle, long before ye were born.” “You’ve been there?” Ottar ignored Grant’s look of caution, and sheathed his sword. “To Fair Isle?” “Aye, many times, but no since I was a young buck. There is a man there who was once like a brother to me. He was the law speaker.” He eyed the weapon in Grant’s hand, then arched a brow. “Lawmaker, we called him. Surely ye know him.” Rika nodded, her belly tightening. “He is my guardian.” “Aye, he spoke of ye often in the many letters I received from him over the years. How fares he?” “He is dead,” Grant said. “Lost at sea in a storm, two nights past.” Rika fought to keep her composure as the dark memory gripped her. She stepped out from behind the protection of Grant’s body in time to see the two Scots lock eyes. For a moment no one spoke. The wind rushed up and over the cliff, chilling her to the bone. She staved off a shiver. “May he go with God,” MacInnes whispered. “There were two others in our party,” Grant said, ignoring the sentiment. “Have ye seen them?” “Nay, we’ve not.” MacInnes glanced at his kinsmen, and they shrugged. “They’d be fools to slog off in this soup—” he nodded at the mist-shrouded moors behind him “— without a local guide.” “They…escaped,” Rika said, nearly biting her tongue. How much should they tell him? He was most certainly the friend of whom Lawmaker spoke. Still… MacInnes frowned. “One was responsible for Lawmaker’s death,” Grant said. At last, to her relief, he sheathed Gunnlogi. “They were our prisoners.” “I see.” MacInnes pulled the edges of his breacon tighter about him, and shivered. “Come on, we’ll catch our death out here. My house lies less than a furlong east. What say we continue our talk over a hogshead and a hot meal?” He turned and she started after him. Grant grabbed her arm. “What about the ship?”

“We’ve a full load of cargo,” Erik said, nodding down to the beach. “Homespun, grain, and kegs of mead.” MacInnes’s brows shot up. “Mead, ye say?” She nodded. It was clear from Grant’s expression he was not pleased with Erik revealing so much. But what did it matter now? They were only five, and this MacInnes, friend or foe, surely had enough kinsmen at home to overtake them and the ship should he wish to. “We thought to trade the homespun and grain for horses,” she said, thinking that confidence might serve them well in this situation. “And the mead.” “I’ve not had a decent draught o’ the stuff since last I visited your fair island.” “Will you trade with us then?” Erik said. “For horses?” MacInnes looked at her, and she held her breath. “’Tis a bold proposition, lad. D’ye ken how rare a good mount is in these parts?” Grant had warned her of this, but she’d not listened. “I’d first hear more about why ye’ve come, and about these…prisoners.” MacInnes started east, and she followed, wrenching herself free from Grant. “Mayhap we could manage an agreeable trade, though I canna say as I’d be willing to part with my bonny steeds.” He shot a shrewd look back at her. “I’ll send some men for the cargo.” Rika exhaled. Though it was not the promise she’d hoped for, it was a start. She jogged ahead and caught him up. “And the ship—can you mind it for us for a time?” MacInnes’s brows shot up. “Mayhap.” He glanced back at Grant. “If ye tell me why ye travel with a Scot, and why he bears Lawmaker’s weapon.” She tripped, stunned by MacInnes’s canny recognition of Gunnlogi. Grant rushed up behind her and saved her from a fall. There seemed no sense in hiding the truth. MacInnes obviously knew Lawmaker well. “Grant is my…husband,” she said. “Lawmaker made him a gift of the sword.” MacInnes stopped short, and eyed Grant with new appreciation. For some unfathomable reason, Rika felt her chest swell with pride. MacInnes’s blue eyes flicked to the sword. “Such a gift is no made lightly,” he said. “I’d know more of ye, Grant.” “Aye,” Grant said, his expression stone. “And I’d know more of ye.” They trudged for nearly an hour across the wet, windswept moor, mist swirling about them. She could barely see a half-dozen paces ahead, but MacInnes seemed to know exactly where he was going.

More of his kinsmen joined them along the way. Grant had been right about that. Earlier, he’d whispered to her that it seemed damned unlikely MacInnes would approach a strange ship with but two men as escort. Nearly a score accompanied them now, along what looked to be a footpath, running up over craggy ridges then down again. The wind burned her face and breached her garments. She wiggled her toes in Gunnar’s oversized boots and realized she couldn’t feel them anymore. When would they get there? MacInnes’s men looked at her strangely, whispering among themselves. A few made rude comments. Some of the words she didn’t understand, but she could well imagine their meaning. Absently she traced the line of her scar from ear to throat. “Ignore them,” Grant said, watching the strangers with eagle’s eyes. He’d strayed not two paces from her the whole long walk, and once rested his broad hand on the small of her back as they trudged over some uneven ground. For years she’d relied on no man for protection. But today she found herself comforted by Grant’s presence, and more than a little thrilled by his cavalier and possessive behavior. Because MacInnes had been Lawmaker’s friend, she was tempted to give him her trust. But a dozen years had passed since the two had last seen each other, and Rika knew that much could change a man’s loyalties in that amount of time. Ottar and Erik and Leif took to the burly Scot immediately. She reminded herself they were young and out of their element, and looked for any anchorage on which to ground themselves. Grant was wary, and that wariness caused her to reserve a final judgment of the strangers. As if he’d read her mind, Grant took her arm and said, “If he offers more than a swaybacked nag for the whole of the cargo, he’s either a fool or he’s what he says he is—a friend.” “Were he truly a friend, would that surprise you?” He shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. But beware. Stay close by me when we reach his demesne.” She smiled inwardly, and trudged on. A short time later, through the thinning mist, she saw it. A great house of timber and stone surrounded by a low wall. “My home,” MacInnes said, looking back at her. They stopped outside the wall. “Wait here, whilst I confer with my wife.”

Most of MacInnes’s men disappeared into a low building flanking the main house. Rika guessed it was a barracks of sorts or a stable. Six stayed with them, finding seats on the low wall. Grant continued to watch them. Moments after MacInnes entered the house, the door swung wide again and a woman, his wife, no doubt, strode into the courtyard to bid them welcome. “My dear,” the bright-eyed woman said, extending a long white hand to her. There was no hint of disapproval or even amusement in her expression as she surveyed Rika’s bedraggled garments and weapons. “Ye look wet to the skin. Aye, and ye’re surely exhausted.” Until this moment, Rika hadn’t allowed herself to recognize the magnitude of her fatigue, but the woman’s warm demeanor and sympathetic smile breached the last of her defenses. Rika took her hand. “I am, on both counts, if truth be told.” “Come inside, then,” the woman said. “A chamber is being prepared for ye and your husband.” She flashed her eyes at Grant, and beckoned him follow. Husband. Rika risked a backward glance at him. Grant arched a brow at her, then followed them inside. After an uncomfortable night sleeping on the floor of the tiny bedchamber he shared with Rika, George spent the day helping MacInnes’s men relieve the byrthing of its cargo. Rika seemed safe enough in the house with MacInnes’s wife. The couple had no children of their own, and the mistress fawned over her as one would a daughter. George suspected Rika was unused to such attention. He took pleasure in seeing her doted upon. ’Twas a small thing, but to Rika he knew it meant much. Late in the day, five mounts were brought from the stable for his inspection. He could not believe MacInnes’s generosity. The steeds were loaned, not given, but the gesture was still no small thing. It seemed they owed much to the Scot’s friendship with Lawmaker. George caught himself thinking of the elder more than once that day. He missed him. ’Twas as simple as that. But he knew he could not dwell on such thoughts. He had plans of his own to carry out. Now that Rika was safe and apparently among friends, George thought for the hundredth time about leaving. After supper, when all but a few had retired, he had a look at MacInnes’s charts.

Wick was no more than a day’s hard ride from there—two, mayhap, given the inclement weather. ’Twould take him a minute at most to saddle a mount and be gone. ’Twas a fine, clear night. Why not? He rose and made a show of stretching sleepily. Ottar sat by the hearth fire with two of MacInnes’s men, swapping lies and fantastical tales. They paid him no mind as he slipped from the great hall into the corridor. A handful of short tapers lit the passageway. Instead of making for the chamber he shared with Rika, he turned toward the unguarded entry of the fortified house. “Grant.” MacInnes’s voice stopped him dead. He turned and saw their host leaning against a far doorway. “Come and share a pint with me. It’s no often I get the chance to mingle with men from the south.” What else could he do? A few minutes later George was settled by the fire in the kitchen, a cup of mead in his hand. “Your wife should be in bed,” MacInnes said. “What?” He shot to his feet. “Where is she?” “Sit down, man, she’s well.” He nodded toward a window draped in deerskin. “She’s outside is all—in my wife’s garden. ’Tis bitter out, though, and I fear she’ll catch her death.” He strode to the window, lifted the covering and peered into the night. Rika sat with her back to him on a crudely hewn bench amidst the frozen remains of last season’s vegetables. The moon cast a pale light upon her. She seemed well enough. George let the window cover drop and took his place by the fire. “She has a mind of her own.” MacInnes laughed. “Aye, I can see that.” George swilled his mead in silence while MacInnes openly studied him. With their host yet awake, ’twould be hours before he might make his escape. So be it. He was enjoying the warmth of the fire and the sweetness of his drink. “Ye are a laird, so the lads tell me.” MacInnes’s directness did not surprise him. “Aye.” “What takes ye so far afield? Fair Isle is a strange destination for a lone Scot.” George met the man’s gaze, and wondered how much Ottar and the others had told him. MacInnes was no fool. George weighed how much of the truth he’d be obliged to impart. “I…I am newly wed.”

“That much is evident.” George arched a brow at him. “There is a sweet tension yet between ye.” MacInnes nodded toward the garden where Rika sat. “And a newness that canna be hid.” The man’s perception unnerved him and he knew it showed on his face. MacInnes smiled. “Enjoy it, son.” He drained his cup and set it on the raised hearth, then drew himself up, as if he were about to say something of import. “So ye go to claim her dowry.” George stiffened. “When women get together, they talk.” MacInnes shot him a wry glance. George shrugged, trying to remain casual. “Aye, that’s our plan.” “And a fine one it is. There’s just one thing about it that doesna make sense.” MacInnes willed George to his gaze. “Why now? In the dead o’ winter? Why no wait till spring?” He couldn’t think of a good answer for MacInnes’s question, so he said nothing. “Och, no matter. ’Tis none of my concern. I was just curious, is all.” MacInnes swept a flagon off the kitchen’s massive wooden table and refilled George’s cup. “I know him, ye know—Rika’s father.” “Rollo? Aye, ye said as much yesterday.” “He’s a strange one, and none too friendly.” “So I’ve been told.” MacInnes rubbed a hand over his short, thick whiskers. “His place is no far from here. Mey Loch—to the southwest, barely a half day’s ride.” George stared into the fire, sipping his mead, trying to quell his curiosity. He could not. Finally he said, “Tell me about him. About Rollo.” He looked at MacInnes. “What kind of man abandons his own children?” MacInnes’s brows shot up at George’s question. “Why, a man who thinks they’re no his.” George’s mouth gaped. He started to speak, but MacInnes cut him off. “Ye didna know?” He shook his head. “I’ll be damned. Ye mean to tell me Rika and her brother are…” So Lawmaker was her father, after all. “Och, nay.” MacInnes waved a hand in dismissal. “They’re Rollo’s spawn all right. He just would ne’er believe it.”

Now George was truly confused. “Lawmaker didna tell ye? Hmph. That’s just like him. What about your bride? Did she no share the tale?” He shook his head. “If indeed she knows of what ye speak, it seems not to sway her mind. She holds naught but contempt for her sire.” MacInnes looked at him for a long moment. Finally he said, “I know not for what reason Lawmaker would withhold the truth from her, but I will tell it to ye now for methinks ye can make use of the information in your dealings with Rollo—and with Rika.” “I would be most grateful to ye.” George slid forward on his stool, elbows braced on thighs, surprised by the magnitude of his interest. He told himself ’twas just idle curiosity. For what did it matter how much he knew or did not know? After this night he’d ne’er see Rika again. MacInnes blew his nose into a rag, and began. “Lawmaker and Fritha were in love.” MacInnes’s simple declaration startled him, though when he thought about it he was not entirely surprised. “Rika’s mother was Lawmaker’s lover?” “Nay, I didna say that. They were in love, but ne’er lovers. There’s a difference.” “Oh, aye. Go on.” “Rollo knew it, but he thought that once he wed her, he could sway her affection away from Lawmaker and toward him.” George nodded, understanding. “But he could not.” “Exactly.” “So what happened?” MacInnes shrugged. “Rollo took his vengeance the only way he could—he treated Fritha badly. And when Rika and her brother were born, he swore the bairns werena his.” “And he treated them ill as well,” George said. MacInnes nodded. “Why did Fritha no leave him? It seems a common enough custom among their folk.” “I canna say. But after Gunnar and Rika were born, Rollo grew more violent. Lawmaker feared for their safety. He knew Fritha and the bairns would fare better were he gone. So Lawmaker came here, to Gellis Bay, to live with me and mine. When we got word that Fritha had died, Lawmaker returned to Fair Isle. By then, Rollo had gone.” “So he took them in—Rika and Gunnar.”

“That he did. For love of Fritha, he raised them as if they were his own.” George slipped his hand into the pouch tied at his waist and fingered the silver brooch Lawmaker had given him for Rika’s morning gift. It’s something I’ve had for years. It was Rika’s mother’s, in fact. It’s time she had it. MacInnes stretched and yawned. “’Tis a sad tale, but an enlightening one. I leave it to ye to decide whether to tell it to you wife or nay. With Lawmaker gone…” He brushed a gnarly hand across his eyes. “Och, mayhap ’tis of no import now.” George rose with him. “I thank ye. And methinks ’tis of great import.” Although he knew he’d not have time to share the tale with Rika, nor did he wish to. What difference could it possibly make now? “I leave ye to it, then,” MacInnes said, and nodded toward the garden. “I’m for bed.” George thanked his host and watched as MacInnes ambled down the corridor toward the stairs leading up to his chamber. The kitchen fire had died to embers. MacInnes’s small dog lay curled on a rug by the hearth twitching, dreaming. George strained his ears, listening for sounds of men still awake in the great hall. Only snores echoed down the long corridor. All were finally abed. All save Rika. He paused by the draped window and willed his hand stay put by his side. What purpose was there in disturbing her now? If he were smart he’d get out straight away, under the cover of night—make Wick by the day after tomorrow. Two days hence he could sup with his new bride. Wed and bed her and get on with his life. His loins tightened at the prospect of such an evening, but ’twas not the promise of Anne Sinclair’s delicate beauty that fired his blood. ’Twas the gritty reality of the woman sitting alone in Tom MacInnes’s dead winter garden. Of its own accord, his hand lifted the deerskin window drape. She was still there, shivering in the cold, her cloak wrapped tight about her, her head uncovered and her hair loose, a silver fall of silk in the moon’s eerie light. He moved silently to the door and tripped the latch, all the while telling himself he was the biggest of fools. She turned and saw him. “Grant.” She smiled at him as if she were surprised to see him. “I thought you to be halfway to Wick by now.” What was she, a bloody mind reader? George stepped out into the snow and shivered under her scrutiny.

“Nay,” he said. “No tonight.” Chapter Twelve S he knew what he intended. The primal look in his eyes confirmed it. Grant closed the distance between them and pulled Rika to her feet. Had she wished to protest—and she did not—there was not the time. He kissed her, hard. As he had that day on the moor, with a fury and a possessiveness that thrilled her. Rika more than allowed it. She wanted it. Burned for it. She burned for him. How could she? Shame and desire warred in bright fusion inside her. How could she want for this manhandling? The thought sickened her, yet her body betrayed her sensibilities, and she gave herself up to his strength, his surety. Heat spread like honey from her woman’s place as his hands moved over her breasts. “Come to bed with me,” he breathed against her lips. His sweet plea and the memory of their bridal night caused gooseflesh to rise on her skin. Oh, how she wanted him. She grew bold and ran her hands down his back to his buttocks. Grant moaned dreamily in response. “Just this once,” he whispered. “One last time. Come to bed.” She stiffened in his arms. “What’s wrong?” He brushed a lock of hair from off her face and looked into her eyes. “I know ye want it as much as I.” She pushed against his chest, but he drew her even closer, if that were possible, and kissed her again despite the litany of protests dying on her lips. One last time. The short-lived nature of their relationship was driven home to her. Nay, one could not even call what they shared a relationship. ’Twas a bargain. Plain and simple. And made under duress—on both their parts. He used her—as all men used women. Merely to slake his lust. “Stop it,” she whispered halfheartedly as he moved against her, holding her fast so she’d feel the full measure of his desire.

“I will if ye truly wish it, but ye do not.” He kissed her again, with more urgency, and she was swept up in the haze of her own passion. “Grant, nay,” she breathed. ’Twas madness. She must not succumb. She must stay focused. “Tell me ye want me,” he groaned, his hands moving lower. “Nay, nay.” She broke the kiss and shook her head. Oh God, why wouldn’t he stop? They stood in the snow on a dead chill night, yet all she felt was his heat—and her own. She was dangerously close to giving in. Mayhap she should? Her submission to his animal lusts might serve to hold him to their bargain—might keep him with her long enough for her to claim her dowry. She kissed him back, and let her arms slip around his neck. “Aye, that’s it.” He backed her toward the open kitchen door. Any moment she was certain he’d sweep her from her feet, bear her down the corridor and into their chamber. He’d lay her back on the eiderdown pillows and strip away her brother’s clothes, revealing the woman he knew she was. She should let him. To gain the dowry. Ja, for Gunnar’s sake. A twisted sort of horror gripped her, and she went rigid in Grant’s arms. He drew back and looked at her through slitted eyes glazed with desire. The veracity of her own feelings struck her like a blast of wind off the sea. Her eagerness to bed him had naught to do with her brother’s plight—not by any stretch of her imagination, no matter how much she wished it so. Nay, her willingness had everything to do with her own needs. Needs far past desire. She wanted him—so very much. His strength fueled her own. His confidence sparked hers to dizzying heights. She needed him, and the truth of it frightened her. “I…I must go,” she said, and pushed him away. “Rika—” “Say no more, for I tire of your lies.” Oh, but she could listen to them all night. She turned and ran through the kitchen and down the long corridor toward her bedchamber. Grant’s footfalls sounded behind her. Just a few more steps. She skidded into the chamber, slammed the door behind her and threw the bolt.

She exhaled, her heart pounding an erratic rhythm in her chest. Grant’s whispered pleas sounded through the heavy timber door. Rika put her hands to her ears, and ignored them. George slammed the wall with his fist. Was he mad? Aye, he was, and ’twas her fault. She tempted him beyond all reason. Stirred his blood to boiling. Befuddled him entirely. “Idiot,” he breathed, and slid down the cool surface of the wall outside her chamber to the rush-strewn floor. All was quiet, save for the pounding of his heart. He drew a breath and closed his eyes. “Vixen.” Never had a woman so addled his thinking, or distracted him so easily from his purpose. She was dangerous, and he was a fool. He banged his head backward against the wall, hammering the message into his thick head. He was a laird, charged with grave responsibilities to clan and king, to his betrothed and her family. How he ever allowed himself to get caught up in this ludicrous scheme was beyond comprehension. ’Twas Rika’s fault. Hers alone. Their heathen marriage was a blasphemy—one the church could ne’er forgive. She’d corrupted his sense of order, his perceptions of right and wrong. She was boorish and brash, and completely unskilled in the feminine arts. He should loath her, despise her. Feel revulsion at her artless kisses and cringe at the solid length of her body pressed to his. “God help me.” He felt just the opposite. His desire for her was rich, all consuming. The madness would end here. He must crush it. Drive it out. George pushed himself to his feet, nodding his commitment. His eyes burned and his head throbbed. God’s truth, he was dead tired. He hadn’t slept in days. MacInnes and his men were likely all abed. ’Twould be easy to slip away. Aye, but was it wise? He had a two-day ride ahead of him, over terrain he did not know. Should he set out in the dead of night he could lose his way. Nay, there was little point in it now. Tomorrow was soon enough, after a decent night’s sleep. He’d wait until they were well away from MacInnes’s demesne.

Not one of them—Rika, Ottar, or the other two lads—could ride a horse. They had probably ne’er seen a proper mount until this afternoon in MacInnes’s stable. ’Twould be child’s play to outrun them on the road. You gave your word. Rika’s words and Lawmaker’s calm visage haunted him. Aye, he’d agreed to their bargain, but under duress. His consent had been snared by trickery and coercion. None that he knew—in his own world—would fault him for breaking his word. His mind made up, he slipped down the corridor and into the great hall where a dozen men slept on furs and plaids scattered about the floor near the hearth. The peat fire burned low. George spotted an extra fur and, snaking his way through the snoring pack, collapsed onto it and sighed. His eyes drifted shut. He willed the tension drain from his exhausted body. On the morrow he would leave her. Nothing she could do or say would stop him. MacInnes’s wife roused Rika early from her bed. Had she slept at all? Nay, she’d tossed and turned under the spell of disturbing dreams. Nightmares, really, about her father and Brodir—and him. Grant. Her feelings for the Scot contradicted every truth, every conviction she held about men. He was dangerous, clever, and must not be trusted. Rika snorted. She was the one who could not be trusted. Last night had proved the point. She yielded to his seduction as easily as a smitten maid succumbs to an ardent suitor. Fool. She’d take care to ne’er be caught alone with him again. Rika dressed quickly, nibbled at the bread and salted fish Mistress MacInnes had left her, and started for the stable. Rounding the corner from the main corridor into the kitchen, she slammed into— “Thor’s blood!” Grant. “Watch where you’re going.” “Och, sorry.” She tried to sidestep him, and he her, and again they collided. Heat flushed her face. “Uh, your pardon,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “No matter.” She brushed past him, flustered, and did not stop until she was outside. The wind hit her like a bracing slap. She sucked in a breath and tried to compose herself.

Her mind was made up. Her resolve steel. “Rika!” Ottar’s voice carried from the stable’s entrance. She waved at him as he stood with Erik and Leif just inside the timber doors near five saddled mounts who would bear them to her father’s estate. “They are positively huge,” she said, as she approached the steeds, her eyes widening in wonder. “Fair enormous.” Leif slapped one of them, a roan, affectionately on the rump. “Where’s Grant?” Erik said. “The day is clear, but the journey will likely be rough.” He eyed their mounts nervously. “We should be off.” “There he is now.” Ottar pointed across the courtyard. Grant and MacInnes walked slowly from the house, deep in conversation. Halfway to the stable MacInnes placed a beefy hand on Grant’s shoulder, stopping him. They leaned in close, whispering so that none might hear. Rika bristled. What on earth were they talking about? Just as her patience ran out, the two clasped hands, then moved quickly to join her and the youths. Grant helped her to mount the smallest of the steeds—a white mare. Her brother’s garments seemed a good choice, after all. She could not imagine riding in a gown. Gunnar’s sword hung in the scabbard positioned by her thigh, his hauberk and helm hidden away in a sack tied behind her saddle. Soon, dear brother, very soon. Rika settled atop the fidgeting beast and smiled. “’Tis surprisingly comfortable.” Grant handed her the reins. “We’ll see how comfortable ye are after a day’s hard ride across the moor.” She ignored him, and he turned to assist the youths. Leif and Erik mounted awkwardly and looked none too sure of themselves as they took up their reins. Ottar surprised them all by vaulting onto his gelding’s back and maneuvering the beast out into the courtyard, as if he’d ridden all his life. “Good man,” Grant said, and nodded. He leaped easily onto the back of his own mount, a great chestnut steed whose size and musculature were well matched to the Scot’s own powerful build. Rika followed him out into the courtyard, pleased by the mare’s easy response to her direction. “D’ye know how fortunate we are?” he said to her. “Steeds this fine are rare, and worth more than ye can fathom.”

She was just beginning to realize that. MacInnes slapped Grant’s chestnut gelding on the rump. The horse took off but Grant jerked him to a halt. “Will ye no reconsider, MacInnes?” Rika frowned. Reconsider what? “I thank ye, nay,” MacInnes said. “Rollo and I dinna get along.” Now this was truly strange. Grant must have asked MacInnes to accompany them. This business with the horses bred more trust than she’d realized. Truth be told, she had thought to ask MacInnes to go with them herself. She would need all the friends around her she could muster in Rollo’s cold presence. “We shall not forget your kindness,” she said. MacInnes’s wife joined her husband in the courtyard, and for a moment Rika held her gaze. MacInnes took Rika’s hand in his. “There is naught we would no do for the daughter of Lawmaker’s heart.” What an odd thing for him to say. A hollow pain welled inside her. She nodded at the two of them, squeezed MacInnes’s rough hand, then let go. Grant led them from the courtyard, snow crunching under the chestnut’s hooves. “Godspeed,” MacInnes called after them. His breath frosted his beard. “And dinna worry about the ship. ’Twill be well cared for in your absence. We’ll expect ye back in a sennight—a fortnight at most. After that, I canna promise that I willna come a-lookin’ for ye.” Rika looked back and waved. A small part of her did not want to leave. Grant urged the chestnut into a trot. Rika and the youths followed, bouncing along in their saddles. Already her rump grew sore. Two hours later Grant paused at the crest of a long ridge. It was about time they stopped to re— “Thor’s blood, what’s that?” Rika’s eyes widened. “What? Down there, ye mean?” Grant nodded toward the lush sea of greenery below them. “’Tis naught but a small wood. Why?” She could not take her eyes from it. “It’s…nothing like I imagined.” A dusting of snow clung to the treetops like icing on a honey cake. “It’s…lovely.” He looked at her strangely for a moment, then said, “Ah, right. Ye’ve no seen trees like this.”

“We’ve not seen trees at all,” Ottar said, gaping at the forest. Grant shivered and waved them forward. “Come on then.” Rika’s mount picked her way carefully down the rocky, snow covered hillside. Leif and Erik followed, whining about the cold, their sore behinds and the poor footing. Ottar let out a whoop, then spurred his gelding ahead to keep pace with Grant. The youth had taken to riding as she once had to sailing. A vision of Lawmaker slipping over the side of the byrthing flashed briefly, hideously, in her mind. She pushed the memory away and focused her thoughts on what lay ahead. Grant had been acting fair strange since they’d left MacInnes’s house that morn. He was more than aloof. His manner was stone cold, his eyes hard and calculating. Something was afoot. She read it in his face each time he stopped to study the landscape and gaze at the chart MacInnes had given them. She felt it each time he looked at her. Rika bade Erik and Leif draw their mounts up even with hers. “Do you notice how strange he seems today?” she said, and nodded ahead toward Grant. Erik frowned. “Nay, why? What are you thinking?” “She’s thinking he may bolt,” Leif said. Rika strained her eyes, trying to keep Grant and Ottar in sight as they disappeared into the wood. “But you have a bargain,” Erik said. “Methinks he intends not to keep it.” Rika goaded the mare faster and, a minute later, snaked her way into the cover of the trees. There they were, just ahead. Thank God. She realized her heart had been pounding. Last night she’d resigned herself to the fact that Grant would likely not honor their agreement—and under the warmth of MacInnes’s roof it had been easy not to care. But today, bobbing along on the backs of strange animals in a foreign land, her confidence wavered. “It’s a faeryland!” Ottar grinned and waved her toward them. Their new surroundings snapped her from her thoughts. It was rather like a faeryland. Sun bled through the emerald canopy above them and lit up the snow, drifted high against the marbled trunks of strange trees. Rika exhaled and watched her breath fog the chill air. “I don’t like it,” Leif said. “It’s too…” “Closed in,” Erik finished.

They were right. The wood was so dense it seemed almost claustrophobic. It would be difficult to maneuver their steeds with any kind of speed, should the need arise. Rika had the unsettling feeling that it would. She glanced at Grant and caught him staring at her. He quickly looked away. “Which way?” she said. “West.” Grant urged his mount forward, and they followed, single file, weaving through the trees. The deeper into the wood they went, the darker it grew. Rika looked up and could no longer see the sky, so knotted were the trees. A couple of times her mare stumbled in the drifting snow. Ottar stopped each time to make certain she was all right. Grant never looked back. The light grew flat and white around them, and Rika felt suddenly chilled. She’d worn plenty of clothes—a fur tunic over her brother’s woolen one, and her heavy cloak over all. Still, she shivered. By her reckoning they should be about a third of the way to her father’s estate. MacInnes had told them they should expect as much as a day’s ride, depending on the weather. Perhaps they should pick up the pace. She urged the mare ahead, passing Ottar, and drew up even with Grant. “Can we travel no faster?” Grant eyed her speculatively, as if he was weighing something in his mind, then shrugged. “If ye like.” To Rika’s surprise, he spurred the chestnut forward. She shot ahead after him. “Hey, wait!” Erik’s voice sounded behind her. “Come on,” Ottar called. “Keep up, you two.” Grant urged his steed faster, putting more and more distance between them. “Oh, no,” Rika breathed, and drove the mare harder. She heard the comforting snorts and snow-muffled footfalls of Ottar’s mount close behind her. A low-hanging branch, heavy with snow, lay in the mare’s path. They were moving so fast, Rika had no time to change direction. She ducked—Thor’s blood, that was close—and promptly heard a stifled cry behind her. Ottar. She glanced back just in time to see him land in the snow on his rump. His gelding immediately bolted. “Wait!” Ottar called after the beast.

She peered ahead into the dense wood but could no longer see Grant. Damn him, what was he doing? Why did he not wait for them? “Grant!” she called out to him. No response. A chilling realization shot through her. He didn’t intend to wait. He was giving them the slip. Rika whirled in the saddle as Leif and Erik bounced to a stop beside Ottar. “Help him!” she shouted, then dug her heels into the mare’s sides. “Wait for me!” Ottar cried. “There’s no time!” The mare shot forward, after Grant, and it was all Rika could do to stay in the saddle. The youths called after her, but she ignored them. After a few minutes, their cries faded to an eerie silence. The chestnut’s footprints were dead easy to follow in the snow. Snaking their way deeper into the wood, they suddenly cut south, to the left, and disappeared up a rise. Bother! Rika fisted the mare’s mane in her hands, leaned into the saddle’s pommel and drove the mare up the rise. She realized her heart was pounding. Everything of importance to her was riding on that dowry. She must have it—and to get it, she needed Grant. At the top of the rise, the mare reared. “Whoa!” Rika flew backward, arms and legs flailing, and landed hard in a snowbank. “Unh.” Before she could scramble to her feet, a rough hand grasped the hood of her cloak and jerked her up. Grant! Thank God. She whirled, ready to tongue-lash him. The words died on her lips. “I-Ingolf,” she breathed. Every muscle in her body tensed. “Good morrow, whore. I knew you’d come this way, which is why I lay in wait. What a boon that your husband has left you.” Ingolf grinned and raised his fist. She saw the blow coming, but could not move to save her life. It would end like this then. Murdered in a Scottish wood. Or saved, perhaps, for some crueler fate. Ja, at Brodir’s hands. A war cry pierced the air behind her. Ingolf froze, eyes wide. “Use that fist and by God I’ll cut it off!” Rika whirled and sucked in a breath. “Grant!”

He stood on the rise below her, his face bloodred. Rasmus dangled from the end of his dirk like a piece of rotten meat. Chapter Thirteen H e was clearly out of his bloody mind. George sheathed his dirk and thrust the henchman’s limp body aside. A second later, Gunnlogi was in his hand. Why the devil hadn’t he insisted MacInnes come with them? He’d have been able to entrust Rika and the lads to the Scot’s care and ride on with a clear conscience. “I shall enjoy this,” Ingolf said, and drew his own weapon. Rika went for her dagger. “Woman!” George flashed her a stern look. “Stand aside.” She hesitated. He read the bloodlust in her eyes and caught the twitch of her hand hovering a hairsbreadth from her weapon. He was ready, should her emotions overcome her judgment, but they did not. She backed away from them both, her eyes fixed on his. “Dinna worry,” he said. “’Twill be over in a minute.” “Too right, Scotsman.” Ingolf lunged. He deflected the blow, but nearly lost his footing. Ingolf moved in close and swung a broadsword in a wide arc—Gunnar’s sword, George realized. Here it comes. By God, he was ready. Sparks flew, and the clash of metal against metal split the white stillness as Gunnlogi connected with Ingolf ’s sword. They pushed off each against the other. “Son of a—” George tripped backward over Rasmus’s body. He immediately tried to right himself, but the snow was too bloody deep. “George!” Rika screamed. Ingolf ’s weapon sliced the air. George rolled left, his heart in his throat. A sharp burn ripped along his shoulder as he raised Gunnlogi in a defensive posture. Too late. He smelled his own blood and knew ’twas over. Heat spread from his shoulder. Ingolf moved in for the kill. George looked into the henchman’s murder-glazed eyes as Ingolf smiled and raised his sword. George. She’d called him George. He rallied, redoubled his grip on his sword and waited to deflect the final blow. It did not come. The smile slid from Ingolf ’s face, and then he was screaming.

George focused his eyes, not believing what he saw. Rika stood behind Ingolf, her face shining with fear, her dagger dripping blood. She shoved the henchman out of her way and fell to her knees beside George. “Oh, God, George.” Her gaze flew to his wound. “Is it bad?” “’Tis naught—ah!—but a flesh wound.” Aye, flesh and muscle. He tried to sit up, grimacing against the pain. “I…I’m fine.” But he knew from the sky spinning above him that he was not fine. Thank Christ ’twas his left shoulder and not the right. Rika pushed the blood-soaked furs away and gasped. “It’s…no so bad. Let me up.” His eyes were fixed on Ingolf, who was struggling to his feet, though he bled like a slaughtered pig. George was intent on finishing the job. His head throbbed and his gut heaved. “Bloody hell, woman, let me up!” Rika ignored him and pushed him back down into the snow. Deftly she slit the tunic’s shoulder lacing and tore away his shirtsleeve. “It will take some stitching, but that I cannot do here.” Too weak to struggle with her, he watched Ingolf stagger to Rika’s waiting mare, dragging Gunnar’s sword behind him. “I…I must stop him.” Ingolf pulled himself onto the steed’s back and shot away into the wood. Rika heard the commotion and turned. “Nay!” George saw her intent and grabbed her wrist. Not for anything in this world or the next —not even to see his brother, Sommerled, alive again—would he have let her go after Ingolf alone. “L-let him go.” “But—” Ottar’s shouts echoed below them. George craned his neck to see. The three youths were scaling the short hill, leading their lathered mounts. Rika glanced back to the place where Ingolf had disappeared into the wood. Blood spattered the snowdrift where they’d skirmished. “D’ye want the dowry or nay?” George said. Her eyes slid to his. “I want it.” “Then let him go. ’Tis more trouble than it’s worth to find him and finish him off.” “But what if he—” He stilled her with a look. “He’ll die by nightfall. No man survives a dagger to the back.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Ja, all right, then.” He released her wrist and fell back into the snow. Ottar topped the hill, gasping and red faced, and stopped dead in his tracks. “Rasmus!” He knelt before the body and searched for a pulse. “Don’t bother,” Rika said. “He’s dead.” “And Ingolf ?” Erik examined the hoofprints in the crimson-tinged snow. “Gone, on Rika’s mount,” George said. “We must find him!” Leif cried. “Nay, we will not.” Rika shot them each a hard look. George knew her censure was meant to protect the youths. Would he have allowed it, she would have gone off after Ingolf herself. But she’d not risk the lads’ lives in pursuit of him. Ottar knelt beside him, eyeing the wound. “Are you all right?” “Aye, but it stings like hell.” He sucked in air as Rika washed the wound clean with a handful of snow. “Ottar,” she said. “Gather up the horses. Leif, can you and Erik…do something with his body?” She nodded at Rasmus’s crumpled form. “The ground’s frozen through,” Leif said. “Ja, but we can bury him deep in the snow to keep the animals off him—though he doesn’t deserve it.” Erik gestured to Leif. “Come on, let’s get it over with.” The youths busied themselves with their tasks. George settled back and allowed Rika to bandage his wound. “You were nearly killed,” she said to him in low voice so the others wouldn’t hear. “Nearly, but I live still—thanks to ye.” She met his gaze. “What else could I do? Stand by and watch him murder you as he did Lawmaker?” “Most women would have.” Why had he not noticed before how beautiful her eyes were? She tightened the bandage until he winced. “I’m not like most women.” “Aye, that’s the God’s truth.” She looked away, and he fixed his gaze on her mouth, her lips cherry-red from the cold. The urge to pull her down on top of him and kiss her was near overwhelming.

“Why did you come back?” she said softly. A stab of remorse twisted inside him. “What d’ye mean?” “You know very well what I mean. You meant to leave us.” She looked at him, not accusingly, but with resignation. “Didn’t you?” He had, in fact, but had found that he could not. Only after he’d turned around to find them again did he spy the strange tracks in the snow. It didn’t take him long to put two and two together. Had Ingolf hurt her, he would never have forgiven himself. Ottar knelt beside them in the snow and broke the spell. Rika’s face tightened. “What have ye got?” George asked him, eyeing the rolled parchment. The youth unfurled the chart MacInnes had lent them. “How much farther to Rollo’s estate, do you reckon?” “No far.” George allowed his eyes to linger on Rika’s tense features as she finished bandaging his wound. “If we hurry, we should reach it by sundown.” Rika sat back on her heels and met his gaze. “You intend to keep to our bargain then?” He ground his teeth, avoiding giving her an answer. “Must I dog your every step to make certain of it?” She flashed her eyes impatiently at him. “Say now, Grant—ja or nay. Will you or will you not keep your word?” “So, it’s back to Grant, is it?” Her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink. Leif and Erik stopped their work, awaiting his answer. Ottar went stock-still. George didn’t have to think about it for very long. “Ja,” he said, mimicking her speech. Her brows arched in surprise and what he thought was a touch of amusement. “I will keep to our bargain.” The youths grinned. He told himself he’d do it because he’d promised. Because she was a woman alone and needed his protection. Though given what had just transpired, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. She’d saved his life, which was no small thing. He owed her something for that, at least. Rika rose and offered him her hand. He took it. For a split second the memory of her body writhing beneath his, the taste of her kisses, the slick heat of her, flashed across his mind. And hers.

He read it in her eyes, saw it in the blush of her cheek, felt it as her fingers softly closed over his. She pulled him to his feet and abruptly turned away. The youths mounted their steeds and George did the same, taking care not to pull at his wound. “What about Rika?” Ottar said. “She has no mount.” “Gunnar’s sword!” Rika whirled toward the place where Ingolf had disappeared with her mount. A frown creased her soft brow. “His helm and hauberk, too. All were tied to the mare’s saddle!” “It canna be helped,” George said, and reined his steed beside her. The look of abject misery on her face nearly undid him. “Come, ye shall ride behind me, lass.” He offered his right hand to her. She hesitated, then took it, and he pulled her up behind him. “Hold tight,” he said. “The ground is rocky. I wouldna see ye unseated twice in one day.” She gripped him about the waist, and he felt the comforting weight of her breasts against his back. They turned into the setting sun and rode in silence. His breath frosted the air, which was so cold now it burned his lungs. Shafts of redgold light set to sparkling the crusted snow amidst the trees. Rika edged closer. Mayhap he was fooling himself. Honor, duty, obligation—aye, they were each a formidable motive to stay with her and see their bargain to the end. But were any the true reason he tarried? Rika jolted awake as Grant reined the chestnut to an abrupt halt at the edge of the wood. How could she have let herself drift— “Thor’s blood!” Grant shot her a backward glance. “My sentiments exactly.” She unlaced her hands from his waist and wiped the sleep from her eyes to make certain she was not dreaming. Nay, she was not. The stone and timber structure rose up from the moor like a dark bird of prey unfolding its wings against the bloodred sunset. “It’s a castle!” Ottar said. Grant snorted. “’Tis a bloody fortress.”

Erik and Leif pulled their mounts up short and exchanged wide-eyed looks. “This is it?” they said in unison. Grant shrugged. “Dunno.” Rika slid from the chestnut’s back into the crusted snow. Her breath fogged the icy air. “Ja, this is it—my father’s home.” “How d’ye know?” Grant said. A chill shot up her spine, and she pulled her cloak tighter about her. She could not take her eyes from the foreboding structure. “I just do.” She was vaguely aware of Grant dismounting. He pulled her aside, out of earshot of the others. “We dinna have to do this, ye know?” “Wh-what?” She shrugged off her unease and snapped to attention. “Ja, we do. I must have my coin.” “Why? It’s of little import now.” She frowned, not understanding him. “Ye heard MacInnes as well as I. There is naught he would no do to protect ye and yours.” “What do you mean?” Grant looked at her for what seemed an eternity before answering. “Brodir,” he said finally. “That’s what I mean.” “Oh.” “His henchmen are dead, and the man himself unaccounted for. Why return to Fair Isle at all? By your own admission, all those whom ye loved are either dead or gone from there.” Grant was right, but there was more to it than that. “MacInnes would take ye in a heartbeat,” he continued. “He is well connected from what I can tell—and boasts five score men of his own. Under his protection, ye’d have no need of the coin.” Or of me, his eyes seemed to say. Ja, MacInnes would take her, as if she were a cow to be shielded from reivers. Hmph. It was clear Grant was anxious to be on his way. A bride waited for him in Wick. Rika had considered more than once that day enlisting Grant’s help in freeing Gunnar. The hardness of his eyes in the failing light wiped the thought from her mind for good. “You don’t understand,” she said coolly.

He glanced at the darkening sky, gone crimson at the edges, then arched a brow at her. “Enlighten me.” She was not about to tell him the truth of things. Not now. What business was it of his? They had a bargain, plain and simple, and he swore to uphold his end. Must they have this conversation at every turn of events? “The coin buys my freedom from Brodir, ja, but also ensures my independence—” she tipped her chin at him “—from any man. So you see, Grant—” “Aye, I see.” His lips thinned into a hard line. They were so close. Nothing would turn her from her purpose now. She must cinch his commitment one last time. “You’re afraid,” she said, and nodded at the dark fortress. “What?” “That’s why you try to dissuade me.” His eyes blazed, and she knew she’d won. Men were so predictable. Grant whirled toward the youths who had tethered their steeds just inside the wood. “Mount up,” he barked. “The light’s nearly gone.” Stars blinked at them from a field of velvet cobalt as their horses clomped along the cobbled walk leading to the castle’s bailey. Rika tensed as Grant conferred with the sentries. Two of them brought torches from a nearby fire to get what she supposed was a better look at her. God knows what Grant had told them. Their eyes widened as they surveyed her garb, for she had staunchly refused to don even the simplest of the gowns Mistress MacInnes had lent her for the journey. Ridiculous. Did these folk really expect women to ride beasts the size of MacInnes’s mounts while garbed in normal attire? From the amused looks she received from her father’s men, she supposed they did. Rika had ne’er been inside a castle. She’d seen a few on her trips to the southern Shetlands with Lawmaker. But nothing in her experience prepared her for the size and opulence of Rollo’s hall. Grant seemed not at all surprised by the rich interior of the room. She noticed he was on his guard, however, watching every doorway and taking particular note of the collection of fine weapons—both Norse and Scot—displayed on the walls. It occurred to her this dower money was of little consequence to a man of Rollo’s wealth. Where had he made this fortune?

“Who did ye say ye were?” The stern, high-pitched voice startled her. Rika whirled, her hand moving instinctively to the hilt of her dagger. “What, would ye slay me in my own hall?” Rika opened her mouth to speak but found no words. The woman standing before them was like no other she’d e’er seen. She was middle-aged—older, mayhap—with skin as white as the chalk cliffs of Fair Isle. Her hair glistened black as a raven’s wing and was done up in some fantastical arrangement. It did naught, however, to improve the sourness of her expression. Her gown was what most surprised Rika. ’Twas fashioned of a fine, shimmering fabric that bore not the slightest resemblance to the homespun to which Rika was accustomed. Grant cleared his throat ceremoniously. “Lady, may I present Ulrika, daughter of…” He shot Rika a quick glance, and she nodded. “Daughter of Rollo.” The woman blanched. “That canna be.” Rika stood tall and tipped her chin high, though the woman was so short it hardly made a difference. “I am who he says. Who, may I ask, are you?” The woman narrowed black eyes at her. “I am Catherine Leonard, mistress of all ye see here.” “Then you are…” Ottar’s words died on his lips as Catherine raked her gaze over him. “Rollo’s wife,” she snapped. “Who else would I be?” She trained her eyes on Rika’s mannish garments and her expression grew even more sour. “What d’ye mean dressing like this?” “I was…” Thor’s blood, would she allow this crone to treat her so ill? Rika tipped her chin so high she had to look down her nose at the woman. “It’s for riding.” Catherine snorted. “Ridiculous.” Grant inched closer to Rika and, to her surprise, slipped his arm around her shoulder. “Aye, ’twas a difficult journey and—” “Who might ye be?” Catherine said. “’Tis clear ye’re no one of them.” She flashed her eyes at Rika and the youths. “Nay, I’m a Scot. I’m also her…husband.” “Ye dinna say.” Catherine sized him up. “My name is Grant—George Grant. Laird of a clan to the southeast, near Inverness.” Catherine’s brows shot up. “Really? My husband will be pleased to make your acquaintance at the least, then.”

Rika would stand no more of this base treatment. “Now see here, we’ve come all this —” Grant pinched her arm. “Ow! Why did you do—” “Aye, it is with your husband that I have business,” Grant said. He shot Rika a warning look. Fine. She’d let him handle the crone if that’s what he wished. But she’d take no more of this abuse. She’d suffered enough of it as a child under Rollo’s care and would suffer no more. “Well then,” Catherine said. “I will have someone show ye to a suitable chamber.” She glanced at Ottar, then at Leif and Erik, who had not dared utter a peep since their arrival. “As for the lads, they can sleep in the hall.” Rika supposed this was as good as any arrangement she might expect, and did not protest. Besides, Grant still had a death grip on her arm. “Our thanks,” Grant said. “Ye are most gracious.” Catherine shrugged. “I dinna have much choice, do I?” Her gaze slid to Rika again, and this time she glared back. “Ulrika, is it? Rollo will be surprised, indeed.” They waited nearly an hour in the hall, during which time a score of Catherine’s kinsmen—or servants, she knew not which—flurried about them setting up benches and tables in preparation for the evening meal. Rika sat alone on a stool by the enormous hearth, drumming her fingers on her leatherclad thighs. There had been no sign of her father, or of anyone who had shown them even the simplest hospitality. Her patience was nearly at an end. Grant sat at a nearby table in whispered conversation with Erik and Ottar and Leif. From what she could overhear, he seemed to be instructing them in how to behave in this strange and unwelcome place, and in what to do should all not go as planned. His face was swathed in the warm glow of the fire, his slate eyes sharp. A tremendous calm radiated from his confident demeanor. The youths looked up to him, respected his judgment. Ottar especially. She marveled at this change in him. In all of them. They were in Grant’s world now, and must rely on him to do as he promised and see them safe away with her dowry intact. What choice did she have but to trust him? Muffled laughter echoed off the high stone walls of the hall. Rika turned toward the arched entrance. Two women, younger and more delicate versions of Catherine, swept into the room. Her daughters, no doubt. Sisters. Each was robed in more of the same fine fabric that had made up Catherine’s gown, but in colors so vivid Rika sucked in a breath.

Their beauty and elegance was not lost on Rika’s companions. Grant rose so abruptly he nearly upended the bench on which he sat. “Good evening,” he said, and smiled warmly at them. Ne’er had she seen such a smile grace his lips before. Rika was suddenly aware of her own torn and soiled clothes—men’s clothes—and how her dirty hair hung in dull, lifeless hanks about her shoulders. Absently she twisted the bronze bracelets circling her wrists. Ottar and Erik and Leif scrambled to Grant’s side, hastily adjusting their damp garments and raking hands through their disheveled hair. What, did they think these women princesses? They were pretty, she’d grant them that. Nay, they were more than that—they were beautiful. And the magnitude of that beauty shone in Grant’s eyes. Heat flushed her face. Without thinking, Rika shot to her feet. All eyes turned to her. The young women gasped, their bright eyes round as saucers. Rika felt the familiar sting of embarrassment under their scrutiny. She was a freak, she did not fit. Especially here, in this haven of beauty and finery. What of it? No more would she shrink under another’s scorn. That time was over. She strode to Grant’s side, elbowing Erik out of the way. “This is my…wife,” Grant said. “Your…sister.” Rika fisted her hands at her sides and scowled at the two of them. She was no sister to these peacocks. The women—maidens surely—eyed her, openmouthed, up and down. Up mostly, as Rika towered over them by nearly a foot. “Ye…ye are Ulrika,” one of them said—the elder of the two, Rika guessed. She would have thought her identity obvious. The servants had been yammering and casting her strange looks since her arrival. “Ja, I am she. Ulrika, daughter of Fritha—and Rollo.” Their eyes grew wider, if that were even possible. “And we are—” Rika silenced Ottar with a raised hand. “We have rested here with neither food nor drink for nearly an hour,” she said to the maidens. “Your mother mentioned that a chamber would be prepared.” Grant shot her a look of censure, but Rika ignored it.

The other sister, the younger, finally found her tongue. “Oh, our pardon! Aye, your chamber is ready.” She gestured for Rika and Grant to follow. “Come, I will show ye the way.” The elder sister stayed behind. As Rika quit the room, she noticed that Leif and Erik and Ottar surrounded her like whelps to a fresh teat. Grant dogged their escort’s heels up a flight of stairs with equal interest. Rika’s face grew so hot she thought surely her blood would boil. She must contain herself. Now was not the time to fall prey to feminine emotion. That was for the weak and the foolish. And she was no one’s fool. “Here it is,” the maiden said. She batted her lashes demurely at Grant as she gestured to an open door off the main corridor. Rika peeked into the finely appointed room. A smallish bed draped in plaids and furs was tucked into a corner near the hearth. She snorted and shot Grant a disgusted glance. But he was not looking at her. His eyes were for the maiden, and hers for him. Rika pushed between them into the chamber, teeth clenched, and fists balled at her side. Why this anger? What were these feelings welling inside her so wholly unbidden? Grant seemed not to notice her distress, and she was glad of it. “I’ll be with ye shortly,” he said, not looking at her. “If this kind lady will show me to the kitchen, I shall bring us back something to slake our thirst.” The maiden blushed prettily and, had she and Grant not departed a second later, Rika might have slapped the color right out of the woman’s delicate face. She slammed the heavy door behind them. “Little harlot.” What, did the vixen think to seduce him? Grant had plainly introduced Rika as his wife. And what about him? Husband, indeed. He was like all men. Something to slake our thirst. More like something to slake his lust. Rika whirled away from the closed door and her breath caught. “Thor’s blood!” Staring back at her from across the room was her own image. What on earth… Of course! It was a looking glass. She’d seen one once in the Shetlands, but never one so big. It was nearly as tall as she. She approached it cautiously with slitted eyes, on her guard as if the vision looking back at her would suddenly jump out. Moving closer, she frowned. Was it any wonder Grant preferred the blushing maid?

She ran a hand along her sun-bronzed cheek, across wind-chapped lips that, to her, seemed over-full. Crouching, she took in the rest of her image. She forgot sometimes, particularly in Grant’s company, how tall she truly was. And her hair. It looked far worse than she had imagined in the hall. A rat’s nest came to mind. A small stool was positioned before the silvered glass. Rika collapsed onto it and absently pulled her dagger from its sheath. Before she even knew what she was about to do, her fist closed over a hank of hair. She gripped the dagger. What did it matter that she was not beautiful? When had she begun to care if Grant did or did not find her pleasing? Had he ever looked on her with the same longing she read in his eyes a moment ago? Once, perhaps, on their wedding night. A thin film of tears glassed her eyes, shimmering back at her from the looking glass. She tilted her face into the amber firelight and, out of the corner of her eye, caught the white reflection of Brodir’s handiwork. It was a formidable scar, indeed. “It doesn’t matter,” she breathed. No man, least of all Grant, would ever want her. In truth, she’d be far better off were her countenance even more repugnant than the silvered glass proved it to be. Lawmaker always said she had courage. Did she? Her hand shook as she slid the flat of the icy metal blade along her cheek. Holding her hair away from her face, she rolled the dagger’s hilt ever so slightly. And sucked in a breath. Blood welled at her temple. “Sweet Jesus, Rika, what are ye doing?” Grant! She nearly jumped from the stool. A flagon of mead and two cups shattered on the floor at his feet, scattering into a thousand pieces. The dagger slipped from her hand and landed point first in the soft timbers. In a flash he was kneeling by her side. “What have ye done? Here, let me see that cut.” “Leave me alone.” She jerked away from him. “Are ye daft?”

“Ja—to have wed you in the first place. Thank God it’s nearly over.” She caught his look of incredulity in the silvered glass before them. He tried to dab at her cut with a bit of cloth torn from his shirt. “Don’t touch me!” “Why the devil not? Ye did as much for me when I was injured.” She glanced at his bandaged shoulder. “Ha! Methinks you would have preferred one of Catherine’s pretty peacocks to act as surgeon.” “What?” She jerked out of his grasp and flew to the narrow window. This was not a conversation she had intended to have with him. “Is that what this is about?” “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” He grabbed her arm and wrenched her toward him. The whoreson was actually smiling. “You’re jealous,” he said. “I am not! What nonsense.” To think that seconds earlier she would have marked herself. For what? To prove she had the grit to abandon even the smallest chance Grant would favor her. She needed not that impetus. If he were the last man standing, she’d not want his favor. He grinned at her. “Aye, ye are. Just look at your face. ’Tis red as an autumn apple.” He tried to grab hold of her chin, and she slapped his hand away. “Stop it! Don’t touch me.” She glared at him and his grin widened. “Wh-what’s an apple?” “Ye are jealous.” He tried to brush her hair from her face. “Here, let me see to that cut.” “Nay!” She batted him away. “’Twill likely leave a scar.” “Ja, and why should I care? What’s another scar?” He grabbed her around the waist, and she struggled against him. “I told you to stop it! Leave me—” A roar echoed from the open door, and both of them froze. Rika’s heart beat a tattoo in her chest as her gaze raked over the vision in the doorway. Rollo. Her father.

He was a formidable presence, yet smaller than she remembered him. But then the last time she’d seen him she’d been but two and ten. Catherine lurked behind him in the corridor, her face a mask of pure hate. The shattered flagon, Rika’s dagger, the blood welling along her cut—nothing escaped Rollo’s attention. “What did I tell ye,” Catherine said smugly. “Is it her or nay?” Rollo eyed Rika up and down, ignoring Grant completely. Grant’s hands slipped from her waist, and the two of them faced their host. Rika felt her knees quiver beneath her breeks. “Ja,” Rollo said. “It’s her all right.” He took in her disheveled and dirty appearance, then stepped toward her. His hand flew up, and Rika instinctively cringed. Grant’s arm went around her waist, as if to remind her that he was there and she was under his protection. She had to admit that, without him, her tenacity might have faltered. She pursed her lips, tipped her chin higher and met her father’s shrewd gaze. Slowly Rollo traced the line of her scar from ear to chin. He grazed the skin where she’d cut herself, and blood came away on his hand. “You’ve all but lost the look of your mother,” he said quietly. For the briefest moment, she thought she read something else in his eyes—something besides the scorn she was prepared for. Ja, there it was. Regret. “Methinks she favors ye in her countenance,” Grant said. Rollo snapped out of his trance and narrowed his blue eyes at the Scot. “Who the hell are you?” Rika held her breath. Grant’s arm tightened about her, buoying her confidence. “He is my husband,” she said simply. “What?” Rollo turned on Grant. “What trickery is this?” “’Tis the truth.” Grant stepped between them, pushing Rika behind him. Both men were matched evenly in height and build. “The lady is my wife. We were wed on Fair Isle nearly a fortnight ago.” Rollo narrowed his eyes, placing Grant under the same haughty scrutiny Rika had suffered each day of her life in his care. “Grant—of Inverness, so my wife tells me.” Catherine’s eyes flashed a murderous sort of satisfaction. “East of Inverness, aye.” Grant held Rollo’s gaze and did not stand down. Rika was impressed.

Her father was impressed, too. She could tell by the way he nodded almost imperceptibly as he looked Grant over. Nay, she did not think he was even aware he did it. “Why have you come?” Rollo said finally. “I’ve come for what’s mine.” Grant flashed her a quick look. “Her dowry.” Rika froze, each muscle taut as a fiddle string. Her father roared a string of curses, and still Grant held his ground. “You are not the man I chose for her. Where is Brodir?” He trained his eyes on her again. Her heart pounded so fiercely, surely it would burst from her chest. “He’s…I mean, I don’t exactly—” “It matters not,” Grant said. “I am her husband, and by rights her dowry is mine.” Rollo narrowed his eyes at him. “You’ll ne’er get it. Not while I live.” Oh, God. What now? She feared it would come to this were Lawmaker not with them. They’d come so far, paid so dearly. It must not end like this. Gunnar’s freedom, mayhap his very life, hung in the balance. She must do something, and quickly. “Fine,” Grant said. “What?” Rika’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. Grant crossed his arms and shrugged at her. “That’s fine with me.” Rika stared at him, openmouthed. Catherine, on the other hand, puffed up like an exotic bird and gloated in the doorway. “It is?” Her father’s thick blond brows knit in confusion. “Aye,” Grant said. “No dowry, no marriage. Ye can have her back.” He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and thrust her into Rollo’s arms. “This is outrageous!” She pushed back from her father’s brawny wall of a chest and whirled on Grant. “What do you mean by it?” “Just what I said.” He crossed his arms over his chest and cocked a tawny brow at Rollo. “No dowry, no marriage. Take her—she’s yours.” Chapter Fourteen N e’er had he heard words so foul uttered from so pretty a mouth. Once her wrath was spent, Rika didn’t speak to him for nearly two days. George smiled to himself, recalling the magnitude of her fury. “Something amuses you?” He glanced at Rollo from across the tafl table. “Nay. I was just thinking of my wife.”

Rollo snorted. “I find naught about her amusing.” He shot a quick look at Rika, who sat by the enormous hearth absorbed in some needlework she’d borrowed from one of Catherine’s daughters. George caught himself staring at her many times that evening. To secure the dowry, she’d transformed herself into everything a proper Christian wife should be. The result was shocking. Catherine had provided her an ill-fitting gown of plain, pale wool. Too short and too tight, it bared her slender ankles and hugged the lithe curves of her body. Her hair was clean and plaited into one thick braid. ’Twas odd to see her wearing no weapons. After witnessing the incident before the looking glass, George had confiscated her dagger. That had angered her, but he would not relent. The change in her public demeanor was nothing short of revolutionary. She made a show of deferring to him in all matters. What little she did say was swathed in honeyed words and usually of no consequence. Though her submission was feigned—an act designed to secure Rollo’s favor long enough to gain her coin—George should have enjoyed it all the same. He did not. He knew at what cost to her pride she played this uncharacteristic role. The dowry meant much to her. Far more than he’d first suspected. What plan did she have for the silver? Mayhap none. Her mere possession of the coin ensured her independence. That, all along, was what she’d said she wanted. In the beginning, he hadn’t understood the import of her freedom. But he himself had lived in a kind of bondage these past weeks, and had found it near intolerable. Aye, he understood her motives well. Rollo moved a game piece and grunted satisfaction. “You are certain you would not prefer equal shares of cattle and land?” George met the Norseman’s gaze. “In lieu of the silver? Nay, I have need of the coin.” Rollo grunted again, then called for another flagon of mead. It had been like that between them these past two days and nights. George’s gamble had paid off. Naught but the threat of leaving Rika in his care would have coerced the intractable Norseman to hand over her dowry.

George glanced again at Rika. They were two of a kind, father and daughter. Stubborn. Headstrong. Used to getting their own way. God’s truth but she did favor him in appearance. He hadn’t been lying that first night. Rollo was a powerful-looking man. Tall and fair-haired, and in tremendous physical shape for one so far past his prime. Rika had his eyes—sharp and so icy a blue their gaze chilled a man right down to his bones. There was more they shared in common, and if either took the time to look, they’d see it, plain as day. Both carried inside them a bitterness born of hate and pride, and no small amount of fear, though neither would have admitted it. For Rika, the wounds ran deep. She had been wronged, by the two most important men in a young woman’s life—her father and her betrothed. Would that George had known these things sooner. He thought often of the tale MacInnes had told him, about the chaste love shared between the young Lawmaker and Fritha, and how it twisted Rollo’s heart into something dark and cold. Rika looked up from her needlework and caught George staring. Her cool smile sent a shiver through him. Though she was again speaking to him, in private she was distant, icy as the day he first met her. He hadn’t told her yet that Rollo would likely give over the coin. He was saving it for when her mood improved. Mayhap he’d catch her alone this eve before she retired. George rubbed the small of his back. This sleeping on the hard floor had to end. “Your move, Grant,” Rollo said, jolting him from his thoughts. “Ah, right. Sorry.” He eyed the stretched sealskin board, then moved one of his attackers. Lawmaker’s tafl lessons had proved valuable after all. In fact, all that George had learned from the islanders served him well in Rollo’s company. Leif and Erik had been right. The man was shrewd and well schooled. Over the past two days he’d engaged George in all manner of sport and gaming for the purpose of sizing him up, George knew. Tafl, swordplay—at which he was not his best given his shoulder injury, which was nearly healed—a bit of hunting in the forest, even a sweat together in Rollo’s sauna. The Norseman had constructed a bathhouse in the castle that resembled much the one on Fair Isle. A vision of Rika naked and perspiring flashed across his mind. He shook off the thought and turned his attention back to their game.

He was surprised to find Rollo staring at his broadsword. “How came you by that?” Rollo nodded at the weapon. George wondered that he hadn’t asked about it before. ’Twas plain Rollo knew the weapon. “Gunnlogi? It was given me,” he said simply. “And the giver? Where might he be?” Rollo pretended to study the board, but George knew the question was far from casual. “Lawmaker is dead.” Rollo looked up and their gazes locked. “When?” “On the journey here. There was a storm.” He thought it best not to elaborate on the circumstances of the elder’s death. None had mentioned Brodir or his henchmen since the night of their arrival. “Were you not given a family sword at your wedding to my daughter?” “I was. Your son’s, in fact.” George held the Norseman’s gaze in hopes of seeing some flicker of emotion in those unreadable eyes. He did not. “Where is it, then?” “Stolen. Along with one of our mounts.” Rollo ran a beefy hand over his bearded chin. “The weapon was once mine—and my father’s before me. ’Tis of no import now.” George picked his words carefully. “The weapon meant a great deal to your daughter. She mourned its loss most grievously.” Rollo remained silent, but George watched his gaze drift to the hearth where Rika sat sewing. After a while, he said, “How came she by that scar?” “Och, ’twas an accident. She cut herself the evening we—” “Nay, not that one. The evil looking scar that runs from ear to chin.” Rollo traced a similar line along his own throat. “Was it you who marked her?” George leveled his gaze at him. “Nay.” “Who then?” “Methinks ’twas the man to whom ye betrothed her.” For the barest moment, he read a flicker of anger in Rollo’s eyes. Then the Norseman let out a bellowing laugh. “Aye, well, he’s not the first man who’s been tempted to slit her throat.” Nor the last, George thought.

Rollo’s expression sobered as he continued to look at Rika. “You really think she favors me?” He was treading on dangerous ground, but could not help himself. “Who else?” The light in Rollo’s eyes went out. “He’s dead you say. Lawmaker.” George nodded. “Aye, well they are together at last then.” Rollo rose stiffly from the tafl table, leaving their game unfinished. They meant Fritha and Lawmaker. Rika seemed not to hear them, or if she did, she took not her father’s meaning. “About the bride-price,” George said, remembering what Lawmaker had told him. Rollo dismissed the topic with a wave of his hand. “I care only for your allegiance, should I e’er have need of it.” George thought this generous, though it hardly mattered, as his marriage to Rika was likely to end within the week. The distance between Rollo’s castle and his own near Inverness was great, and likely he’d ne’er meet the Norseman again. “The hour is late,” Rollo said. “I would find my bed.” Rika looked up as her father lumbered from the hall. He spared her not a glance. “Thor’s blood, what now?” Rika peeked out the open door of the castle. Snow from an afternoon storm flurried across the bailey, sending a chill clear through her. “Archery, by the look of it.” Leif nodded at the straw butts erected near the stable. Rollo handed Grant a bow and a quiver, then slapped him on the back. “It’s deadly cold out. What’s my father thinking? And Grant’s injury—he’ll open the wound.” Erik shrugged. “He is relentless in his quest to discover a sport at which Grant does not excel.” “We could be here for weeks if that be the case.” Rika turned her back on them and made for the warmth of the hall. “Why don’t you just tell him?” Erik said, dogging her steps. Rika snorted. “I will not.” She’d been over this with Lawmaker and the youths a dozen times before they set sail from Fair Isle. “I do not need my father’s help.” She’d go to her grave before she’d ask anything more of him beyond what the law decreed he owed her.

Leif pulled up a bench for her to sit on, and all three of them settled before the blazing hearth fire. “Gunnar is Rollo’s only son,” he said. “Surely if he knew of his imprisonment…” Both of them looked at her with huge liquid eyes. She was unmoved. “Rollo cares naught for his son—or for me. If he did, he would have ne’er abandoned us in the first place.” Leif took her hand in his. “Perhaps if I just mentioned that Gunnar—” “One word and I’ll cut out your tongue.” She jerked her hand away. She didn’t want Rollo’s help. She didn’t need it. The silver was enough. And were there a penny left over after Gunnar’s release, she’d send it back to him were there not a chance he’d use it against her in some way. “At the least will you not confide in Grant?” “Grant?” Not once had she considered it. “The Scot cannot be trusted.” Erik’s face brightened. “He’s had a score of opportunities to abandon our cause, should he wish to—but he has not.” “Besides,” Leif said, “he’s your husband.” She shot the youth her iciest look, but it did naught to deter him. “He’s behaved as one.” Erik nodded vigorously. “Were it not for Grant’s intervention, we might all be dead.” The ambush in the wood three days ago burned fresh in her mind. “You cannot fault him, Rika,” Leif said. Nay, she could not, as much as she would like to. “And while I do not pretend to know all there is between you, with my own eyes I have seen how highly he regards you.” “Ha!” The regard Grant held for her was capricious at best, and expressed only on those occasions when he thought to get her between the furs. “We are but three now,” Erik said. “And none of us knows the way of things here, or the lay of the land.” “With Ottar we are four.” Rika glanced at the tafl table in the corner where Ottar sat tittering with Catherine’s youngest daughter. “Ottar knows naught of our true purpose.” Erik’s gaze strayed to the smitten youth. “As was your wish.” Rika nodded. “Lawmaker and I thought it best to keep it from him, but soon we must tell him our plans for the silver.”

She had, in fact, thought to tell Ottar days ago, when first they landed on the mainland. But the closer he grew to Grant, the more she feared he’d betray her confidence. And she was more determined than ever that Grant not know. The Scot would tell Rollo in a heartbeat. She watched the youth and the maid together. The dark-eyed girl sat rapt as Ottar spun some preposterous tale. Rika had to admit the sisters were sweet and well-meaning. They’d been naught but kind to her these three days. She thought it nothing short of amazing, given the shrewish behavior of their mother—and her own coolness toward them. Rika’s ears pricked as the castle door crashed open. She heard her father’s bellowing laughter followed by some unintelligible comment from Grant. The two of them blew into the hall laughing, their cheeks ruddy from the cold. Grant shook his head like a dog, spraying snowflakes across the tafl table where Ottar sat with the maid. She giggled and chastised him. A knot caught in Rika’s throat as Grant smiled at her. God’s truth, the girl was lovely. Fresh, unspoiled beauty coupled with a gentle grace. What more could a man want? Apparently nothing, as the maid had the admiring eye of every male in the room. Rika’s face grew hot. She felt suddenly conspicuous, as if she didn’t belong there. Why, she did not know, for neither Grant nor her father seemed to notice her presence. Mayhap she’d lie down before the evening meal. She started to rise, and Erik caught her hand. “Tell Grant of our plan,” he said. “Ask his help.” Not this again. “The man is a skilled diplomat,” Erik said. “We will have need of such talent.” Leif turned his attention back to her. “Do it, Rika. For Gunnar’s sake.” Gunnar. She squeezed Erik’s hand, then let go. “I will think on it,” she said, and turned to leave. As she crossed the room, Grant’s gaze slipped to hers for the briefest of moments. Was that a smile breaking at the edges of his mouth? Her father put his arm around him and whispered something in his ear. Grant turned to him and grinned. How alike they seemed to her. Not in appearance, but behavior. It was almost as if Grant had transformed himself into a younger version of her father these past three days.

Mayhap it was the Scot’s way of winning Rollo’s favor. Whatever it was, she didn’t like it. “Where are ye off to, wife?” Grant called out as she passed them. Rika shot him an icy glance and did not answer. He turned to Rollo and shrugged. Her father snorted, and they both laughed together. Her hands balled into fists as she quit the room. If Grant were the last man on earth, she’d cut her tongue out before she asked his help. They had a bargain, nothing more. Once Grant delivered his end of it, she’d be done with him. And her father. That evening, Rika felt no closer to her goal than she had when first they arrived. Her patience was at an end. “You’ve eaten almost nothing,” Grant said to her. She toyed with a bit of bread, then tossed it to one of the dogs lying by the hearth. “I’m not hungry.” Catherine eyed her from across the supper table, then turned her gaze on Grant. “Methinks a missed meal or two willna harm a woman of your wife’s…shall we say… stature.” Thor’s blood, how much longer must she sit here and suffer the crone’s insults? Rika snatched up her cup and drained it. Grant immediately refilled it from the flagon on the table. “Just smile and ignore her,” he whispered into her ear. Rika clenched her teeth behind upturned lips. Behind the pleasant mask her blood boiled. “So, Grant—” her father paused to devour a slab of meat dangling from the end of his dirk “—what think you of my daughters?” Rika froze. All eyes turned to Grant. To her surprise, he slipped an arm around her shoulder. It was the first time he’d touched her in days. The warmth of his hand caused her pulse to quicken. “My wife is a unique wo—” “Nay, not her. My stepdaughters, Celeste and Karen.” Rollo grinned at the blushing sisters who sat between Erik and Leif. Catherine shot Rika a triumphant smile.

Had Grant not tightened his hold on her, Rika might have lunged across the table and stuffed an entire roasted hare down the woman’s throat. “Easy,” Grant whispered between smiling lips. He squeezed her once, then his hand slipped from her shoulder. “D’ye no find them lovely?” Catherine said. Grant raised his glass to her. “No as lovely as their mother, but aye, they are most fair.” Catherine tittered, and Rollo roared with pleasure. Rika wanted to wretch. Could she fathom a way to free Gunnar without the dowry, she would have quit the hall that instant, mounted the first nag she saw, and put a dozen leagues between her and her father—and Catherine, and Grant—that very night. The crone beamed at her daughters. “They will make fine wives, will they no?” Erik and Leif and Ottar gazed moonfaced at the maids, and answered in unison, “Ja.” Rika’s cheeks blazed against her will as Grant looked with unfeigned delight on the sisters. Damn these ridiculous feelings! Why did she care that he—or any man—admired them? They were as he said—most fair. Nay, beautiful. Exactly what she was not. There it was. The truth. Rika toyed with the hammered bracelets circling her wrists. Humiliation burned a slow path to her face. “’Tis a pity your wife does not favor her mother,” Catherine said to Grant. Rika’s gaze shot to hers. Catherine’s eyes burned into her like live coals. “I have heard Rollo speak many times of Fritha’s delicate beauty.” Rollo put down his dirk. “Aye, but ’twas a blessing for ye and your brother that Fritha died young,” Catherine continued. Rika rose stiffly from the table, her hands fisted so tight her nails dug into her palms. Somewhere at the edge of her awareness she felt Grant’s hand close over her wrist. “After all,” Catherine said, “what child should suffer a whore for a mother?” Rollo shot to his feet. Rika caught the barest hint of anger in his eyes. A deadly calm washed over her. “What did you say?” Catherine shrugged. “Why I simply meant that—”

“Enough!” Rollo slammed a fist on the table. Celeste and Karen gasped. The youths froze, eyes wide and darting from Rollo to Grant, as if the Scot would intervene. He did not. After a moment, he let go her hand. Her father looked at her then, and a lifetime of unspoken emotion passed between them. Whore. ’Twas not the first time her mother had been labeled so, though it had been years since Rika had heard the accusation. The last time, uttered from her father’s own lips, had been mere days before Fritha’s untimely death. “Why?” she whispered, as she looked at him. Rollo said nothing and, after a moment, the small measure of warmth that had glassed his eyes, was abruptly gone. Rika drew a calming breath and strode from the hall, forcing herself to slow, measured steps. She’d had enough. More than enough. There must be another way. Mayhap she’d take MacInnes at his word. Ride back to Gellis Bay on the morrow and seek his help in freeing her brother. She must think. Clear her head. Temper her roiling emotions. A chill shot through her as she made her way down the drafty corridor past the kitchen. Her feet stopped of their own accord before the bathhouse door. A sauna. Ja, that was exactly what she needed. She’d cleanse her body and her mind of the events of the past few days. A comforting warmth drew her in as she opened the heavy door and stepped across the threshold. Rollo had constructed the bathhouse as an addition to the castle. ’Twas similar in style to the one on Fair Isle, but larger, boasting three separate chambers. The fires were lit each day. Wood fires. A luxury Rollo could well afford, given the castle’s proximity to the forest and so much timber. With relish, she dispensed with the uncomfortably tight gown and shift Catherine had loaned her, dropping them purposefully onto the packed dirt floor.

She stepped into the smallest of the chambers and a cloud of fragrant steam engulfed her. Before settling onto the wide, padded bench, she slid the privacy bolt into place across the door. Not that she expected company. A vision of Grant, naked and sweating, flashed across her mind. “You must forget him.” She tossed the ladle aside and poured the entire bucket of herb-laced water over the bed of white-hot stones. The water hissed and spit and sputtered, throwing up a shield of aromatic steam. “Ah.” She breathed deep and sank languidly onto the bench. She must accept the fact that Grant’s usefulness to her was at an end. True, he’d gotten them this far, but he’d ne’er secure the dowry. Not now. Her father was toying with him— enjoying turning Grant away from her. It didn’t matter. She didn’t care. She couldn’t. She’d seen how Grant had looked at Catherine’s daughters. “Would that I were half as fair,” she whispered. “Would that ye were half as patient.” She nearly jumped from the bench. The sauna door banged shut. “Who’s there? What do you mean by—” She sucked in a breath as Grant stepped naked out of the steam and knelt before her. In a flash she drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, shielding herself from his roving eyes. “What are you doing here?” “I fancied a sweat. Ye might have waited for me.” “How did you get in here? I bolted the door.” He smiled. “It slides from both sides. Did ye no notice?” She hadn’t, and it annoyed her. He had surprised her twice now bathing, and that was two times too many. “Go away. I wish to be alone.” “Ye lie.” His hand edged across the bench to her foot. Her pulse quickened as his fingers slid over her ankle. “What do you want from me? Isn’t it enough that you and my father and that shrewish bitch humiliate me in front of my own kinsmen?” His smile faded. “I was no party to that woman’s ill behavior.” “Ha!” She jerked her foot from his gentle grasp and fought to maintain her composure. “You delighted in it.” “Nay.” His gaze slid over her body.

“Don’t look at me!” She willed herself rise from the bench and leave. Why, oh why, did her body not respond to her mind’s command? The moist heat, the intensity of Grant’s gaze, her nakedness—all fueled her discomfort. “Ye are more beautiful than any woman I have ever seen.” Her heart stopped. Unwillingly she met his gaze. “Do not mock me.” “I would never do that, Rika.” The sincerity in his voice disarmed her. Hot tears stung her eyes. Why did he torment her? She bit her lip and fought desperately to control the tempest of emotions whirling inside her. Oh, what she would give to be able to trust him. Just this once. To believe his words. Rely on his strength to bolster her own. Never in her life had she sought help or comfort from a man. Never had she felt the need that ached inside her, shaking the very tenets of her existence. She gazed into his eyes and instantly realized her mistake. Should Grant reach for her now, she’d abandon her convictions and fling herself into his arms. Nay, she must not. She could not. The dowry. She must focus on the dowry. “My coin,” she said abruptly. “I must have it. When will you ask my father to—” “Your dowry matters not a whit.” Of course it mattered. It meant everything. If she could not get her hands on it— He moved closer—so close the damp hair on his chest grazed her knees. Beads of perspiration dripped from his face onto her bare thighs. “Ye think to protect yourself by claiming it. That with the silver gone, no man would want ye.” Her breathing grew labored. Steam swirled up around them, curling her hair and heating her skin to near burning. Why did he look at her with such hunger? “No man would,” she heard herself say. His eyes held hers in their steely grip as he peeled her hands from her knees. Slowly, with purpose, he removed the hammered bracelets from her wrists and cast them to the floor. Why did she not stop him?

Sparks shot through her as his lips brushed across the scarred pulse points at each wrist. “You’re wrong,” he whispered, and drew her into his arms. Chapter Fifteen T he passion in her eyes was his undoing. George eased Rika back onto the bench and kissed her. He told himself ’twas purely physical, this burning, the hunger, the overpowering need to possess her. “Nay, we should not.” Her arms twined around him defeating her feeble protest. “Why not?” He kissed her again before she could answer. Oh, she felt good in his arms. “S-someone might come in.” “Let them. We’re marrit, are we no?” She looked at him, her face a radiant fusion of desire and fear, and in that moment he knew at long last he’d melted the ice maiden’s stringent resolve. Perspiration sheened her burning skin. His hands glided over ribs and rounded hip. Slowly he ran his tongue across her throat, tracing her scar from ear to chin. She closed her eyes and drew breath. “So salty,” he breathed, “so hot.” He moved atop her, their bodies melding in wet, silken heat. She wrapped her legs around him and pulled him close. Her response fueled his desire. “Slow,” he whispered between kisses, fighting for control. He was so hard he thought he would burst. His manhood pulsed against her thigh in excruciating anticipation. “Love me,” she whispered. His heart stopped. Her lashes fluttered open and what he read in her eyes mirrored his own confused emotions. Nay, he told himself, it could not be. It must not be. ’Twas lust he felt, nothing more. Steam infused with a heady tinge of juniper blazed into his lungs. He lost himself in her eyes, the feel of her hands roving his body, and gave himself up to the moment. “I would pleasure ye beyond your wildest imaginings.” His mouth sought hers in a violent kiss, designed to drive this unbidden tenderness from his heart. He was an animal, a predator, and she his prey. The fierceness of her response thrilled him, but made him wonder who was stalking whom.

She writhed under him, her breasts thrusting upward toward his mouth. He indulged her need and his hunger. She moaned softly as he suckled each nipple hard. “Oh, George,” she breathed, and the sound of his Christian name on her lips spurred him on. He tasted his way across each rib, over the soft flat plane of her belly. When his tongue blazed a salty path to her sex, she gasped. “Spread your legs,” he said. She looked at him, her eyes glassed with desire, her face suffused with heat. After a moment, she obeyed, and he plundered the slick, salty heat of her like an animal gone mad. “George!” she cried out, and bucked beneath him. His hands closed over her hips to still her. He continued even as she begged him to stop. In a frenzy, he swept her with him to the brink of madness. When her protestations turned to cries of pleasure, he drove her over the edge. A second later he buried himself inside her, his loins burning for release. They came together in a blaze of passion and heat. Their tongues mated in wild abandon, mimicking their fierce coupling. There was no going back. He closed his eyes and, somewhere at the edge of his awareness, heard himself cry her name. “Look at me,” she commanded. He willed his eyes open. His name spilled from her lips. That, and the raw emotion he read in her face drove him to his own ecstasy. Later—how much later he did not know—he pulled Rika up with him and sat her across his lap. “There’s something I meant to tell ye, but I got…distracted.” “What?” She lay languidly in his arms, looking at him through a veil of white-gold lashes. How could he have ever thought her anything less than beautiful? “Your dowry—the silver.” “What?” Her whole body went rigid. She gripped his neck so tight he thought she might crush the life from him. He eased her arms away and smiled. “I have it. Your father’s promised it to me on the morrow.”

She screeched with sheer joy and wrapped herself around him like one of the serpents that had graced their bridal cup. Her reaction was like a dull blow to his gut. The coin meant much to her. More than he’d hoped. Why did this surprise him? From the beginning she had said ’twas all she wanted from him. They had a bargain. He had met his part of it, and she hers. Why then, did he feel this emptiness? She peppered his face with tiny kisses. He pushed his confused emotions aside and succumbed to her affection. The feel of her naked body twisting atop his rekindled the fire in his loins. Lust. That was all there was between them. All there ever could be. He kissed her hard and pulled her down on top of him, hell-bent on proving it to himself. Rika woke with a start, her heart pounding. “Where am I? What is this place?” She sat up in the dark, blinking at the glow of a wood fire, confused by her surroundings. Ah, of course. She remembered now. Late that night, after their lovemaking and when all were finally abed, Grant had carried her from the sauna to their shared bedchamber. Only this night, he refused to sleep on the floor. “You’re dreaming,” he murmured sleepily, then drew her down beside him, fitting her tight against his nude body. The man ran hot as a smith’s brazier. Though she was already overwarm, he pulled another fur coverlet over them both and brushed a kiss across her earlobe. “Go back to sleep.” His hand closed gently over hers, their fingers intertwined. She lay there in the comfortable harbor of his body until his breathing slowed. He was asleep. She, on the other hand, was wide-awake. Firelight bathed the chamber in a cozy glow and flickered red-gold off the hammered metal of their wedding bands. She drew Grant’s hand to her breast and held it there.

He was not at all what she had expected. Lawmaker had read Grant’s character true from the first, from the moment they found him washed up on the beach. The old man was gifted that way. God, how she missed him. Would that he had been her father and not Rollo. Grant had surprised her every step of their journey together. Few men in her life had his integrity. Lawmaker was one. Her brother, Gunnar, another. And no man, save Grant, had made her feel so cherished, so wanted—even if it was only for a night. The first time he made love to her in their bridal bed on Fair Isle, she’d thought it all chance. That his passion for her, his tenderness, was a result of too much mead. But tonight in the sauna he’d had all his wits about him. She had not known it could be this way between a man and a woman—that she could feel the things she felt this night. An aching need for intimacy. The joy of pleasuring and being pleasured. Passion. Mutual surrender. Love. For she did love him. And the fruit of that realization was fear. She turned in his arms so she might look at him in the firelight. He barely stirred. Ne’er had she seen him so at peace. His tousled hair spilled gold across the pillow. She reached out and brushed the thin braid at his temple away from his face. How could she have let down her guard? Love was the most dangerous of emotions. Not because it muddled a woman’s thinking, as she’d once believed—but because it proved exactly the opposite. It lent a clarity of purpose she was wholly unprepared for. She listened to his breathing, watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, drew his scent into her lungs, and knew she would do anything he asked of her. “Dangerous,” she whispered, and traced a finger along his lower lip. He twitched. And if he asked nothing? What then? Of what consequence was her love? Here in his own world—her father’s world—Grant seemed too much like Rollo, and that saddened her. He was far too casual, detached, unmoved.

Oh, she had moved him this night, and he her. But all men responded to such pleasures of the flesh. Grant didn’t truly care for her. How could he? She’d forced him to marriage as a way to buy his freedom. A bargain between two strangers, nothing more. Why, the man had been bound for his own wedding when Rika snared him for her own purpose. Even now, his bride waited for him in Wick. Rika’s throat constricted. A bride—a virgin—bred for a Scottish laird, and to Grant’s specific tastes. Biddable, demure. Small and delicate, like Catherine’s young daughters. Rika’s gaze lit on her scarred wrists. She asked herself again, of what consequence was her love for George Grant? It served only to distract her from that which mattered most. Gunnar’s freedom. She’d set out to bring her brother home, and do this she would. Beyond that, she could not think. There was nothing left for her on Fair Isle. Not now. Gunnar would take his place as jarl, and all would be as it once was. Only she was changed. Grant had changed her. He opened his eyes, and a lazy smile curled at the edge of his mouth. Her chest tightened. “What are ye doing?” he whispered. “Looking at you.” He drew her into his arms, and she gave herself up to his gentle lovemaking. This one night she would pretend that he loved her. That he was her husband and she his wife, and that there was no tomorrow. George rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. Rika’s pillow. “Mmm.” It smelled of her. Light streamed in from beneath the window cover and splashed across the timber floor of their bedchamber. He’d overslept. No matter. It had been the first night in weeks he’d truly slept. Since the last time he’d lain with her. “Rika,” he said, but knew she wasn’t there. He edged a toe to the other side of the bed and felt only the cool linen sheet. She always did rise early.

He threw off the fur coverlet. The chill morning air shocked him fully awake. God, he felt good. And then he remembered. Who he was, and why he was here—and why he must leave. He slid the pillow over his face, blocking out the light, and again breathed her fragrance and the lingering scent of their lovemaking. ’Twas useless to try to make sense of his feelings. Honestly, he didn’t know what he felt. He caught himself wondering what things were possible should his clan, his king, and the Sinclairs all come to think him dead. That he should have such a thought made his gut twist in shame. What had she done to him that he would think, even for a second, to shirk his obligations? He launched the pillow across the room and rolled onto his side. And then he saw it, lying there on the chest by the bed. Her wedding band. Ten minutes later he was dressed and standing before her in her father’s stable. She was dressed in her traveling clothes—her brother’s clothes, he had come to understand. “Your ring,” he said, and offered it to her. “Ye…left it.” The stiffness of her demeanor puzzled him. Just hours ago, in his arms, she’d been so affectionate—nay, more than that. She’d exuded a tenderness, a guileless passion, and something more. Something that had stunned him. Love. Aye, he was certain of it. But this morning, he was not so sure. How could he be? No woman had ever loved him before. Women obeyed him, feared him even. Aye, as they should. Shouldn’t they? He didn’t know anymore. One thing he was sure of—no woman in the whole of his life had ever looked at him the way Rika had last night. Watching her now, he read nothing in those cool blue eyes. They were dead. Lifeless. What had happened to so change her? Suddenly he felt ridiculous. A rush of heat flushed his face. She glanced at the ring in his open palm and shrugged. “I meant to leave it. It’s usefulness to me is finished.”

Her words stung more sharply than any wound he’d e’er suffered. His eyes widened before he could hide his reaction. “Oh.” His fist closed over the ring, and he stuffed it awkwardly into the pocket of his breeks. Ottar passed him, lugging a saddle. George looked past Rika into the dimly lit stalls and saw Erik and Leif readying their horses. “Where are they off to?” “They?” Rika said. “You mean we. We’re leaving. All of us. Within the hour.” “So soon?” He would have thought they’d tarry at least another day. “I will not spend another night under my father’s roof.” Her lips thinned to a hard line. “But, your father. What must he thi—” “I told him you had urgent business.” “Business? What bu—” “In Wick.” He stopped breathing. Her gaze was so cold, her expression so hard, he could scarce believe she was the same woman who had cried his name in ecstasy just hours before. “That is where you wish to go, is it not?” She arched a white-gold brow at him. “Aye, but—” “And I have affairs of my own to deal with.” She knelt beside the pile of saddlebags at her feet and pulled a small chest from under them. “The silver,” he said, recognizing the chest Rollo had shown him last night just after Rika had fled the hall. “Precisely. It was waiting for us this morn in the hall. She lifted the lid and ran her hand over the coins. Only then did her eyes show signs of life. She smiled, and George felt suddenly sick. “So,” he said, “our bargain is concluded.” “Ja.” Just like that. So simple. She looked at him, waiting, and for a moment he could have sworn she wanted him to protest. His head spun. The words left his lips before he could bite them back. “And…last night?” She held his gaze, and he knew—twas by sheer will alone. He could see her grinding her teeth behind lips swollen from his kisses. “Last night was…” Color tinged her cheeks. “I thought I owed it you, is all. You secured my dowry, and I was…grateful.” She closed the lid of the silver chest and rose, hefting it with her.

“You’re saying ye did it for the coin?” “Ja.” His gut roiled. When she turned toward their mounts, he grabbed her arm. “But ye didna know about it before, when we—” he whispered so that the youths would not hear “—made love.” For a second their eyes met, then she pulled away. “How much longer?” she called to Ottar. The youth peeked over one of the geldings. “Nearly ready. Your father’s provided us another mount.” He nodded at a black mare. “To replace the one Ingolf stole.” “Good,” Rika said. George stood there, stunned. The bloody woman acted as if there was nothing between them. As if he was a stranger she had hired to transact some dirty business for her. Aye, that’s exactly what he was. She lifted the silver chest onto the mare’s well-padded back. Ottar secured it tight. “There,” she said, and turned to address him. “Are you ready, Grant?” He nodded, not knowing what else to say. “Well then, you’ll wish to bid my father goodbye, no doubt. At least make a show of it. Go ahead. We’ll wait for you here.” “Ye dinna wish to say goodbye to him?” Rika snorted. “Good riddance, you mean?” She patted the silver chest. “I have what I want. There is nothing more to say.” Aye, that was more than clear. He left her there in the stable and returned to their chamber to gather his few possessions. He felt dirty. Used. Like a tavern wench who’d not yet grown used to her trade. A short time later, the five of them sat mounted in the courtyard, awaiting their host’s farewell. Rollo stood on the castle steps with the dour Catherine. George knew their departure pleased her. Her daughters huddled behind her, shivering. Christ, ’twas cold. George raised a hand in farewell. The Norseman nodded. His gaze strayed to Rika—his daughter, whether he believed it or nay. Her face showed the strain of the past few days. She would not look at him.

Mayhap if George had told her about Fritha and Lawmaker, she’d understand, even forgive, her father’s monstrous behavior. Without a word, she drew herself up in the saddle, head high, and kicked her mount to action. Nay, she would never forgive, nor did she want to understand. Rollo watched her until she rode out of sight. His arm slipped from Catherine’s shoulder and, at the last, George read the pain in his eyes. “Farewell,” George called to him. “And to you, Grant.” George reined his mount into line behind Ottar and the others, and met the Norseman’s gaze once more. “Take care of her, won’t you?” Rollo said. George smiled bitterly. “Aye, I will—if she’ll let me.” With but an hour of daylight to spare, Rika reined her mount to a halt just beyond the great wood. George pulled up beside her. The weather had been mercifully mild. Cold and clear with but a light wind blowing off the sea. George cupped his hands and blew hot breath into them. “Why have ye stopped?” he asked her. “We’re here,” Rika said. Ottar shot her a puzzled glance. “Where?” “The crossroads.” She nodded to the path leading north back to Tom MacInnes’s house. George strained his eyes and thought he could almost see the whitewashed structure hugging the cliffs. So this was it then. Rika pointed east to a faint path meandering up and over the moors. “There lies Wick, or so the chart says.” “You would leave us, truly?” Ottar said. “After all…” The youth’s face clouded. “After everything?” Leif and Erik looked hard at Rika, as if she would intervene. George knew she would not. “Our bargain is concluded,” she said. Her voice had that familiar hard edge to it. Good God, the woman was cold as ice. “But—” One stony look from Rika and Ottar’s mouth snapped shut.

“Grant’s bride awaits him in Wick.” She tipped her chin at George. “Does she not?” Their eyes locked, his searching, hers icy. “Aye, she does.” He pulled the rolled chart from his saddlebag and unfurled it. “Two days’ ride, methinks. No more.” Leif and Erik nudged their mounts in close, straining to see the map. Erik snaked his hand between them and ran it over the parchment. A stubby finger lingered on the jagged coastline near Dunnet Head. “A day at most,” Leif murmured. George frowned. “A day to where? MacInnes’s house is but an hour—” Erik snatched his hand back, and Rika shot him a look that would freeze water. The youths exchanged loaded glances. What the devil was going on here? “I will see ye all safe to MacInnes’s house,” George said, “before I take my leave.” “You shall do nothing of the kind.” Rika turned her mount away from him. “It’s just down the hill. Besides, it will be far easier to explain your absence to MacInnes now, without you, than for you to take your leave of us in his presence.” “Rika’s right,” Erik said. Ottar nudged his gelding closer. “But why do you have to go at all? Why not come back to Fair Isle with us?” “Ottar, that’s enough,” Rika said. “Grant has a life of his own. A clan. A bride. Is that not true?” She arched a brow at him. ’Twas the second time she’d asked him that. She knew the answer, so why did she ask? George met her frigid gaze, searching for a sign. Did she wish him to stay? Was that it? She pursed her lips and tipped her chin at him. Nay, she wanted him gone. And he was daft not to want to go. “But you’re married,” Ottar said. “And with Lawmaker dead, there is no elder to speak the words to undo the bond.” Rika snorted. “It matters not. I shall never wed again, so I need not the divorce. As for Grant—” she looked him up and down as she had that first day in the courtyard “—it was never a proper Christian marriage, and therefore does not exist.” “Just like that,” George said. “Ja, just like that.”

Her arrogance and easy dismissal of him proved too much. “Fine. I’ll be gone then.” He rolled the chart and thrust it at her. “Give this to MacInnes. I’ve no need of it. I know where I’m going.” She handed the parchment to Ottar who stuffed it into a half-full saddlebag. “Good. Well then, Grant. I bid you farewell—and Godspeed. I am certain your…bride…will be pleased to see you.” “Aye, that she will.” He reined his mount east, then pulled him up short, remembering something. He fished it out of the small leather bag tied at his waist and weighed it in his hand before tossing it to her. She caught it, and when she realized what it was, her face turned to stone. “The brooch,” George said. “Your morgen gifu.” “I told you, I do not—” “Take it. In payment for last night.” Her eyes burned into him like white-hot daggers. By God, she was cold-blooded. A man could break himself against the rock that was her heart. She kicked the black mare into a gallop and rode north across the moor, her white-gold hair flaming out behind her catching the last rays of the setting sun. Ottar raised a hand in farewell, his boyish face twisted in sorrow. Erik and Leif bid him goodbye and Godspeed. George turned away from them, away from her, and spurred his mount east toward Wick. Chapter Sixteen T his was going to be harder than she had thought. Rika crouched behind a tumble of broken rocks as the quarry below them materialized in the gray light of dawn. Heavily armed guards rousted a pack of laborers from a barracks and herded them toward the foul-smelling slag heaps on the perimeter of the camp. She blew a hot breath into icy hands and strained her eyes against the mist shrouding the whole of Dunnet Head. Where was Gunnar? What if she’d been wrong about his whereabouts? What if the conversation she’d overheard among Brodir’s men had been staged on purpose to mislead her? Nay, her brother was here, somewhere. She could feel it.

What remained of a stone and timber castle sat on the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea and served as the quarry’s headquarters. That much she and the youths had been able to discern from their precarious perch on the moors above. She jammed a hand into the pocket of her cloak and gripped the silver brooch Grant had delivered as a parting token yesterday morn. In payment for last night. The sting of his words seemed no less sharp today. She ground her teeth, recalling the coolness of his expression. What more had she deserved? It was she who had turned a cold shoulder to him. Perhaps if she’d trusted him, shared the truth about Gunnar, told him of her love… nay, how could she have? Such trust flew in the face of all her instincts. Besides, he would have laughed at her. Surely. She pulled the silver brooch from her pocket and marveled at the workmanship. Her gaze strayed to the dirt caked under her broken fingernails and the callused wind-burned texture of her hands. “Hmph.” Surely he would have laughed. She watched as the guards directed their prisoners, prodding them with short spears and sharpened sticks. The crack of a lash kissing bare flesh made her jump. She didn’t know whether to hope Gunnar was among them or not. One thing was certain. Her confidence in freeing him, were he here, would have been tenfold greater were Grant crouched here beside her among the rocks. Strange that she should feel that way. With Brodir, with her father, with all men to some extent—save Lawmaker—she felt weakened, less than what she was. But with Grant by her side, she had felt near invincible. Almost as if it were the two of them, together, against all the evils of the world. Only now did she realize it. She remembered that feeling, its power, and pondered the mystery of how such a thing was possible between her and any man. Perhaps she’d been wrong about love—and loving. All her life she’d known naught but despair and weakness to come of it. Until now. Yesterday, in her father’s courtyard, as she stole one last glance at the man who’d sired her, she thought she caught a glimpse of something else in Rollo’s eyes. Something besides his obvious relief at her departure. What was it she saw?

Rollo was a man who she knew did nothing he did not wish to do. He relinquished the silver—a small fortune, really—and in her heart Rika knew there was more to it than Grant winning him over with games and verse and idle banter. Did Rollo care for her after all? Perhaps a little. Even Norsemen grew soft in their old age. And were it true, did that wipe away the years of neglect and open contempt he had wreaked on her and Gunnar and their mother? Could she ever forgive him for that? Lawmaker used to tell her that one day, when she understood Rollo better, she would forgive him. Would that the old man were here to help her make sense of her feelings. “Look, he comes!” Ottar’s whispered warning jolted her from her thoughts. “Where?” She scanned the paths leading from the quarry for Leif ’s slight form. “There,” Erik said, and pointed. “Ja, I see him. Let us hope he bears good news.” Ottar and Erik edged closer to her as the three of them peeked between the rocks at their fast-approaching kinsman. “I still can’t believe you kept it from me all this time.” Ottar shot her a brooding look. “I could have helped in the planning, maybe even persuaded Grant to—” “Stop it,” she said. Her instincts had been right. Ottar would have told Grant straightaway. “I told you. The fewer who knew our true plan, the better. Brodir’s men see all on Fair Isle.” “Ja, they found out anyway, didn’t they?” She frowned at him, not wishing to remember what had happened in the storm. “It’s over now. They are dead.” “But Grant might have helped—” “It’s better this way. He has his own life, and we ours. Besides, we have no need of him.” If only she could make herself believe that. The three of them slid back out of sight as Leif jogged up the path leading to their hiding place behind the rocks. As soon as he topped the small ridge, Rika pulled him down beside her. “Gunnar—is he there?” She held her breath and searched the youth’s bright eyes. Leif grinned. “Ja, I saw him.”

A cry of joy escaped her throat before she could control it. She crushed the startled Leif to her chest in a bear hug. “Thank God! Oh, thank God!” “Methinks the Scot’s Christian ways have rubbed off on her, eh?” Ottar said. Erik grinned. “Oh, stop—the both of you.” She pushed Leif away and thumped Ottar affectionately on the forehead. “You know very well I keep both the old ways and the new.” “You never let Grant know that.” Ottar arched an accusing brow at her. She ignored him and turned to Leif. “How fares my brother? Tell me everything.” Her hands were shaking. She’d clutched the silver brooch so tightly it cut into her palm. She quickly pocketed it and bade Leif tell them what had transpired between him and the quarry master. “Gunnar is thin, but moves with purpose,” Leif said. “He is in reasonable health from what I could tell.” “It’s a miracle.” She shook her head, afraid to believe. “Did he recognize you? Does he know we’re here?” “Nay. I caught just a glimpse of him, and I don’t think he saw me.” “Where is he?” Rika scrambled to her feet and fixed her gaze on the prisoners working the quarry. “Show me.” Leif pulled her back down. “Don’t show yourself. It’s dangerous.” He was right, but she didn’t care anymore. Her brother was alive! “Besides,” Leif said, “he’s not among the other workers, but inside—in the castle.” “The jailer,” Erik said. “Will he deal?” Leif grinned. “He will. It’s not often the quarry master’s offered a fortune in silver for the release of one man—and a Norseman at that.” Rika could scarce believe their luck. “When? When shall we make the trade?” “Now,” Leif said. “The quarry master waits for us below.” She shot to her feet and started for the horses tethered behind them in a copse where the open moor met a small wood. Ottar caught her up. “Let me go, Rika. You stay here. It’s too dangerous.” “Nay.” She waved him off, and cast warning looks to Erik and Leif, who followed. “I shall go. The three of you stay here.” “But—”

“Should I not return in an hour’s time…” She paused because she didn’t know what to tell them. Her pride, her innate distrust of men had kept her from enlisting even MacInnes’s help. She’d been wrong, perhaps, not to share her secret with him. It was too late for that now. Gunnar was alive, and that’s all that mattered. Ottar started to argue, but she ignored him. Gorse and dead thistles tore at her garments as she snaked her way into the copse. Where were the horses? Hadn’t they left them right he— “Looking for something?” Rika froze in her tracks. Ottar and the others smacked into her from behind. She knew that voice, and the deep timbre of it made her blood run cold. “For this, perhaps?” A huge, battle-clad Norseman stepped from the thicket, her silver chest tucked neatly beneath his arm. “Brodir,” she breathed, and fought the overwhelming urge to flee. The youths crowded speechless behind her. Somewhere close she heard the high-pitched whinnies of restless horses and Ingolf ’s unmistakable laughter. Brodir smiled. Rika knew that smile and what it meant. The hair on her nape prickled. After a day’s hard ride, George waited anxiously in a small but lavishly furnished chamber for August Sinclair to return home from his hunt and bid him welcome. In the winter garden below his window, a dark-haired maiden swathed in ermine and brocade tittered with her sisters over a bouquet of dried roses. Anne Sinclair. His bride. He gripped the edge of the window casing and watched her. Truly she was beautiful. Milky skin, soft delicate features, a virginal blush about her cheeks mirroring the pale pink of the roses she crushed to her breast. She was as promised—all any man could want in a bride. Yet he was wholly unmoved. His gaze shifted to his silver wedding band and its smaller twin—Rika’s ring—circling his little finger. He’d not had the heart to cast them away. “Good God, you’re alive!”

He spun toward the voice. August Sinclair stood in the open doorway of the chamber, openmouthed, his face twisted in astonishment. “Aye,” George said, “it seems that I am.” “But…” Sinclair eyed him warily, as if he did not believe George was real. “We were shipwrecked.” “S-so we heard.” “Ye know then, about my men, and my—” “Aye, ’twas a terrible tragedy.” Sommerled’s gentle face flashed in George’s mind. His gut knotted in pain and remorse. “I…I washed ashore on Fa—on an island, and had a devil of a time catching a vessel home.” ’Twas best, he thought, not to reveal too much. “I…I came as soon as I could.” Sinclair stepped closer. His expression of disbelief faded to one of concern. Nowhere was the relief, or the anger, George expected to see. “I apologize for the inconvenience I must have caused ye and your family. The wedding was planned for more than a fortnight ago, and ye must have gone to great trouble to change—” “Nay, dinna fash about it.” Sinclair waved a hand in dismissal, but continued to frown. He paced the floor of the chamber, stroking his short beard, as if he were considering something of great import. “Your daughter,” George began. “Aye, she’s in the garden—” Sinclair stopped short “—but dinna go to her just yet.” George relaxed, grateful for this small reprieve. He was nowhere near ready to meet the lass. His head was still spinning from the events of the past weeks. In the back of his mind he wondered whether he could get out of it all together—the marriage, the alliance, everything. God’s blood, what was he thinking? ’Twas his duty, his destiny. All the plans were made. One short month ago—it seemed like a lifetime—he couldn’t wait to meet his bride and seal the bargain. Why, then, did every instinct tell him to quit this place and go? He caught himself toying with Rika’s wedding band, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his breeks to stop from fidgeting. Too well, he knew where he wished to be, and ’twas not in the arms of a dark-haired maiden in a castle in Wick.

Sinclair resumed pacing, apparently lost in thought, and George used the time to consider his own situation. He stepped again to the window, drawn by Anne’s pretty laughter. How could he not want her? Mayhap she was not so fair as first he’d thought. He narrowed his eyes and studied her more closely. Aye, she was…too small, her skin too white, her features too fragile. He couldn’t imagine her strong enough to weather a long walk, let alone a day’s ride. Surely not a sea voyage. And she’d probably never handled a weapon in her life. Nor did she look very bright. In fact, the king had mentioned her lack of education, as if it were a boon. Likely, she knew nothing of the weather or the sea or the stars. For certain she would have no head for chess or other strategic pursuits. Why then, he wondered, did William the Lion speak so favorably of her? She was not at all remarkable. Remarkable. Hadn’t he and Lawmaker discussed that very topic? He couldn’t rightly remember their conversation, but he had the nagging feeling that the old man had been trying to tell him something. Anne’s silly chittering pulled him out of his thoughts. He sucked in a breath of chill air and knew what he must do. Hang the consequences. He turned to the chieftain. “Sinclair, we must speak plain.” Sinclair stopped pacing and joined him at the window. “Aye, there is something ye must know. When we thought ye dead, we made other arr—” “Before this goes further, I would have ye know my feelings about this marriage.” “Grant, what I have to say ye may no like, but—” “Not that I wish to compromise our alliance in any way. It’s just that I’ve changed my —” Sinclair raised a hand to silence him. “We thought ye dead. We made other arrangements.” His brows arched of their own accord. “What?” Saint Columba be praised if it were true! “Besides, she’s in love with someone else.” Both of them turned at the sound of the feminine voice. Mistress Sinclair, whom George had met on his arrival, whooshed into the room and joined them at the window. “That has naught to do with it,” Sinclair said. “’Twas a business arrangement and—”

“For pity’s sake, August, that has everything to do with it.” Mistress Sinclair nodded to her daughter in the garden. “Just look at her. She’s smitten.” The three of them gazed down at Anne, who now sat alone in the garden on a stone bench, caressing the dried petals of her bouquet. George blinked, speechless. Never would he have expected this to go so easy. Still, once William the Lion got word that he lived, he might find himself right back in the thick of this arrangement. “Now May, I told ye no to meddle in the affairs o’ the cl—” “Who is the man?” George said. Mayhap he could somehow turn the situation to his advantage. “That’s the strangest part of all,” Sinclair said. “It happened so quickly, after all of us thought ye dead. In truth, methinks ’tis a better match all around and serves our political purpose as well.” He shook his head, now totally befuddled. “Why, there he is now,” Mistress Sinclair said. George’s gaze slid again to the garden, and his heart stopped. A fair-haired youth dashed breathless across the snow-dusted flagstones into the open arms of Anne Sinclair. The bouquet of pink roses spilled from her lap. “Sommerled,” George breathed. Rika stood on the crumbling battlement of the ruined keep and shivered against the waxing wind. The setting sun lent a pinkish cast to the snow-covered moors and the scarred earth of the quarry. She turned toward her jailer. “I should have finished you when I had the chance.” Ingolf grinned at her. “You may yet have another. When Brodir’s done with you he’s promised me a go.” Rika gritted her teeth as Ingolf traced a dirty finger across her throat. “Take you my meaning, whore?” She slapped his hand away, and he laughed. “Enough!” Brodir stepped onto the battlement from the stair leading down, and nodded at his henchman. “Find the quarry master and see that he’s done what I’ve asked.” Ingolf scurried past him like a rat. When his footsteps faded on the stair, Brodir turned his attention to her.

“Think you to keep me prisoner here?” she said, determined not to let him intimidate her. Brodir lumbered toward her. She’d forgotten how big he was. She was tall, yet he towered over her by a head and outweighed her by seven or eight stone. “For a while.” He smiled—that terrible smile. “Until I tire of the scenery—or of you.” “You have my silver, what more could you want from me?” She regretted the question the moment it slid from her lips. He loomed over her, and by sheer will alone she held her ground. “Have you forgotten so soon?” One beefy hand closed over her braceleted wrist and squeezed. She gritted her teeth and looked him in the eye. “I’m hurt,” he said in a mocking tone. “After all, we were…betrothed.” “No longer. I am already wed.” The smile slid from his face, and he released her. “So Ingolf has told me. He’s a Scot, ja?” Her pride got the better of her fear. She tipped her chin at him. “He is. A chieftain.” “A chieftain? Well.” He circled her slowly. “So, where is he, this husband of yours?” Heat burned her face despite the frigid wind whipping at her hair and garments. “He’s…away. On business.” “What, he leaves his wife alone to exchange her fortune for some worthless chattel. Think you, woman, I’m a complete fool?” “My brother’s life is far from worthless.” Brodir laughed. “His life is over—at sunset tomorrow.” Her blood froze in her veins. “And the lives of those sniveling whelps you dragged with you from Frideray.” Rika stepped in front of him, and a look of surprise washed over his dark features. “Touch them and I’ll kill you,” she said. “Ha! What’s this?” His gaze raked over her. “Men’s garments do not a warrior make. Think you to slay me? With what, your bare hands?” She reached instinctively for weapons that were not there. Brodir shrugged, grinning, and for the first time she noticed the sword hilt protruding from his shoulder baldric. “That’s Gunnar’s weapon. Give it to me!” She lunged and he caught her arm in a death grip.

“So it is. A present from Ingolf. By rights your husband should have it. I repeat my question…where is he?” He released her, and she fell back against the crenellated wall of the battlement. “I told you, he…” “He left you, didn’t he?” She scrambled to her feet, burning at the comment. “Ingolf told me. He was betrothed to another. A Scot. One of his own. And as soon as he might, he left you—for her.” Heat flushed her face. Rage and shame twisted inside her like a vortex. “Smart man.” She went for the dagger belted at his waist, but he was ready for her. In a matter of seconds he had her immobilized, lifting her off her feet and turning her in his arms so that she faced out overlooking the quarry. Fruitlessly she struggled against him. “Look!” he commanded. “Look your last on your brother.” With his free hand he wrenched her jaw toward the barracks below them. Slave laborers marched two abreast from the slag heaps toward their ramshackle barracks. In the dying light her eyes searched for familiar faces. There! Ottar and Erik and Leif. And with them—ja! “Gunnar!” she cried, just as Brodir clamped a hand over her mouth. A disturbance broke out among the laborers. She fought to see, kicking and scratching, biting at Brodir’s filthy hand. The stench of him was near overpowering. “Enough!” he raged, and dropped her on her feet. “There! See him! Take your last look.” She leaned out over the battlement, trembling, scanning the ranks of laborers, calling her brother’s name. A host of guards broke up the skirmish near the barracks entrance, and as the slaves were herded inside, one paused and raised a hand to her in recognition. “Gunnar,” she breathed. Her hand shot up. Joy and despair wrenched her heart. Gunnar was pushed inside the barracks, along with the others. “You see?” Brodir said. “There is naught to be done. I made the same mistake with your brother as you did with Ingolf. I should have killed him when I had the chance.” She turned on him, seething. “You mean when first you kidnapped him.” “Exactly. But I thought a good long stint in this hellhole might do him some good. He always was a weakling.”

“He was your jarl.” Brodir snorted. “He was soft. Not a fit leader for our folk. I did what had to be done and have no regrets. Except one. Would that I had seen Lawmaker die.” She stood there looking at him, incredulous, wondering when her fear of him had changed to hate and, finally, pity. The power he once held over her had vanished, yet he was no different. The same selfish, ignorant man. She was the one who had changed. Loving Grant had changed her. That she could no longer deny. Brodir sensed her transformation, and the edgy fusion of wariness and disbelief she read in his dark eyes fueled her courage. “You cannot harm me now, no matter what you do to me.” The last of the pale light faded to gray, and in that eerie twilight he smiled the smile reserved solely for her. “Oh no?” he whispered, and closed the distance between them. Her last thoughts before he herded her below stairs and toward his makeshift bedchamber were of Grant. George. Thank God he was safe in Wick. A dozen regrets raced through her mind, but sending him away was not one of them. Were he here with her now, he’d be dead—or worse. She mustered her strength and followed Brodir to the bed. George pushed the food around on the trencher he shared with his brother. He was not in the least hungry. Rare beeswax tapers burned low in the great hall, and his hosts, the Sinclairs, seemed anxious to find their beds. “More ale?” Sinclair said to him halfheartedly from his place at the head of the table. “Nay,” he said absently. “I prefer mead.” “Mead?” Sommerled stared at him, wide-eyed, his dirk loaded with meat and poised before his mouth. “Ye’ve always hated mead.” “I…I know.” He shrugged, not wishing to discuss it. Anne sat rigid and silent between Sommerled and her parents. ’Twas obvious to George that his miraculous return from the dead gave her no cause to rejoice. August Sinclair had

swiftly agreed with him that afternoon, given the circumstances, to postpone all discussion of their impending marriage until the morrow. Needing some diversion from the whole affair, he turned to Sommerled and bade him tell the tale of his rescue one more time. “I told ye,” the youth said matter-of-factly between bites of bread and roasted mutton, “I was plucked from the sea by a passing frigate bound south from Shetland to Wick. ’Twas sheer bloody luck.” George shook his head. Still, he could not believe it. He rumpled Sommerled’s blond hair, unleashing a tiny fraction of the joy he felt. “No more,” his brother said, laughing. “’Tis a wonder the lad didna freeze to death,” Sinclair said. “I nearly did.” Sommerled grinned. “I was stiff as an icicle when they hauled me aboard.” Emotion clouded George’s thinking, and a film of tears glassed his eyes. He swiped at them with the back of his hand. “I need some air.” When he rose from the bench, Sommerled rose with him. “Aye, me as well. Besides,” the youth said, stuffing his dirk into its scabbard and leaning close to whisper, “there are things I would speak this night for your ears alone.” “Until tomorrow, then.” Sinclair nodded at them both, and his wife smiled tightly. As George turned to leave, he caught the look of despair Anne flashed his brother. Sommerled’s face clouded, and the lass quickly lowered her eyes. The exchange was not lost on her parents. “Come.” George placed a hand on Sommerled’s shoulder. “There are things I, too, wish ye to hear.” A few minutes later they found themselves in the winter garden where first George spied his bride and her groom of choice, his younger brother. Before he could speak, Sommerled grabbed his arm. “Truly, George, had I known…At first, I didna consciously woo her. I was out of my head, delirious, after the wreck.” “Aye, lad, I know ye were.” He pushed the distraught youth down onto the stone bench. “The Sinclairs took me in. Anne herself hovered over my bed each day until I was fit. When they told me none had survived, I—” “Easy. Easy lad. It’s over now. We are alive and well, the both of us.” “Aye, but—”

Sommerled’s voice broke and George could stand it no longer. He knelt in the snow and gathered his brother into his arms. They wept like children. “Forgive me,” Sommerled said, his breath hot on George’s ear. “Nay, stop it.” He broke their embrace and settled next to him on the cold bench. “’Tis ye who must forgive me.” Sommerled frowned in the moonlight. “For what?” “For…for no saving ye myself.” There, he’d said it. The sin had been gnawing at him for weeks. Over and over he relived it. Mayhap now he could atone and lay it to rest. They looked at each other for a long moment. “I saw ye caught in the rigging. There was naught to be done. Besides—” Sommerled grinned “—I didna think ye could swim.” His eyes widened. “At the time I didna think so either.” Never would he forget pulling Rika from the sea. “But, aye, I can and I do.” Sommerled started to laugh, and the sound of it caused George’s heart to swell with joy. He could not help but laugh with him. “A fine pair o’ sailors we are, eh?” “So ye forgive me then, brother?” George held his breath, but knew already he was absolved. “Of course I do, ye silly twit. We’re here, aren’t we?” “Aye, we are, but the next time we go a-traveling ’twill be by steed.” “As for the clan,” Sommerled said, “I told ye, I sent word home of the wreck weeks ago. As for this marriage idea, the elders proposed that I should take your place—and Sinclair agreed, o’ course—but the king’s no been approached, and now that ye’re back, well, ’tis only fitting that—what I mean to say is that of course I’ll step down.” “Whoa, laddie. Catch your breath.” He wrapped an arm around Sommerled’s shoulder. “So the elders thought it a fine idea for ye to marry Anne?” “Aye, they did.” “And Sinclair agreed?” Sommerled nodded. He held his brother’s nervous, wide-eyed gaze until he could feel the lad fidget under his scrutiny. Then he smiled. “And from what I’ve seen today in this very garden, methinks the lady was well pleased with the idea.”

He watched as Sommerled fought the smile curling at the edges of his mouth. Were there more light, George knew he’d see his brother’s cheeks flushed ripe as cherries. “Well, aye…if ye must know…she took to the idea after a week or so.” “A week? Christ, lad, ye’re slipping. I would have thought ye’d have had her wrapped around your finger from the very first day.” “Aye, we did get on well from the start.” George nodded, satisfied. “Then, ’tis all settled. I shall step down, and ye shall have your bonny dark-haired bride.” “But, the king. What shall we d—” “Leave William to me. I have a way with him, but he’ll have to be dealt with in person. A missive willna suffice.” Sommerled exhaled in relief. “Oh, George, ye dinna know what I’ve been through these last hours.” “Aye, I know.” He idly twisted Rika’s wedding band on his little finger. Sommerled’s gaze was drawn to the hammered silver band, and his fair brows knit in confusion. George quickly stuffed his hand into his pocket. Too late. “Those rings. They’re twins. What are they?” Sommerled poked at his pocketed hand. “They’re nothing. Just something I picked up.” Sommerled’s frown deepened, then all at once he jumped from the bench, his young face alight with recognition. George’s stomach did a slow roll. “Ye’re marrit!” Sommerled cried. “That’s it, isn’t it?” He looked at his brother sheepishly and shrugged. “Good God, what the hell happened out there?” George shot to his feet and started down the flagstone path, Sommerled dogging his steps. “I dinna know anymore. Damn the bloody woman! If only she—” “Who is she?” Sommerled jumped in front of him and blocked the path. “Tell me. Where did ye meet her? Is she a Scot?” “Nay, nay.” He shook his head and waved his brother off. “The truth is, she’s a Viking. A Norsewoman. There, I’ve told ye. Are ye happy now?”

His brother let out a whoop that George was certain would wake the entire household. “A Viking! Is she fair? Can she fight? I’ve heard their women are courageous and wicked tall.” “Aye, she’s tall, and courageous. And fair, but in a different sort of way. Ye wouldna understand.” He didn’t understand it himself. He told himself he would put her out of his mind for tonight. But now his head spun with naught but thoughts of her. “Ye’re in love!” Sommerled cried. “Shut it!” He clamped a hand over his brother’s mouth, but Sommerled pushed it away. “Ye are, aren’t ye? Ye love her, this Viking woman, this…” “Rika,” he snapped. “Her name is Rika.” He met his brother’s gaze. “She’s my wife and, aye, I love her.” The words seemed to hang there on the breeze, ringing in his ears. He could hardly believe it, himself, and was compelled to speak it again. “I love her.” There. He’d said it. ’Twas true. It had always been so, from the first time he saw her looming over him on the beach. From the very first words she spoke. He is perfect. Nay, she had it all wrong. She was the perfect one. And he’d left her. Like a fool he’d left her, alone in a foreign land with naught but boys to protect her. “What have I done?” he breathed. Sommerled didn’t hear him. He was going on and on about some other Viking tale. Something he’d heard on the hunt that day. “…and this silly woman offered a fortune in silver for the prisoner, but—” “What?” He grabbed his brother by the collar of his fur wrap. “What did ye say? What woman? What fortune?” Sommerled wrested out of his grip. “Calm down. If ye’d listen, I’d tell ye. ’Twas today on the hunt we met him—one of Sinclair’s kinsmen newly come from the quarry at Dunnet Head.” Dunnet Head. He grabbed Sommerled by the arm, dragged him back to the bench and pushed him onto it. “Tell me. What woman? What was her name?”

“What in bloody—” “Tell me!” Sommerled looked at him as if he were a madman. “Dunno. Only that she came to the quarry with a chest full o’ silver to buy the release of one indentured slave. Her brother.” Brother. “Gunnar, son of Rollo. Was that his name?” Sommerled nodded. “Aye, that was it all right. But how did ye know?” An overpowering anxiety coiled tight inside him. “And the woman—what happened to her? Did she make the trade? Did she free him?” A hundred small mysteries that had nagged at him for weeks suddenly made sense. “Nay, she didna. The silver was snatched from her very hands by some big Viking bloke. ’Twas her dowry, they say, and he her betrothed.” George’s heart stopped for the second time that day. “Can ye imagine?” He could, and a sick horror washed over him. “He took her and the lads she had with her for slaves.” “What? She works the quarry?” “Nay, no her. Just the lads. She’s…what did Sinclair’s kinsman call it? Aye, I remember now. ’Tis a Viking custom.” “What?” He grabbed his brother and shook him near senseless. “What’s the whoreson done with her?” Sommerled’s face tightened, as if he just that moment realized who the woman was. “They…they say she’s his…bed slave.” Chapter Seventeen H e would never forgive himself for leaving her. George slapped the lathered stallion’s rump and it shot forward into MacInnes’s stable. The man himself stood in the courtyard, his mouth agape. “Ho, lad, what have ye got, a bee in yer bonnet? What the—” “There’s no time!” George half dragged him into the stable. Sommerled dismounted and followed them inside.

A minute’s worth of explanation on George’s part and MacInnes had the whole of his household in an uproar. In seconds they’d selected fresh mounts. He’d known the Scot would help them. “Ye rode all night?” MacInnes said. “Aye.” George shaded his eyes against the dawn. “’Twill be cold and clear today. We should make good time.” MacInnes pulled himself into the saddle of a tall gelding and raised a hand in farewell to his wife, who stood in the courtyard wringing her hands. “Godspeed,” she called out as the three of them, along with twenty of MacInnes’s men, guided their mounts out the gate and spurred them west toward Dunnet Head. Please God, keep her safe until I can get there. For the first hour they made good time as the path was gentle and nearly free of snow, but were forced to slow their pace when they entered the wood. “Damn it to bloody hell!” George shot MacInnes a nasty look. “Can we no go around?” “The wood? Aye, we can, but ’tis farther out of our way. If we stick to the path we’ll make the quarry late tonight.” George swore under his breath. “Besides, now is an excellent time for ye to tell me the whole of it.” MacInnes arched a peppered brow at him. Sommerled lowered his eyes and dropped back with the others, and George was grateful for it. He would not have his brother suffer again the tale of his stupidity. MacInnes flanked him, and as they cantered through the wood George recounted the whole of his adventure with Rika and her folk. MacInnes listened without comment, but George could tell by the occasional snort that not all of the tale was new to him. Finally he said, “Ye knew more than ye let on, that day we quit your house for Rollo’s.” MacInnes shrugged. “’Twas all conjecture on my part, but aye, I knew something was amiss from the start. A newly wedded man doesna sleep on the floor of his wife’s chamber with her in the bed.” They exchanged a look. “Besides, I had ye followed to Rollo’s castle, and again when ye left there. On the way, my kinsmen lost yer tracks, and didna come upon the place where blood was spilled until ye’d gone.”

“What? But how, without our seeing—” “Remember, lad, this is my birthplace, and ye are but a visitor. I know all that goes on for twenty leagues.” He cursed himself silently for the hundredth time that day. Was he a complete idiot? “When ye split up three days ago on the road above my house, and ye rode south and she west, I knew for certain ye’d lied to me.” “I never—” MacInnes raised his hand. “Well, no lied exactly, but kept the truth o’ things from me.” “I didna know the half of it myself.” He drew a breath and ground his teeth. “Bloody woman.” MacInnes laughed. “Aye, I’d tan her hide were she my wife.” He swore again. “Dinna fash, lad. I know this Brodir. ’Tis no the killing he fancies, but the power that comes of domination.” That came as no surprise to George. A dozen tiny moments with Rika flashed across his mind. Her irrational fear on their wedding night, her shame when she realized he’d discovered Brodir had bound and abused her. Above all, her driving need for control, that damnable pride, and her relentless focus on winning—all of it made sense to him now. Aye, she sought power as a way to thwart those who would oppress her. He smiled bitterly. In truth, her quest for independence drove her to take on the worst traits of those who had used her ill. Would that she could see it. He, himself, was not immune to such sensibilities. Did he not once wish for a wife whose love would be measured by the magnitude of her submission, and her loyalty ensured by blind obedience? Mayhap he was not so unlike Brodir after all. “What about this Anne Sinclair?” MacInnes said, wrenching him from his thoughts. “Ye are pledged to her. What d’ye plan to do about it?” In recounting the tale to MacInnes, he’d skipped the part about discovering that Anne and Sommerled were in love. ’Twas best not mentioned until he squared things with their king. He glanced back at his brother and frowned. “I know not. I have other matters to put right first.”

“Aye, that’s the truth. But have a care, lad. William the Lion is no a man to be trifled with. A chieftain’s marriage is made on the bargaining table, no in the heart. And a pagan wedding will mean naught to your king.” “Is he no your king, too?” MacInnes grinned. “There are benefits to dwelling in a land so remote it escapes the interests of kings, both Norse and Scots.” What he wouldn’t give to be so overlooked. The edge of the wood came upon them without warning, and George spurred his mount faster. MacInnes dropped back with Sommerled and the rest of the men, and George urged his steed to a gallop. Why in God’s name had he left her? How could he have been so blind to the truth? Rika’s character alone should have made him realize there was more at stake in this dowry business than merely buying her own freedom. She had flaws, God knows, as did he, but reckless selfishness was not one of hers. He’d thought from the first that a sea voyage in the dead of winter was madness, that they risked far too much—their very lives. A vision of Lawmaker dragging Ingolf over the side into the sea replayed itself in his mind’s eye in hideous clarity. And for what? A chest of silver so that Rika, daughter of Fritha, could be rid of her appointed husband? Nay, she would ne’er have risked her kinsmen’s lives on her own account. He could kick himself for believing such a lame tale. Why did she not tell him about her brother? “She doesna trust you, ye fool,” he muttered to himself, and kicked his mount faster. And without trust, there could be no love between them. Not that there was much chance of that. He was no great prize, after all. Hadn’t she made that clear to him on a dozen occasions? Her cold dismissal of him at the crossroads that last day haunted him still. The steed stretched out onto the open moor, and George breathed deep of the chill air. Hoofbeats pounded in his head, and his heart kept time. The wind was mercifully mild and the sun warm, but the day was half-gone and he feared what he would find at the end of their frantic journey. Bed slave. “Rika,” he breathed, and his gut twisted in anguish.

“George.” She whispered his name to herself as if, by doing so, he would miraculously appear. Not that she wished him here in this awful place, but were she to see his face once more it would give her the strength she needed to do what must be done. The door to the crude bedchamber creaked open on rusted hinges. Rika froze, prepared for another round with Brodir. She’d not seen him since early that morn and had had plenty of time to think on her vengeance. But the pair of dark eyes peeking tentatively into the chamber were not Brodir’s. “Ottar!” she cried. “What are you doing here? He’ll kill you if he finds you with me.” The youth burst across the threshold, eyes wide with shock as he surveyed the damage to the room—the result of Brodir’s rage—and her state of undress. “Don’t just stand there, cut me loose.” She nodded at a dagger above her, stuck deep into the timber wall over the bed. Ottar’s face bloomed red with rage. Tears filled his eyes as he severed the bonds that pinned her to the foul and stinking bed. Rika’s heart went out to him. “I—I’ll kill him,” Ottar said in a voice shaking with a man’s anger and a youth’s fear. She sat up carefully, feeling the circulation return to her hands, then massaged her raw wrists. She had truly thought Brodir would kill her. But, nay, that was not his way, was it? “H-here,” Ottar said, handing her the crumpled garments Brodir had stripped from her body the night before. He turned away while she quickly dressed, and she heard him choke back a sob. He was only six and ten, she reminded herself. “It’s all right.” She rose and squeezed his shoulder. “It wasn’t so bad this time.” He turned on her. “How can you say that? The monster. He…he…” She willed him look her in the eye. “He didn’t.” “He…didn’t?” She smiled and shook her head. “Nay, he…couldn’t. I don’t know why.” She recalled similar instances on Fair Isle. It was not the first time Brodir’s incapacity had spared her his abuse. “When he found himself unable, he flew into a rage.” Ottar’s face brightened. He swiped at the tears streaking his cheeks. Footfalls sounded in the corridor outside, and they both snapped to attention. Ottar brandished the dagger and stepped in front of her. She held her breath as the sounds got louder, then died away.

“That was close,” she said. “We must get out of here before someone else comes.” Suddenly it dawned on her. “How did you get in here? There are guards everywhere.” He smiled at her. “When I found out you intended to trade the whole of the dowry away for Gunnar’s release, I pocketed a handful of the silver and—” “What? How could you do such a—” He grabbed her arm to still her railing. “Not for myself, for God’s sake. For us. I thought we might have need of some coin on the journey back to MacInnes’s. Lucky for me, I was overlooked when we arrived. The guards searched only Leif and Erik. Anyway, I bribed my way in here to find you.” God, how she loved this reckless, courageous boy. “You might have been killed, you idiot.” “We’ll all be dead by nightfall if we don’t get out of here. I heard the quarry master tell that very thing to one of his guards.” “Ja, Brodir said as much to me last night.” She looked Ottar in the eye. “Tell me, how fares my brother?” “He is well, truly. I was with him myself this afternoon. He is beside himself with worry about you. I fear if we get out of this, you will suffer both his joy and his anger.” Rika nodded. “I knew he’d not be pleased to see me here, but I could not, while I lived, leave him here, alone, to wither and die.” Ottar smiled. “He knows that. You two are much alike. Come now, we must flee this place and go for help.” “Help? Where?” “To Tom MacInnes’s. We can steal back our horses and—” “Nay, it’s much too far. We could never ride there and back in time to save the others.” “To your father then. Rollo’s castle is but a few hours’ ride.” She shook her head, but knew Ottar was right. They needed help. Nothing she could do or say now would change Brodir’s mind. Why he hadn’t already slain Gunnar was hard to fathom. Perhaps he enjoyed the drama of dragging it all out, prolonging her agony a few hours more, making certain she knew her brother would die and all that they had suffered to free him was in vain. “Whoreson,” she breathed. “I will kill him myself.” Rika wound her braid atop her head and secured it with a thick sliver of wood from one of the crude benches Brodir had smashed to bits in his rage the night before.

Together they peeked around the edge of the cracked door. The corridor was empty. “Wait.” Ottar retrieved something from the floor by the bed. “Here, you forgot these.” Her bracelets. His face flushed scarlet. She stared at the hammered bronze circlets for a long moment, rubbing her scarred wrists. “All right, give them to me.” Ten minutes later they were in the quarry, hiding among the heaps of fetid slag. The sun was not yet set, and a host of laborers slaved at the other end of the open pit. “You should have listened to me, Rika.” A guard patrolled too close for her liking, and she shoved Ottar’s head down. “What do you mean?” “You should have trusted him. You know who I’m talking about.” She did. Grant. “The man’s your husband.” She snorted, but her heart wasn’t in it. Ottar was right. She should have trusted Grant with the truth. He would have aided her in her cause. Not because he loved her—for how could he? But because that was his way. He was a good man. The best of all men. “MacInnes, too—and your father. They love you, though you cannot see it or you refuse to believe it, I do not know which. All of them would have rallied to our cause had you but told them the truth of things.” 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 S he 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?” “I told him,” Ottar said, and helped Gunnar to sit up in the bed. “You did drift off a little last night.” “What else did you tell him” “Everything.” Gunnar arched a fair brow at her. “All that he knew.” She flashed angry eyes at Ottar. He merely shrugged. “Lawmaker gave it to her, you know.” Gunnar nodded at the silver brooch. “Long before Rollo wed her.” “What?” Her hand shot to the brooch, and she clutched it protectively. “Lawmaker? But—” “They were in love,” Gunnar said. She felt her eyes pop wide as saucers. “Fritha and Lawmaker?” A thousand tiny snippets of memory screamed through her mind. “Ja. Before she and Rollo were joined.” Gunnar frowned. “What a tragedy—for all of them.” Her mouth dropped open. She shook her head, but knew in her heart it was true. It dawned on her that perhaps Grant had known, as well. “But…when did you learn this?” “Lawmaker told me the day I became jarl.” “And you kept it from me?” Anger sparked inside her. “Why didn’t Lawmaker tell me?” “Would you have wanted to hear it?” Gunnar took her hand in his and moved it to his heart. “Could you have understood it, Rika?” She looked at him, and knew the answer. “Nay, you are right. I was not ready to know.” In her mind’s eye she held George’s strong, tender face. Her heart swelled. “But now I understand.”

Gunnar’s hand tightened over hers. “Ja, methinks that you do.” He loosened his grip and turned to Ottar. “I owe you much, friend. My life—and my sister’s.” “Nay.” Ottar rose and strode to the window. “It is Rika who deserves your thanks—and the Scot.” “Grant.” “George,” she breathed. “You love him.” Gunnar smiled at her, his eyes brimming with the affection she’d so long missed. She nodded weakly. “Look!” Ottar cried from the window. Rika leaped to her feet. “Is it he? Does he come at last?” She raced to the window and pushed Ottar aside. “Where? Where is he?” Ottar pointed into the mist, and a second later she saw him. “There!” she cried. But the man who rode into the heavily guarded bailey was not her husband. Her heart plummeted for the dozenth time. Rollo lifted a gauntleted hand to her in greeting. Two score men followed on lathered mounts and filed toward the stable. “It is our father,” she said, and turned to Gunnar. “He is alone.” Rika sat stiffly on a stool near the blazing hearth fire and waited for Rollo to appear. Her hands were like ice, and would not be warmed. A feeling of dread so powerful it made her nauseated descended on her like the reaper himself. The door to the chamber creaked open, but she did not look up. Footfalls sounded on the plank floor. The heady aromas of mead and tobacco confirmed her father’s arrival. She would not meet his eyes. “Daughter,” he said. “I have brought you something.” Still, she would not look up. Her hands fisted in her lap. Her eyes fixed on the fire. Rollo fidgeted beside her, as if he were retrieving something from his pocket. She held her breath, and he dropped it in her lap. The sunstone. George had worn it around his neck e’er since the storm at sea. The world spun. She closed her eyes, certain that for the first time in her life she would faint. “He…he is dead then.” Her fingers closed over the crystal and squeezed. “Dead?” Rollo’s voice boomed above her. “A bit torn up, but far from dead. What kind of a wife has so little faith in her husband’s—”

“He lives?” Her eyes flew open. She shot to her feet and grabbed her father by the front of his fur wrap. “Oh God! Where is he? Is he hurt? Thor’s blood—” “Easy, girl.” Rollo peeled her hands from his chest and shook her until she got a hold of herself. Her breath came in short gasps, and she worked to control it. “Tell me. Tell me everything.” “Ja, I’ll tell you. But sit, and calm yourself.” He pushed her down onto the stool and Ottar shoved a cup of mead into her hand. She drank, and breathed, and felt her blood slow to a mere race. “And for you, son,” Rollo said, and turned to Gunnar. “I have this.” To Rika’s surprise, her father unsheathed a familiar weapon. “Your sword,” Gunnar said, and accepted the weapon from him. “Nay, yours.” Rollo grinned. “I took it off a dead kinsman—a snake unfit to call himself a Norseman. ’Tis said my daughter slew him.” He turned to Rika and his smile widened. “Well done, girl.” It was the first time in her life her father had ever praised her. She held his gaze and offered him the beginnings of a smile in return. There was much about him she now longed to understand—and perhaps forgive. But first she would know how her husband fared. Holding the cup, her hand began to tremble. “What of Grant?” “Ah, Grant. He’s gone.” “What?” Ottar cried. The cup slipped from her hand and shattered on the flagstones. “Ja,” Rollo said. “He and his brother.” Sommerled. Rika had heard from MacInnes of the youth’s miraculous return. But gone? She shook her head. “Where?” “Back to Wick.” Her blood screamed to a halt in her veins. “Wick?” she breathed. “But then…” “I know not why.” Rollo shrugged. “It seems there is some duty there to which he was bound. But he asked you to wait for him here, until he can return and explain.” A deadness enveloped her from the inside out. “Those were his words?” Rollo nodded.

There are things of which we must speak—but later. She moved awkwardly toward the table near Gunnar’s bed. On it rested a silver chalice, now empty of the wine she’d used to tend her brother’s wounds. Lifting it to her face, she gazed at her own reflection. All she saw was that hideous scar staring back at her. She’d been right about Grant, after all. He was a good and honorable man who would not abandon her to her enemies. But he did not love her. “But surely—” Her hand flew up to quiet Ottar. “Leave me now. All of you. Please. I would have some time to myself.” Gunnar started to rise from the bed. “Nay, not you, brother. There is much we have to discuss.” Gunnar looked at her, and she saw pity in his eyes. “I would sail for Frideray as soon as you are able,” she said to him quietly. “Not until the spring, surely,” Rollo said. Ottar eased his way past him. “And not before Grant returns?” Rika shrugged. “Our folk have need of a jarl, and have long hoped for Gunnar’s return. You know that, all of you.” Rollo grunted. “Come, boy,” he said to Ottar, and clapped a hand on the youth’s shoulder. “Let us leave these two to catch up. And I could use a meal and a boatload of mead.” Ottar cast her a forlorn look, and followed Rollo from the chamber. “Will you not wait for him?” Gunnar said, after they’d gone. Her heart iced over, and the familiar feel of it fueled her resolve. Once, the deadness would have also buoyed the strength of her convictions, but not so today. “Nay,” she said, halfheartedly. “I think not.” A sennight later, Rika stood at the byrthing’s stern and breathed deep of the cool salt air. A light breeze toyed with her thick braids. The day was warm, the sun brilliant against a field of clear blue sky. It was a good day to sail. “Are you sure, sister?” Gunnar willed her look at him, but she would not. “We can wait. Another week. Two even. Spring is nearly on us.”

She fingered the sunstone hanging from her neck and scanned the southern horizon one last time. “Nay. The weather is fair, and the tide is turned. Let us take our leave of this place.” Gunnar nodded and turned to join the others—Ottar, Erik, Leif, and a half-dozen of her father’s men—who stood ready to cast off. Ottar had not spoken to her all that day, and now refused even to look at her. Stupid boy. What did he expect her to do? Wait like some desperate, love-struck fool for a husband whose only purpose in returning was to tell her he had taken another to wife? Nay, she would forgo that humiliation. She was not the kind of woman he wanted, but knew now that she did not wish to be otherwise. She was Ulrika, daughter of Fritha and Rollo. Would that Grant could have loved her for who and what she was, as she loved him. Sunlight glinted off the hammered bronze bracelets circling her wrists. Without another thought, she removed them and cast them into the sea. When she turned around she caught Ottar’s bitter smile. He nodded, and she smiled back, her heart full to aching. The anchor raised, Gunnar called for them to push off. Leif shouted out the strokes, and her father’s men put their backs into the oaring. Ottar and Erik stood ready to hoist the sail. A hundred feet into the bay, she turned for one last look. “MacInnes,” she breathed. The old Scot stood on the dock, beside his wheezing horse. “Hmm, that is strange.” “We took our leave of him this morn,” Gunnar said, joining her at the stern. “I wonder what—” “Ja, but he waves us back. Look.” She raised a hand, acknowledging they’d seen him. “He calls to you. What is he saying.” She shook her head. “He says my name, but I can’t make the rest of it out.” Another rider topped the ridge above the bay. Rika squinted against the sun and tried to make him out. “Who is it?” Gunnar said. “I know not.” But she did know, and her spine prickled. “Whoever he is, he’s got the devil in him. At that speed he’ll break his neck.” The rider’s black steed thundered down the ridge and across the moor, heading straight for the dock.

“Grant!” Ottar cried. Rika stopped breathing. It was him. She saw him clearly now. He wore a belted plaid, the same as the first time she’d seen him washed up on the beach at Frideray. “Turn around!” Gunnar cried, and the men instantly stopped rowing. “Nay, do not.” Rika clutched her brother’s arm. “Do not, I beg you.” “But—” Gunnar shot Ottar a warning look, and the youth clapped his mouth shut. “Rika, are you sure?” Gunnar said. A dozen rational reasons why they should just sail on raced through her mind, clashing with the knot of emotions welling inside her. “Ja,” she said, then shook her head. “Nay. I don’t know.” She realized she was trembling, and clutched the byrthing’s top rail to steady herself. Her breath caught in her throat as Grant flew past MacInnes and drove the black steed clear onto the dock. Grant pulled him up short just before the poor beast plummeted into the water. He slipped from the saddle and stepped to the edge. “Rika!” she heard him call. He frantically waved her back. “Well?” Gunnar said. She shook her head, gripping the top rail so tightly her hands began to cramp. “I…I don’t know.” Ottar and Erik and Leif stood behind her, silent, but she could feel their anxiety. Her father’s men waited for Gunnar’s command, oars in the air. A minute passed, or was it an hour? Each second twisted her stomach tighter. And then Grant did something that shocked them all. He threw off his weapons and— “Thor’s blood!” “He jumped!” Ottar cried. Rika gasped. “Look, he swims toward us.” Leif pointed at the flailing Scotsman. “Well, if you call that swimming.” The crazy fool! What was he thinking? He can barely swim a stroke. “It seems your husband does not take kindly to your leaving.” Gunnar cocked a sunbleached brow at her.

She leaned out over the top rail, straining to hear what it was that George shouted. Terns and gulls cawed overhead, drowning out his words. Rika’s heart swelled to bursting as he thrashed across the water toward her like a salmon desperate to make his way upstream. And then she heard it. His voice clear, his words unmistakable. “I love ye!” Her breath shot from her lungs in a tortured sort of gasp. “Told you,” Ottar said behind her. “Nay, but you wouldn’t listen, would yo—” “Ottar, shut up,” Gunnar said. A second later she was balanced precariously on the top rail, her eyes fixed on the man swimming toward her. “That water’s wicked cold, sister, but methinks you do not care.” She jumped. And gasped as the icy water shocked her to her senses. “Rika!” George cried, and then nearly went under. “George!” She cut through the water toward him, the whoops of her kinsmen spurring her faster. They collided, shivering, and then his arms were around her. “R-Rika, I…l-love…ye,” he said, teeth chattering from the cold, and breathless from the long swim. Over and over he said the words as he peppered her face with kisses, his lips warming her icy skin. “But…your wife. What will she—” “Ye are my wife.” He cupped her face in his hands, and she wrapped her legs around him in the frigid water. “My brave, bonny wife. A remarkable woman, and I will have no other.” “But…Anne Sinclair…your king—” He stilled her with a kiss. “The Sinclairs and the Grants are joined, and William the Lion is well pleased.” She tried to make sense of his words but could not. He smiled, and she remembered something her father had mentioned in passing. “Your brother!”

“Aye, ’tis a good match, and why I had to leave Dunnet Head straightaway—to square things with king and clan before I found my head on the block.” He brushed her lips with a kiss. “Did ye no get my message to wait?” Her cheeks warmed under his scolding gaze, but now was not the time to explain the fears that had driven her to leave. “I, too, had things to put to rights,” she said. “Your father.” She nodded. “There is much I have yet to reconcile in my own mind, but we parted with peace between us that will lead, in time, to forgiveness.” He started to sink, and she pulled him up. “Come,” she said, “we are closer to shore than the boat.” She looked back at her brother and the others. All of them were smiling. Gunnar waved—a gesture of farewell. “Bring her for a visit in the summer,” he called. George raised a hand in acknowledgment. Together, they swam for the beach. MacInnes stood grinning on the dock, hands fisted on hips. They washed ashore, shivering and drenched to the bones. George pulled her close, and she clung to him. His heart beat fierce against her breast. “Say it,” he breathed. “What ye said at the quarry.” She looked into his eyes and felt the warmth of his love melt all of her doubts. “I love you.” And then he kissed her. “Lawmaker was right about everything, wasn’t he?” she said, when finally their lips parted to draw breath. “Aye, he was a wise man.” She would remember him always, with love, as a daughter remembers a father. Sun glinted off the silver brooch pinned at her shoulder, and she smiled. Together they watched as the byrthing sailed out of the small bay, north toward Fair Isle. But she found herself thinking of other shores, and wrapped her arms tight about her husband’s neck. “Scotland is beautiful in the spring,” he said, as if he read her thoughts. “I have oft wondered about that.” He gazed at the brilliant blue sky. “Aye, and the thaw is coming. I feel it.” “So do I.”

And truly, she did. The Viking’s Captive By Julia Byrne Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four

Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter One England in the Year of Our Lord 904 S moke blanketed the sky, a thick black pall, hanging over the town beyond the manor walls and filling the air with the suffocating odour of burning thatch. She could almost hear the hungry flames, even above the terrifying clamour of axe against shield, sword against sword, and the screams of the townswomen. And louder still, borne on the wind that whipped at her hair as she ran from the stable, there rose a steady roar, a sound inhuman, like the howling of a thousand wolves. The chilling roar brought her to a dead stop halfway across the manor compound. One hand clutched a hooked tunic to her breast; with the other she pulled a kirtle into place over the chausses she’d snatched from the stableboy’s loft, her gaze on the empty road outside the palisade. The big wooden gates stood open, no defence at all. Had everyone fled to the woods? she wondered. Even her husband?

No. The answer to that came immediately. Considering the sins on Ceawlin’s conscience, he’d more likely taken refuge in the church. Fool! Did he think those murderous savages would respect the sanctuary of the church? Hadn’t he listened to the tales of slaughtered monks, plundered treasures, desecrated holy relics? Of course not. Ceawlin was probably on his knees this minute, babbling prayers for deliverance from the wrath of the Norsemen. Her mouth curled in a scornful smile. It suited her purpose if the Lord of Selsey thought only of his own safety, leaving his wife to the mercies of their attackers, but still she felt contempt for such a man. She hesitated a moment longer, wondering if she should close and bar the gates, then shook her head, turning away. Gates wouldn’t hold against the heathen horde outside. But they would sack the church first in their quest for loot. She still had a little time. Clutching her tunic tighter, she raced across the compound towards the hall, glad of the freedom of her borrowed raiment. If she managed to escape she’d be able to travel quickly and more safely disguised as a boy. And if not, if by some evil chance she was caught, at least death would be quick. But she refused to think of failure. She would escape. She must. With a final glance over her shoulder at the lowering black cloud, she ran into the hall. The terrifying sounds were instantly muted as the silence of the empty building surrounded her. The hush gave an illusion of safety. Her racing pulse slowed, her breathing steadied. All she had to do was find a dagger and some coins and leave. Once outside the gates, it would take only a minute to gain the safety of the forest—and her freedom. What she sought lay under the big carved chair at the high table. She knew it was there. Jankin had innocently told her of the hidden chest months ago, not realising… Dear God. Jankin. He’d been sent to the town that morning. Had he managed to hide, or was he even now lying dead, his life cut brutally short—? No, don’t think it. Resolutely suppressing the hideous pictures in her mind, she hurried down the hall to the dais at the end of the long room. Kneeling behind the table, she felt under her husband’s chair. The chest was there in its niche; small, but heavy. She put her tunic aside to use both hands, dragging the chest from its hiding place and around to the end of the table where she could open it more easily. Its wooden base shrieked protestingly as it scraped over the floor, momentarily drowning out the noise outside.

But not quite cloaking the thud of approaching footsteps. She whirled as the intruder spoke, a terrified gasp breaking free. ‘So, Anfride was right. The Lady Yvaine of Selsey is no better than those heathen fiends outside. You seek to rob me also.’ ‘Holy Saints! Ceawlin.’ She came to her feet, waiting for her heartbeat to slow before speaking again. She ignored Ceawlin’s mention of her unmarried sister-in-law. Anfride was as malicious as her brother and had always disliked her. She’d long ago given up trying to make a friend of the woman. Just as she’d long ago vanquished fear of Ceawlin. It hadn’t been easy. Though he hadn’t mistreated her physically, being in awe of her connection to the powerful royal house of Wessex, he was spiteful with the meanness of the weak and cowardly, cruel to those below him and self-indulgent in his pleasures. But she’d been married to him for five years and was no longer the uncertain child who’d arrived at Selsey. Now she despised him. He glared at her through close-set eyes before pointedly lowering his gaze to the chest at her feet. Yvaine lifted her chin. ‘I do not rob you, Ceawlin, but only retrieve what was mine.’ ‘What was yours, wife? What was yours? You own nothing here. Or were you hoping I’d be killed by yonder savages, leaving you free of me and mistress of my wealth?’ Ceawlin flicked her clothing with a contemptuous gesture. ‘Do you think to hide behind your boy’s clothes while you await my death? Stupid woman. Your face betrays you and ’tis too late to seek the church.’ ‘Too late for you also, Ceawlin, if you linger here.’ He threw back his head and laughed at that, a shrill cackle that echoed shockingly in the empty hall. And Yvaine felt the first icy trickle of dread slide down her spine. So might demons laugh, she thought. Mad. Evil. She had to get away from this place. But how was she to get past Ceawlin? The table stood at her left; he in front. If she made any sudden move towards the open space to her right, he’d be after her like a hound after a hare. ‘Hah!’ he barked as if aware of her frantically racing thoughts. He leaned forward and thrust his face close to hers. ‘You think I’ve no wit for planning, Yvaine, but mark this. I intend to use you as surety for my life.’ For a moment Yvaine could only stare at him. ‘You think I’ll stay here to be used as a bargaining counter?’ she finally got out. ‘Let me clear your foggy wits, Ceawlin. I came in here to retrieve the dowry I brought you, but if I have to leave without it—’

‘Leave? That was your scheme?’ He snorted. ‘A foolish one. I’m your lawful husband. I say what you’ll—’ ‘Lawful husband?’ The words burst from her, incredulous. The smug satisfaction on Ceawlin’s sharp, rat-like features was intolerable. She thought of the past five years; the insolence of serfs too afraid of their master to serve her, the spite, the threats, the deliberate destruction of her treasured manuscripts, the disappearance of any animal she petted. The memories flicked at her like tiny whips. For one reckless instant danger was swept aside as a torrent of emotion surged and swelled inside her until it broke over her in a wave of molten fury. ‘Husband! You don’t know the meaning of the word. And this my family will know. No longer will I stay here to be scorned, half-starved, used to hide your true nature. I have been silent all these years, but no more. You wallow in vice! You have no honour, no decency. Hear me now, my Lord of Selsey. I would walk to Rome barefoot to have our marriage annulled!’ The silence that followed her outburst seemed to throb with the echo of her words. Then Ceawlin’s face turned a mottled red as rage contorted his features. ‘You speak so to me?’ he almost screamed. ‘You forget yourself, wife.’ ‘I forget nothing,’ she spat back. ‘But you do, Ceawlin. Do you hold your life so cheap that you stand here berating me?’ She pointed to the chest between them. ‘There lies your treasure. Take it and hide.’ She started forward as she spoke, intending to push past him, but as quick as an adder striking, his hand flashed out and fastened around her wrist. Yvaine bit back a startled gasp, her eyes flying wide as Ceawlin’s fingers tightened with deliberate cruelty. ‘So you wish to leave, my lady? You wish to be free of me?’ The snarled anticipation in his voice sliced through her anger like steel cleaving mist. Yvaine went very still, waiting. ‘Then so you shall be,’ Ceawlin hissed. ‘When I say, in the manner I devise. But first—’ with a vicious jerk he began to pull her across the hall towards the thick centre post, at the same time loosening his belt with his free hand ‘—you need a lesson in wifely respect. ’Tis long overdue and your noble connections won’t help you now.’ ‘Are you mad?’ she cried, throwing herself back against the numbing grip on her arm. Fear surged as she realised Ceawlin was stronger than his flabby, over-indulged body appeared. Desperate, she lashed out, her nails raking across fat knuckles.

Almost casually he turned and backhanded her across the face, then yanked her forward so roughly she stumbled and fell to her knees. Dazed, she flung out her other hand, trying to recover her balance, only to have both wrists captured and bound with Ceawlin’s belt. He jerked her arms above her head, looped the ends of the belt around the solid post and fastened them, then stood back to examine his handiwork. Yvaine shook her head, trying to clear her vision. How had it happened so quickly? Her ears were still ringing from Ceawlin’s blow when she realised she was trapped. The sheer horror of it had her clawing aside fear as frantically as she’d fought Ceawlin’s grip. ‘You are mad,’ she whispered. ‘When the king hears of this—’ ‘When Edward hears of this,’ Ceawlin retorted, ‘’twill be through a letter from me telling of my beloved wife’s capture by Norse pirates.’ He chuckled at the notion and gave a cruel jerk on the belt. ‘Aye, I’ve waited a long time for this, wife. A long time. Anfride’s potions didn’t work, but this will. And the role of bereaved husband will suit me well.’ Potions? No. She shook her head. There wasn’t time. ‘Ceawlin, listen to me. Those fiends won’t spare you because you have me tied and trussed for them.’ But Ceawlin only laughed again as he retraced his steps and bent to open the chest. This time the effect of that high-pitched giggle was terrifying. She forced herself to shut out the sound, forced herself to think. What was she to do? Ceawlin was beyond listening to warnings or reason. And she would not beg. She would not plead. She strained at her bonds, ignoring pain as the leather bit deeper. A warm trickle of blood ran down her arm. She ignored that, too, twisting her hands in an attempt to get at the buckle. Ceawlin’s footsteps sounded behind her again. He was coming back, eyes glassy with excitement, a thick rope, knotted at one end, dangling from his hand. A prayer for strength flashed through her mind and was gone. Yet ’twas not the threat of a beating that had terror pushing her heart into her throat, but the greater danger. Coming closer, stalking her on silent feet. To be left here, helpless, for those barbarians to find… A beating was nothing to what they would do to her. ‘You’ll lose your life for this indulgence,’ she choked. Her throat felt so tight she could scarcely speak, but she clenched her teeth and summoned the only possession Ceawlin hadn’t been able to take from her: her pride. She would not cringe before this depraved beast. But as Ceawlin bent down, one damp hand scrabbling at the back fastening of her kirtle, Yvaine couldn’t suppress the shudder that coursed through her at his cold, clammy

touch. He ripped the kirtle away, leaving the sleeves dangling from her bound wrists and baring her body to the waist. ‘If you live through this raid, I’ll kill you myself,’ she vowed, her voice shaking with rage and fear. ‘I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll kill you.’ But Ceawlin only smiled, his face flushed with an eagerness that sickened her. ‘We’ll see how much your threats are worth when I’ve finished with you,’ he gloated, and raised his arm. The sight of a girl huddled by the centre post in the hall stopped Rorik cold in his tracks. She was so still, he thought for a moment she was dead. If so, it was not by the hand of a Viking. His men were still busy looting the church or fighting any merchant foolish enough to oppose them. A distant knell of discomfort sounded at the back of his mind with the thought. He shrugged it off. Christians and their churches meant nothing to him. Except as a means to an end. He cast a quick glance about the hall, his gaze sweeping past the tapestries covering the rough thatch walls to rest on the cooking pot hanging above the circular fireplace to his left. Preparations for a meal lay on a table nearby, showing signs of hasty abandonment: a knife flung to the floor, scattered spices, an overturned jug of wine. The stream of liquid had reached the edge of the table and now dripped, slowly, to the rushes below. A wealthy manor, he mused. And empty except for the girl. Despite the royal standard flying from the roof, no guards had appeared when he’d strode unchallenged through the gateway and across the compound. But if all had fled, who was this, half-lying, half-crouching in the shadows of the big room. Why had she been abandoned here? His sword ready to strike, Rorik moved forward with the soundless tread of the hunter. He was still several paces away when a ray of noon sunlight flashed through the smokehole in the roof, bathing the figure on the floor in a brilliant circle of light. The girl stirred, as though the warmth of the sun had brought her to life. Slowly, so slowly she seemed scarcely to move, she lifted her head and stared straight at him. The impact stopped him as if he’d run into a wall; he was barely aware of halting again, of lowering his sword. She was a creature of golden light. Magical. Her hair lay in tumbled disarray about her shoulders, the colour of deep, rich honey. The flesh of her arms glowed a paler gold. And her eyes! Wide and slightly tilted at the outer corners, set in a face of such delicate beauty

she seemed more the stuff of long-ago dreams than reality, her eyes made him think of a wildcat he had once cornered. It had gazed at him with that same golden fire, and he’d been unable to bring himself to kill it. Unable to destroy the fierce pride of something so wild and free. Then the sun slid past its midday zenith. The ray of light vanished, and the magical golden creature with it. And as his eyes narrowed against the disappearing light, he saw that her raised arms were tied to the post, that a boy’s kirtle hung from her wrists, and her extraordinary eyes, if they had ever held fierceness, were now dull and lifeless. The girl stared back at him, unmoved and unmoving. Uttering a soft curse, he came forward quickly, going down on one knee beside her and lifting a hand to brush her hair from her cheek. Someone had struck her face. But it wasn’t the bruise already staining the fragile line of her cheekbone that made him go still. He looked down as the veil of her hair shifted, revealing what had been hidden, and felt his body harden in a rush so powerful, his breath left his lungs on a sharp expulsion of sound. She was bare to the waist, her breasts rising and falling with her uneven breathing, her entire body trembling. Her fear was a palpable thing, quivering in the air between them, and yet he was lowering his hand without thought; as if he had no will beyond the sudden need to touch, to take. She was exquisite. Small, delicate, with an untouched fragility about her that caught at his heart. And when her soft rose-tipped breast filled his hand, he felt something deep inside himself tear loose, as if part of him had become hers, never to be reclaimed. He looked back at her face, fighting the fierce urge to close his fingers more firmly around the sweet flesh moulded to his palm. She neither spoke nor flinched away from his touch, but beneath his hand her heart fluttered like the frantically beating wings of a panicked bird, and her eyes, those golden cat’s eyes, were anguished. Shaken, Rorik drew his hand away. It was like tearing away his own flesh, inch by agonizing inch. Was she a witch to move him like this? He’d known lust before, but this… Suddenly furious, he jerked upright. What in the name of the Gods was he doing? He was here for a purpose, damn it. And she was English. English. He reached down to yank the kirtle’s sleeves roughly over the girl’s arms, intending to cover her again before he cut her hands free. Another shock jolted through him before he’d touched the first laces. Desire leached out of him as if it had never been, and he, who had looked upon the most gruesome of battle wounds without flinching, was sickened by what he saw.

She’d been cruelly beaten. Not with a whip, he saw at once. Her skin was unbroken, but angry red weals criss-crossed her back from shoulders to waist, surrounded by ugly bruises that were already darkening to purple. Rorik’s mouth hardened into a grim line. He knew the marks of a knout when he saw them. By Thor, he gave his men plenty of leeway, but if one of them had done this— Bending, he cupped the girl’s face in one hand. Her blank gaze told him she was probably beyond speech, but he tried anyway. ‘Who did this to you, maiden?’ There was no response, but her lashes flickered as she looked away from him to the shadows at the end of the hall. Rorik heard it at the same time. Rapid footsteps approaching a leather door-curtain in the corner behind the high table. There was no time to warn her. Hoping her shock-induced silence would continue, he straightened and stepped behind the post, his sword held aloft and ready. Ceawlin brushed aside the curtain and hurried into the hall, tucking a laden sackcloth bag into his tunic. Yvaine watched him approach through the mist that dimmed her vision. She wondered if she ought to tell him there was a Norseman nearby, but the thought was strangely distant. And faded completely when he spoke. ‘Still undiscovered, my lady? Perhaps ’tis as well. I’d enjoy watching your pride stripped by those barbarians, but ’twould be unwise to linger. Tell them I hope they won’t torch the hall, considering the gift I’ve left them. A building is so much more costly to replace than an insolent, disdainful wife.’ ‘Tell me yourself, Englishman,’ suggested the Viking, stepping into the open. He studied the short, bloated figure in front of him and lowered his sword in a slow arc, until it pointed straight at Ceawlin’s heart, inches away. His eyes slitted. The chill of that ice-cold glare sank into Yvaine to her very bones. She didn’t wonder that stark terror wiped the look of pleasure from Ceawlin’s face. She could only marvel that she didn’t feel the same fear. The Norse giant standing over her was a formidable enough vision, and he’d done something— What had he done? She couldn’t think clearly. But then, minutes ago she hadn’t thought at all. Not until his deep voice, softly questioning, had brought her back from a mindless abyss of pain. She couldn’t recall his words, but her surprise that he spoke English, and the rough velvet of his voice…those she remembered.

Yvaine lifted her gaze to his face. She had to look up a long way. He stood several inches over six feet, and every inch of the journey passed over solid muscle, from his long legs encased in woollen chausses and thonged leather boots, to his broad shoulders covered by a sleeveless chainmail tunic. Heavy bands of twisted gold encircled his powerful arms, and more gold adorned his belt. She couldn’t see his face clearly, couldn’t tell if he was dark or fair. An iron helm covered most of his features, the nose guard, sharp curving sides and frowning onyx inlays above the brows creating a visage meant to terrify. From this fearsome mask glittered eyes the colour of a mid-winter sky, a cold, light grey. And below the nose guard his mouth looked brutally hard. Her eyelids flickered when he jerked his head at her, but that arctic gaze never left Ceawlin’s face. ‘You did this.’ It wasn’t a question. The realisation that he hadn’t instantly been killed had restored some of the colour to Ceawlin’s ashen face. He attempted a fawning smile. ‘How else does one treat a wife who dares to scorn her husband?’ he whined propitiatingly. ‘Perhaps you’ll have more success in teaching her respect for her masters.’ The Viking’s head tilted slightly. ‘You’d give up your wife to me?’ ‘Aye…aye…if you want her.’ Ceawlin’s words tripped over themselves in his eagerness. ‘Do as you please with her. She may be a defiant wench, but she’s not uncomely. Look—’ He reached down a hand to her face. ‘Touch her and you lose that hand!’ The snarled threat had Ceawlin’s eyes bulging. His mouth fell open as the Norseman’s sword flashed with deadly swiftness to hover over his outstretched arm. ‘Is she not enough?’ he babbled. ‘Here—’ Not daring to withdraw the arm extended towards her, he extracted the pouch from his tunic with his free hand and held it out with shaking fingers. ‘Take my treasure as well.’ The Viking made no move to accept the proffered bag. Contempt sliced through the rage in his voice. ‘For what do we bargain, Englishman? Your life? Your costly hall? Only your arm, mayhap?’ He lowered his blade until it rested on Ceawlin’s forearm. ‘What do you demand for a paltry bag of coin or jewels and a beaten wife?’ ‘No…no…you don’t understand.’ Ceawlin’s arm trembled so violently beneath the Viking’s blade that a thin line of red appeared. He squealed like a suckling pig at the sight and snatched his arm back. The sword point followed to aim at his heart again.

‘I only beat her today…never before…and the wench is untouched…I swear…’ The disjointed phrases tumbled from Ceawlin’s slack mouth in a panicked rush, only to cease abruptly when surprise flashed in the Norseman’s eyes. Yvaine saw calculation overlay the raw terror of her husband’s face. He licked his lips. ‘You’ve already sacked the town, looted the shops, plundered the church. Surely this wealth and the girl are worth my life. A virgin will fetch a high price as a slave if you don’t want her for yourself. Or give her to your men. There’s much pleasure to be had in watching such sport.’ The air in the room seemed to still and ice over. Yvaine shivered as the chill brushed her flesh. She heard the Viking speak again, his voice as biting as the winds howling across the frozen wastelands at the edge of the world, and knew that everyone in the vicinity of a rage so terrible was going to die. ‘By Thor, I knew you English were lying, faithless traitors, but what manner of man throws his wife to an army already drunk with blood-lust?’ ‘But isn’t that what you want?’ Ceawlin shouted, waving his arms in his agitation. ‘You rape, you loot, so take her. Take her now. You’ll see I speak the tr—’ The last word shattered into a strangled scream that tore aside the mists threatening Yvaine’s mind. Murderous intent flashed in the Norseman’s eyes; stark horror filled Ceawlin’s. The blade, which had been held with such controlled stillness, suddenly whirled above his head, then slashed downwards with a vicious rush of air. When Ceawlin’s body hit the floor only inches from her face, Yvaine didn’t even flinch. She watched her husband’s killer sheath his sword and draw a wicked-looking dagger from his belt; saw the lingering traces of ferocity in those chilling eyes as he bent towards her. He was going to kill her, too. She felt nothing. His dagger made quick work of the leather binding the girl’s wrists. Abruptly released, her arms would have fallen, but Rorik held her hands with one of his, kneeling again. The killing rage was leaving him, but he still had to force the gentler note into his voice when he saw the bloody streaks encircling her wrists. ‘Easy, little one. Let your arms down slowly.’ She didn’t utter a word, her face remaining blank, but he saw her whiten as the blood returned to her limbs.

Rorik pulled the kirtle more securely over her arms, covering her nakedness but leaving the back open. Then, without a second’s hesitation, he lifted her bodily over his shoulder and rose to his feet. He had no fixed purpose in mind as he carried the girl from her home. He only knew he couldn’t leave her behind. Not like this. Not hurt and helpless. No echo of discomfort sounded. He ignored the fact that she was English. Let the Norns weave trouble for him if they would because of it. He had killed for her. She was his.

Chapter Two N oise surrounded her, ebbing and flowing as if in a dream. Voices shouting, the roar of flames, a shrill cry abruptly cut short. A woman ran past, screaming, pursued by two men. She wondered vaguely who it was, then her gaze fell on a body lying by the riverbank and grief, layered upon shock, layered upon pain, became too much to bear. Her mind simply shut down; shutters slammed against the battering of a violent storm. She heard her captor speak sharply to the two men, saw them break off their pursuit of the fleeing woman, but none of it made sense. She had no idea where she was being taken, and cared less. ‘Rorik! Since when have you carted off boys when there’s richer plunder to be had? You want the church, my friend, not the cow byre.’ Rorik eyed the tall, bearded warrior who barred his path. His helm was dented, one muscular arm sported a gash, but his blue eyes twinkled, and a sack, overflowing with gold and silver, was slung over one shoulder. ‘I see you’ve collected your share of spoils, Thorolf.’ ‘Nobody ever called me backward,’ Thorolf retorted, turning and falling into step beside him. ‘But this is the first time I’ve seen you take anything. Don’t tell you’re collecting new thralls for your stepmother. She’ll only wear them out within a sen’night.’ His voice altered to a shrill falsetto. ‘Go here, go there. Do this, do that.’ Rorik’s mouth twitched at his masterly imitation of his stepmother’s discordant tones. ‘I wouldn’t hand a dog over to Gunhild,’ Thorolf continued, casting a cursory glance at the limp form draped over his friend’s shoulder. ‘Let alone a puny boy like that. You’re not really taking him home, are you? He won’t last the voyage.’ ‘We must’ve been at sea too long,’ Rorik said dryly. ‘Take a good look, you lackwit.’

Thorolf sent him an indignant glare but obliged. He goggled at the sight of goldenbrown hair hanging down to Rorik’s knees. ‘Thor’s hammer! ’Tis a woman.’ ‘Oh, well said, Thorolf. How encouraging to know my men are so observant.’ Sarcasm rolled off Thorolf as easily as insults. ‘But I’ve never seen you carry off a female in all the years we’ve been a-viking together,’ he protested. ‘What’s more, you’ve always stopped the men from doing so.’ Rorik shrugged, the girl’s slight weight hardly impeding the gesture. ‘What’s Othar going to say?’ Thorolf persisted, beginning to look dubious. ‘Why should he say anything?’ ‘Because he thinks he ought to have what you have. Better yet, he wants more. You have a woman. He’ll fill the ship with ’em. Damn thing will probably founder.’ ‘Where is Othar?’ was the only response to this grumble. Thorolf shifted his booty to a more comfortable position and sidestepped around a burning chunk of thatch. ‘Probably chasing some unfortunate wench. Odin’s ravens know why. There’re plenty of willing girls in the Danelaw if he can’t wait until we get home.’ He caught the quizzical glance Rorik sent him and grinned sheepishly. ‘So I agree with you on that point. It doesn’t mean I think you were right to bring Othar with us.’ ‘He’s my brother. Where else should he be, but with me?’ ‘Well, I can think of—’ A sharp movement of Rorik’s hand cut him off. They had reached the point where they’d landed and the four guards left on board the longship were already alert to their leader’s approach. Ignoring their curious stares, Rorik stepped on board. The girl shifted in his hold, but she made no sound and he thought she’d probably swooned. Just as well. He didn’t want her hurting herself in an attempt to escape. Once they were underway it wouldn’t matter. There was nowhere to run to on a ship. Except the tent. His gaze swept the seventy-foot length of the vessel and rested frowningly on the leather shelter in the prow. It shouldn’t have been there. ‘Why is the tent up, Orn Hooknose?’ A warrior, grizzled of beard and lined of face, stepped forward. ‘Your brother and his friends brought women back, my lord. To use as they please until they sell them.’ The man scratched the hawk-like feature that had given him his nickname and aimed a

thoughtful look at his leader’s burden. ‘Knowing your views on captives, we thought it best to keep the wenches out of sight until you returned.’ Rorik’s eyes narrowed. Trust old Hooknose to remind him of his own rules. Orn wouldn’t indulge in speculation with the other men, though. He’d sailed with Rorik’s father and was loyal to the death. Dismissing the man with a nod, he turned to Thorolf. ‘We’ve been here over an hour. Call the men back, my friend.’ Thorolf grunted agreement and reached for the elk horn hanging from the mast in the centre of the ship. But as Rorik went to move past him he put out a restraining hand. ‘I know you couldn’t leave Othar at Einervik after what happened,’ he said, lowering his voice so the others wouldn’t hear. ‘But be careful, Rorik. He’s jealous of you. Always has been.’ ‘He’ll get over it as he grows older.’ Rorik cast an amused glance at Thorolf ’s sober countenance. ‘But my thanks for your counsel.’ ‘Aye, I can see you’re taking due notice,’ Thorolf muttered, and vented his feelings on the elk horn. The blast set the seabirds shrieking as they wheeled and dipped above the mast. The incoming tide was beginning to turn. Rorik eyed the swiftly flowing current, calculating speed and distance. With luck they’d reach the Thames estuary and the North Sea before they were discovered by one of the warships of the late King Alfred’s fledgling navy. Normally he’d welcome such an encounter. Hel, a sea battle might finally release him from a certain vow. But he hadn’t taken the girl from one battlefield only to dump her in another. He paused outside the tent to watch the crew as they answered the call of the horn. They were in rowdy humour, drunk with triumph, yelling battle cries and thumping each other’s shoulders as they leapt on board. He could expect a scuffle or two over the division of loot but, for the most part, they were good, seasoned men who’d sailed with him before. Any trouble with the women would come from Othar and his cronies. Eyes narrowed in thought, he pushed aside the leather curtain of the shelter and entered. Three women and a girl child were huddled together against the far side. They stared at him with varying degrees of hatred and fear. Ignoring them, he seized one of the skin bags used for storage by day and sleeping by night. He flipped it open and spread it over the rough planks, then lowered the girl on to her front. Her eyes were closed, but when he turned her head to the side and laid his

fingers against her throat, her pulse beat steadily. She stirred slightly as though trying to find a more comfortable position, and a small whimper escaped her lips. He frowned as he studied the makeshift bed. It would have to do for now; he’d find something softer along the coast. At least she had the other women to tend her. That she needed them was the only reason he was keeping them on board. Although the terms of their captivity were going to be changed and— ‘Savage! Accursed barbarian!’ Rorik jerked his head up, as surprised as if one of the iron rivets in the hull had suddenly addressed him. His gaze clashed with the accusing glare of one of the captives, a dark-haired, sturdy wench in a blue woollen gown that matched her eyes. ‘Is that the measure of Norse manhood?’ she demanded, shifting her glare to his captive’s bruised flesh. ‘To beat a woman until she’s senseless.’ ‘I didn’t do this,’ he growled before he could stop himself. And then wondered why in the three worlds he was defending himself to a bunch of captive women. He stood up so abruptly his head only narrowly missed the overhead awning. Cursing silently, he turned on his heel and strode outside. He grabbed a skin waterbag and tossed it into the tent. Then he rummaged through another sack. At best, the treatment of wounds tended to be crude and spartan on board ship, but Rorik prided himself on never having lost a wounded man on a voyage. He produced a pot of sheep fat and, pulling aside the curtain, threw it to the sullen girl. ‘Do what you can for her,’ he instructed curtly, and let the curtain fall again, stamping down on an utterly senseless urge to care for his captive himself. By Odin’s missing eye, he must have gone soft in the head. He’d spent enough time fussing over a woman. He had a ship to run. Dreams slid through her mind. Nightmare visions of Ceawlin’s jeering face, red flashes of pain, crazed laughter. And then, as though to mock her with the hope of rescue, Ceawlin’s face disappeared, and there, through a dazzling haze of dust motes, stepped a warrior from an ancient legend. Tall and powerful, surrounded by light, gold flashing off his helm and shimmering along the naked blade of his sword. She tried to cry out, to call to him. He would save her if she could only make him hear, but he was gone in a wave of agony, leaving blackness wrapping around her like a shroud. And voices. Norse voices, speaking of men and ravens. Jankin’s body lying by the river. Grief like a torrent of tears rushing through her head.

‘Am I weeping?’ she whispered, and couldn’t tell if the whisper was hers because other voices immediately struck her senses, rapping like sharp little blows against her head. ‘My lady?’ ‘What is it? Does she live?’ ‘Hush! She spoke. Lady, do you hear me?’ She could hear the rushing noise. And there was movement beneath her; a strange kind of rocking— They were taking her away. Yvaine jerked upright, a thin cry bursting from her lips. The sound was abruptly cut short as fiery pain lanced across her back. Whirling black clouds threatened her senses. ‘No, lady. You must be still.’ The voice sounded somewhere above her. Gritting her teeth, she looked around. She was in a tent. A girl hovered nearby, her face anxious. Further away a woman sat, holding a child in her arms. Another woman crouched next to them, head bent over a rosary as she muttered prayers beneath her breath. The girl nearest her knelt and spoke again. ‘You should rest, lady. You’ve been hurt. Do you remember what happened? Did those barbarians do this?’ Yvaine blinked at her, trying to think. ‘You know me? Who are you?’ ‘I’m Anna, lady. The silversmith’s daughter. I saw you in the manor once when I delivered a buckle to your lord.’ ‘My lord?’ A sound that wasn’t quite a laugh escaped her. ‘He’s dead.’ Anna nodded. ‘And they took you. Well, we shan’t suffer a like fate, I think.’ Yvaine barely heard her. ‘They killed Jankin, too. A slave. A mere slave. Too simple to fear Ceawlin’s spite against anyone who was kind to me. He was my only friend.’ ‘Well, now we’re all slaves and friendless,’ remarked the woman holding the child. Her voice was brusque but not unkind. ‘I’m Britta,’ she added. ‘And the child here is Eldith.’ The little girl gave a timid smile. ‘They took a child?’ Yvaine whispered. ‘Blessed Jesu…I suppose we should be grateful she’s alive.’ ‘Aye, but for how long?’ Britta shivered ‘Vikings kill for the pleasure of it. ’Tis what befell Eldith’s father, my master. He tried to run and was slain.’

Yvaine glanced at the woman mumbling over her beads. She neither looked up nor spoke. Only her fingers moved, ceaselessly counting the rosary. The other two waited, as though instinctively looking to the lady of the manor for answers. A fine source of help, she thought, on a silent, despairing laugh. She could scarcely think when every breath she took was laced with agony. But still they waited. ‘I think Anna is right,’ she murmured at last. ‘They won’t kill us. Sell us, mayhap.’ ‘Then we might as well make the best of the situation.’ Anna settled herself more comfortably against the bulkhead, shrugging when Yvaine gaped at her. ‘I was little more than a slave in my father’s house, lady. Worked day and night with not a groat to show for it, nor hardly a decent meal. I’m no stranger to slavery.’ ‘Nor I,’ Britta added. ‘But at least in your father’s house, Anna, you weren’t forced to share the master’s bed. That could well change before this day is out.’ ‘No!’ Shaking visibly, staggering with the effort, Yvaine managed to gain her feet. ‘I won’t! I won’t submit to rape. Better to escape…take our chances in the river.’ ‘Escape? Your wits are still wandering, lady.’ ‘Britta’s right.’ Anna sprang up and caught Yvaine’s arm. ‘There’s a ship full of Vikings out there. We can’t escape. And you’re hurt.’ She tried to urge Yvaine down to the crude skin bedding. ‘Come, lady. Lie down and save your strength. God knows, you’ll need it.’ Yvaine threw her off. The movement sent whips of fire across her back, but she managed to stay upright. ‘Listen to me,’ she gasped. ‘There are no waves. That means we’re still on the river. Can you swim?’ Anna goggled at her. ‘No, but…What are you saying, lady?’ ‘I will not be captive to another man. Never! I don’t care if I risk my life. Better to try and fail than…’ She stopped, willed steadiness to her voice, strength to her trembling limbs. ‘Once we’re at sea, there’ll be no chance of escape. Do you come with me or not?’ Anna stared at her, mouth agape. Britta shrugged and bent to speak to the silent child. The muttering droned on in the corner. ‘Then pray for me,’ Yvaine whispered, and whirled towards the curtain. She was through it before Anna’s quickly outflung hand could stop her. Light exploded before her eyes, flashing off sparkling water, blinding her. Dazed, she flung up a hand, stumbled. Her foot struck something hard, sending it clattering across the deck. She faltered, trying to blink her vision clear.

And those few seconds’ hesitation were her undoing. Every eye on the ship turned to her. Before she could move, a yell came from the stern. ‘Othar! Stop her!’ Mindless with terror, still half-blinded, Yvaine sprang for the side. Her hands reached, groping desperately for the topmost plank. Before she could take hold, footsteps thundered behind her. Heavy breathing rasped through the air, she could almost feel it, hot on her neck. Sheer instinct had her swerving like a hunted deer, darting for the opposite side, only to have another Viking leap into her path. He spread his arms, laughing, his mouth a gaping maw in an unkempt reddish beard. Behind her, her first pursuer let out the bloodcurdling yell of a hunter. Gasping for breath, she dodged again. The bulkhead flashed before her eyes, feet away. Her chest was on fire. She lunged. Her fingers touched, clung… And an arm came from nowhere. She was flung to the hard oak planking, unable to prevent an agonised scream rising in her throat when her back hit the Viking’s abandoned oar. The scream sliced through Rorik with the ice-cold kiss of a naked blade. Already halfway up the ship, he leapt the remaining distance in seconds, roaring as if charging into battle, and knocked his brother’s hand away as Othar reached for the neck of the girl’s kirtle. ‘I said stop her, not kill her!’ Othar looked up, surprised anger turning his face petulant. ‘What’s got into you, Rorik? She’s only a thrall. Let’s have some fun.’ Rorik went down on one knee beside his captive. She glared at him, but pain was clouding the golden fire in her eyes. Holding her arms, he carefully pulled her upright. ‘She’s mine, Othar,’ he said, knowing full well his brother was going to challenge that statement. Othar wasn’t the only one. A low growl rumbled through the crew, the warning before a storm. Every muscle in his body tensed. Odin curse it, why couldn’t she have stayed senseless until he’d warned the men off her? Didn’t she know they would’ve fallen on her like slavering wolves if he hadn’t reached her in time? ‘Little fool!’ he snarled in English. ‘You think drowning is such a desirable fate that you’d risk arousing my men to achieve it?’ ‘’Tis more desirable than slavery to you fiends of Satan,’ Yvaine spat.

She tried to wrench out of his hold and staggered as the relentless throbbing of her bruised back sent a wave of sickness through her. The dazzling water beyond the ship dipped and swayed. She felt herself swaying with it and squeezed her eyes shut. The Norseman’s grip tightened until she could feel the throb of her blood beneath his fingers. Holy Mother, he was strong. Those powerful hands could snap her in two in a heartbeat. But…he wasn’t hurting her. His hands felt protective…and utterly steady. As if he knew she couldn’t stand alone, that she was summoning every ounce of willpower to stay conscious. She lifted her lashes and gazed up into eyes the colour of ice crystals. ‘So you can speak now,’ he said in a calmer tone. ‘What are you called?’ The dazzling swaying water came back, reflected in his brilliant grey eyes. Yvaine gritted her teeth. If she was going to drown in those icy depths, she would drown with pride intact. ‘I am Yvaine of Selsey, second cousin to King Edward,’ she enunciated clearly. And crumpled between his hands. Rorik caught her up in his arms before her knees had done more than buckle. He cradled her against his chest, gazing down at the sweep of her lashes against her cheeks, the gentle curve of her mouth, and again felt that odd wrenching deep inside. And knowledge. A sure, irrevocable knowledge. His! This hurt, proud, recklessly courageous girl belonged to him. He didn’t think past that. Shoved the other sensations to the back of his mind. They went too deep, to a place he hadn’t looked into for a very long time. Right now, he had a more immediate problem on his hands. Slowly, deliberately, he turned to face his men. Several were on their feet, wolves closing in on a prey they knew was weak and helpless. He glared at them across her limp body. They shuffled, stepped back. Discomfort and wary acknowledgement replaced the avid purpose in their eyes. Some even looked sheepish, the expression sitting incongruously on rugged, weatherbeaten faces. Without a word, Rorik met each pair of eyes in turn. They sat again, and started rowing. Except Othar—and one other. ‘Not so fast, Rorik. What do you mean, she’s yours? We all share the loot.’

‘We don’t share women, Othar. As of this moment, every female on the ship is under my protection. They won’t be forced. They won’t be sold unless I approve the arrangement.’ Othar’s light blue eyes, almost level with his own, went cold. The boy rocked on the balls of his feet, but he made no further move, seeming undecided about what to do next. The red-bearded Viking took a step nearer. From the corner of his eye, Rorik saw Thorolf moving towards them. ‘Why don’t you take a turn at the styri?’ he suggested to Othar. ‘And get us out to sea.’ His brother slowly relaxed his belligerent pose. ‘You’re going to let me steer?’ ‘If you like. Keep the speed up and hoist the sail as soon as we reach open water.’ Othar cast a long, considering look at Yvaine, then turned a scowl on Thorolf who now stood a pace away. ‘You don’t have to play the watchdog,’ he sneered. ‘If Rorik wants to keep the wench, let him. We have others. Right, Ketil?’ ‘Aye, and plenty of time.’ The red-bearded ruffian stared into Rorik’s eyes for a second before moving away to his place at the oars. ‘We won’t be on the ship forever. Eh, Gunnar?’ He cuffed the man seated in front of him and took up his oar. His friend turned with a grin that displayed several missing teeth. ‘Time is useful, Ketil Skull-splitter. Very useful.’ Othar laughed and started back towards the stern. ‘Come on, you men,’ he yelled as he passed them. ‘Put your backs into it.’ ‘Swaggering young cub,’ muttered Thorolf. ‘He’ll probably run us aground.’ ‘Othar can steer in this calm water.’ Rorik jerked his head towards the sea, where white caps could be seen dancing over the surface. ‘But keep an eye on him, will you.’ ‘Aye, but this won’t be the end of it, Rorik. I didn’t like the look in Ketil’s eye. Or Gunnar’s. And a ship’s a damned inconvenient place for men to be fighting over women. You’ve said it yourself often enough. Get rid of the wench. Get rid of all of them.’ ‘What do you suggest I do? Toss them overboard?’ ‘Of course not. Put them ashore somewhere. They’re only going to cause trouble. I can see it.’ Rorik’s jaw tightened. ‘Before you start prattling like a soothsayer,’ he bit out, ‘you’d better see something else. Come with me.’ He strode towards the tent, brushing through the curtain just as the dark-haired girl went to peep out. She withdrew at once.

Her swift retreat didn’t improve his mood. ‘You won’t be harmed if you behave yourselves,’ he snapped. ‘We’re not all monsters.’ She glared at him. ‘So you say.’ Behind him, he heard Thorolf sigh. ‘Trouble.’ ‘Stop bleating like a damned sheep and look at this.’ He laid Yvaine down, flicked back the edges of her kirtle and glared up at his friend. ‘Well?’ Thorolf leaned closer. ‘By the runes! Who did that?’ ‘Her husband. I killed him.’ He didn’t wait for a comment on this terse explanation. ‘How can I put her ashore like this? She’d never survive.’ His voice lowered as he touched a hand to her hair. ‘Even as brave as she is.’ Thorolf ’s jaw dropped. He gaped at Rorik for a full ten seconds before he managed to clamp it shut again. ‘Uh…right. Wouldn’t survive. As brave as she is. So…what did she say her name was?’ ‘Yvaine of Selsey.’ Rorik frowned. ‘She’s some kind of cousin to Alfred’s son.’ ‘Alf—’ Shocked comprehension had Thorolf jerking upright. ‘But…she’s a woman.’ ‘Aye. So you said before.’ ‘And you think that’s just what the Gods ordered? Because she’s cousin to the King of the English? For Thor’s sake, Rorik, what do you have in mind for her? Ransom? Another beating? Shall we throw her overboard in truth?’ Rorik shot to his feet, his face hard. ‘That’s my decision to make. All you need do is make sure Othar is steering us in the right direction.’ Thorolf studied his leader for another tense moment and decided not to say ‘trouble’ again. Rorik was clearly not in the mood to listen to ominous forebodings or grim warnings. Indeed, his friend looked ready to knock the teeth down the throat of anyone who tried issuing such omens. But as he backed out of the tent, he took with him an uneasy memory of a vow of revenge against the English king that had been sworn on the blood of betrayal eight years ago. A vow that went to the very heart of Norse honour. Since then, he’d never seen Rorik strike anyone other than warriors who were his equal in battle, but it took no great leap of logic to see the Lady of Selsey as a means by which he could achieve his final act of vengeance against the king himself. Even if it meant going against his own nature. And if that happened, Thorolf decided grimly, they wouldn’t need a soothsayer to see dangerous shoals ahead.

And he didn’t mean the sandbar Rorik’s spoiled brat of a brother was probably heading for. Yvaine drifted in a timeless haze of semi-darkness and pain. Sometimes she felt someone spreading an evil-smelling salve on her back. Another time a hand held a cup to her lips, but it was too much effort to drink. She turned her face away and the hand disappeared. A few minutes later it was replaced by a large hand that pressed the cup hard against her mouth, forced her lips apart, and ruthlessly tipped the contents down her throat. After that, she drank whenever the cup returned. Usually it held water. Sometimes the contents were hot and tasty. Broth, she decided, before she slipped back into the merciful darkness. Once she woke to feel herself lifted and gently lowered again on to a thick bearskin. She sighed and snuggled her cheek against the unexpected luxury. A hand stroked her hair from her face. It wasn’t Anna. Anna’s hand was small, her touch light and quick. This was the large hand that had forced her to drink. She stiffened in vague alarm, but a soothing murmur stilled her and she drifted. And then, aeons later, she opened her eyes and was herself again. The cruel throbbing across her back had lessened to a dull ache that was bearable; movement would no longer rob her of her senses. She could think. But with the return of awareness came terror, a crushing weight of it, constricting her chest so she could scarcely breathe. Her heart seized; her limbs turned leaden. For a moment, just for the moment it took for her heart to start beating again, she wished she’d stayed senseless forever. Then she clenched her teeth, swallowed to ease the icy fingers of fear gripping her throat, and pushed herself to a sitting position. There’d be time enough for terror when she knew what the future held. And she wasn’t alone. ‘The saints be praised. You’re with us again, my lady.’ Beaming with relief, Anna came to sit beside her. She held out a cup and Yvaine took it. ‘Where are we?’ she croaked when she’d taken a few sips of water. Her voice sounded like rusty mail being hauled from storage. ‘Somewhere off the coast of the Danelaw, heading north,’ Anna told her. ‘The Norsemen beach the ship every evening so they can prepare hot food. Broth or gruel mostly. Some of the men stay ashore all night, but we’re not allowed to leave the ship. Well—’ she gestured slightly ‘—only for a few minutes morning and night.’

‘Aye,’ said Britta shortly. She stroked Eldith’s hair and drew the child closer. ‘We’re forced to live like animals in this cramped shelter.’ ‘Prisoners in truth,’ Yvaine murmured. But even as panic threatened again, something else nagged at the edge of her mind. A sound that had been constant and now was gone. She turned swiftly towards the dimmest corner under the prow when she realised what the silence meant. ‘The other woman. Where is she?’ Her companions glanced at each other. ‘Poor thing,’ Anna murmured. ‘We never knew anything about her, lady. She refused to speak, except to mutter over her beads. Then last night she got up and threw herself into the sea. The men on board were asleep. I suppose they thought if we tried to escape, ’twould be towards land, and that way was guarded.’ She shook her head, sighed. ‘Her body was found early this morning, washed up on the beach. They buried her at least.’ ‘May God have mercy on her soul,’ Yvaine whispered, crossing herself. ‘Aye. ’Tis a terrible sin to take your own life. Still, she was escaping from pagans. A martyr’s death, you could say.’ ‘But she hadn’t been molested,’ Britta added hastily. ‘None of us have.’ She thought about that for a minute. ‘That’s not to say some of them wouldn’t treat us like common harlots,’ she amended. ‘Especially that cold-eyed lout Othar and his friends. Blessed Mary, what a pair they are. Skull-splitter and Ale-swiller. Names well earned, I warrant. But they go in awe of Rorik.’ ‘Rorik?’ ‘Their leader. The one who captured you.’ Britta eyed her curiously. ‘Do you remember him, lady? A young warrior. Big. Powerful. Glittering eyes, watching. A large hand… No! She wouldn’t remember. That time in Ceawlin’s hall was part of her nightmare. ‘No,’ she murmured, aware that Anna’s gaze, too, had turned curious with her long silence. She glanced away, towards the leather curtain. One corner had been drawn back to admit some light into the shelter. Warm summer sunshine beckoned, a welcome distraction. ‘Are we allowed to breathe some fresh air?’ she asked, suddenly desperate to escape the confines of the tent. She had to be outside, had to think. Because out of the array of facts she’d just learned, one stood out clearly. If the Norsemen beached the ship at night, they might still escape.

‘Thorolf usually fetches us,’ Anna said doubtfully. Then she shrugged and helped Yvaine to rise. ‘But I see no harm if we stay near the tent, behind the rowers. I’ll come with you in case you feel weak.’ Yvaine gave her a smile, and was about to assure Anna that she felt much better, when they stepped into the open. The instant barrage of curious, assessing eyes tore the smile from her face as if she’d been struck. Frozen, she stared back, unable to do more in that first moment than wonder, stupidly, why the men weren’t rowing. The answer came as she staggered and almost fell. The ship was under sail, ploughing through the waves with a speed that caused her to grab for the side in startled surprise. A quick glance showed her that, far from making any threatening move towards her, most of the crew were seated on wooden chests along the sides, tending to equipment or keeping watch on the shrouds attached to the sail. To her everlasting relief, the men in the immediate vicinity seemed to have looked their fill. And, after that first furtive glance, she had no intention of finding out if the rest had done likewise. ‘Dear God,’ she whispered. ‘There seem to be hundreds of them.’ Anna gave her a wry smile. ‘Aye, so I thought at first. But there’s only forty, and they ignore us for the most part.’ If that was so, Yvaine thought, perhaps she should jump over the side now, when they’d least expect it. Taking a shaky breath, she forced her gaze past the men to the water beyond—and felt her heart plummet straight to her feet. Jumping overboard would avail her nought. Fore and aft and to one side of the longship, the open sea stretched to the horizon; dark, fathomless, surging constantly as though spurred by the force of some vast invisible power. And on the landward side…a lonely, windswept beach, its sandy hillocks covered in swathes of long grass that, stirred by the wind, looked eerily like the hair of longdeparted souls. There was no sign of human habitation. No sound except the haunting cry of a kestrel as it swooped above the dunes in search of prey. The empty landscape had her gripping the side in an agony of helpless frustration, but at the same time she felt the sun, warm on her face. The air was fresh, tangy with the scents of the sea. The cry of the kestrel called to something deep within her. She was alive. Alive. And if the other girls were to be believed, they hadn’t been harmed. Indeed, she’d been cared for.

She turned to Anna on the thought, grasping at the small, everyday task of thanking someone, as though that alone might restore some normality. ‘What have you been putting on my back, Anna? Now that I have air in my lungs, I have to own that even the threat of being watched by every lout on this ship pales before the stench inside that tent. I thought ’twas because we’d been confined, but—’ She craned her head to look over her shoulder, sniffed cautiously. ‘I seem to have brought it with me.’ Anna laughed. ‘’Tis sheep’s fat. The stuff smells vile, but ’tis wondrously healing. Your bruises are fading already.’ ‘Indeed.’ She reached out to give the girl’s hand a quick squeeze. ‘My thanks for all you’ve done. ’Twould have gone ill with me, I fear, if you hadn’t been here. I only wish I could repay you, but…’ ‘I need no payment, lady. Besides, I alone didn’t care for you. Rorik, himself, watched over you often. Indeed—’ her voice lowered ‘—he watches you now.’ And with those four words, the fragile shield of normality she’d been trying to build shattered like the spray flying from the prow above them. Yvaine fixed her gaze on the sea, her fingers pressing into the wood beneath them. ‘Where?’ she whispered. ‘The stern,’ Anna said in the same low tone. ‘Do you wish to retire, lady?’ ‘Retire?’ She gave a short, rather desperate laugh. ‘Of what use is that? I’d sooner jump over the side and swim for shore.’ ‘You already tried that,’ Anna said drily. ‘Besides, Rorik would be after you before you’d so much as wet a toe. What he takes he holds, mark me well.’ She glanced warily over her shoulder. ‘I may have spoken with him only briefly, but I’ve come to know his friend, Thorolf, somewhat better, and if half the tales he tells are true—’ ‘Tales?’ Yvaine turned. ‘What tales?’ Anna looked back at her, solemn-eyed. ‘’Tis said Rorik has never been defeated in battle, not even when he wrestled a great ice-bear with only his hands and a knife. Can you imagine it, lady? ’Tis why the men call him the Bearslayer. He wears the beast’s tooth on a cord around his neck and—’ ‘Wait…wait!’ Yvaine waved her hands to stop the flow. ‘An ice-bear?’ She frowned. ‘This Thorolf weaves a fine story, Anna, but I wonder you paid him heed. A bear made of ice? We should all see such a creature.’ ‘But—’ ‘No, no. Trust me on this. ’Tis only a tale. A Norse saga. I know all about them.’ And not for the world would she admit that icy little fingers had tiptoed up her spine during the telling.

‘Then what of Thorolf ’s accounts of battle, lady? With his own eyes, he’s seen—’ ‘Aye, feats of great daring, I have no doubt. Have you ever heard a tale of battle that didn’t include such things?’ ‘They must have some truth in them,’ Anna retorted with heavy meaning. ‘Or we wouldn’t be standing here unharmed when there are forty Vikings not ten feet away. What do you think would happen, lady, if Rorik didn’t have the men under control?’ The question effectively robbed Yvaine of the urge to discredit Anna’s tales; there could be only one answer. The ruffians, whose very presence made her want to shrink into the smallest possible space, were kept under control because the man who led them was more brutal, more ruthless, more savage than his crew. And she would have to face him, she realised, shaking inside. Before she could plan any escape, she would have to face him, assess the danger, try to outwit him. It might not be so hard, she thought, trying to bolster her courage. He was heathen, a barbarian. He probably didn’t look beyond the next bloodthirsty battle. But if they engaged in a battle of wits, the outcome might be different. Perhaps she could lull him into thinking them so cowed it would be safe to let them spend the night ashore. Then if she could lay her hands on a weapon— She turned, her gaze darting over the ship, from oars to pails to bundles of goods. There was nothing here to aid her. Nothing. Only ropes, a thick block of wood, a dragon — Dragon? She looked back at the stern, to the flash of gold that had caught her eye. Not a dragon; the steering oar, shaped like a long sea-serpent, the gilded eyes catching the sun in a way that seemed to breathe life into the carved beast. For a moment she was caught by the fanciful creature, captivated by the artistry. Then she saw the hand, large, long-fingered and strong, wrapped about the solid wood as though holding the dragon in check. A cool whisper of air brushed her skin, lifted the hair at her nape. Her gaze shifted, as though drawn by a force beyond her control; skimmed over a muscled forearm, past gold armrings, across a broad shoulder, upward. And there, watching her with the glittering intensity of a hawk sighting prey, were the light, piercing eyes of her memory.

Chapter Three E verything stopped. Time, thought, movement. The entire length of the ship separated them and yet she felt as powerless beneath her captor’s gaze as if he’d shackled

her to the deck. When he finally glanced aside to address the man standing next to him, her breath shuddered out on a ragged sound that echoed her heartbeat. ‘Thorolf comes to speak to us,’ Anna warned softly. ‘No need to fear him, lady. He’s more civilized than some of the others.’ ‘They’re savages,’ Yvaine muttered. And didn’t ask herself why she needed to make a point of it. ‘Every last one.’ ‘Hmm. Was your husband any better?’ Before she could answer that pointed question, she was confronted by a blond, bearded Viking. He glanced at Anna, then held out an imperative hand. ‘Come, lady.’ Not knowing what he intended, she stepped back. ‘Not at your bidding, barbarian.’ Thorolf sighed, seized her wrist and, without wasting any more words, began towing her towards the stern. Shock had Yvaine nearly tripping over her own feet. She’d expected force—and it was —but not quite as she’d anticipated. She finally got her voice back when she realised where they were going. ‘Loose me at once, you misbegotten savage. I’m not a sack of loot to be dumped at your leader’s f—’ She broke off to avoid being yanked willy-nilly over a cross-rib. ‘Hush your noise, lady.’ Thorolf threw her an impatient glance over his shoulder. ‘Would you make an outcry in front of the men? Rorik merely wishes to speak with you.’ ‘And this is the manner of his fetching? Who taught him courtesy? Your swineherd?’ He muttered something in Norse, then stopped, swinging about to face her. ‘Do you think Rorik can leave Sea Dragon to steer herself while he runs after you? Women! Nothing but trouble, first and last.’ Turning, he stomped onward. ‘Watch out for that bailing pail.’ Yvaine blinked at his back. The incongruity of an annoyed Viking making sure she didn’t stumble over the unfamiliar hazards in her path was beyond comprehension. Of course, he was just as likely to kill her if she followed her instincts and gave in to the urge to break free and run. Aye, and where is there to hide? she asked herself grimly. Behind the three men lounging at the base of the mast, idly casting dice? As if the trio had heard the thought, they looked up. Their attention fastened on her instantly, like leeches to human flesh. Yvaine shuddered and turned her face away. To her strained senses, the laughter that followed her held a hideous anticipation that reminded her of Ceawlin.

‘Ignore them,’ Thorolf said and, when her gaze darted up to his, he startled her again with a wry smile. ‘Perhaps Rorik should’ve come for you, lady, although Thor knows even he can’t stop the men from looking. But these seas are treacherous and he’s waiting for a tricky wind change. Best helmsman in all Norway, you know.’ No, she didn’t know. She didn’t know anything. The entire world had gone mad, leaving her floundering in confusion and disbelief. For there, standing before her, up close, without his helm, was the warrior of her dreams. Not the coarse brutish ruffian she’d anticipated, not the mindless barbarian she’d feared, but a man who could have stepped straight out of the Norse legends that had enthralled her as a young girl. How could that be? she wondered, frantically trying to recover her image of a witless savage. He was tall and strong, aye, but he didn’t possess the finely moulded features she’d always attributed to those legendary heroes, nor even the ordinary male good looks she’d grown accustomed to at her cousin’s court. He was too tough-looking. Too hard. This was the stern, savage beauty of slashing cheekbones, straight high-bridged nose, firmly chiselled jaw. And in the direct scrutiny of those piercing grey eyes, she saw an ice-cold intelligence that was more daunting than any brute force. Without speaking, without movement, he took her breath away. ‘You recover quickly, lady. Freyja must have watched over you.’ Yvaine jolted at the sound of his voice. Deep, with a husky timbre that made her think of darkest night, it stroked over her taut nerves as if he’d touched her. ‘Credit your heathen Gods if you will,’ she retorted, flushing with the belated realisation of the way she’d been staring at him. She hadn’t even noticed that Thorolf had left them. ‘No doubt they approve of men carrying off helpless women and selling them into slavery.’ The Viking’s brows rose. Glancing up at the mast, he made a slight adjustment to the tiller, then returned his gaze to her face. ‘Your husband would have abandoned you to slavery. I won’t.’ Tilting her chin in disbelief, she affected an absorbed interest in the sea beyond him. But she was aware of him still. Saints preserve her, she was aware of every little detail. The way the wind ruffled shoulder-length hair that was lighter than her own and streaked by the sun. The way he stood, long legs braced against the movement of the ship; the powerful ripple of muscle in his arm as he held the vessel on course; the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes when he narrowed them against the light.

So sure of himself, so utterly male. Standing there challenging the unpredictable forces of nature and harnessing them to his will. How could she ever escape such a man? Did she want to? The question had her gasping before she could stifle the sound. Her knees buckled. ‘Here,’ he said gruffly, shoving a wooden sea-chest closer with his booted foot. ‘Sit down before you keel over. You’re probably weak from hunger.’ He reached to a sack at his feet. Yvaine dropped to the chest without a murmur. It wasn’t obedience; her legs simply gave way. Where had that thought come from? Had she forgotten she was dealing with a Viking? He wasn’t going to take her for a sail along the coast, then return her with a polite word of thanks for her company. An object that resembled a strip of leather landed on her lap. She stared at it as one eyeing a serpent poised to strike. ‘’Tis dried fish, not henbane,’ her captor murmured. And at the note of wry humour in his voice, she looked up—into eyes that were no longer cold. He smiled at her. A slow, heart-stopping smile that completely transformed his stern features, melting the ice in his eyes and replacing it with something warm and wicked. Something that invited her to forget about forced abduction and slavery and follow where he led. Dear God, why would the man even need force? she thought dazedly. That smile would make a willing thrall of any woman. It caressed, it embraced, it enticed. It threatened to destroy the walls of stone she’d built around her emotions. Heaven save her, hunger really had addled her wits. She had to get her strength back. Fast! Tearing her gaze from Rorik’s, she snatched up the fish, put it between her teeth and bit. Then nearly choked when he leaned over and swiftly unfastened her kirtle. Screams tangled in her throat, sounds without voice. She tried to leap up, only to feel strong fingers clamp around the nape of her neck, anchoring her to the chest. Her heart slammed against her ribs in a terrified rhythm she was sure he could hear. Was he going to tear her clothes off in front of his men? ‘Be still,’ he murmured. ‘The sun will be good for your back, and the men can’t see anything.’ His fingers relaxed, cupping the nape of her neck rather than gripping it. She felt his hand move to her back, a fleeting touch. Then he straightened away from her.

Relief had her slumping on the chest as every muscle went limp. He wasn’t going to tear her clothes off. At least, not yet. Indeed, his attention was no longer on her at all, but on his ship. He pulled hard on the steering oar, bellowing out orders. Men swarmed up the mast, sure-footed on the ropes as they brought the sail around. She fixed her gaze on the huge expanse, realising, after the space of several heartbeats, that it wasn’t particularly war-like. It was criss-crossed in diagonal lines of red and white, but there was no fierce black raven such as she’d heard described. Surprised, she followed the line of the mast upward. A triangular, gilded wind-vane was swinging around to landward. Pennants attached to holes along its lower edge flew proudly in the breeze and, higher still, the small figure of a dragon gazed out over the horizon with remote, far-seeing eyes. The light was dazzling. She lowered her eyes, vaguely aware of the heat bathing her back. The sun did feel good; warm and healing. She absently took another bite of fish. ‘Tell me, lady. Why did your husband take the time to beat you in the middle of a Viking raid?’ The question, coming without warning, jerked her upright again as if Rorik had taken a whip to her. ‘Well?’ he prompted when she sent him a quick, startled look. ‘Had you goaded him beyond reason? Lain with another man? What had you done to be so grievously punished at such a time?’ ‘Oh, that’s right, assume I was to blame.’ Outrage restored her voice in a hurry. ‘Goaded Ceawlin beyond reason? Aye. The very fact that I breathed goaded him for the entire five years we were wed.’ ‘Five years?’ His brows snapped together. ‘You must have been a child.’ ‘I was fourteen,’ she said curtly. ‘What of it? As for a beating, you Norse probably do the same when your wives defy you. Or worse.’ ‘In my land, lady, a woman may divorce her husband for the treatment you were subjected to, unless he can prove she was a faithless wife. In my land, a woman may divorce a man for being a poor provider, or lazy. Or for baring his chest in public.’ ‘Baring his chest?’ She glared at him. ‘You must think me a lackwit, if you think I’d believe that tale.’ Amusement edged his mouth. ‘Far from it. But I speak the truth. My own uncle employed the ruse to rid himself of a wife whose tongue was honed to a sharper edge than any battle-axe on this ship. If a man bares his chest publicly ’tis considered bad taste and provocative. By the same token—’ He reached out, touched the honey-gold tresses

tumbled about her shoulders; a gentle caress that was over before she thought to evade it. ‘A married woman must cover her hair.’ ‘Oh.’ Hot colour rushed to her cheeks. Until that moment she hadn’t given a thought to her appearance. Now, for some strange reason, she was acutely aware that several amenities had been missing from her life for a couple of days. Such as soap, and a comb. She wondered if Rorik was aware of the pervasive odour of sheep fat that hovered about her, and then wondered why the thought had even occurred. ‘Well, ’tis a pity I couldn’t divorce Ceawlin,’ she muttered, annoyed with herself. ‘But our marriage was supposed to benefit my cousin. And why are we even discussing the matter?’ ‘Because I would know you, lady. I would especially know about this cousin.’ ‘The king?’ She frowned. ‘You want to know about Edward?’ ‘Edward,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Aye.’ ‘But what—?’ She stopped dead, the answer striking her like a thunderbolt. Ransom. Of course! Oh, why hadn’t she thought of it before? The means to her freedom was right here to hand. Vikings wanted loot; she could offer it. Relief made her head spin. She had to struggle to keep her voice steady, to hide her eagerness. ‘What do you want to know?’ she asked as amounts of coin and jewels danced through her mind. ‘Why your cousin married you to a brute and a coward at such a tender age, for a start.’ ‘I—what?’ ‘The question was simple enough, lady. You said you were married five years ago. ’Twould have been about the time Alfred died, by my reckoning.’ ‘Aye, but…’ She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘How did you know that?’ ‘’Tis not important.’ ‘But—’ ‘I will have your answer, lady!’ ‘Oh, aye. Right away. At your command, O Leader of Pirates.’ ‘Sarcasm won’t change the fact that I do command here. Speak!’ Yvaine dug her nails into her palms, reaching for patience. Sarcasm would also not win her release.

‘Five years ago,’ she began with great care, ‘Edward was crowned King of Wessex. However, our cousin Athelwold challenged Edward’s right to the throne. When he failed to win enough support, he fled to the Danelaw and tried to gain followers there. ’Tis not unknown for Saxons to hire Norse warriors when it suits them, so Edward thought to ally himself through marriage to some of Athelwold’s English thegns. Ceawlin was one of them.’ ‘That’s why the king’s standard flew over your hall?’ ‘Aye.’ She shrugged. ‘Ceawlin would have it so, even though the king never set foot in the place. Mayhap he thought proclaiming his royal connection was support enough for Edward’s cause. Heaven knows, he was too cowardly to fight for either side, but Athelwold was killed in battle last year, so it no longer mattered.’ ‘Except you would have been bound to a man who mistreated you for the rest of your life.’ She gaped at him. ‘You have the effrontery to make that statement?’ ‘I haven’t mistreated you,’ he pointed out mildly. ‘Holy Saints! How do you describe murder and kidnapping? As doing me a favour?’ ‘You tell me, lady.’ He studied her for an uncomfortably long moment. ‘You were beaten almost unto death. If your husband still lived, and resented your presence as you say, how long would you have survived? There are many ways to kill a woman while she lies senseless.’ Yvaine moved restlessly under that cool, steady gaze. Uneasy memory stirred. Something about Anfride’s potions. ‘Ceawlin could hardly kill me before witnesses,’ she muttered. ‘What witnesses? The place was deserted and might have remained so. I’ve heard of people not returning to their homes for days after a raid.’ ‘Aye, because there’s nothing for them to return to after you finish burning and looting.’ ‘Not all of us burn and loot, little one.’ His voice had dropped to a dark tone she thought she’d heard once before. She shivered. No. Impossible. ‘Do you think me blind?’ she scoffed. ‘I saw the smoke from your fires. I saw your friend, Thorolf, with plate and silver, I—’ His brows went up. ‘You recall a lot, little cat, for one so grievously hurt.’ ‘I recall you killing,’ she retorted. ‘I recall seeing others lying dead. Even now one of your captives has thrown herself into the sea, and…

‘Ah. You blame me for that?’ ‘You caused her to be—’ ‘No!’ His voice was suddenly stern, those light eyes piercingly intent. ‘Do you accuse me of her death, lady?’ Yvaine glared at him. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘I cannot. Precisely.’ The hard line of his mouth eased. ‘You would seem to have a fine sense of justice, lady. It should surprise me, but somehow…’ He shook his head. ‘You also have courage. Too much, I think, to follow that unfortunate woman’s example.’ ‘Sometimes it takes more courage to die than to let oneself by used.’ ‘You know damn well I’m not going to hand you over to my men,’ he chided. ‘Despite your husband’s charming suggestion that I do so.’ ‘Well, then, you do have a problem, don’t you. I’m not destined for slavery, I’m not destined for your men. The only thing left is to rape me yourself.’ And, Holy Mother, if you have any mercy, you’ll let me sink through these planks beneath my feet and disappear into the sea. Nothing happened. Except that Rorik raised a sardonic brow. ‘Not the most enticing offer I’ve ever received,’ he drawled. ‘But an interesting challenge, none the less. ’Tis plain to see you need taming, lady.’ The blood drained from her face in a heartbeat. ‘The way Ceawlin tried?’ He was down beside her before the last whispered word vanished on the wind. Without meaning to, Yvaine flinched. ‘Thor’s hammer,’ he said very softly, ‘have I given you reason to fear me so greatly? Do you truly believe I’d strike you after seeing what that bastard did to you?’ ‘How do I know?’ She shook her head, desperately trying to rally enough wit to defy him. The task was well nigh impossible. He was too close, too big, too overwhelmingly male. And this close, somehow different. Still tough, still hard, but the sun slanted over his cheekbones, touching his mouth so that his lower lip looked fuller, softer. And though his eyes were narrowed, she saw concern, and something that looked…almost questioning. She wrenched her gaze away, inexplicably shaken. ‘How can I tell you what you’d do? You took me from my home. I saw you kill Ceawlin. Even if you thought he…But he’d never touched me until then. In any way. So—’

‘What!’ Rorik reached out, captured her face with one large hand and jerked it around to his. Yvaine’s heart thudded at the flare of heat in his eyes. In the clear light they shone almost silver. ‘What are you saying?’ he demanded. ‘That he had you in his bed for five years and never touched you? Was the man dead even then?’ ‘Well, he didn’t…I mean, he wasn’t…that is, he had other interests.’ Yvaine winced at the babbled explanation. Coherent speech was beyond her, but Rorik seemed to know precisely what Ceawlin’s other interests had entailed. His fingers tightened painfully for an instant, before he tore his hand away and shot to his feet. If the mast had suddenly fallen on him he couldn’t have been more stunned. Rorik stood rigid, only his seaman’s instincts keeping his hand on the steering oar as the truth hit him with the force of a battering ram. The Englishman hadn’t lied. Yvaine was innocent. She was his. By the Thunderer, she was his. No other man had seen her naked, touched her sweet flesh, held her— The violent rush of blood to his loins warned him to stop that line of thought, but what stunned him was the wild conflict of emotions raging within him. Protectiveness. Tenderness. Where had they come from? He’d felt liking for the women he’d bedded, affection for one or two, but never this. Never to the point where he was torn in two; rent savagely between aching desire and an equally fierce need to protect the object of his desire. Even from himself. Gods! He couldn’t think about this now. Couldn’t think about the grinding need to plunder, to hold; to ravish, to shield. He was all that stood between Yvaine and forty men. If he once broke the rule he’d laid down while the women were on board, none of them would be safe. Clamping his hand harder around the steering oar, he forced his gaze from Yvaine’s startled face to her kirtle. The loosened garment had slipped sideways, giving him a tantalising glimpse of the slender column of her throat and one delicately curved shoulder. It wasn’t the distraction he needed, but the unpleasant suspicion that struck him at that moment, wrenched his thoughts from the storm howling within him. ‘Is that why you’re wearing those clothes?’ he snarled. ‘To cater to your lord’s other interests?’ Shocked bewilderment sprang into her eyes, but he couldn’t soften the rage in his voice. The thought that her husband might have forced Yvaine to dress as a boy, in order to bed

her to get a son, sent reason hurtling overboard. He could have killed the viperous bastard all over again. Slowly. ‘To cater—’ Bewilderment changed to comprehension, then to a fury that almost matched his own. ‘How dare you!’ ‘I didn’t mean willingly,’ he growled, calming down somewhat in the face of this reaction. But Yvaine sprang to her feet, the reason for her boy’s attire sweeping through her on a tide of rage. ‘I was going to leave him,’ she cried. ‘I was going to return to Edward. And I would’ve succeeded had it not been for you! Thief! Plunderer! You even took the money I needed and—’ ‘What money?’ ‘That bag Ceawlin was so anxious to give you. It had my dowry in it.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t need the paltry wealth of such a nithing.’ ‘Well, I did! Now I have noth—’ She stopped, her gaze suddenly riveted to the hand she was waving about. A heavy gold ring, set with precious garnets and sapphires, adorned one finger. She tugged it off. ‘Except this,’ she said breathlessly, holding it out. ‘’Tis valuable and rare. Will you take it in payment for sending a messenger to Edward? He’ll ransom me and the others, I swear it. You’ll not lose by setting us free.’ Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. ‘How do you know what I’ll lose, little cat?’ ‘Nothing of honour, surely. All men understand the rules of ransom. Even Vikings. Take the jewel. I have no need of it now Ceawlin is dead, and never wanted it in the first place.’ ‘Your husband put that ring on your finger?’ ‘Aye, but—’ Rorik whipped the ring out of her grasp before she could blink. Without even glancing at it, he drew back his arm and flung the jewel as far as he could. ‘Then let Aegir’s daughters have it,’ he muttered with savage satisfaction. Yvaine stood as though tied to the deck and watched in appalled disbelief as her property soared in a shining arc and disappeared beneath a rolling wave. ‘I can’t believe you did that.’ She turned on him, fury curling her hands into tiny fists. ‘To think that a moment ago I wondered if you might be different. But you’re nothing but a savage…an ignorant barbarian…a—’

He stepped forward and clamped his free hand over her mouth, silencing her by the mere threat of those powerful fingers closing hard around her jaw. ‘Enough,’ he said with ominous quiet. ‘You can spit at me as much as you like in private, lady, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let you do so in front of my men.’ ‘In private!’ She spluttered behind his hand. And immediately froze, staring up at him, as the movement of her mouth against his calloused palm sent heat streaking through her. He tensed as if she’d struck him. His eyes narrowed, turned fierce. Then with a gentleness in shattering contrast to the blazing intensity in his eyes, he lowered his hand to her throat, touched his fingers to the pulse leaping there. ‘Aye, in private,’ he growled, and she trembled uncontrollably at the dark promise in his voice. ‘When you can release the fire frozen inside you by that travesty of a marriage.’ Dear God, she was going to faint. His blatantly stated intent, allied to the gentle touch of his fingers, had her senses reeling. She couldn’t let it happen. Couldn’t. ‘Aye,’ he murmured as though privy to her thoughts. ‘You’ll fight me, little cat. Until you know me better, I wouldn’t expect otherwise. But while you fight me, think on this.’ His gaze, utterly focused, held hers. ‘Had I left you where you lay, I doubt you’d have lived. If you’d escaped your husband unhindered, you’d never—’ ‘I don’t care.’ Horrified that the first man to wring a response from her was a marauder to whom she was nothing but an object to be used, she wrenched herself out of his hold and backed away. ‘I might have lived. I might have reached Edward. You had no right to stop me.’ ‘Damn it, I didn’t—’ ‘But you’re right about one thing,’ she swept on. ‘I will fight you. I’ll make you wish you’d never set eyes on me. I’ll—’ ‘Do you think that hasn’t already crossed my mind?’ he snarled suddenly, shocking her into silence. ‘I don’t carry off women as a matter of course, lady, but damn you to the far reaches of Hel, I saw you lying in that hall and forgot why I was there. I looked at you, captured and helpless, and forgot your kind is usually at war with mine.’ His voice lowered to a guttural growl she barely recognised as human. ‘By the Gods, I touched your naked flesh and almost took you where you lay.’ She remembered! Heaven help her, she remembered. Being tied, being trapped, being touched. She stood there, fighting for air, for the strength to defy him, while memory swept through her with a force that left her shaking; while her mind reeled beneath a vision

more terrifying than any memory. A vision of herself engulfed by the Viking leader, their limbs entwined, his head bent over hers, the hard mouth taking… A shuddering wave of sensation tore through her. She almost staggered under the force of it. With an almost soundless cry, she turned to flee.

Chapter Four H e whipped an arm about her waist before she’d taken a single step. ‘Fight me here in the open,’ he warned, ‘and you’ll have every man on this ship licking his lips while he awaits the outcome.’ The words were like a slap in the face. Yvaine dragged in a shuddering breath and almost choked on it when the movement brought her closer against him. His mail tunic had been replaced by a loosely belted kirtle, but it made no difference. The arm about her was like iron; the rest of his body as hard. Heat surrounded her, turning her limbs to water. His scent, a tantalizing mixture of male, salt air and sun-warmed skin, had her senses swimming. Desperate to escape the devastating assault, she made a small frantic sound and strained away from him. ‘Let…me…go!’ ‘So you can fall on your face? Damn it, stop trembling like that. I’m not going to hurt you.’ ‘You expect me to believe that? When you say you want me and damn me to hell in the same breath?’ ‘Ah.’ He was silent a moment. ‘You know little of men, sweet virgin. I hadn’t realised how complete is your innocence.’ He lowered his head to hers. ‘Here’s your first lesson. A man is not at his most patient when he holds the woman he wants in his arms and can’t take her.’ ‘Then let me suggest a cure for such a grievous malady. Release me at once.’ She felt some of the tension leave his body; felt his mouth curve against her hair. ‘But you tremble still. ’Tis difficult enough to keep one’s footing in these seas.’ Holy saints! After frightening her out of her wits, was he teasing her? Out of the maelstrom of emotions battering her senses, she managed to wrest some pride. ‘I won’t fight you in front of these savages,’ she muttered. ‘But nor will I give you the satisfaction of seeing me fall. Especially at your feet.’ ‘That wouldn’t give me satisfaction, little cat. If you look like falling at my feet, I’ll catch you and we’ll reach the ground together.’

‘And angels will change their halos for forked tails.’ He laughed. And kissed her swiftly on the cheek. ‘This time I’m only going to fasten your kirtle. There’s nought to fear in that.’ ‘No,’ she whispered through the pulse pounding wildly in her throat. ‘Nought to fear.’ He released her, slowly, as though he wasn’t sure she believed him. It wouldn’t have mattered. She couldn’t run until her legs stopped trembling. Nought to fear? He had no conception of a woman’s fears. Until now, neither had she. The thought made her shiver. ‘Don’t make it easy for me,’ he growled. She barely heard him. Barely realised he’d felt that small betraying tremor. She had to get away. Had to think about this new threat that had sprung at her from nowhere. He’d fastened the first laces and moved to the next. There were three ties; two would keep her decently covered. The instant the second knot was drawn tight she sprang free and ran, stumbling over the uneven planking until she was forced to slow down or fall. Her heart pounded, her stomach churned. Reaction had her shaking so badly only sheer momentum kept her upright. That, and the promise of shelter. The tent beckoned, a safe haven. A safe haven? That flimsy tent? A strip of leather won’t keep him from you. No! Don’t think about it. Keep moving. The base of the mast loomed in front of her. She swerved, remembering the three dice-throwers. This time they were easy to ignore. Until one man rose to his feet and moved in front of her, bringing her to an abrupt standstill. He looked vaguely familiar. She frowned, wondering why it should be so, then, cursing herself for her hesitation, went to step around him. He stretched out an arm and propped his hand against the mast, blocking her path. He made no move to touch her, but his cold blue eyes raked her up and down with calculated insolence. After all she’d been through it was too much. Her teeth clenched on a snarl of pure rage. ‘Get out of my way, you accursed heathen!’ The Viking threw back his head and laughed. ‘A spitting wildcat,’ he announced to nobody in particular. But his amusement was mirthless, malicious. He opened his mouth to speak again.

‘Let her pass, Othar.’ ‘Did you hear the way she—?’ ‘Stand aside!’ Rorik’s voice cracked behind her with the force of a whip. Yvaine jumped. He must have handed over the steering oar and moved like lightning. She flinched as he closed his hand over her arm, but didn’t try to avoid his touch. Othar scowled and moved aside, his face reddening when some of the nearer men sniggered. Yvaine didn’t wait to see anyone else’s reaction to the unpleasant little scene. She hurried towards the tent, painfully aware of Rorik keeping pace by her side, of his hard fingers gripping her arm. And still she didn’t shake him off. How could she? She needed him. Without his protection she’d have no choice but to throw herself overboard before the crew fell on her like dogs snarling over a bone. But his protection came at a price. Fixing her eyes on the shelter, she quickened her pace; a hunted creature seeking the safety of its den. ‘Another lesson,’ he murmured when they reached it. ‘When the quarry flees, the hunter is all the more determined to catch it.’ ‘I’m sure you consider me already captured,’ she retorted, refusing to look at him. ‘That being so, you could at least allow me the privacy of my prisoner’s quarters.’ ‘You’re a long way from captured, sweet prisoner. The trick, in this instance, is the bait.’ ‘Wallow in delusion if you must. You have nothing I want. Except the means to my freedom.’ ‘Stubborn little cat.’ He laughed softly, and sliding his hand down to hers, he spread her fingers wide, lacing his between them with a slow insistent pressure that, for some odd reason, made her legs go weak, as if…Dear God, as if he’d laid her down and was spreading… No! She shook her head; struggled to keep her footing against the wave of terrifying vulnerability that threatened to drag her under. ‘Such big eyes,’ he murmured. ‘Such a tiny hand. You fear me now, little maiden, because you’re innocent. It won’t always be so.’ ‘Because you intend to rob me of my innocence!’ She flung the words at him, looking up at last. ‘No,’ he corrected. ‘Because you’ll learn not to fear me.’

‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she denied. ‘And you’ll take nothing from me that I don’t want to give.’ Rorik’s eyes narrowed briefly. Aye, you will be mine, little cat. Already you know it, without knowing. ’Tis why you fight so hard. But he couldn’t tell her that. Not when the confusion in her eyes belied the gallant angle of her chin. Not when she stood there, so small and soft, in the midst of male violence. Something exquisitely painful pierced his chest even while his free hand clenched against the need to pull her against him, to press his body to hers and find some ease from the ache that had tormented him from the moment he’d touched her. He wanted to see fire in her eyes, not fear. He wanted her willing. Aye, and how willing was she likely to be when he’d taken her from her home and dumped her in conditions that could test the hardiest of men? The question came out of nowhere, blind-siding him. Rorik shook his head. Gods! Was he now doubting his actions? He’d taken her. ’Twas done. But he looked down at her, at the sweet, tremulous curve of her mouth, at the way she kept her gaze on his, glaring, without yielding an inch, and was shaken by an overpowering urge to give her something, anything, to ease the shock of that transition. ‘Would you like a bath?’ he murmured. Her eyes blinked wide. ‘A what?’ Despite the ache of frustration, he smiled. ‘Tonight we’ll beach near a river. After that we won’t sight land until we reach the Jutland peninsula, two days’ sailing away. I thought you might like a bath.’ Bracing himself for the tearing sensation he knew would follow, he separated their hands. Yvaine stared at her fingers. They were still there, still hers, but they pulsed gently from the pressure of his, a faint throbbing that was echoed somewhere deep inside her. A sudden longing swept over her. For something familiar. Something safe. Something utterly mundane. Like a bath. ‘Without you,’ she blurted out. Then blushed wildly when his brows shot up. ‘I meant as a guard,’ she muttered, scowling. He laughed wryly. ‘At this moment, sweet lady, you’ll be safer with Orn Hooknose. He has granddaughters older than you.’ ‘More shame to him, then, that he’s on this ship.’ ‘Hmm. I’m beginning to see what my uncle meant about his wife’s tongue. Don’t worry, little cat, Orn won’t touch you. He’ll be there for your protection.’

‘You mean he’ll be there to make sure we don’t escape.’ Every trace of amusement vanished from his face. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he bit out with icy precision. ‘’Twould be as foolish as your attempt to jump overboard the other day.’ Yvaine lifted her chin. ‘I knew what I was doing. I can swim.’ ‘Indeed?’ His expression turned sardonic. ‘A useful accomplishment. But if you run off into the Danelaw you’ll be in well over your head. The English aren’t very popular there at present, thanks to your enterprising cousin. A girl alone, and as beautiful as you are, would be forced into a whorehouse so fast you’d think slavery a blessing in comparison.’ When she didn’t answer, his eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps a bath wasn’t such a good idea, after all.’ But Yvaine wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip out of her grasp. The possibility of escape beckoned. The promise of ridding herself of the pervasive odour of sheep fat almost outweighed it. ‘Even a bath in the sea would be welcome,’ she murmured wistfully. And Rorik felt his heart melt. ‘Tell the other women,’ he instructed curtly, and turned away, now regretting his offer but utterly incapable of disappointing her. ‘You’d best all bathe together.’ Yvaine stood in the opening of the tent and watched him stride away. He never faltered, never swerved from his path, never doubted his purpose. Oh, for a tithe of that sureness, that strength. She felt as if she’d just been pummelled by the heavy stones used by the laundresses to press water from the wash. Her legs shook, her arms hung limply at her sides… ‘My lady? Are you all right? You’ve been gone so long I was worried.’ Yvaine turned. And suddenly not only her legs, but her entire body was trembling. ‘Anna.’ She almost collapsed against the girl. ‘I just realised. I’ve been bandying words with a Viking, and—’ She stopped, shook her head. ‘Bandying. What a useless description. I argued with him, defied him, angered him…but he didn’t…’ ‘Hurt you?’ Anna ventured, steering her into the tent. ‘No, he didn’t hurt me.’ Yvaine gazed blankly at her surroundings. ‘I think…in some way…’twould have been easier if he had.’ When Anna stared at her, uncomprehending, she made a small, dismissive gesture. ‘Pay no heed to me, Anna. I spoke without thought. No woman wishes to be hurt.’

‘No, lady.’ The girl continued to eye her doubtfully. ‘Perhaps you should sit down. ’Twill be an hour or two before the ship is beached.’ ‘Aye.’ She sank to the bearskin, grateful for the reprieve. The battle had exhausted her. A mere battle of words, of wits—that she’d actually thought she might win. Oh, foolish arrogance. Reckless pride. What had made her think such a thing when for five long years she’d surrendered every battlefield, refused every fight, schooled herself never to show anger, never to betray fear, never to give in to wrenching loneliness. At first because she wouldn’t give Ceawlin the satisfaction, and then— And then, when fear had finally worn thin that first winter at Selsey, the young girl, who’d married to please the only family she had left, was gone, and she’d turned cold. Cold all the way through. So cold she’d thought her heart had been buried forever beneath the frozen snowdrifts surrounding the manor. Now spring had come with a vengeance; feeling overwhelmed her. Wave after wave of anger and fear and something…urgent. She felt it with every part of her being, as if all her nerves were thrumming like lute strings too violently plucked. She wanted to pace, needed desperately to move to escape the sensation, and had to force herself to stillness, while her heart beat like the wings of a hundred birds fleeing the turbulence of a summer storm. And through it all, carried on the winds of confusion that swirled through the tempest, the vision that had sent her fleeing from the Viking leader played over and over in her mind, like an ancient bard who remembers only one verse. With a tiny sound of despair, she wrapped her arms around her upraised knees, laid her head down and closed her eyes. What had he done to her? They bathed in a small pool, formed by a collapsed section of the riverbank where the low-lying leafy branches of an ancient oak created an illusion of privacy. The westering sun, filtering through the leaves, sent light and shadow rippling across the shimmering surface. Further out, a path of liquid gold flowed lazily towards the shore. Later, when the tide turned, the flow would drift inland, towards the forest—and freedom. Yvaine gazed into the trees, and counted the hours until nightfall. She’d finally found a measure of peace, had told herself that Rorik had done nothing more than kidnap her. She wasn’t the first woman to be so used, nor would she be the last. Indeed, in these uneasy times it happened frequently; sometimes for revenge, but

more often because the woman was an heiress and a man was looking for a wealthy bride. At least she didn’t have to worry about those two possibilities. And though she’d never admit as much to Rorik, she suspected he had saved her life by kidnapping her. She hadn’t known about Anfride’s potions at the time, but three times in the past few months she’d been overcome by stomach pains and illness for no apparent reason. The feeling of impending danger that had been growing on her since the last episode had spurred her to seize the chaos of the Viking raid as cover for her escape. Her plan had failed, but that didn’t mean she’d willingly stay with the man who’d carried her off because he’d rescued her from another violent male. ‘You are very quiet, lady. Does your back pain you still?’ Yvaine glanced over her shoulder. They’d bathed and Anna was braiding her hair. Though soap had still been lacking, one of their guards had produced a bone comb and brusquely shoved it into Britta’s hand. She and little Eldith sat watching as Anna’s nimble fingers moved through the thick strands of hair. ‘No. At least, only a little. If I’m quiet, ’tis just that this is our last night in England, and —’ ‘You’re not thinking of running, lady,’ Britta glanced from Yvaine’s face to the forest. ‘Those warriors Rorik sent to guard us might have their backs turned, but I warrant their ears are alert to every sound.’ ‘Besides, where would you go?’ Anna asked. ‘’Tis a long way to Selsey and you’d have to cross the Danelaw.’ She tied Yvaine’s hair with a scrap of cloth torn from her kirtle and leveled the comb at her. ‘We may be captives here, but at least we have some protection.’ ‘I know, but…’ She let her protest fade. Anna was right. So was Rorik, come to that. This part of England was firmly held by the Danes, despite Edward’s efforts to reclaim it so he could fulfill his father’s ambition of a united England. There would be little safety here and, if the other girls were truly reconciled to their fate, she would be completely alone. The knowledge sent chills through her, but how could she persuade the others to escape against their will, especially with a child? Danger, hunger and fear would be their constant companions, and who was she to say their lives would be no better in Norway? Anna claimed to have been little more than a slave; Britta looked as though grinding labour had been her lot since she could remember; and poor little Eldith would have suffered the fate of orphaned children, and become a slave anyway in exchange for food and shelter. She alone had somewhere to turn, but how was she to get there?

Nothing helpful occurred as they were herded back to the beach. They cleared the forest and the ship came into view, still some distance away. Indecision racked her. She glanced back towards the river, her footsteps slowed. Sheer madness to run now; they were surrounded. But the forced waiting raked at her nerves like tiny claws. ‘Better you not fall behind lady,’ said a gruff voice beside her. ‘Night draws close, and the Bearslayer’s patience isn’t boundless.’ Yvaine turned her head. A pair of light blue eyes in a crinkled nut-brown face stared back at her, not unkindly. Above the man’s grizzled beard was a hawk-like nose of truly impressive proportions. Hooknose without a doubt. ‘Bearslayer,’ she echoed sceptically, answering him in Norse, although he’d used enough English to make himself understood. She ignored the flicker of surprise in his eyes. ‘I suppose you, too, are going to tell me he killed an ice-bear.’ ‘He did, lady. Not that I saw the deed myself, but—’ ‘No, nor anyone else, I warrant.’ ‘You speak with haste and without thought, mistress. That puts you at a disadvantage when dealing with my lord, gentle though he’s been with you.’ ‘Gentle!’ Yvaine sniffed. ‘I’ve seen little evidence of it.’ ‘Now you speak without knowledge. An hour in Ketil’s company would change your mind.’ Orn jerked his head, indicating a group of men walking towards them. With dismay, Yvaine recognised the three dice-throwers. ‘Othar,’ muttered Anna, moving to her other side as she halted. ‘He makes my flesh creep. You wouldn’t think he and Rorik are brothers, would you?’ ‘Brothers?’ Startled, Yvaine looked at the boy, using the small crowd as a shield. The vague sense of familiarity she’d experienced earlier was now explained, but she had to agree with Anna. Othar was tall and fair, but he seemed a mere shadow of his brother, his sullen face a blurred image of Rorik’s stern, cleanly etched features, his build already that of a man who spent more time in an ale-house than on the jousting-field. But the main difference was in the eyes. Rorik’s grey eyes held the chill of winter in their glittering depths, but she’d also seen them warm with amusement, or blaze with sudden, fierce desire. Othar’s blue eyes held the flat, inward stare of a man who sees only himself. And their expression turned ugly when he heard Anna’s remark. ‘You won’t be on the ship forever, wench, so watch your tongue or I’ll cut it out the minute we reach Kaupang.’

His gap-toothed friend apparently found the prospect appealing. He grinned, before turning a curious stare on Yvaine. The third man was already watching her, his eyes as cold and unblinking as a snake’s. ‘Try not to spoil a peaceful summer evening, Othar.’ Hooknose spoke with an impatient authority she could only hope was effective. ‘We have to get these thralls on board before Rorik returns.’ ‘Don’t give me orders, old man. If you let them linger overlong at their bath the consequences rest on your head.’ ‘Aye. Enjoy the watch, did you, Orn?’ Gap-tooth roared with laughter at his own wit. His friend’s expression never altered. ‘Orn fears the Bearslayer’s wrath too greatly for that.’ She felt Orn stiffen beside her. ‘And you, Ketil? Do you fear it no less that you address me against his orders?’ Ketil flicked a glance at Orn, but remained silent. ‘Ketil spoke to me, Orn.’ A ripple of unease crossed Gap-tooth’s face. ‘We don’t want any trouble. You know what Rorik said about private feuds while we sail with him.’ Othar snorted. ‘You mew like a new-born kitten, Gunnar.’ Barrelling forward, he thrust his arm against Orn’s chest. ‘Out of my way, greybeard. I’ll show you how to hurry these thralls along.’ ‘I doubt it,’ Orn scoffed, standing his ground. ‘If I were you, Othar, I’d not rely too heavily on your brother’s protection. As I told the lady—’ ‘Lady? I see no lady here.’ Othar shoved Orn aside and seized Yvaine’s braid in a grip that forced her face up to his. ‘She’s nought but a thrall who’ll learn who’s master. Isn’t that so, wench?’ She gave him her coldest stare. ‘You are not my master. And I am not a slave.’ Othar clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. ‘When Rorik’s finished with you, you’ll be a slave and nothing more. Then I’ll take my turn. You think it won’t happen?’ He grinned. ‘I’ll show you.’ Tightening his grip, he bent his head, but Yvaine was already struggling. She whipped her arm up and had just aimed a blow at his ear when she was abruptly released. Othar was spun away from her so fast she almost fell. She had one brief glimpse of the rage on Rorik’s face, before he slammed his fist into Othar’s stomach. The boy doubled over, falling to his knees and retching. Before he’d hit the sand, Rorik had turned on the others. ‘Get everyone back to the ship,’ he snarled at Orn. ‘And you

two, go with him. One word out of either of you, and you’ll be left here for the Danes to find.’ Neither Ketil nor Gunnar argued. Shaking, Yvaine reached for Anna’s hand. She was jerked away from the girl before she could blink. Rorik pulled her to his side but spared her neither word nor look. ‘Get up,’ he ordered his brother. Othar staggered to his feet. ‘You’ll be sorry for that, Rorik. When our father hears of this—’ ‘And keep your mouth shut.’ Othar shut his mouth, scowling. ‘Perhaps I didn’t make myself absolutely clear two days ago,’ Rorik began. His voice could have frozen hellfire. ‘The Lady Yvaine is not a thrall. You will not treat her as one. Ever. Now apologise.’ ‘Apolo—’ Othar saw his brother’s free hand clench and bit off the rest. His bottom lip stuck out. ‘Your pardon, lady.’ She nodded, scarcely listening. Othar was the least of her worries. When he swung about and strode back to the ship, she forgot him instantly. Danger stood beside her, not with a sulky youth. Danger cloaked in a form of protection she dare not trust. Wrenching her arm free, she stepped back. ‘Well, your brother has tendered an apology, albeit reluctantly. I’m still waiting for yours.’ He sent her a look that could have shrivelled lightning. ‘You have a reckless notion of humour, lady.’ She gave him back look for look. ‘Then you should laugh yourself silly at my next words. I demand that you ransom me immediately.’ ‘You expect me to conjure your cousin out of air?’ ‘Of course not. Send a message to him.’ ‘And sit around here waiting for his reply I suppose.’ He grabbed her wrist, turned on his heel and started towards the ship. ‘You’re right. If I didn’t have my hands full with the trouble you’ve caused, I would laugh myself silly.’ ‘I’ve caused?’ The injustice sent her voice soaring. ‘’Tis not my fault if your stupid brother—’

He stopped so abruptly she cannoned into him. He cursed, steadied her, and stepped back. ‘What the Hel else do you expect him or any other man to think when you’re running around dressed like that? Look at you! Kirtle falling off. Chausses clinging like a second skin. Gods! In Norway you’d be outlawed for dressing like a man.’ ‘I didn’t ask to be kidnapped,’ she yelled, trying to fling off his hand. ‘If you don’t like the way I dress then set me free. I’ll be only too happy to see the back of you.’ Rorik’s teeth snapped shut on a curse that blistered her ears. Jerking his hand from her arm, he wheeled about and raked his fingers through his hair. Then stood, fists clenched tight on his hips, staring out to sea. Yvaine studied the back she’d expressed a desire to see. She wished she’d kept her mouth shut. He stood so tall and straight, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips and long legs; a dark lance spearing through the golden disk sinking into the sea beyond him. His very stance was a blunt statement of invincible strength. ‘I went inland to find a gown for you,’ he said, so abruptly she jumped. ‘But no one was there. The whole damned village had gone.’ She eyed him for a moment, weighing caution and defiance. ‘The Danes had fled? Well, who could wonder at it?’ ‘No, not Danes. English.’ He turned. ‘There are some in the Danelaw. We trade with them.’ ‘You astonish me.’ A shadow of a smile came and went. He looked away again, towards his ship, and a strange kind of silence fell. Almost peaceful, she thought. The sea lapped at the shore in little wavelets that chased each other back into deeper water. A gull marched along the water’s edge, leaving a trail of prints in the sand. Further up the beach, a cooking fire had been lit, the flames just visible against the golden sky. She lifted her head and took a deep breath of the balmy air, letting the serenity of the beach, bathed in the lambent glow of sunset, settle about her. Just for a moment she could almost imagine she was on a journey. That her captor was her escort, her protector, her champion. Then she turned her head, their eyes met, and a sharp little arrow of awareness pierced her insides that had nothing to do with safety or protection. ‘Did my brother hurt you?’ he asked softly. She shook off the strange sensation and sniffed. ‘Saints, no. What is a strand of hair or two?’

‘Clearly nought, for you seem to be none the worse for losing them.’ He reached out and ran his hand down the braid hanging over her shoulder. She smacked his hand away before he felt the tremor she couldn’t suppress. ‘’Tis not your brother I fear. He’s nought but a boy, and a sulky one at that.’ ‘In Norway, lady, a boy is considered a man at twelve. Othar’s sixteen. He no longer thinks like a child. Unfortunately, he’s been indulged by his mother from birth, and thinks all women should do the same.’ ‘Hmph. The fault seems to run in the family.’ ‘My mother died when I was born,’ he murmured. ‘By the time my father took Gunhild to wife I was ten and, I assure you, she did not feel inclined to indulge me.’ ‘Ah, well…’ She ruthlessly banished a picture of a motherless little boy. ‘It must have been your father who instilled in you this odd notion that murder and kidnapping are nought but summer pastimes.’ ‘Egil raided a-plenty in his youth,’ he acknowledged, amusement glinting briefly. Then he sobered. ‘But he’s very ill now. He won’t see out the summer.’ ‘Then I wonder that you left him.’ She’d meant the words to sound snippy, critical. They came out softly, faintly questioning. She could have kicked herself. He sent her a quick, searching glance, frowned and took her arm. ‘I had a vow to fulfil. Come. You need food and rest. ’Tis time you were back on the ship.’ And with that the brief moment was gone. Yvaine went without protest, but later that night, when she lay on the bearskin with the others, her mind was a seething mass of confusion; plans for escape tangling hopelessly with questions that had no answers. For some reason she kept thinking about the sense of peace, almost of companionship, that had fallen over her and Rorik on the beach. She knew he’d felt it, knew his anger had dissipated as abruptly as her own. And that was another thing. She’d never shouted at anyone in her entire life. Indeed, when she’d finally recovered from their first encounter, she’d vowed to treat her captor with the same cool composure she’d used towards Ceawlin. And what had she done instead? Argued with him, yelled at him, continued to throw verbal darts at him—secure in the knowledge that he wouldn’t hurt her. At least, not in a rage. Was she mad as well as reckless to put that much belief in the man’s honour? To treat him as if they’d met under different circumstances and— Different circumstances. Now there was a question. How would she have felt about Rorik if she’d met him at Edward’s court? Would she have seen the toughness, the hard edge of danger? She thought so. They were too close to the surface to be completely

hidden. But how would she have responded to the fleeting moments of humour? To the hints of gentleness? Yvaine shivered and hugged herself against a sudden chill. Why was she asking such questions? They hadn’t met at Edward’s court. Rorik had kidnapped her. He’d murdered her husband before her very eyes—never mind that she wasn’t broken-hearted over the deed. He was pagan, a Viking. He’d stolen the freedom she’d risked her very life to gain. And he’d done something else, she realised in that moment. Something that made her heart stand still, something more terrifying than all the rest. Something she hadn’t thought possible. He’d brought her alive again. Suddenly, escape was more imperative than ever.

Chapter Five T hin, translucent clouds drifted, wraith-like, across the face of the moon. Yvaine glanced skyward as she slipped out of the tent. The misty light seemed as bright as a beacon to her anxious eyes, but if she waited for deeper darkness, dawn would be upon her before she’d gone more than a mile or two into the forest. She hovered in the shadows cast by the shelter, searching out deeper patches of night in which to hide—and trying not to picture her fate if one of the men sleeping in two rows down the centre of the ship heard her and woke. And yet, she had to pass them. She had no choice. The ship had been beached prow first. If she clambered over the high, curved side at this point and jumped down to the gritty sand at the water’s edge, the guards on the beach would see or hear her for certain. The first few steps wouldn’t be so bad; several yards separated her from the sleeping men. After that, she could only pray that the cacophony of snores and grunts might muffle her footsteps. Holding her breath, expecting with every passing second to feel hard fingers reach out of the darkness and seize her ankle, she tiptoed forward, moving as silently as the drifting clouds. Her goal was the centre of the ship, the shallowest part, where she could slip easily over the side and let herself down into deeper water. Then she could swim parallel to the shore until she was a safe distance away. She hadn’t thought past that point. Couldn’t afford to. Slipping soundlessly through the night was taking all her attention. Except for one tiny part of her mind that was conscious of a faint whisper of regret. She closed it off and counted paces instead. A few more and—

Without a sound a shadow loomed out of the night. A hand was clamped over her mouth, she was locked to a hard male body. Moonlight glinted, cold and merciless, on the dagger an inch from her breast. ‘Not one word,’ growled a soft voice in her ear. ‘Or I’ll slit your throat.’ She couldn’t utter a word. She had no breath, no voice. It wasn’t Rorik. That was the only thought in her head. She felt herself being dragged over the side, felt the gentle tug of ripples against her chausses. The sea was warm compared to the ice sliding through her veins. Why didn’t anyone stir? If she’d made a tithe of the noise her attacker was making, the entire crew would have been on her in seconds. But now they chose to keep snoring. Oh, God, she had to think. Where was he taking her? He was moving swiftly, up the beach, away from the guards where they’d be out of sight, out of hearing. He didn’t speak again; only his breathing broke the silence. Light and rapid, the excitement in the sound finally had comprehension exploding in her brain. He wasn’t only preventing her escape. His purpose was far more sinister. Panic jolted her into action before she remembered the dagger at her waist. One arm was pinned by the Viking’s grip, but the other was free. Flinging it out, she brought her elbow back into the man’s ribs with all the strength she could muster, at the same time kicking out with her legs. The suddenness of her attack took him by surprise. His hand slipped from her mouth and she drew breath to scream. To her horror the only sound that emerged was a thin gasping cry that wouldn’t have carried more than a few feet. Before she could drag in enough air for another attempt, he cut off her breath with a stranglehold around her neck. Roaring filled her ears; blackness threatened. She felt the Viking pull her down to the sand, felt his weight pinning her there while he tugged at the neck of her kirtle. An image of Skull-splitter flashed through her mind; revulsion had her choking. She went limp. He must have thought she’d swooned, because the arm across her throat lifted. And this time her scream was piercing, cutting through the night. The man above her cursed once, viciously. Then as a shout came from the ship, he sprang to his feet and vanished into the darkness as quickly and silently as he’d appeared. Yvaine rolled, hugging herself into a tight little ball. She had to clench her teeth to stop them chattering. She couldn’t stand, couldn’t run. There was something she had to do, but she couldn’t think what it was. And when she remembered, darkness no longer shielded her. It was too late. She looked up, straight into Rorik’s face. The flaring light of the torch

he held illuminated his expression with brutal clarity. A phalanx of warriors stood at his back. He reached down, grasped her arm and lifted her to her feet. ‘Were you taken from the tent?’ he demanded. His voice was low, but held the promise of death to anyone who crossed him. Yvaine could only shake her head. She didn’t even consider lying. It would have been useless. Those glittering eyes probed to her very soul, and at her silent answer they turned violent. ‘You went willingly?’ ‘No…no!’ She winced at the snarling fury in his voice. ‘I was trying to escape. I don’t know who—’ He cut her off with a slashing movement of his hand, then turned, thrust his torch into the hands of the warrior nearest him and ordered his men back to the ship with a few terse words. The night closed around them again, broken only by the fitful moonlight, but the darkness did nothing to hide Rorik’s mood. Yvaine felt menace coming from him so strongly it was almost visible. ‘By Thor, I ought to take the flat of my sword to your sweet backside,’ he grated. ‘Where in Hel did you think you were going?’ ‘Swimming,’ she offered weakly. He seized her arms in a grip that raised her to her toes. ‘Don’t be so damned flippant,’ he snarled. ‘Little fool! I warned you. Do you know how close you came to being raped?’ His eyes flashed silver as the moon appeared from behind a cloud and his fingers tightened. Yvaine got the distinct impression he wanted to shake her. Hard. ‘Take your hands off me,’ she snapped, reckless anger coming to her rescue. She wrenched out of his hold and backed away. ‘Do you think I cared for your warnings? You said yourself there were English in the Danelaw. I might have found shelter with good people who would help me return to Edward. And even if I didn’t, I’m dressed as a boy, so—’ ‘By the Gods, woman! Only a blind man would be fooled by that ridiculous disguise, and even he’d know the truth the minute you opened your mouth.’ ‘I would’ve tried to escape if I’d been naked!’ she yelled back. ‘Did you think me so tame I’d stand still for your ravishing? You’ll know better, my lord.’ ‘No,’ he said, taking a step closer. ‘You’ll know that you belong to me. That you’re mine. That—’

Yvaine whirled and ran. It was useless and she knew it. Even taking Rorik by surprise she couldn’t hope to outrun him, but his fierce claim of possession caused her to panic instinctively. She flew down the beach as though pursued by demons, only to be brought down by a neat tackle before she’d covered more than a few yards. He twisted as they fell, protecting her from the impact, then rolled. For the second time that night Yvaine lay flat on the sand, her chest heaving as she struggled to breathe, overwhelmingly conscious of a man’s weight over her. Then the suffocating pressure lifted, she was flipped over and imprisoned between Rorik’s thighs as he knelt above her. He reached out and captured her wrists when she lashed out at him. ‘Stop that,’ he ordered, his calm tone at odds with his anger of a moment ago. ‘You can’t fight me. You’ll only hurt yourself trying.’ ‘What do you care?’ Panting, trying with every futile twist of her body to throw him off, she fought back with the only weapon left to her. ‘You intend to hurt me anyway. Coward! Pirate! No real man would use a woman so.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Be grateful I know ’tis panic speaking, otherwise you’d regret those words.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Also be grateful I don’t abuse what is mine.’ ‘I…am…not…yours! Do you hear me, barbarian? I won’t belong to any man. Ever again!’ Rorik’s eyes gleamed down at her. ‘You’ll belong to me, little wildcat. But don’t worry. I’ll give you time to get used to the idea.’ ‘Give me time—’ The sheer arrogance of his statement made her gasp. ‘Why, you arrogant, overbearing, boorish…kidnapper. I’ll show you what time—’ She didn’t get a chance to finish. Rorik leaned forward, lifted her wrists over her head and slowly lowered himself over her. Yvaine’s eyes widened as his body covered hers. Heat enveloped her instantly. He didn’t crush her, but the awareness that she was thoroughly helpless beneath his much greater weight was absolute. She tried a tentative wriggle, then went utterly still, her breath seizing, as the movement brought her harder against him. Their eyes met, his blazing, intent; hers wide and wary. ‘Aye,’ he growled. ‘Now you know. I could take you right here, if I was the barbarian you think me.’ He certainly could, she thought, swallowing the sudden constriction in her throat. He was primed and ready. Hard, huge, nudging the place where her thighs were clamped together with just enough pressure to be threatening.

She swallowed again and hoped she could speak. ‘No honourable man would even be capable—’ He laughed. A low growl of amusement that sent a ripple of heat from her throat to her toes. Her fingers clenched in his hold as she fought the sensation. ‘Sweet innocent. A man couldn’t hold you beneath him and not be capable.’ His gaze held hers as he lowered his head. ‘A man couldn’t hold you beneath him and not do this.’ ‘No…’ ‘Hush.’ His breath bathed her lips. ‘Just a kiss, little cat. Nothing more.’ ‘I don’t care what it is. If you try to kiss me, I’ll…I’ll sink my teeth into you.’ He was so close she felt him smile. ‘Go ahead,’ he challenged softly. ‘Bite me.’ His mouth brushed her lips, leaving fire in its wake. Then closed with devastating gentleness over hers. Time stopped; thought blurred. Yvaine tried frantically to remember what she’d threatened to do. Instead, a whirlwind of confusion buffeted her mind. His mouth was warm and gentle on hers, in stark contrast to the hard male flesh pressed firmly to the most vulnerable part of her body. She didn’t know which was more dangerous; tried to gather her wits to fight him, and couldn’t hold on to any one thought. Her senses swung dizzily between the threat of violent possession and the unexpected sweetness of his kiss. And when she finally forced her lips apart, forced the command to retaliate into her mind, she discovered to her dismay that she couldn’t bring herself to hurt him. And then she couldn’t think at all, because he slipped his tongue between her lips and…oh, so gently…stroked it over hers. A tingle of heat streaked her, making her cry out. But even as she softened, Rorik wrenched his mouth from hers. He pushed himself to his feet, pulled her upright and gave her a none too gentle shove towards the ship. ‘Move!’ he growled. Dazed, her head spinning from the abrupt shift, Yvaine stumbled forward. Confusion, anger, shock that she’d all but responded to him, jostled about in her head until she wanted to scream. She hadn’t even managed to escape. And now see what came of it, there were tears on her cheeks. She swiped a hand angrily across her face. She never cried. She wasn’t going to start now. A choked hiccup escaped her. Before she could muffle it, she was spun around and pulled into Rorik’s arms.

‘Oh, God, little cat, I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ She froze; for several seconds incapable even of thought. Had she heard aright? Had a Viking just invoked her Christian God? Expressed regret? Offered comfort? The questions hammered at her brain until her head threatened to ache. Who was he, this man who had taken her from her home, but watched over her while she’d lain senseless? Who had cursed his desire for her, but refused to release her? Who had held her beneath him, but hadn’t forced her? An urgent need to know welled up inside her, so strong it almost drowned out the warnings of danger clamouring at the back of her mind. The same danger that had sent her fleeing from him; that tempted her to stay. ‘You didn’t hurt me,’ she said curtly, and pushed away from him. Somewhat to her surprise he let her go. ‘What of the man who attacked you?’ he asked, his voice as terse. ‘Did he hurt you?’ ‘No. He had a dagger, but he didn’t use it, even when I screamed.’ ‘Of course not, you little fool. He wants you alive, in case you hand him another opportunity.’ Suddenly he was looming over her. ‘But you won’t, will you, my lady?’ Yvaine glared up at him, refusing to be intimidated. ‘Since we’re leaving England tomorrow, there would be little point.’ ‘True, but the more I learn of you, lady, the less faith I place in your sense of prudence.’ ‘Well, that will teach you to make enquiries the next time you consider kidnapping someone, won’t it.’ His mouth curved; even in the fitful moonlight she saw it and, for some strange reason, felt fresh tears sting her eyes. ‘I’ll remember that,’ he said. Then, frowning. ‘Do you know who it was?’ ‘No. And what does it matter? You’ll probably be grateful to him when you stop to think about it. He prevented my escape.’ He moved abruptly. No, not movement, she thought, with a belated sense of caution. It was the air that stirred, as if every muscle in his body had tensed, sending icy currents flowing outwards. ‘Indeed,’ he said in a harder tone. ‘But console yourself with the knowledge that you wouldn’t have made it to Winchester, even if your escape wasn’t discovered ’til morning. I would’ve come after you. Now, back to the ship. We both need some sleep.’

Easy for him to say, Yvaine thought resentfully, when she finally crept into the tent and lay down next to her sleeping companions. She sent up a brief prayer of thankfulness that she didn’t have to offer any explanations. The task would have been beyond her; she had too much else on her mind. With her attempt at escape in ruins, she would now have to concentrate all her energies on convincing Rorik to ransom her. And if that didn’t work… She shied away from the prospect. It was far too nerve-racking to contemplate. Better to plan another escape—which wouldn’t be easy, because once they left England, she’d have to recruit someone to help her. Hope stirred faintly, only to sink without trace. Thorolf and Orn were the only men she’d consider trusting with her safety, and they were completely loyal to Rorik. The only alternative—and she’d have to be desperate—was Othar. She didn’t trust him, but he was three years younger than her and she suspected his posturing was mainly for the benefit of his friends. Away from them, she might be able to bribe him with offers of a large ransom, especially given his present animosity towards his brother. Of course, before she attempted any such risky strategy, it would be wise to know more about him. And—if she was cautious about it—to know more about Rorik. After all, it was only sensible to learn all one could about one’s adversary. Slightly comforted by this conclusion, Yvaine turned over and settled down to sleep. She’d start tomorrow, she promised herself, with a few polite questions. She would behave with dignity. She would refuse to be drawn into argument. She would be civil, but distant. And she would steadfastly ignore the annoying little voice at the back of her mind, that was wondering why common sense and strategy just happened to coincide with her own curiosity. ‘My lady, you are not going to walk all the way to the stern alone when the man who attacked you is watching and waiting.’ Anna frowned in disapproval. Britta nodded in dire warning. Both girls had been horrified when Yvaine had related the tale of the previous night’s activities over their breakfast of gruel and fruit. They’d emerged from the tent a short time later to find the ship underway. The shores of England were but a memory. Yvaine shifted her gaze from the misty line dividing sea and sky and studied her two companions. ‘He’s not going to attack me in front of the entire crew, Anna.’

‘We shouldn’t even be outside,’ Britta muttered. ‘Already I hear whispered comments and furtive jests. And you may be sure the brute who attacked you is whispering and jesting with the rest so as to appear as innocent as a babe.’ ‘Aye.’ Anna glanced nervously over her shoulder. ‘Since we don’t know who it was, ’tis best to avoid the lot of them.’ ‘He was tall,’ Yvaine said slowly. ‘And wore a skin tunic. But that’s no help. Only Rorik and Thorolf wear chainmail, and that only on the day they sacked Selsey. ’Twas probably filched from some murdered soldier,’ she tacked on grimly. ‘Thorolf told me Rorik had them specially made, long before they went a-viking,’ Anna said. ‘I wonder what they did back then?’ ‘I don’t care to know.’ Yvaine stuck her nose in the air. Then, remembering her plan, ruined the effect of this lofty attitude by adding, ‘What else did Thorolf tell you?’ ‘Well, yesterday I asked him about the slaves on Rorik’s estate, lady, thinking to discover what sort of life you might expect. Most of the men purchase their freedom within three years by working longer hours. Imagine that. A lord who frees his slaves.’ ‘Hmm. What of the women?’ Anna grimaced. ‘Well, a man may buy a woman’s freedom if he wishes to marry her, but—’ ‘An expensive way of acquiring a wife,’ put in Britta tartly. ‘I can’t see that happening to one of us. Marriage to another slave, mayhap.’ ‘’Tis more than I hoped for in England,’ Anna pointed out. ‘My father would never have allowed me to marry. I was too useful to him.’ Yvaine eyed her thoughtfully. ‘I suppose the freedmen are replaced by more slaves captured in England.’ ‘No. Thorolf told me that Rorik uses the money paid by freed slaves to purchase more. He also lends money to freemen so they may buy a small farm, or set up in trade. He’s the son of a jarl and very wealthy.’ ‘Then why does he need to plunder? I remember now, he scorned Ceawlin’s treasure as though ’twas nought. And heaven knows, he hardly needs to employ force to take a woman to his bed, so—’ She suddenly realised her companions were staring at her as if she’d expressed a desire to join the ranks of those willing females, and felt hot colour burn her cheeks. ‘Well, if I’m to outwit the man, I need to know these things,’ she informed them, turning aside before her face got any redder.

Fortunately for her dignity, her gaze fell on a Viking who was coiling rope nearby. Inspiration struck when she recognised him. She crooked an imperious finger. ‘You there. Orn. I would ask a favour of you.’ Ignoring the strangled sounds of protest coming from behind her, she took a step forward. Hooknose straightened, looking wary. Yvaine pinned her best lady-of-the-manor smile to her face. ‘Would you kindly escort me to your commander?’ Orn frowned. ‘I’m ordered to stay here, lady. To keep you out of trouble.’ Her smile froze. ‘Indeed? Consider, then, how much more trouble there’ll be if I go alone. Or if you try to stop me.’ From the corner of her eye, she saw Anna and Britta clutch each other. ‘Hmph. ’Tis clear Rorik didn’t administer harsh enough punishment when you tarried on the beach last night,’ muttered Orn. Then, as Yvaine glared at him, a wry smile crossed his face. ‘But ’twould be strange indeed if the Bearslayer raised his hand against a woman. Come, then, mistress.’ With a glance at her companions, who were obviously torn between awe at her foolhardiness and the expectation of her immediate demise, Yvaine hurried after him. ‘Why do you say that?’ she asked. ‘When he’s taken us against our will.’ ‘I don’t fathom his reasons for taking you, lady, but the others were taken by Ketil and Gunnar. Be grateful Rorik has forbidden them privileges denied the other men.’ ‘Dear God,’ she whispered involuntarily, her gaze sweeping over the men until she located Othar’s friends. Ketil was watching her, but, as their eyes met briefly, she realised there was no special awareness in his unblinking stare. She knew, without any doubt, that he hadn’t attacked her last night. Then he shifted his attention to Orn, and as if the older man sensed the cold scrutiny, his pace slackened. He looked around, located Ketil and smiled in unmistakable anticipation. His hand went to his dagger. Yvaine felt the hair at her nape rise. She doubted anyone with the name Skull-splitter would balk at much, but Orn seemed like a reasonable man and was at least thirty years older than Ketil. What had happened to cause the hatred she felt emanating from him? She shook off the question as they walked on. She already had enough to worry about. Particularly the wild leap her heart gave when she saw Rorik standing by the steering oar, not six feet away. This time the impact of his presence was devastating. A vivid memory of how it felt to lie beneath all that heat and power and muscle threatened to rob her legs of strength.

She clutched the side and hoped he put her unsteadiness down to the motion of the ship. ‘Good morning.’ He raised an interrogatory brow at Orn. ‘Don’t blame me,’ Hooknose grumbled. ‘She threatened to saunter past the men on her own.’ Yvaine’s mouth fell open. ‘I did not threaten to saunter.’ ‘Never mind.’ Rorik waved Orn away and turned a narrow-eyed look on her. ‘Well, lady, you achieved your purpose. What couldn’t wait until I came to you?’ Yvaine clamped her lips shut on the urge to inform him she could have waited until doomsday. She was supposed to be trying good manners and diplomacy. ‘Thank you for sharing the fruit with us this morning,’ she began ‘’Twas a welcome change.’ His brows lifted. A second later, a wicked gleam lit his eyes. ‘Ah, well, we like to fatten our slaves before we sell them.’ Politeness threatened to fly over the side. ‘Indeed? I suppose you plundered somebody’s orchard for the purpose.’ ‘Aye.’ He grinned. ‘But ’twas a Danish orchard.’ ‘A fine thing,’ she muttered, fighting an insane urge to smile back. ‘You even steal from each other.’ ‘Ah. You English see Vikings as one people, don’t you, but Norse and Danes are often at war. Usually over trading rights and land. We’re on the brink now.’ ‘One would think you’d both taken enough English land without having to squabble over it,’ she retorted, but without real heat. She’d grown up with the fact. ‘The Danes rule England from the Thames to the Humber and you Norwegians further north. Everyone knows the town of York as Jorvik these days, and I wager there are many places where the old names are forgotten.’ Rorik shrugged. ‘Are we doing any differently from you Saxons? Your ancestors drove the Britons as far west as Wales and Brittany. Not to mention annexing Mercia more recently.’ ‘That was through marriage,’ Yvaine answered indignantly. ‘The Lady of Mercia is Edward’s sister.’ ‘Aye,’ he agreed, and, without warning, the grim expression she’d seen yesterday descended on his face. ‘Alfred’s whelps. And together they’ll rule all England one day.’ ‘What do you mean?’

He gestured impatiently. ‘The Danes in England are becoming weak, lady. They still hold the Danelaw, but they’re farmers and merchants now, not warriors. One day your cousin will triumph and Alfred’s dream will become reality.’ ‘Aye…well…’ She pushed aside the intriguing question of Rorik’s sudden bitterness in the interests of grasping the opportunity he’d just handed her. ‘Speaking of Edward, when do you intend to send a request for my ransom?’ ‘Ah,’ he murmured. ‘We arrive at the real reason for this sudden desire for my company.’ With a monumental effort she kept the expression of polite enquiry on her face. His eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t recall expressing any such intention, lady.’ ‘But…’ She gripped the planking tighter. ‘Kindly do not jest with me, my lord. I understand your pressing need to return home because of your father’s health, but I see no humour in the prospect of an unnecessary voyage for myself. You will oblige me by sending a messenger to the king at once.’ A brow went up. ‘From the middle of the North Sea?’ ‘Very well, when we get to Jutland you can put me ashore and—’ ‘You don’t want to be put ashore there, little one.’ The wicked smile glinted again. ‘There’s nought but dark cliffs and caverns along that coast. Only the Gods know what lives there.’ ‘Don’t bother to scare me with your tales of trolls and giants,’ she snapped, losing the last tattered threads of her patience. ‘Or ice-bears for that matter. I’m not so easily—’ She broke off as he cast a quick glance downwards. A leather thong hung around his neck, threaded through the top of a silver amulet she knew represented Thor’s hammer. Hanging beside it was a long, curved tooth. It looked ominously large and deadly. Yvaine swallowed and decided a change of tactics was called for. ‘Very well,’ she said, as though frustration and apprehension weren’t chasing each other around in her stomach. ‘I’ll go to Norway with you, and when we get there you can tell everyone I’ve come for a visit, while you make arrangements to return me to England.’ He stared at her as though she’d turned into a very small ice-bear right before his eyes. ‘Why would you come for a visit, lady?’ ‘I shall study your Norse legends, my lord.’ ‘Study our Norse legends,’ he repeated evenly.

‘Aye. I presume you have a skald in your household. I shall replace the manuscripts I was compiling—until Ceawlin fed my collection to the cooking fire. Unfortunately, he didn’t consider such learning to be useful.’ ‘You understand Norse?’ His gaze sharpened. ‘Aye, Orn told me yesterday you spoke to him in the language. How is that?’ She shrugged. ‘The same way you learned English, I expect. Through travellers. In times of peace there were plenty of Norse visitors at court. One was a bard who stayed a while. I learned your sagas from him.’ ‘In that case, lady,’ he said, his voice suddenly, unnervingly gentle, ‘you know more of us than that we kill and plunder.’ ‘You forgot abduction,’ she said tartly. ‘And the fact that you have bards and skalds and highly skilled craftsmen doesn’t excuse kill—’ She stopped short, her heart contracting on a sudden stab of pain as a picture of Jankin flashed through her mind. Oh, how could she have forgotten? He’d been so innocent, so utterly without guile. He wouldn’t have resisted, wouldn’t even have understood. Guilt overwhelmed her as she realised that, despite all that had happened, she’d barely taken a moment to mourn that senseless loss of life. ‘What is it, little one?’ She turned on him, anger igniting at his careless question, the meaningless endearment. ‘Did you kill anyone near the riverbank that day at Selsey?’ He frowned. ‘The only person I killed was your husband, but…’ ‘You’ve killed on other raids,’ she finished for him, and felt her eyes fill. ‘Innocent people who…’ Rorik saw her blink rapidly as she turned her face away, and cursed silently. What could he say? He couldn’t tell Yvaine the truth. Her cousin was involved. She’d immediately assume he’d taken her to use as bait. Maybe he had, he thought. For a few hours after he’d learned who she was, maybe that purpose had tangled with the rest. Maybe it did still. All he knew was that he was driven by a need so fierce, a desire so urgent, it was almost…a yearning. As if there was an empty place inside him only she could fill, a hunger only she could appease. Gods. He was thinking like a skald, composing a maudlin saga where the hero spends his time languishing over some unattainable female. He knew what was driving him. The memory of her soft flesh against his palm, the way she’d felt as she’d lain in his arms last night. The sweet innocence that had enveloped him when he’d kissed her. He’d wanted to take that innocence into himself, to absorb her, to be himself absorbed. Only the thought

of her injured back, striking him when she’d cried out, had forced him to his feet. And his blood went cold at the thought of the other damage that could have been done to her. He frowned suddenly, wondering how he was going to leave Yvaine at Einervik while he went off raiding. The answer was immediate…simple, unsettling, but immediate. ‘Set your mind at rest on one score,’ he said curtly. ‘This is the last raid I’ll be leading.’ She turned her head at that, clearly startled. ‘What?’ ‘You heard me. ’Tis done.’ ‘But…why?’ Again he hesitated. Why not tell her the reason for his raids? Why not let her assume she was bait? The tale might gentle her, make her feel less physically threatened. Yet, even through the tangled skein of needs, of desires, of reasons, he couldn’t lie. Not to her, not even by implication. ‘To please you?’ he finally suggested. And, if there was more than one question in the words, he pushed it aside. ‘If ’twould do so, little maiden.’ She studied him for a moment before turning away again. ‘I suppose it would,’ she said coolly. ‘Since I’ve no wish to see even an enemy’s soul burn in Hell for his sins.’ He laughed, torn between wry acknowledgement that he had a battle on his hands, and reluctant admiration for her stubbornness. ‘You don’t yield ground easily, do you, little cat. But your studies should have taught you that we Vikings take a different view of death. And we have many Gods to keep us from such a fate as you describe.’ ‘Best pray to them,’ suggested Thorolf, overhearing this remark as he approached. ‘I smell rain.’ Yvaine all but collapsed against the side as Rorik’s attention shifted to Thorolf. She wasn’t sure what had happened just then. On the surface, they’d been arguing, but for one fleeting instant she’d felt poised on the brink of discovery, only to have the moment snatched away. ‘More than rain,’ Rorik said. ‘We’re running straight before a storm.’ ‘What!’ She jerked upright again. ‘You’ve been standing there, amusing yourself by thwarting me at every turn, when there’s a storm coming? Do something!’ ‘Take the styri,’ he ordered Thorolf, and in a sudden change of mood that took her completely by surprise, he swooped, caught her up in his arms and, ignoring her startled squeak of protest, lifted her to his shoulder. ‘Look to the south,’ he advised, grinning up at her. ‘And tell me what you think I should do.’ Yvaine looked, mainly because it was less dangerous than gazing down into those wickedly smiling eyes. She promptly changed her mind when she saw what awaited her gaze.

Black clouds were rolling over the horizon like giants erupting from some violent netherworld. Seething, growling, they advanced with ominous purpose. Every few seconds lightning flickered eerily within the dark roiling bulk, as though the god of thunder was stirring, preparing to wreak havoc on the puny humans below him. In that moment she could well believe that such a being existed. And that, Sea Dragon, once seeming so big and solid, would look like nothing more than a tasty snack. ‘Blessed Saint Mary save us,’ she uttered as Rorik lowered her to the deck. ‘What are we going to do?’ ‘You,’ he said, holding her steady against the motion of the ship, ‘are going back to the tent. We’ll do what we always do in these conditions.’ ‘Aye.’ Thorolf gave her a wry grin. ‘We have all of two choices, one of which is to leave the sail up and try to outrun it.’ ‘Dear God. What’s the other?’ ‘Turn and face it,’ Rorik said, glancing southward. ‘If we leave the sail up, it’ll be ripped to shreds while we think that storm is still a mile off. We’ll ride it out. It won’t be the first time.’ She turned her head sharply. ‘For you, maybe, but—’ The rest slid back down her throat as he lowered his head to hers. ‘Don’t worry, sweeting,’ he said, his warm breath caressing her cheek. ‘I’ll never surrender you. Not even to the sea.’ Thorolf coughed politely, and Rorik released her to take the steering oar from his friend. Faint colour was staining his cheekbones, but Yvaine was in no state to take much notice. The promise in his words had been disturbing enough; the deep note of tenderness in his voice shook her to the core. ‘Thorolf will take you back to the tent,’ he said rather curtly. ‘You’ll be safe there for a while.’ ‘For a while?’ she echoed, alarmed. But Thorolf seized her arm and urged her back to the prow before she could question further. ‘Don’t give me any trouble,’ he ordered. ‘I’ve got enough to do so I can get back to Rorik. The ship has to be kept steady into the waves and when that storm hits, he’ll see nothing but water flying in all directions. Two pairs of eyes at the steering-oar are better than one.’ Yvaine swallowed her protest and obeyed. Clearly the men knew what they were doing, and would do it better without hindrance. But her patience was sorely tried during an hour in which the wind began to strengthen and the ship to toss.

She and the other women braced themselves against the oak planks, shielding little Eldith as best they could, and endured the worsening conditions in a frightened silence that was broken only once. ‘Thank the saints we’re too scared to be seasick,’ observed Anna with grim humour. ‘Aye,’ muttered Britta. ‘A plague on all ships, I say.’ Yvaine could only nod agreement. She grabbed hold of a crossrib as the ship plunged into another deep trough. Her head banged against the narrowed side of the prow when they hit the next wave. If the sea got any rougher they would be thrown all over the place. How did the men fare in such storms, exposed in an open ship that cleared the water by a mere three feet? Were they even still alive? She could hear nothing but the keening wind and the growl of approaching thunder. Visions of an empty ship, its crew swept overboard, danced before her eyes, but before she managed to frighten herself enough to disobey Thorolf and investigate, two men brushed through the curtain, carrying a couple of skin bags. They didn’t waste words. One burly fellow tucked Eldith under his arm. The other wrapped a bag apiece around Anna and Britta and began to hustle the women outside. ‘Wait!’ Yvaine stumbled to her feet. ‘Where are you taking them?’ No one answered her. She took a step forward, only to come up hard against Rorik when he strode into the shelter. He was drenched from head to foot, but he looked reassuringly strong and safe. ‘Oh, thank God,’ she breathed, her hands coming up to grip his tunic. ‘What in heaven’s name is happening?’ Rorik covered her hands with his, bracing his legs to keep his balance. ‘We have to take the tent down before it blows away,’ he said. ‘I’m going to tie you to the mast with the other women. You’ll be safer there.’ ‘Tie me…no!’ Terrified memory swept over her. ‘Don’t—’ ‘Hush, little one. No one’s going to hurt you this time.’ ‘But—’ Rorik’s grip tightened. ‘Yvaine, listen to me. These little hands aren’t strong enough to hold on to something for hours. One good wave would take you over the side.’ His firm tone halted her frightened rush towards panic. He was right. She knew he was right, but the memory of her helplessness when Ceawlin had tied her to the roof pole made her tremble.

‘Trust me, sweeting.’ Rorik wrapped one of the skin bags around her and urged her towards the curtain. ‘I’ll leave your hands free. It won’t be the same as before.’ Yvaine went with him; she had no choice. This was his world, his battlefield. She could do nothing but place her life in his hands. She braced herself as he reached out to draw back the curtain, only to jerk back in surprise when he halted and swung around to face her. She looked up, her heart starting to race at the intensity in his eyes. He was gazing at her as if fixing her face on his memory for all time. Then, as her lips parted in startled enquiry, he pulled her against him with sudden fierce urgency and his mouth came down on hers.

Chapter Six H e kissed her as if she was his and they’d been parted forever. Raw hunger overwhelmed her. No gentle tasting, this. He ravished, he plundered. And she yielded. She could do nothing but cling, while the fierce demand of his mouth sent a sweet, melting weakness flowing through every limb. When the ship slewed sideways, forcing him to break the kiss, she would have fallen if he hadn’t been holding her so tightly. For one heart-stopping moment his gaze, burning, intense, held hers. Then, without a word, he clamped her to his side and swept her through the curtain into the teeth of the storm. The tempest engulfed her instantly. Shrieking, howling, the storm raced across the sky like condemned souls fleeing the fires of hell. Already dazed, she would have been helpless without Rorik’s support. The wind and the rough rise and fall of the ship made it almost impossible to stay upright, and she was constantly blinded by the spray that hissed over the side every time Sea Dragon ploughed into the enormous waves. Bent almost double, they reached the centre of the ship and she saw that the mast had been lowered. Dim figures crouched beneath it. Rorik tucked her close to the other women and secured her by lashing a rope about her waist and tying it to the solid wood. ‘Stay beneath the mast as much as possible,’ he yelled. ‘And here, take this.’ He closed her fingers around a metal object. Yvaine peered at it through the gloom. Thor’s hammer. But when she held it upright the two-headed amulet became a cross. ‘Hold it so if you wish,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d better pray to that Christian God of yours. We’re going to need all the help we can get.’

She looked up, seized by a sudden wrenching sense of urgency. Lightning exploded around them as the wind whipped his hair across his face. The very air seemed to crackle with the force and power of the storm. In the brilliant light his eyes blazed, silver fires burning. His mouth was set hard, the planes of his face as fiercely primitive as the elements themselves. This was how she would remember him always, she thought. Fighting the raging forces of sea and sky to keep them alive. He touched her cheek gently, and was gone. Yvaine crouched in the darkness, feeling as if she’d taken a direct hit from that lightning bolt. As if in that split second she’d been rendered open, accepting, bared to her very soul—and filled with a calm, clear knowledge. Then the fury of the storm swept over her, wrenching her back. She tried to make herself as small as possible, pressing against the solid wood at her back as though she could become part of it. The mast and the oiled skin bag kept most of the water off her, but the hissing of the sea below the hull sounded vicious and terrifyingly close. Planks shifted and groaned beneath her. She vaguely recalled hearing that the flexibility of Norse ships kept them from breaking up in rough weather, but the memory slipped through her mind and was gone. The bone-jarring thud as they landed in a trough and the whoosh as the ship lifted into the next wave had her senses reeling. The noise was ear-splitting. Wind howled. Lightning cracked. And one explosion of thunder scarcely faded to a rumble before another tore the sky asunder. She tried to pray but her brain wouldn’t co-operate. She began to wonder if God would feel inclined to help forty heathens battle the storm for the sake of keeping four Christians from a watery grave. She hoped so, because she wasn’t ready to die just yet. She wanted the adventure to continue. She wanted— Her mind blanked. Lightning wasn’t responsible this time; when thought finally returned, the storm raged in a realm so far distant she scarcely noticed it. What did she want? To know what it was like to lie with Rorik? Did she want more than kisses, more than his arms holding her as if he’d never let her go—when he’d taken her for no other reason than desire? And yet…somewhere deep inside, that knowledge thrilled her. Like his smile, it tantalised, lured, seduced. And as if it had been waiting only for this moment, when with danger all around, her defences lay shattered, an insidious little question crept into her mind.

Would it be so wrong? To yield. Just once. To know what it was like to be desired for herself ? It wasn’t as if she’d be surrendering to a mindless brute. There were depths to Rorik that drew her. And why should she cling to her virtue? She’d done her duty; she was a widow. And since she’d rather be swept over the side than have another husband foisted upon her, who would know or care? A torrent of water cascading over the mast jolted her brutally back to the present. They could all be swept over the side. Before she worried about any future, both she and Rorik had to survive the storm. And his danger was far greater than hers. The knowledge wrenched an involuntary cry from her. She raised her head, trying to see through the darkness and the driving spray. It was impossible. She could only picture Rorik in her mind, standing by the steering oar, without shelter or protection, pitting his strength against the wild sea. Hunkering down against the elements, Yvaine began to pray in earnest. There hadn’t been a breath of wind all morning. After the violence of the storm the utter stillness was shocking. The sail hung limply. The bright pennants drooped from the motionless wind-vane. Despite bailing water half the night, the crew had been rowing in rotating shifts since a grey dawn had broken over the becalmed sea. They said little. There was none of the usual jesting or tales of other voyages. What comments there were came from Othar and his friends, and had an edge to them. Rorik scowled at the overcast sky. He was going to have to speak to his brother. He knew tempers were short. Lack of sleep and the eerie stillness had everyone edgy, but Othar’s grumbling only added to the air of tension that hung over the ship. He glanced at Yvaine as she sat on his sea-chest talking to Thorolf—who was supposed to be navigating. The other women sat against the bulkhead, the child between them. The fact that they were there in the stern, in full view, while the tent was drying, probably wasn’t helping matters, but after the storm, he’d wanted Yvaine close. Not that it had done him much good. She’d scarcely spoken to him all morning, although she seemed to be showing an inordinate amount of interest in navigation. And Thorolf wasn’t discouraging her. Rorik grimaced. Gods! Unsatisfied desire must be playing tricks with his mind. He’d trust Thorolf with his life.

‘How’s our course?’ he asked as his friend picked up a yellowish stone. Aye, concentrate on steering. It was more productive than fantasies of the golden-eyed sorceress beside him clinging to him as she’d done last night when he’d plundered that soft, sweet mouth. ‘Steady to the north-east.’ ‘How do you know without the sun?’ Yvaine asked, peering curiously at the stone. Thorolf handed it to her. ‘See how the crystal changes to blue when held to the east. ’Tis the light from the sun. Even though we can’t see it on a cloudy morning like this, the sunstone tells us we’re going in the right direction.’ ‘Aye, but I’d like to go there a lot faster,’ Rorik muttered. His low growl sent a shiver of awareness through Yvaine. She hoped he hadn’t noticed. For some reason, she’d expected the shocking thoughts she’d entertained during the storm to dissipate with the coming of dawn. After all, she’d been terrified for her life last night; rational thought could hardly be expected under the circumstances. But the cold light of day was proving disturbingly ineffectual. The tantalising notion of surrender still whispered, siren-like, in her head. And when she told herself that danger and dependency had overturned her wits, images started tumbling through her mind. Images of Rorik’s broad shoulders blocking out the moonlight when he’d knelt above her on the beach. The leashed power in the hard body pinning her to the sand. A mouth that could gently coax, or take with a fierceness that shattered every notion of resistance until she wanted nothing more than to surrender. Madness. It had to be. Her mind was playing tricks with her, tempting her to submit because she had no choice. And yet there were always choices. She could fight; retreat into frozen martyrdom; even seize the ultimate escape offered by death itself. As if that was going to happen, she thought with ironic self-mockery. If someone like Ketil had captured her, she wouldn’t hesitate, but… She looked up at Rorik and felt something soften deep inside her. No, death wasn’t an option. Right now she doubted she’d even fight him. He was strong and hard, aye, but he was also human. He looked dead tired. ‘Have you had any sleep?’ she asked softly, and immediately felt heat flood her cheeks. She was indeed mad. Sweetness and understanding were not part of any plan to win her freedom. The grim lines about his mouth eased. ‘I will as soon as the wind comes up and I can set a course for sailing,’ he said. ‘Then it shouldn’t be too long before we sight Jutland.’ ‘You always were an optimist,’ Thorolf observed, peering at the sunstone. Yvaine glanced at him. ‘Are we far from land?’

‘You may well ask,’ he replied gloomily. ‘Odin’s ravens might know. I don’t.’ ‘You said something like that once before,’ she cried, remembering. ‘I thought I was dreaming, or out of my mind, but you meant Hugin and Mugin, didn’t you.’ ‘Thought and Memory,’ murmured Rorik. ‘I see you’ve heard of them, lady. They fly over the world every day and return at night to tell Odin all that has happened. Thus, he knows everything.’ ‘So does our Christian God,’ she pointed out before she could stop herself. ‘Without the help of any ravens.’ Rorik’s eyes narrowed. ‘Speaking of gods, I pray to Thor myself,’ Thorolf said hastily. ‘He’s the most popular. Then there’s Freyr, who looks after the crops; Loki, the troublemaker; Aegir, God of the Sea, whose daughters are the waves—temperamental like all women. But you should invoke Freyja, lady.’ He leaned over and indicated Rorik’s amulet which Yvaine had looped around her neck so she wouldn’t lose it. ‘Thor doesn’t suit you.’ She quickly removed the silver hammer and thrust it at Rorik. He took it, capturing her hand in the process. Thorolf picked up the crystal again and turned aside to show it to the other women. Somehow his action gave Yvaine the impression he was giving them some privacy. ‘Thorolf ’s right,’ Rorik murmured, stroking his thumb across the backs of her fingers ‘Freyja is the goddess for you.’ ‘Oh?’ She swallowed. The feel of his calloused thumb was doing strange things to her heartbeat. She tried to pull her hand free, without success. ‘Why is that?’ ‘Well, for one thing, she’s always attended by cats, and your fylgja is definitely a cat.’ ‘F…fylgja?’ His thumb moved to the inside of her wrist; she felt her pulse jump along with her voice. ‘Oh, aye…an animal spirit.’ ‘The animal spirit that accompanies you everywhere,’ he elaborated. ‘But Freyja is also the Goddess of Love.’ She made a sound that could have meant anything. Under his thumb, Rorik felt her pulse trip, then start to race, and had to steel herself against the urge to tighten his grip. He wished he could see her eyes, but Yvaine kept her lashes lowered, her face slightly averted. She didn’t seem afraid of him; more torn, as though she hovered on the brink of some unseen precipice. Awakening desire and wary innocence, he thought. Was there a more potent combination with which to torture a man? Holding her captive like this with just the touch of his fingers was sweet torment. He wanted to reassure her, to hold, to gentle, and

at the same time ached to have her beneath him again, to peel back her kirtle so the slender fragility of her body was laid before him, awaiting the heat of his gaze. He’d be gentle at first, stroking, arousing, until the soft curves of her breasts warmed and swelled in his hands, and her rosy nipples peaked with the need for his mouth on them. And then — The loud clatter of abandoned oars jerked him violently out of his fantasy. Several men were on their feet, shouting and closing in on a pair frozen in a parody of an embrace. It was Ketil and Orn, standing less than an inch apart and glaring into each other’s eyes. Rorik cursed savagely as he released Yvaine’s hand and sprang forward. But even as he moved, Ketil’s muscles bunched and he shoved Orn away. A dagger was clenched in his fist, its blade wet. Orn collapsed at Ketil’s feet, frothy pink bubbles appearing at the corners of his mouth. One hand clutched at his chest. Already dead, Rorik thought as rage and grief erupted within him. He fought back the deadly mix, closing the distance between himself and Ketil with lethal speed. The man whirled to face him, but Rorik was already balanced and lashing out. His booted foot smashed into Ketil’s wrist, snapping the bones like a collection of dried twigs. Ketil howled and dropped his dagger. Before it landed, Rorik had slammed Ketil against the side and had his own blade pressed to the man’s throat. ‘You’ve got ten seconds to tell me what happened,’ he snarled. ‘Rorik.’ The hoarse sound came from the man lying at his feet. Rorik glared at Ketil for a moment. The bastard’s teeth were clenched in pain, but he was far from cowed. ‘Seize him,’ he ordered, and several men sprang to obey. Othar and Gunnar weren’t among them. Rorik registered the thought only briefly as he went down on one knee beside Orn. He’d get to them later. After he’d finished damning himself. ‘My…fault,’ Orn gasped as Rorik lifted him slightly and propped him against his knee. The position seemed to ease the old man’s breathing, although Rorik knew he had only seconds. ‘Challenged…’ ‘No. Don’t talk, Orn.’ Hooknose gripped his sleeve. ‘Ruined…my granddaughter. Floki dead…you knew…’ He broke off, coughed.

‘I know what happened after your son died,’ Rorik said quietly. ‘You felt you had to challenge Ketil, to seek reparation.’ ‘Challenged him…before we sailed. Kept…reminding him. Didn’t break your rule, but wrong. Coward…tried to kill me…before he met me in combat.’ He made a rasping sound that might have been a laugh. ‘Looks like…he succeeded.’ ‘There’ll be a price, Orn. I swear it. For you and for your granddaughter.’ A shadow of a smile flitted across Orn’s features. ‘Put my sword in my hand,’ he whispered. ‘’Twas battle…of a sort.’ Rorik turned his head, but Thorolf was already there, handing him Orn’s sword. He took it and wrapped the old man’s fingers around the hilt, his jaw clenching when he had to hold the limp hand in place. ‘Take your seat in Valhalla, Orn Hooknose,’ he murmured. But Orn had already slipped away on a sigh to join those warriors who had died in battle, and the words went unheard. Rorik lowered Orn’s body to the deck and got to his feet. His eyes met Thorolf ’s for a brief instant. His friend nodded, his face grim. Justice was harsh on board ship—it had to be—but Rorik felt no compunction about this particular sentence. He turned to the men holding Ketil. ‘Rope him to the body.’ Ketil started shouting. ‘Othar, you’re supposed to be my friend! Tell your brother what happened. ’Twas self-defence. Orn struck first. I can prove it.’ He jerked his head to the side, revealing a graze on one temple. Rorik glanced at it, his eyes hardening. ‘You heal quickly, Ketil,’ he said with soft menace. ‘That graze has already scabbed over. I suggest ’twas done during the storm.’ ‘Aye,’ another man muttered. ‘’Tis clear what happened here. Ketil seized the chance to escape trial by combat.’ He snorted. ‘And he calls himself Skull-splitter.’ Rorik glanced at the speaker. ‘Did you see what happened, Grim?’ Another man stepped forward as Grim shook his head. ‘I can speak, Bearslayer. Ketil thrust something at Orn as he bent to take his place at the oars. I didn’t know what until Orn fell, but Grim’s right. Ketil thought to use that wound on his head to claim selfdefence, but ’twas no fair fight. Your brother saw it, also.’ ‘Othar?’ The boy stepped out from behind the mast, his eyes darting from side to side. ‘What are you going to do, Rorik? The provocation was Orn’s. He said so, himself.’ ‘No man kills another in such a way on my ship and lives. No matter what the provocation.’

A low growl of agreement rumbled through the crew. Only Gunnar stayed silent. Like Othar, he’d hung back behind the mast; now he eyed Rorik as though fearing a similar fate was going to fall upon his own head. ‘Then challenge Ketil, yourself, when we get to Norway,’ Othar suggested. Thorolf snorted before Rorik could answer. ‘You know the laws as well as the rest of us, Othar. Orn’s murderer goes overboard with his body.’ A gasp came from behind them. Rorik wheeled. Yvaine stood a few paces away, her hands over her mouth as if she’d tried to stifle the sound. Her eyes were huge in her pale face. ‘Rorik…’ Rage deafened him to the rest. The first time she’d said his name and it had to be under these circumstances. He strode forward and clamped his hands around her shoulders. ‘Don’t say another word,’ he ordered. ‘Not one word. This has nothing to do with you.’ She stared up at him, mute, but her eyes were eloquent with horrified comprehension. He turned her and gave her a gentle push towards the stern. ‘Go back to the other women. Don’t look if Norse justice makes you squeamish.’ Yvaine stumbled when he released her, but she didn’t look back. There was a lot of shouting behind her—probably Ketil again—but she barely heard the commotion. Nor did she obey Rorik’s order to return to the others, although she saw Britta tuck Eldith’s face into her shoulder so the child wouldn’t witness such swift and brutal reprisal. She suddenly remembered that the pair would have been Ketil’s property once they were off the ship. Then a terrible silence fell, followed only by the soft hush of disturbed water against the hull. And still she didn’t move; was barely conscious of breathing. He was a barbarian, after all. A man who belonged to a savage race of heathens. A race whose way of life was so opposed to any softer emotion, they saw nothing wrong in sentencing a man to so terrible a death, even for murder. And still she wasn’t horrified at the thought of surrender. Heaven save her, she had indeed been struck by madness. A madness brought on by dependence. Hadn’t she thought so only minutes ago? Rorik had saved her from Ceawlin, and now stood between her and his men. It was the only reason for this utterly senseless — ‘This is her fault,’ Othar shouted right behind her. She jumped and whirled.

Rorik stood between her and his brother, so close she could have reached out and touched him. Unwilling to cower at his back, she stepped to the side so she could see both men. The rest of the crew were being ordered back to the oars by Thorolf. Behind her, she sensed Anna and Britta move closer. ‘I heard her claim that a God fit only for puling priests knows more than Odin,’ accused Othar. ‘And you listened. This evil calm is his revenge. And see what has come of it.’ Rorik’s jaw tightened. ‘I’m sorry you lost a friend, Othar. But Ketil brought about his own death.’ ‘He was worried that Orn would appoint a stronger fighter because of his age. Ketil had no surety of winning, of proving his innocence.’ ‘That’s hardly the—’ ‘And how many more deaths will there be before you come to your senses and throw this bitch into the sea?’ ‘No one else is going to die.’ Rorik bit off each word with savage inflection. ‘At worst, we’ll have to ration the water if this calm continues.’ ‘Share it with Christians?’ Othar’s voice rose. ‘They’re not that valuable as thralls, and you’ve forbidden us to use them as we like. I vote we kill them.’ ‘I haven’t asked for votes,’ Rorik said, turning away. ‘No, you never want my opinion, do you?’ yelled Othar. ‘I suggested we spend the summer in Ireland, so we could raid Britain whenever we chose, but—’ ‘Land!’ The shout came from the top of the mast, cutting short Othar’s tirade. Thank God, Rorik thought. And immediately felt the hair at his nape rise. What had made him think that? He was done with Christianity. Finished with it eight years ago when— He shook his head; fixed his gaze on the horizon where a thin line of grey showed. ‘Get the sail up,’ he shouted to Thorolf. ‘If there’s any wind coming offshore, we’ll ride it up the coast.’ ‘What!’ Othar gaped at him. ‘Are you mad? This is the west coast of Jutland. Do you want us to join the other wrecks lying at the bottom of the sea?’ Rorik’s eyes narrowed. The waters off the Jutland peninsula were notorious for shipwrecks; most sailors rolled their vessels the few miles overland to the trading port of

Hedeby on the Baltic Sea, which was the safer route. It also added a couple of days to the trip. ‘We’re not landing.’ ‘But—’ ‘There’ll be little danger, Othar. Trust me. In weather this calm—’ Thorolf strode up to them. ‘Even so, Rorik—’ ‘That’s right,’ roared Othar. ‘Ignore me again. Put all our lives at risk! And I know why,’ he added, lowering his voice abruptly. ‘We have to take the shortest route home so you can have your English whore!’ Yvaine gasped as if Othar had struck her. Rorik felt her flinch even though several inches separated them. Fists clenched, he took a step towards his brother. ‘No.’ She reached out, touched his arm; the lightest, most fleeting of touches, but it stopped him cold. His gaze flashed to her face. She was still pale, but her eyes met his unflinchingly. ‘Let there be no more violence here today. Especially as your brother speaks the truth.’ She lifted her chin. ‘That is what you intend, is it not?’ Her eyes, dark with some hidden emotion, looked into his for a moment longer, then she turned, gestured to the other girls, and walked back to the prow. She might as well have stabbed him. Rorik watched her go and felt as though tiny shards of glass were piercing his heart. The wrenching sensation twisted inside him again—unrelenting need colliding with racking tenderness. The conflict was tearing him apart, and yet he couldn’t release her, couldn’t stop wanting her. For the first time in years he was eager to reach Norway, because then he could take Yvaine to his bed and free himself of this constant ache she aroused in him. Surely once he possessed her this inner struggle would cease. She’d become just another woman, beautiful, desirable, but no longer inciting this strange need to protect, to cherish. And then what? he thought, suddenly aware that Othar watched Yvaine’s retreat with a curiously intent expression. He’d refused to think beyond getting home as quickly as possible, but now a savage wave of possessiveness washed over him, momentarily blinding him to everything else. The thought of another man touching her aroused a killing rage in his blood that would qualify him for the berserkers if he ever wanted to join that elite body of fighters. Already he’d struck his brother. A brother who was younger and physically less powerful. A week ago he wouldn’t have thought himself capable of such an action.

Given enough reason, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t repeat it. Stifling a roar of sheer frustration, Rorik turned on his heel and came face to face with Thorolf. ‘We’re going up the coast,’ he snarled before his friend could argue. ‘Put more men on the oars. I want this ship moving faster if you have to get behind the sail and puff!’ ‘Get behind the sail and puff,’ he heard Thorolf mutter behind him as he stalked towards the stern. ‘Right.’ The dark, looming bulk of Jutland had looked as inhospitable as Rorik had described it, but either the danger had been exaggerated, or the winds had been kind, for the rest of the voyage passed uneventfully. The coast of Norway rose out of a deep blue sea early the following morning. Yvaine stood in the prow with the other women, watching the land open up before her. A few yards away, Thorolf leaned over the rail to dangle a wooden rod, marked at regular intervals, into the water. ‘Sciringesheal,’ he announced, pointing to a distant settlement at the head of a small inlet. ‘Some call it Kaupang. Our summer trading port here in Norway.’ He pulled the sounding rod clear, examined it, and yelled a signal to Rorik. Yvaine glanced sternwards as Rorik pulled on the steering oar, bringing the ship into the wind. The sail began to flap, and men swarmed up the mast to furl the vast canvas. The big vessel rode gently on the slightly choppy waters of the bay, waiting to negotiate her way through a maze of small islands that protected the entrance. At Rorik’s command the oarholes were opened. Wood rattled as the oars were engaged. The ship began to move forward again under the smooth, practised action of the rowers. Closing her mind to everything but the immediate present, Yvaine turned back to the port. Wattle-and-daub buildings ringed the head of the bay. Rich fields rose behind them, sloping gently towards craggy hills that seemed to lean over the town, providing shelter against storms or attack. Trees dotted the lower slopes; several homesteads nestled among them. The whole place appeared snug and prosperous. ‘It could be any port in England,’ Anna remarked. ‘Except for the mountains.’ ‘They look very big and cold,’ ventured little Eldith in a hushed whisper. Britta put her arm around the child’s shoulders. ‘There are mountains in England also, sweeting. I dare say one grows used to them.’

‘In a month or two you won’t even notice them,’ predicted Thorolf. He turned to Yvaine, scanning her boy’s attire, now somewhat the worse for wear. ‘You’re to stay in the tent, lady. Rorik will get you some decent clothes to wear as soon as possible.’ ‘How thoughtful,’ she muttered as he crossed the ship to test the depth on the other side. ‘Be grateful to him,’ Britta said drily. ‘I am.’ Yvaine frowned. ‘What do you mean?’ Britta jerked her head in Rorik’s direction. ‘You may not have heard, lady. Yesterday, after Ketil’s death, Othar claimed me, but Rorik ordered him to accept an offer for Eldith and me from the man who loaned us the comb the day we bathed. Apparently he lost his wife and daughter to sickness a few years back and is lonely.’ She shrugged, and an unexpected grin crossed her face. ‘He stammered and stuttered about his needs, God knows, but I understood him well enough.’ ‘And you can smile about it? Britta…’ ‘’Tis better than staying with that lout, Othar, or being parted from Eldith and both of us sold to strangers. At least Grim was honest with me, and he seems kind enough. He even promised to wait a while, until I’m more at ease with him.’ ‘Aye. Rorik promised that I’d know him better, too,’ Yvaine said grimly. ‘As if that will make a difference.’ Anna gave her a quizzical smile. ‘You think it won’t?’ Yvaine stared at her, unable to answer. That same question had reverberated over and over in her mind until she felt like a mouse in a cage, scurrying in circles, getting nowhere. Oh, why hadn’t she forced another confrontation yesterday, instead of staying in the prow with the other women? Why hadn’t she nagged, ordered, begged even, to be released? Now her fate was rushing towards her like a siege-engine out of control and she didn’t know what to do about it. ‘I don’t know,’ she murmured. ‘I vowed never to be captive to another man. And now…I just don’t know.’ Britta and Anna exchanged startled glances. ‘What are you saying, lady? That you want him?’ ‘No, no! Of course not! ’Tis just…don’t you think it wrong to surrender so tamely, Britta? You say Grim seems kind, but you’re to be given no choice. Indeed, are grateful for a little time. ’Tis not…right.’

‘Lady, what else can we women do but comply when men arrange our lives? Look at yourself: cousin to the king, a lady born and bred, but were you allowed to choose your own husband? Or even if you would wed at all?’ ‘But this isn’t the same. At least marriage is respectable.’ ‘Well, as to that…’ Britta flushed and darted a quick glance down the ship to her Viking. ‘Grim dodged around the word, and mumbled something about children, but it crossed my mind that he meant for us to wed some day.’ She eyed Yvaine thoughtfully. ‘Would you feel better if Rorik intended the same?’ ‘No! I wasn’t speaking for myself.’ Then why, she wondered, were her arms crossed defensively over her body? Why was she backing away? And why hadn’t she noticed what was happening with Britta and Grim? Because she’d been too busy being shattered by the knowledge that the savage display of barbarity she’d witnessed yesterday hadn’t turned her against Rorik. Something shuddered inside her once, violently, before subsiding to a faint tremor. She held herself tighter. ‘I’d rather choose the cloister. In fact, that will likely be my only choice if I ever get back to England. But we’re here in Norway, and how can I submit… how can I even contemplate submission when he doesn’t…when I don’t…?’ ‘Mayhap in England ’twould be wrong to surrender,’ mused Britta, completely misunderstanding her. ‘But here our lives will be different. Who’s to say what is right or wrong? Not I.’ ‘Nor I,’ agreed Anna. ‘Besides—’ she indicated Britta ‘—some good has come of Rorik wanting you, lady.’ ‘But I said nothing to him about either of you. Except when I asked him to free us and he threw my ring into the sea.’ ‘Then perhaps there’s hope for the man. Who knows, in another month or so he might even give up his heathen ways.’ Yvaine had to smile at this unlikely prospect, although the expression wobbled a bit at the edges. ‘Somehow Christianity seems very far away,’ she murmured. Then seeing the looks of concern on the other girls’ faces, she straightened and held out her hands. ‘But not far enough away that I can’t pray for you both.’ ‘And we for you, lady.’ The ship bumped gently against the pier as they clasped each other’s hands. No longer thegn’s lady, tradesman’s daughter and serf, but three women facing an uncertain future with courage and the will to survive.

Chapter Seven

A n hour later, uneasily aware of the silence in the tent, Yvaine contemplated a tub of water, a bowl of soap and a chest full of clothes and ornaments. They’d been delivered to the ship by a stout, elderly merchant who had treated her with the utmost respect. She supposed she should be grateful. Instead, she felt very small…and very lost…and utterly alone. Despite the guard on the pier outside, the prospect of climbing, naked, into the tub while the other girls were not by was distinctly disquieting. She glanced at the curtain, telling herself not to be foolish. After yesterday, she doubted any of Rorik’s men would dare venture near the tent, let alone enter it. She was perfectly safe. For the moment. Quelling a shiver, she stabbed a finger into the water as though expecting a leering Viking to leap out at her. Then whirled, snatching her hand back when light footsteps sounded outside. The curtain was swept aside and a small, sturdy figure hurried through the aperture. ‘Anna!’ With a squeak of surprise, Yvaine sprang forward, flinging her arms around the girl. ‘What…?’ ‘Rorik bought me,’ explained Anna breathlessly, returning Yvaine’s embrace. ‘To be your maid.’ Yvaine drew back and gaped at her. ‘My maid?’ ‘Well, I think that’s what he said. He and Gunnar were speaking in Norse. Gunnar had taken me into a tavern just beyond the pier. He was boasting about carrying me off, but then Rorik came in, ordered me back to the ship and gave Gunnar some money, so it must be true.’ ‘But why?’ Anna pursed her lips. ‘Mayhap after what Othar called you yesterday, Rorik thought to provide you with some respectability, lady. After all, you’re no tavern wench who’s used to dispensing her favours. To put it no lower.’ Yvaine could only stare at her while hope and puzzlement danced a dizzying reel in her head. Anna was probably right. Rorik could be doing nothing more than throwing a sop to the conventions—if such conventions existed in Norway—but surely it was an act of kindness to see that Anna stayed with her. He could have given her a maid from his own slaves, rendering her completely alone among strangers and thus more dependent on him, if his only motive was to supply her with a façade of respectability.

Or, she thought, suddenly shaken, after Othar’s blunt description of her yesterday, he could be supplying her with a maid who could testify that she hadn’t been molested, because he intended to return her to England, unharmed. A ripple of something that felt very like dismay brushed her mind. A wave of apprehension immediately followed. What was she thinking? Did she want to be kept here against her will? Taken before she was ready to give? No, no. She didn’t mean that! Ready to give what, for heaven’s sake? Submission wasn’t giving. Besides, Rorik would never force her. If she believed nothing else, she did believe that. But if he still wanted her, how long could she stand against seduction? If he treated her with kindness, how long could she hold him off when her own emotions were in turmoil? What was she waiting for, anyway? What did she want?’ ‘My lady?’ Yvaine blinked, abruptly aware that she’d been staring at Anna for several long seconds. ‘This is what comes of not asking these questions yesterday,’ she stormed as worry and doubt got the better of her. ‘Well, he’ll soon learn that I won’t be making any decisions until I have some answers.’ Ignoring Anna’s goggle-eyed expression, she stalked towards the curtain. ‘But, my lady, your new clothes. Wait—’ Anna spoke to the empty air. She saw him immediately, leaning against the side where it began the upward curve into the prow. There was nothing relaxed about his stance. His arms were braced, his big hands gripping the side rather than holding it. The tension in his body was palpable, but it wasn’t caution that had Yvaine jolting to an abrupt halt. Sheer surprise held her spellbound. Gone was the rough tunic, the iron helm, the barbaric gold armrings. Rorik still wore his sword, but the terrifying Viking warrior had, by some mysterious transformation, become a Norse nobleman. Tan woollen trousers, tucked into thonged boots, closely hugged the length of his legs. His red tunic, also of wool, was heavy with braid and rich gold thread. A long blue cloak of rare pell hung over his left shoulder, drawing her gaze to the broad sweep of his back, and upward. Sunlight gilded his newly trimmed hair, and the backdrop of dark green hills threw into prominence his strong, sharply etched profile. He looked powerful, heart-breakingly handsome, and utterly daunting.

And she was suddenly aware that her own appearance more closely resembled something he’d fished out of the sea. She took a step back, and bumped into an oar left lying on the deck. He straightened, whipping around in the same fluid movement. Then went still. The questions pounding in her head vanished beneath the look in his eyes. Desire, fierce and barely restrained, leaped out at her, bathing her in incandescent heat. Thought, breath, will, tottered and threatened to crumble. She tried to move, realising in a blinding flash of insight, that, after their first encounter, Rorik had kept the full extent of his desire from her while they’d been at sea. He’d held her, kissed her, true, but this was different. This was terrifying. This was ravenous hunger about to be unleashed by a man who knew a banquet was within reach. ‘I…uh…just wanted to thank you for Anna, but…’ The fire in his eyes was instantly banked. It didn’t help. The smouldering embers that remained mirrored the leashed power in him as he closed the distance between them in two long strides. He caught her arm before she could retreat further. ‘And ’twas kind of you to see that Eldith stayed with Britta,’ she babbled. ‘I’m sorry you had to witness two violent deaths yesterday.’ She blinked at him. Yesterday? She scarcely remembered yesterday. She was too busy making a mind-numbing discovery about the present. That it was far easier to heed fear and run, when it wasn’t mixed with a shivery kind of excitement. ‘You’re sorry?’ He gave a short humourless laugh. ‘I’m not sorry Ketil’s dead, given the circumstances, but none of it should have happened. I knew there was bad blood between him and Orn, but…I allowed myself to be distracted.’ Yvaine frowned. At the back of her mind she was aware of danger still, but there was something more here. Something imperative. She sensed it dimly and struggled to comprehend ‘You couldn’t have stopped it. I heard what was said. No one knew what Ketil intended until the knife—’ She shuddered and let that pass. ‘I also heard that you’d forbidden them to speak to each other.’ ‘Only Ketil,’ he said. ‘’Twas a condition of his service. And my misjudgement. Othar asked if his friends could join us and I thought he’d settle easier, so I agreed. But neither Orn nor I took account of what cowardice can drive a man to do.’ He paused and glanced down at his hand still wrapped about her arm. ‘What anything can drive a man to do,’ he added beneath his breath.

His brows drew together and he released her, stroking the backs of his fingers against her arm. ‘But ’tis done. Of what use to question?’ Because I need answers. But her response was silent. She watched the movement of Rorik’s hand against her arm with a kind of dazed fascination. It was a caress he might have used to gentle a frightened hawk, she thought wonderingly. His hand was so big, so powerful. She fought against the sharp awareness of his touch, the heat emanating from his big body. This was important. Whether Rorik knew it or not, he was showing her something of himself. She needed the knowledge, desperately. ‘I understand justice,’ she said haltingly. ‘’Twas the manner of his death…to be roped to the body, unable to free himself…’ ‘Ah.’ Understanding softened the hard line of his mouth. ‘You’re remembering how it felt to be tied and helpless. But consider. It might have taken Ketil longer to die if I’d thrown him overboard, unfettered, and sailed away.’ ‘We weren’t sailing.’ ‘True. But would you rather have witnessed him trying to climb on board and being beaten off until he was exhausted?’ When she didn’t answer, he smiled. ‘This is why I didn’t want you witnessing such a death, little cat. You have a soft heart.’ The moment was over. Frustration muttered at the back of her mind with the thought. ‘My heart might be soft, but my head isn’t,’ she retorted, jerking her arm out of his hold. ‘No.’ He lifted a hand and stroked the tip of one finger across her brow. ‘But I’m in here just the same. Or if not yet, I will be.’ Yvaine’s mouth fell open. ‘You’ve made it clear ’tis not my head you’re interested in,’ she finally got out. ‘As for the rest—’ ‘You misunderstand me, sweeting. Once I’m in here—’ he raised his other hand to cradle her head between his palms ‘—the rest will follow.’ ‘Rest?’ She gulped in air and tried to remember she was furious. ‘And what then? Have you given any thought to afterwards, you…you pirate?’ His mouth crooked. ‘You think there’ll be an afterwards, sweet witch? Only if you free me from your spell.’ Yvaine gaped at him. Her spell? What was the man talking about? ‘Why would I weave a spell that results in me becoming a prisoner, a discarded mistress, then a slave?’ she demanded. ‘If there’s a difference between those things, which I doubt.’

She tried to wrench out of his hold, only to find that his grip, though gentle, was inescapable. ‘Oh, there’s a difference,’ he assured her. ‘But never fear, little cat, you won’t see it. I intend to show you something else entirely.’ ‘But—’ ‘Hush,’ he murmured, and lowered his mouth to hers. ‘There’s no need to be afraid. I want you, but I’ll never hurt you. Yvaine.’ Dear God, had she ever heard him speak her name before? Surely not, for the sound of it whispered in that deep, dark voice, threatened to cloud judgement, stroked over nerves that were already quivering, shivered over flesh that was suddenly yearning. She wanted the warmth of his arms about her, the thrilling heat of his mouth on hers. She’d been cold for so long. So cold… His mouth brushed hers, retreated, returned. Then took with a power that emptied her mind. Questions, demands, even pleas, vanished beneath a cascade of thrilling sensation. Heat streaked through her, warming, weakening. She had to grasp his wrists or fall. She felt him shudder in response, felt power ripple through him even though an inch or two still separated them. A peculiar sensation of drowning began to wash over her, her lips parted… The loud thud as someone jumped into the ship wrenched them apart almost violently. Rorik jerked his head up, his hands falling to her shoulders. ‘Sorry, did I interrupt something?’ asked Othar in a voice totally devoid of apology. Yvaine barely heard him. She felt Rorik’s gaze on her, unnervingly intent, before he released her and turned, shielding her from his brother. ‘I’m glad you’re back, Othar,’ he said, ignoring the youth’s rudeness. ‘You can summon the men. I want to reach Einervik this afternoon.’ ‘This afternoon? But I’ve got a girl waiting and—’ ‘Then you’ll just have to control yourself for once!’ The lash of his voice jolted Yvaine out of her daze. She stepped back, intending to retreat into the tent, then saw Othar’s face and froze. ‘For once?’ he shouted. ‘We’ve been at sea for more than a week!’ ‘Then the sooner we’re home, the better. Now, do it!’ Fuming, but powerless, Othar obeyed. ‘Witch!’ he hissed at Yvaine as he passed her.

There was such malevolence in his voice, such rage in his eyes, she shrank back. ‘I’m not a witch.’ ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ muttered Rorik. Then as she turned horrified eyes on him, added impatiently, ‘Don’t take any notice of Othar. Witches are usually respected in Norway. They even travel around the country, visiting farms to foretell the future, or make spells for good crops. One comes every year to Einervik. My stepmother dotes on the woman.’ Yvaine shivered, not comforted in the least by this careless dismissal of heathen practices. A vast distance might be opening up between her and Christianity, but she wasn’t ready to embrace paganism just yet. She crossed herself. ‘The priests say witchcraft is evil. The Devil’s work. In England such—’ ‘This isn’t England,’ Rorik snarled, turning on her. ‘You’d do well to remember that from now on. And to start with you can get rid of those English clothes. You look like a damned street urchin.’ Yvaine blinked in surprise before glancing down at herself. She knew she looked like a street urchin. A particularly scruffy one. That wasn’t what startled her. An irresistible urge to laugh was welling up inside her. It had been so long since she’d felt such a thing she’d forgotten what it was like. ‘Aye,’ she said softly. And suddenly, irresistibly, she felt her mouth curve in a smile. She looked up. ‘Perhaps ’tis as well it was only Othar who saw you kissing me.’ His stunned expression was quite wonderfully satisfying. There was no better time to stage a strategic retreat. Feeling ridiculously pleased with herself, she turned and walked into the tent. ‘I swear, Anna, ’twas worth agreeing with him just to see his face. Never have I seen a man so confounded. But he’d better not see it as a sign of encouragement,’ she added, narrowing her eyes at this heretofore unanticipated possibility. ‘I wouldn’t count on that,’ mused Anna, drawing a beautifully carved comb of walrus ivory, discovered in the chest, through Yvaine’s hair. ‘He’s too direct a man to see agreement as anything but encouragement, and yet…’ ‘What?’ ‘I’m not sure, lady. Sometimes he seems like two different men—and ’tis not the change of clothes that makes him appear so. You’ll think me foolish, but I can’t explain. Thorolf, now, he’s the same all the time.’

‘I know what you mean.’ Yvaine frowned as she bent to lift a long-sleeved shift from the chest. It was made of the softest linen, dyed green, and was very finely pleated. She laid it aside and gazed thoughtfully at the exquisitely made under-shift she was wearing. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I’m drawn to a ruffian because he can be gentle and honourable, or if I’m trying to convince myself he can be gentle and honourable because I’m drawn to a ruffian.’ ‘Hmm. It sounds complicated. I think I’ll stick with Thorolf.’ ‘Why, Anna.’ Yvaine turned to look over her shoulder. ‘You’ve never said…do you care for him? Does he like you?’ Anna blushed. ‘You go too fast, lady. He hardly knows I exist. But he’s rather appealing —in a ruffianly kind of way.’ Anna gazed at her mistress, startled by what she’d confessed. Then both women burst out laughing. The shared humour momentarily lightened Yvaine’s mood. Succumbing to the lure of new clothes, she delved into the chest for another pleated shift; yellow this time, with short fluted sleeves. Beneath it, resting on a folded length of cream-coloured wool, lay several articles of jewellery. ‘These brooches are beautifully crafted, my lady.’ Anna leaned forward to lift out a gilded oval clasp, examining it with the eye of an expert. ‘See how the animals are all intertwined. And look at this necklace of silver, set with crystals.’ ‘The Norse have some of the finest craftsmen in the world,’ Yvaine agreed, picking up a necklace of sparkling glass beads. ‘I shall wear this,’ she decided, entranced by the flashing colours. ‘With the yellow shift and the cream tunic.’ ‘But it has no sides.’ Anna frowned as she shook out the length of wool. ‘No. It hangs from the shoulders and covers the outer-shift at front and back. See, you fasten it in front with these oval brooches just below the shoulders, and this—’ she held up a fine gold chain ‘—hangs from the right-hand brooch. Ladies attach all sorts of things to the ends of the chains. The household keys in most cases, but we have this comb and here is a little silk purse.’ ‘How do you know all this, lady?’ ‘The Norse legends,’ Yvaine explained, checking to see that everything was fastened as it should be. ‘I listened to them over and over as a child, but—Oh, Anna…’ She swung about, hands clasped, her pleasure in the clothes fading. ‘Never did I think I’d be one of those ladies who are kidnapped in the sagas. Of what use is all this finery when underneath I’m still English? Will it stop Rorik using me? Of course not. Oh, why didn’t I

plead with him to ransom me from the first, instead of arguing, instead of demanding? Why—?’ ‘Don’t blame yourself, lady,’ Anna interrupted drily. ‘I doubt Rorik would have ransomed you then, and he certainly won’t now. I’ve never seen a man more determined to possess a woman.’ Yvaine gazed at her in dismay. ‘Are you saying he’ll force me if I resist? That I have been deluding myself that he’s honourable?’ ‘No. On Rorik’s honour we agree. The real question is, can you resist him? Is it Rorik you fear, or yourself ?’ Yvaine shook her head. ‘You said something like that on the ship. I couldn’t answer you then, and I can’t now.’ ‘But you’re drawn to him. I’ve sensed it, and now you say ’tis so.’ ‘Aye, drawn. Who would not be? He’s handsome, he’s protected us. God knows what would have happened if he wasn’t the man he is, but…’ She glanced away, towards the curtain. Beyond it lay her future—or her destruction. She didn’t know why that thought had come into her head; it was just there, terrifying in its clarity. But so was something else—a vague awareness that struggled to surface. ‘You know, Anna, I’ve just realised…’ She looked back at the girl, slowly working it out. ‘I’ve been relying on Rorik’s sense of honour, but what of my own?’ ‘Your own?’ Anna frowned. ‘But a lady’s honour is bound to a man’s. You have no father or brother or husband here.’ ‘Exactly. And Rorik is both protector and predator, so I can’t look to him. Indeed, why should I? My honour should be my responsibility. Don’t you see? I’ve been waiting to see what he’s going to do, worrying about surrender, as if I don’t have a choice.’ ‘But—’ Yvaine swept on before Anna could point out the glaring flaw in this brilliant reasoning. ‘I know he said he’d give me time to get used to the idea of belonging to him, but he can afford to say that because he thinks I’ll succumb. Edward’s too far away to rescue me, and by the time he learns what’s happened ’twill be too late. There’s no other man whose honour will be impugned. Why wouldn’t Rorik expect me to give in?’ ‘But—’ ‘What I should be doing is demanding his respect for my notion of honour.’ ‘But you did. I mean, you demanded to be returned to your cousin.’

‘That’s just it. I asked to be ransomed as if I was a piece of property to be bartered between one man and another. I played by the rules of men, making the demands they would make. All of which Rorik ignored or refused because I’m a woman. Would he have flung my ring into the sea if a man had offered it? Of course not. And I accepted his decrees like a meek little prisoner. No wonder he thinks he’ll succeed.’ Anna frowned. ‘But you just said you don’t know what you’re feeling, so—’ ‘I don’t,’ Yvaine agreed grimly. ‘But until I do, he’ll refrain from trying to seduce me. There’ll be no more kisses—’ ‘Kisses?’ ‘No more looking at me as if he wants to gobble me up in one bite. I may be a woman, but I’m a person, too. If I decide to have a…a…liaison with him, it will be because I want to.’ She glared at Anna. ‘Not because he’s seduced me into it.’ ‘Hmm.’ Anna folded her arms and contemplated her mistress’s determined face. ‘And how long do you think ’twill take him to seduce you into a liaison, lady?’ ‘Probably not long,’ Yvaine muttered. ‘But he doesn’t have to know that.’ ‘Well then—’ Concealing a grin, Anna turned to sweep back the curtain. ‘Let us show these Norsemen that two Saxon women are not to be reckoned with lightly. Onward, lady.’ Yvaine took a deep breath and marched outside. She cannoned straight into Rorik. He grasped her arms, stepped back a pace and looked her up and down. ‘Well?’ she demanded, while her heart leaped into her throat and threatened to stay there. ‘Does the lady meet with your approval more than the street urchin?’ His brows went up at her belligerent tone, ‘I think you were safer as a street urchin, beautiful lady,’ he murmured, and a smile flashed into his eyes that was very male, wickedly inviting, and utterly irresistible. Yvaine sternly ordered her mouth not to curve in response. Bad enough that she’d smiled at him before; if she continued the practice, heaven only knew what might happen. ‘Holy Saints!’ exclaimed Anna, coming unwittingly to her rescue. ‘We’re not the only ones who look different.’ Rorik sent her an amused glance ‘Come with us,’ he instructed. ‘Your place is with your mistress. And yours—’ he gently tugged Yvaine closer ‘—is with me.’ Releasing her, he took her hand and led her towards the stern.

Yvaine clutched thankfully at the distraction Anna had given her. It wasn’t difficult. She had to look twice to recognise some of the men. Several of the crew had been left behind in Kaupang, including Gunnar she was thankful to see, but the rest now looked more like respectable tradesmen or farmers than Viking raiders—in startling contrast to the ship which was decked out in all her pagan glory. The big sail was furled, but flying from the mast were two standards. The topmost pennant was red, embroidered with a large black raven, its huge wings outspread. Below this fluttered a smaller yellow flag decorated with a fierce red dragon. Painted wooden shields hung over both sides of the vessel, overlapping each other in alternate colours of red and black. They were too small to be useful in battle, and in any event larger shields would have covered the oarholes, so Yvaine assumed their use was purely ceremonial. The triumphant return of the warrior indeed. They reached the stern and Rorik took the steering oar from Thorolf with a word of thanks. Yvaine sank on to a nearby sea-chest, her troubles momentarily forgotten. Even Othar, who was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before, impinged only vaguely on her awareness as she gazed in awe at the scene before her. They were making their way up a narrow fjord. The water arrowed before them, of a blue so clear it seemed to pulse with light and colour. Lush green fields clung to the shoreline, gradually giving way to dense pine forests that marched up the craggy slopes on either side of the fjord. And higher still rose the distant, snow-capped mountains, their peaks soaring towards a pale, cloudless sky. The only sounds were the light splash of the oars and the occasional call of a bird. Then, rising gradually on the clear, still air, the call of a horn echoed through the hills. Just two notes, long and haunting. Yvaine tilted her head, her lips parting in delight as she listened. ‘Word has gone ahead of us,’ Rorik said. ‘Come here, sweeting. We’re almost there.’ His remark brought her back to earth with a thud. She looked at him, nerves and anticipation warring within her, and knew the real battle was about to begin. ‘How are you going to explain me?’ she demanded. ‘As the spoils of war?’ Rorik reached over, grasped her arm and drew her up to stand in front of him. ‘Sheathe your claws, little cat. There’ll be no need to explain you. One look at us standing together, and everyone will know you’re mine.’ ‘Will they?’ She tried to pull out of his hold, only to discover there was nowhere to go; that even if there were, her own senses were conspiring against her. She wanted to stay in his arms, to feel the strong beat of his heart against her back, the male heat and power

surrounding her. The longing to go where he led, to let him protect her, was wrenching— and she had to fight it. ‘How convenient,’ she muttered, forcing the words out. ‘Install me in the same house as your stepmother and go on your way. After all, we’re only women. Possessions.’ She turned sharply within the circle of his arm. ‘And possessions don’t think, do they? They don’t feel. They don’t—’ She had to stop; anything else and her voice would break. She was angry, aye, but her own words beat at her like savage blows. If Rorik installed her, as his mistress, or even potential mistress, in the household run by his stepmother, he would have no awareness of her as a person. No awareness of her sense of pride, of worth. Pain clutched at her heart, almost making her cry out. She couldn’t surrender under those conditions. No matter how gently he treated her. No matter how much— She dug her nails into her palms and fought the tears stinging her eyes. And didn’t hear Rorik inhale sharply as her meaning hit him with the force of a battering ram. He opened his mouth to assure Yvaine that concubines were a commonplace part of Norse family life, that the position held almost as much status as a wife—and the words wouldn’t come. He stared down into tear-drenched eyes and saw exactly what he’d done. He, who had never taken a woman by force in his life, had carried an innocent girl from her home because he wanted her with a desire that, by now, was barely under control. Because of a gut-deep conviction that she belonged to him; a conviction so absolute he hadn’t once considered her feelings. Oh, aye, some deep instinct had urged him to remove her from a place where she’d been grievously hurt. The sight of the royal standard might have had something to do with it. He could even argue that he hadn’t believed she was innocent. The fact remained that he’d placed her in a position that might destroy both her pride and any chance he had of— He frowned and shook his head sharply. Any chance he had of…what? Why this sudden feeling that he could lose something incredibly fragile, something indefinably precious? There was nothing he wanted that Yvaine could withhold. He wouldn’t force her, but every time he touched her he found an innocent, seeking response that threatened to shred his control into tiny little pieces and send him hurtling back to the savagery of his ancestors. He would have her. But his arm tightened as though he would shield her even from himself, and he knew he was about to condemn his aching body to further torture without a second’s hesitation.

‘Don’t,’ he said, not even sure what he was protesting. She hadn’t let the tears fall; hadn’t used them to plead her cause. That, alone, was enough to rend him. ‘I know everything’s strange…different. I won’t rush you.’ She didn’t speak, only gazed up at him, so utterly vulnerable, he felt something tighten about his chest. As though a giant hand had seized his heart. He started to speak, to reassure her further, only to hear the clear notes of the horn again. The meadows of his home were opening out before them, and there, on the grassy bank, an excited crowd had gathered, waving and calling out. There was no time, then, for long explanations, but in that instant, savage desire and aching tenderness came together for the first time without conflict, and he knew, with utter certainty, what he was going to do. Abandoning the steering oar for one brief moment, he captured Yvaine’s face between his hands, pinned her gaze with his, and put every ounce of conviction he possessed into his voice. ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘For this moment, at least, put your honour in my hands and trust me.’

Chapter Eight T rust him? What choice did she have? From the moment they stepped off the ship, Rorik’s grip on her hand was her only anchor in the sea of noise and confusion that surrounded her. Cries of delight rang in her ears as husbands and fathers were welcomed home. Men thumped friends and brothers on the back; children darted, laughing, through the throng. There was even a greeting or two thrown in her direction. She would have responded, but she couldn’t translate fast enough to keep up. Her mind was still caught in the moment when Rorik had specified her honour. Then, as the crew began to mingle with the crowd, expressions changed, became cool assessment. Speculation hummed on the air like a swarm of bees. When Rorik finally won free of the crush and led her across a narrow meadow towards several turf-thatched wooden buildings clustered at the foot of a pine-covered slope, the crowd followed, sweeping them through the doorway of the largest building on a tide of curiosity and anticipation. The sudden cessation of daylight blinded her. She had a vague sense of walking along a short corridor, then they passed through another doorway, into a hall, and she could see again.

Her first impression was of size. The room was huge, longer than the King’s thirty-foot hall at Winchester and far more luxuriously appointed. Two rows of posts, carved in intricate designs of plants and animals, supported the roof. Between them a long open hearth was set lower than the floor, which formed a wide platform around the perimeter of the room. Benches, broad enough for sleeping and made comfortable with furs, were set against the two long walls, on either side of a pair of carved, high-backed chairs that could have comfortably accommodated a giant or two. A doorway in the far end wall led to an inner chamber. The jarl’s private solar, Yvaine guessed. Another bench was set to one side of it, and on the other, an enormous loom held the beginnings of a colourful wall hanging. Smoke rose in lazy spirals from the firepit, but the air was surprisingly fresh thanks to several square holes cut into the walls. Though their wooden shutters hung open, they were too small to allow much light into the hall; what illumination there was came from bowl-shaped lamps set on long spikes hammered into the floor. Wicks made of moss floated in pools of oil—fish oil, she decided, sniffing cautiously. The flickering lights glinted on an enormous wooden shield that hung above one of the central chairs. Gold plaques and precious stones rimmed its edge, while the brightly painted centre depicted men and animals engaged in various improbable battles. Below the shield, propped in the chair and wrapped in furs, an old man watched the invasion of the hall through half-shuttered eyes. Yvaine knew him instantly; knew that, though wasted with illness, he’d once been as tall and powerful as his son, that, despite a face drawn and gaunt, he’d once possessed the same sternly chiselled features and glittering eyes. When Rorik led her across the hall and clasped his father’s outstretched arm, she was startled by the wave of fierce emotion she felt emanating from the old man. Then a woman spoke behind them, and a chill brushed her flesh. ‘So, Rorik, this is the reason you’ve returned early.’ Yvaine turned to meet pale blue eyes. Othar’s eyes. ‘Gunhild,’ said Rorik coolly. Othar’s mother looked her up and down, her sharp features pinched in an expression of distaste. ‘Who is this stranger you bring amongst us, Rorik? One would say a Norsewoman by her clothes, but my son tells me otherwise.’ ‘In this case, he’s right.’ Ignoring the tightening of her lips, Rorik turned to his father and raised his voice so everyone in the hall heard him. ‘Egil Eiriksson, my father, I present to you Yvaine of Selsey. My betrothed.’

Stunned silence greeted his announcement. It was immediately followed by an explosion of sound as shock and excitement sent voices soaring to the rafters. Gunhild’s outrage overrode them all. ‘What!’ she shrieked. Yvaine couldn’t say anything. She could only stand there, eyes open to their widest extent, while she wondered what Rorik thought he was doing. If they were truly betrothed she would visit his family, but every member of his crew knew a romance worthy of the sagas hadn’t taken place on board ship. ‘By the Gods!’ Another furious voice rang out, and as swiftly as they’d cried out, the crowd fell silent. ‘We don’t marry English captives!’ Othar elbowed his way out of the throng and ranged himself beside his mother. ‘Aye,’ Gunhild added. ‘If you want the girl then take her as your concubine. There’s no need to marry her. A captive will bring you no dowry, and how do we know she’s virtuous?’ She cast a scornful glance at Yvaine before appealing to her husband. ‘A necessary quality in a wife, Egil.’ Egil had been so still and silent, an oddly frozen expression on his face, that Yvaine suddenly wondered if he could speak. As if in answer, he gave a short bark of laughter and glanced up at Rorik. ‘Gunhild has a point there, Rorik. You’ve had the wench on your ship for nigh on two weeks and even my failing eyes can see she’s a beauty.’ ‘She’s a virgin,’ Rorik said shortly. Egil’s brows shot up. Before he could answer, Gunhild grabbed Yvaine’s arm and jerked her around towards the nearest light. ‘How do you know?’ she demanded shrilly. ‘The English always lie. Look at her well, husband. Look at those cat’s eyes and tell me the creature hasn’t cast a spell on your son.’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Gunhild.’ Rorik stepped forward and pushed the woman’s hand away from Yvaine ‘You may rule here when I’m away, but don’t overstep yourself.’ ‘I will not be silenced. This touches your father’s honour. Have you forgotten your purpose in England? Do you turn so lightly aside from avenging your cousin?’ Yvaine blinked, but there was no time to grapple with this unexpected reason for Rorik’s viking raids. ‘That purpose is done,’ he said curtly. ‘Enough English soldiers have died to avenge Sitric’s death and the deaths of his men.’

‘I didn’t see you kill anyone on this trip, Rorik.’ Othar’s eyes gleamed with malice. ‘And that’s not all, Father. Rorik struck me in front of the men, and wait until you hear about —’ ‘Enough!’ ordered Egil, struggling to sit upright. A shaking finger was pointed at Othar. ‘I’ll hear no tales from you, boy, unless you can tell me what you’ve done to help your brother avenge Sitric.’ Othar smirked. ‘Well, some of those English vermin had to watch their wives and daughters pay for their sins.’ ‘Pah!’ Egil’s hand fell back on his chair. ‘You call raping women a fitting revenge for the way Sitric died? Strutting young cub. You’d do well to remember why you had to leave Norway.’ ‘I have killed,’ Othar claimed, turning sullen. ‘Some fellow who refused to get out of my way. The drooling fool kept gaping at the ship as if he’d never seen one before and didn’t even try to defend himself.’ He shrugged. ‘I think he was wanting in wits.’ ‘You killed Jankin?’ Shocked comprehension wrenched Yvaine from the stupor induced by Rorik’s announcement. She took a step towards Othar, knowing the answer as surely as if she’d seen it happen. ‘How do I know?’ he said, casting her a look of scorn. ‘I didn’t stop to ask his name, you stupid woman.’ ‘He was my friend,’ Yvaine said quietly. ‘My only friend.’ And without warning her hand flashed upwards, striking Othar across the face so hard the impact whipped his head to the side. Every female serf in the hall screamed and fled from Othar’s vicinity. With a screech of rage, Gunhild went for Yvaine’s face, her fingers curled into vicious claws. Anna, whom, until then, Yvaine had thought lost in the crowd, tried to fling herself in front of her mistress. She was roughly shoved aside by Othar, who recovered from his stupefaction at having been hit by a woman, and leapt forward. He met Rorik’s shoulder, bounced off, and was sent sprawling on the floor. Rorik stepped in front of Yvaine just as Gunhild lashed out. He grabbed his stepmother’s wrist. ‘You were just extolling vengeance, Gunhild,’ he purred with silky menace. ‘Would you deny my lady that same right?’ Gunhild’s eyes were wild with rage, but when she cast a glance at her husband, Yvaine saw sudden caution flash through the anger. With an effort that turned her pale, she pulled a rigid mask over her temper.

‘As you say, Rorik.’ Jerking her arm free, she turned on her heel and retreated to the smaller bench against the far wall. ‘As you say,’ mimicked Egil with a harsh laugh. ‘A rare show of meekness, wife. You may sit there on the women’s bench and contemplate your likely lot if you insult any woman of Rorik’s.’ Leaning heavily on the arm of his chair, he turned on Othar, his eyes flashing. ‘And you, boy! Have you learned nothing yet? Get back on your feet when a man knocks you down, even when it’s justified. By the Gods, if you can’t behave like the son of a jarl—’ He broke off, his face going deathly pale. Sweat sprang out across his brow. Gasping, he bent forward, pressing a clenched fist to his chest. To Yvaine’s horror no one went to Egil’s aid. Even Gunhild seemed more concerned with gesturing to Othar to leave the hall than anxious about her husband. Looking nervous, she remained on the women’s bench, her hands folded in her lap in a pose of meek obedience. But before her eyes lowered, Yvaine caught the look of hatred directed at her and knew the woman wouldn’t forgive her for striking the son she obviously adored. Everyone else seemed torn between watching Egil and nudging each other as they exchanged low-voiced comments. She noticed Thorolf standing with his arm around Anna, and realised that he must have moved to break the girl’s fall when Othar had pushed her aside. She was suddenly aware that her palm was stinging painfully. She cast a quick glance at Rorik. His face was impassive as he watched his father, but as if aware of her gaze, he glanced down and she saw concern in his eyes. He really cared about the old man, she thought, and, in an impulsive gesture, reached out to take his hand. His mouth curved briefly. He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the palm that had struck Othar. ‘Well, Rorik,’ Egil slumped back in his chair. His voice was hoarse, and his eyes had sunk far back in his skull, but whatever pain he’d suffered seemed to have passed. ‘Is this an example of what we can expect if you marry your little wildcat?’ Rorik grinned. Still holding Yvaine’s hand, he kicked a bench around at an angle to his father’s chair and sat, drawing her down beside him. ‘Very likely,’ he said. Egil snorted, but half-amused respect flickered over his face as he peered at Yvaine. ‘You’ll have your work cut out taming her,’ he muttered to his son. ‘I don’t blame you for wanting the task, but you don’t have to marry the wench to do it.’ A look of urgency came into his eyes. ‘If you want a wife, there’s Harald Snorrisson’s elder girl, grown into a

fine strapping woman who’ll bear sturdy sons, and he’ll probably give her that piece of land adjoining ours as her dowry.’ Rorik shrugged. ‘I know what I’m doing.’ Egil watched him for a moment, then sighed. Now seeming very weary, he lapsed into a long, brooding silence. The crowd continued to wait. Like an audience at a mummers’ play, Yvaine thought uneasily. Watching for the slightest movement, listening for the faintest murmur. She wondered what they’d say if she told Egil he didn’t have to worry about his son marrying an English captive, that— ‘Your mother’s blood calls you,’ the old man murmured, jerking her attention back to him. From the women’s bench, Gunhild gave a derisive sniff. The sound seemed to rouse Egil further from his reverie. He sat up straighter and nodded at Rorik. ‘So be it. A man can’t escape the fate woven for him by the Norns, and since they stand ready to cut my thread you’d best marry today.’ He paused, nodding again as though hearing some unspoken question. ‘Aye, let it be now, in my presence, and whilst Thorolf ’s here as witness.’ ‘An excellent notion,’ Rorik agreed. ‘I was going to suggest it, myself.’ ‘What!’ Yvaine came to life as abruptly as Egil. Letting a mythical betrothal float past her was one thing; when reality was snapping at her heels it was time to act. ‘I thought…’ When Rorik turned to her, she realised she didn’t know what she’d thought. There hadn’t been time to think. But now— Oh, now it was clear, she decided furiously as he raised an enquiring brow. He was going to uphold her honour in a way that allowed him to take what he wanted. Well, it wasn’t going to happen. She wouldn’t let it happen. ‘I won’t be forced into marriage,’ she hissed in a furious undertone. ‘I don’t care what everyone thinks. We can go on being betrothed if you like while you send—’ ‘Mention Edward one more time,’ he interrupted softly, ‘and I won’t be answerable for the consequences.’ ‘But—’ ‘My father’s wish is clear.’ ‘Your father’s wish!’ Sheer frustration threatened to propel her straight off the bench. ‘Do you think me deaf and blind? Your father doesn’t want you to marry me any more than the rest of your family do.’

‘They’ll get used to it. So will you, little cat.’ The careless endearment was too much. Yvaine promptly forgot their interested audience. ‘Will I?’ she said through her teeth. ‘Well, here’s something you can get used to, you arrogant, thick-headed male. You can force me to marry you, but I’m still English. I’ll still consider myself free. I’ll still make you wish you’d never—’ The rest of her tirade strangled in her throat when Rorik wrapped one big hand around the nape of her neck and hauled her against him. The fierce purpose in his eyes had her blinking in sudden feminine alarm. ‘You may consider yourself still English, lady,’ he began in a soft voice that nevertheless managed to reach every corner of the hall. ‘That is your choice. But let me assure you that, by morning, this arrogant, thick-headed male will have made you feel very married indeed.’ Before she could argue, his mouth came down on hers. It was a kiss of sheer male annoyance. She could only endure, fuming. When he finally raised his head, everyone except Egil and Gunhild broke into cheers and delighted laughter. The air of merriment still prevailed several hours later. At least, it prevailed among the slaves and house karls, Yvaine amended silently as she watched them clear away the remains of the wedding feast. Egil had retired immediately after the ceremony, Thorolf had left to visit his mother, and Gunhild’s expression was more sour than ever. From her seat beside Rorik, she cast a glance at the woman who occupied the central position on the side-bench. Gunhild had taken great pleasure in pointing out that, after today, she, too, would sit there, since Norsewomen ate apart from the men. The thought of sharing a household with such a spiteful creature, let alone the women’s bench, had tears of frustration and anger stinging her eyes. She forced them back with a swallow of ale, then thumped her drinking horn down on the table, causing it to sway precariously. Rorik instantly covered her hand with his, steadying the vessel. ‘There’s no need to be nervous, sweetheart,’ he murmured, misunderstanding the cause for her clumsiness. ‘I have no intention of hurting you.’ Yvaine closed her mind to the dark velvet of his voice and glared at him. From the moment Egil, Thorolf, and another jarl, hurriedly fetched from a neighbouring farm, had declared them wed, he’d been treating her with gentle patience. Probably because he thought he’d achieved his purpose, she decided grimly.

‘’Twould not matter if you did,’ she retorted. ‘I have no intention of letting you do anything to me.’ ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ he growled. ‘We’re married.’ ‘A few heathen words over a cup of ale doesn’t make me your wife.’ ‘Hmm.’ He released her hand and rose. ‘I think we’ll continue this conversation elsewhere.’ Yvaine immediately sprang to her feet—and was abruptly thankful she hadn’t eaten much; her stomach seemed to turn over with the movement. ‘I don’t know what your custom is,’ she said, trying to keep any hint of pleading out of her voice. ‘But I would like some time alone.’ He inclined his head in a gesture that was oddly formal. ‘That is our custom, lady. Some of the women will escort you to the marriage bed and make you ready.’ He signalled to the women, then seemed to hesitate before touching her hand lightly. ‘I regret that one of them has to be Gunhild, little one, but to exclude my father’s wife would be a grievous insult.’ ‘I understand,’ she said, equally formal. And refused to meet his gaze. Bad enough that Rorik watched her like a hawk as Gunhild and two other women led her from the hall. Reason and logic would fail her entirely if she saw the masculine assurance in his eyes. The assurance of a predator who knows his prey has been captured. She shivered as the big room disappeared from view and she was ushered into a small chamber off the entrance passage. The first thing she noticed was that there was no way out except through the doorway. The single window, similar to those in the hall, was too small to allow any escape. She glanced at the wide bed, illuminated by an oil-lamp standing in one corner beside a wooden chest. The bed was so huge, only a narrow L-shaped space was left at its foot and on one side. She remembered the vision that had sent her fleeing from Rorik on the ship, and tiny claws skittered up her spine. ‘No doubt you expected to take my bedchamber, and the household keys as well,’ Gunhild said spitefully as soon as the door closed behind them. She gestured to the wrinkled old crone who’d accompanied them into the room to start removing Yvaine’s clothes. The other woman was apparently waiting outside in the passage. ‘But you and Rorik will have to wait.’ ‘I’ve no wish to take anything from you,’ Yvaine said with perfect truth. She drew back as a gnarled, claw-like hand reached for one of her brooches. ‘And I’d prefer to undress myself, or for Anna to do it, if we must have all this ceremony.’

‘Such ignorance,’ Gunhild sniffed. ‘’Twould not be proper for an Englishwoman to escort Rorik’s bride to the marriage bed. The witnesses must be trustworthy, isn’t that so, Ingerd? It must be proven that you’re a virgin, that no man but Rorik enters this room tonight. And let us hope he won’t regret doing so in the morning.’ The ancient crone cackled shrilly at this patently insincere hope. She was obviously Gunhild’s creature, but she cringed as Yvaine turned a haughty look on her. ‘Guard me then, if you must, but I will undress myself.’ ‘As you wish.’ Gunhild shrugged. ‘I’ve no wish to play servant to your ladyship.’ She made a scornful sound as Yvaine began to divest herself of her clothing. ‘Well, see what we have here, Ingerd. ’Tis as I’ve always said. Englishwomen are skinny and over-delicate. This one doesn’t look capable of bearing sons, even if Rorik stays around long enough to get her with child.’ ‘You expect him to leave?’ Yvaine asked. Smarting under the indignity of being naked in front of hostile eyes, but determined not to show it, she climbed beneath the bearskin Ingerd was holding back for her, head held high. The bed felt surprisingly soft, but, at that moment, she didn’t have attention to spare for unexpected luxuries. ‘Of course.’ Gunhild cast her a mocking glance before opening the door. ‘Do you think ’twould take Rorik eight years to avenge twenty, even thirty, men? I expect that task has long been done. He’s developed a taste for raiding, and he’ll need more incentive than your paltry charms to keep him at Einervik. Then we’ll see who rules here.’ The door shut quietly behind the two women. The instant Yvaine heard the key turn in the lock, she leapt from the bed and grabbed her under-shift from the pile of clothes Ingerd had left on top of the chest. Gunhild’s spite was forgotten as she pulled the garment over her head. She had too many other things to worry about. Not least of which was the possibility of angering Rorik beyond patience by putting all her clothes back on in defiance of custom. She glanced down at herself and hesitated. Perhaps the shift was a reasonable compromise. The garment fell only to her knees and wasn’t the sturdiest of coverings, but at least she felt less vulnerable. If nothing else, it might slow him down for a second. Her stomach clenched on a wave of nervousness. Something that felt very like fear gathered in the dim corners of the room; helplessness hovered in the shadows. The combination threatened to fog her mind. And she had to think. She had to find an answer to the dilemma she now faced.

What was she to do? Try to resist him? Lie passive? Give in to the urge to respond that grew more powerful every time he touched her? Continuing to deny she was married was useless. Rorik considered himself her husband no matter what she said. But what had happened to the time he’d promised her? How was she to know him better when she was faced with a wedding night scant hours after setting foot in Norway? Why should it even matter, she wondered, sitting down on the bed. Why was she fighting herself ? She was realistic enough to know that women were given little choice in such matters. Five years ago, she’d even been willing to do her duty by Ceawlin, terrified though she’d been at the time. What was it that sent tremors coursing through her every time she thought of Rorik claiming his husbandly rights? ‘Oh, fool!’ she exclaimed, springing to her feet and wrapping her arms about herself. She was being ridiculous. Wasn’t she already tempted to surrender, to give in to her curiosity and his desire? But what else would she be surrendering? The question had her starting to pace in the small rectangle at the foot of the bed. ‘That isn’t the point,’ she muttered ‘’Tis the way he sees me that’s important. I’m more than a captive who should be grateful he’s married me. I’m more than a possession who can run a man’s household and bear his children. I’m a person. I’m me!’ She turned at the wall and paced faster. ‘He’s already trapped me in another household where I’m despised and resented. He’s not going to turn my whole life upside down and expect me to submit without a murmur. He’s not going to take my body and leave my heart shattered. He’s not—’ Oh, God. She jolted to a stop, staring blindly in front of her. Her lungs were burning; she couldn’t get enough air. She stood there, barely breathing, unable to move, while the truth pounded in her head until she could have screamed aloud in a desperate bid to drown it out. How had she not known? Blessed Mother save her. How had she not known that her heart was involved? Groping blindly, she lowered herself to the bed, slowly, as if any sudden movement would have her shattering inside. She put her hands over her face, dragged them down, pressed her fingers to her lips. Of course she’d known. She’d known since the night of the storm, in that swift, clear moment of acceptance when she’d crouched beneath the mast with the image of Rorik, defying wind and rain and lightning, etched in her mind for all time.

She’d known, and had hidden from the truth, denied it, told herself it was gratitude, dependence, anything. Until he’d whipped away the shield of her honour by marrying her, forcing her to confront her real fear: that to love him and surrender to nothing more than desire would ultimately destroy her. Even marriage wasn’t enough, she realised in that moment. Because without love, desire would surely burn itself out; without love, obligation and honour would become shackles he might one day resent. Unless… Could she win his heart in return? She straightened, letting her hands fall to her lap. The task seemed overwhelming. She thought Rorik would always protect her, but given the total lack of any softening influence in his life, he might not be capable of love. And yet…She’d seen him hold a dying man’s hand around a sword hilt, his own fingers clenched so hard his knuckles had shown white. He’d cared enough about her fellow captives to see they had a chance at a reasonable future. Indeed, had only kept them on the ship for her sake. He was relentless in his determination to have her, but when he’d touched her, held her, hadn’t she sensed something more? Not merely gentleness. Tenderness, deeply hidden, but waiting. And she already loved him. Given that, there really was no choice. If she was to surrender her freedom, her heart, then she had to fight for the chance to win his love in return. Even if it meant fighting him and her own instinct to yield. And as that realisation struck, the key rattled in the lock. Yvaine sprang to her feet as the door opened. She heard Rorik speak to someone in the passage, then he stepped into the tiny chamber and pushed the door closed. The room immediately shrank to the size of a closet. Without thought, she leapt on to the bed, landed on her knees and scuttled to the centre of the bear-skin covered expanse. Rorik’s brows rose. He locked the door and turned to eye her consideringly. ‘Don’t you think this is taking maidenly nervousness a little too far?’ he asked. She lifted her chin. ‘I suppose you expected to find me waiting dutifully in bed, but I have no intention of lying here like a sacrifice on some pagan altar.’ He smiled faintly. ‘I’ve never been particular interested in sacrifices,’ he said. And began to unfasten his belt. Yvaine’s gaze flashed to his hands. For some reason her legs went weak. She sank back on her heels, watching with a sort of alarmed fascination as he removed the belt and his

dagger and tossed them on to the bed. He whipped his tunic and undershirt over his head and sent them into a corner. ‘However,’ he continued, ‘you might be warmer under the covers.’ ‘No, thank you,’ she squeaked, her gaze now on his chest. Holy saints, he was big. Despite her nervousness, her fingers flexed, as though they wanted to curl around those broad shoulders, to probe the muscles rippling under warmly tanned skin. A pelt of goldtipped hair spread over his chest and arrowed downwards. She followed its direction, and blushed wildly. He still wore his trousers, but unlike the loose-fitting chausses of her countrymen, these left little to the imagination. He was decidedly large all over. And already aroused. Swallowing, she jerked her gaze upward and tried to remember her plan. She didn’t have a plan. He hadn’t given her time to think of one. ‘If you’re this nervous with me,’ he said, a rueful smile curving his lips, ‘what were you like with Selsey before you knew the truth about him?’ ‘Who?’ He laughed. Taking a step closer, he propped an arm on one of the carved bedposts, and leaned against it. She wondered if he thought the casual pose made him look less threatening. ‘You surprise me, little cat. Is this the woman who tried to escape when she could scarcely stand? Who risked capture and rape by the Danes rather than remain under my protection?’ ‘Fine protection,’ she managed. ‘You kidnapped me in the first place.’ ‘True.’ He was silent a moment, lashes half-lowered as though in thought. Then his gaze lifted to hers. ‘But ’tis over and done. Can’t we put that behind us, Yvaine, and go on from here? ’Tis not as if I took you from a gentle home, a doting husband.’ ‘That’s no excuse.’ ‘No, it isn’t. But tell me, if I hadn’t killed Selsey, if I’d left you there, what would you have done? You said he hadn’t mistreated you until that day. Why were you trying to leave him?’ She eyed him warily, wondering why he’d asked the question. It was difficult to concentrate. His very presence, overwhelmingly male, had every nerve braced and quivering; the gentle tone of his voice was in such stark contrast to the physical threat, she felt dizzy, as if her senses were being tugged in several directions at once.

For the first time, defiance was having to be forced. The oddly serious note in his voice confused her further, and yet wasn’t this what she wanted? To talk, to gain some time, so she could decide what to do. ‘Ceawlin didn’t beat me,’ she said at last. ‘But ’twas a miracle I survived the winters. He gave me nought but the thinnest cloth for my gowns. He never allowed a fire in the solar —and I had privacy there only because he didn’t want me. The food I was served was more suited to swine. Indeed, I was ill several times this past year, until I learned to eat nothing that hadn’t been cooked in the communal pot.’ She gestured slightly. ‘Is that reason enough?’ He nodded. ‘You were unfortunate in your marriage, I grant you, but not all men are the same.’ ‘Are they not?’ she retorted. ‘When men see women as nothing more than objects, to be moved this way and that at the whim of their desires and ambitions? Me, my cousins—’ her voice hitched as a memory of childhood grief stabbed through her ‘—my mother.’ Rorik’s eyes narrowed. ‘Your mother? What of her?’ ‘She was killed by one of our neighbours, for no other reason than that he was feuding with my father and seized the opportunity to strike when he came across her in the woods one day. To him she was nothing more than a…thing he could steal from his enemy. Not that my father grieved overmuch,’ she added bitterly. ‘He didn’t even bother to avenge her. In his ambition to get a son, he was too busy picking out another bride.’ ‘But you grieved.’ His gaze sharpened. ‘You have a father? When you mentioned ransom, you spoke only of Edward.’ ‘My father died of a fever before he could wed again. I was taken into the King’s household.’ ‘To be married, in turn, for political gain.’ When silence was her only answer, he nodded. ‘And had you stayed in England as a widow, Yvaine? Indeed, if you’d escaped and been granted an annulment, which I presume was your goal, what would your cousin have done with you?’ ‘Probably married me off ag—’ She stopped short, finally realising his purpose. ‘He might,’ she amended pointedly, ‘have given me some choice in my own future.’ And if she believed that, she believed every monk in the land would abandon his vows and turn to a life of debauchery. Of course Edward would have married her off again. Given his present single-minded determination to unite England, he probably would have married her off to a Dane. And judging by the look in Rorik’s eyes, he knew exactly what she was thinking.

‘What Edward would do no longer matters,’ she pointed out. ‘’Tis your actions we’re discussing. You saw, you wanted, you took. And now—’ ‘Now I’ve protected you, given you your proper position at Einervik. Isn’t that what you were talking about on the ship?’ ‘No! I thought you’d take me to live somewhere else. I didn’t think you’d marry me.’ His brows shot up. ‘You’d prefer to be my mistress?’ ‘Aye—no!’ Oh, how could she explain without leaving herself vulnerable? ‘Don’t you see? ’Tis being given no choice in the matter that strikes at me so. How would you feel,’ she demanded suddenly, ‘if you had no control over your own life?’ He frowned. ‘As furious and frustrated as you are, I expect. But, sweetheart, we’re back where we started. ’Tis done. I understand how you must feel, but—’ ‘Then give me time,’ she interrupted, coming up on her knees as hope surged within her. ‘Time to know you better. Time to settle.’ Time for you to fall in love with me. ‘Yvaine…’ ‘You promised.’ ‘I didn’t swear a vow on it,’ he murmured. ‘And ’tis just as well, because whatever time I intended to give you ran out the instant we were wed.’ ‘Ran out!’ She glared at him. ‘Ran out?’ Rage slammed through her; fury like nothing she’d known. So he knew what she was feeling, did he? He knew she was furious. He knew she was frustrated. How observant of him. How very clever. How kind of him to mention it. Furious? He hadn’t seen the half of it. ‘As far as I’m concerned the sands haven’t even started,’ she yelled. ‘What’s more—’ Before she could enlighten him, he straightened, planted his hands on the crossed boards at the foot of the bed and leaned forward. His expression was stern, and utterly determined. ‘Yvaine, we’re married. Accept it. And while you’re doing so, think on this. If there’s no proof of your virginity in this bed come morning, your position in this household will be intolerable whenever my back’s turned. I can’t be here every minute so—’ ‘Women’s spite? Why should that worry me? I’ve had five years of practice at ignoring it.’ His hands flexed around the boards. ‘I know you’re angry and upset. But if your response to me the last time I kissed you is any indication, you know damn well that sharing this bed with me isn’t the worst fate in the world.’ He paused, the implacable

expression in his eyes replaced by a wicked gleam. ‘In fact, ’twill be my pleasure to make sure you enjoy our wedding night as much I intend to.’ She didn’t think; she didn’t plan it. Rage had her hand whipping out as if it had a mind of its own. She snatched up the dagger lying a few inches away and sprang to her feet, staggering slightly as the plump mattress gave unexpectedly beneath her weight. ‘You might wish to change your mind about that,’ she said, whipping the leather sheath away and sweeping the blade in a reckless arc. Every trace of devilment vanished from Rorik’s eyes. He straightened, his narrowed gaze never leaving her face. ‘What in Hel do you think you’re going to do with that dagger?’ he demanded with soft menace. Yvaine didn’t answer; she was too intent on keeping her balance. No wonder the bed had felt soft. What fool had thought to stuff a mattress with feathers? In England it would have been straw; a sturdier base from which to wave a dagger about. ‘Put the knife down, Yvaine.’ Rorik still spoke softly, but he took a step to the side which brought him to the corner of the bed. Yvaine took a corresponding step back, aware that if he moved again the bedpost would no longer hinder him. ‘When you promise me some time,’ she countered. ‘And if I don’t?’ He took the step that brought him to the side of the bed. ‘Are you going to take a slice out of me with that dagger?’ ‘No.’ She hesitated as the glimmer of an idea came to her. ‘I’m going to—Stay back!’ She waved the knife wildly and almost overbalanced when she saw the muscles in his shoulders flex. ‘Jesu!’ he exploded. ‘Put the bloody thing down before you hurt yourself.’ ‘What?’ She blinked at him. ‘What did you say?’ And in that moment he moved. Too late, Yvaine jerked back to avoid his lightning swift grab for her hand. Her heel caught the turned back edge of the bearskin. She stumbled, the blade in her fist swooping downwards as her feet went out from under her. Ice sliced across her knee. With a startled squeak, she tumbled into the depths of the mattress.

Chapter Nine ‘Y ou little idiot!’ Rorik ground out the words between his teeth as he grabbed Yvaine’s wrist, braced a knee on the bed and wrenched the dagger from her grasp. He sent the blade into the floor with a savage flick of his wrist. It stayed there, quivering.

He pulled Yvaine upright. ‘Who were you trying to kill? Me or yourself ?’ ‘Neither,’ she said. ‘And if you’ll stop breaking my arm, I’ll tell you what I intended to do. To my finger, that is, not my knee.’ She wasn’t even contrite. Rorik ground his teeth again as another wave of fury roared through him. The little wretch had taken ten years off his life and she didn’t even realise it. If it wasn’t for the blood he could see— He jerked his gaze down. ‘Odin curse it.’ ‘That wasn’t what you said a minute ago.’ ‘Never mind what I said a minute ago.’ He hauled her closer, glaring straight into her eyes. ‘’Tis what I’m going to do that should worry you.’ ‘Well, I meant to cut my finger.’ Her lashes flickered; whether in wariness or defiance he wasn’t sure. ‘But this will do as well.’ Defiance, then. What had he expected? Gods, he didn’t know whether to yell at her or pull her into his arms. Both impulses hammered at his brain; both would probably drive him mad with frustration. And in the meantime, she was bleeding all over the bed. Biting off another curse, Rorik released Yvaine’s wrist, took the hem of her shift between his hands and ripped. The force of his action almost sent her toppling backwards again. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she began, shoving at his hands as he tore a strip of fabric away. Then yelped indignantly when he clamped the wadded-up strip down on her knee. ‘Ouch.’ ‘Be still,’ he growled. ‘We have to stop this bleeding, unless you want everyone to think I took to you with the finesse of a rutting bull.’ She studied the thin trickle of blood that had run down the side of her knee onto the sheet. ‘’Tis only a few drops. I should think you’d be content. There’s your family’s proof that I’m virtuous.’ He reached out, captured her chin in his hand and forced her face up to his. It was a mistake. The softness of her skin, the faint trembling he could feel, pierced frustration and anger as if she’d taken the point of the dagger to his own flesh. What chance did rage have, he asked himself, fuming, against soft vulnerability combined with fierce pride? Her courage, her sheer determination to fight him when they both knew he could have vanquished her easily by force, or even by seduction, had struck more truly than any sword or spear. And totally disarmed him.

But, by the Runes, he ached. Her softness, her sweetness, were here for the taking. His entire body was throbbing with the need to cover her, to take, to push himself into her again and again, until she could no longer deny she was his. Until she cried out in surrender, and yielded, everything. It would happen, he swore silently. By Thor, it would happen if he had to wait for the Doom of the Gods to achieve it. But it wasn’t going to happen tonight. Wrenching his hand away, he stamped down on needs that were edging past violent, and wondered if he’d lost his mind when he’d first touched Yvaine. ‘Don’t move,’ he snarled. ‘Don’t speak. Don’t even blink if you want the time you risked my temper to obtain.’ Yvaine swallowed and decided Rorik’s temper had little to do with the terrifying restraint in his voice. A man on the knife-edge of control glared back at her. If he granted her five minutes ’twould be a wonder. She barely refrained from flinching when he moved back, lifted the cloth from her knee and started bandaging the small wound. He didn’t hurt her, but his movements were abrupt and jerky, completely unlike the powerful masculine fluidity he commanded at will. He tied a knot at the side of her leg and got to his feet. ‘You’d better not bend that knee for a day or two,’ he said curtly, and turned his back on her. ‘Get under the covers.’ Yvaine obeyed, eyeing him as if he might change his mind at any moment. Every muscle in his back was rigid, his shoulders braced, his fists clenched. She was torn between diving under the bearskin until she was out of sight and reaching out to touch him, to ease the brutal tension pulling his entire body taut. ‘What now?’ she ventured, sitting up in the far corner of the bed and pulling the bearskin to her shoulders. He turned, swept her with one coruscating glance and bent to pull his dagger from the floor. ‘You tell me, lady. Perhaps another conversation will enliven the rest of the night. Who knows, by morning, you might know me well enough to refrain from holding me off with my own dagger as if I’d intended to tear you apart.’ ‘From what I saw,’ she muttered, ‘that was a distinct possibility.’ He said something under his breath, turned to thump the weapon down on the chest, then wheeled back so suddenly, she jumped. He planted both fists on the bed and leaned forward. ‘Don’t worry,’ he purred. ‘When I take you, lady, we’ll fit together like that dagger to its sheath.’

Yvaine didn’t answer. Something else had just occurred to her: the problem of where this first fitting of daggers and sheaths was to take place now that she’d removed the bed as a possibility. She decided not to ask; glanced around the small chamber instead in a frantic search for a change of subject. The light from the oil-lamp flickered on the pelt bunched between her fingers, turning the tips of the creamy fur to silver, and inspiration struck. ‘I’ve…uh…never seen a pelt this colour before. What manner of creature was it?’ Rorik’s eyes narrowed. He continued to watch her for a moment with unblinking intensity, then he straightened. ‘’Tis the fur of the great ice-bear,’ he said shortly. ‘They live far to the north.’ ‘Then you really killed such a creature?’ ‘He didn’t give me much choice.’ A sardonic smile twisted his mouth. ‘In that instance, lady, I had more success with the dagger than you did.’ ‘I had no intention of attacking you,’ she retorted. Her gaze went to the curved tooth still hanging around his neck. It nestled in a whorl of hair. She felt a sudden longing to twirl her finger in the small curl, and clenched her hand around the bearskin. She wished Rorik would put his shirt back on. The longer he was half-naked, the stronger her need to touch him, to run her hands over the powerful contours of his chest and shoulders, to press her cheek to his warm flesh. Doubt welled. Confusion and a strange, yearning ache warred with caution. Was she doing the right thing? ‘Tell me something,’ he said, and raised his brows when she jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘How long will it take you to know me better, Yvaine?’ ‘I…hadn’t thought that far.’ ‘You expect me to wait indefinitely?’ ‘No. Of course not. I just need to know…to know that you see me, not—’ ‘You think I don’t see you?’ he demanded, leaning forward again to plant his fists on the bed. ‘You think I haven’t seen only you these past few days?’ ‘That isn’t what I meant.’ ‘I don’t think you know what you mean. Unless you’re seeking revenge for being given no choice.’ ‘No!’ Dismay washed over her that he’d attribute such a motive to her. ‘I just want some time. A few weeks, even a—’

‘Very well. You have it.’ The words were clipped. He straightened, turned, and snuffed out the oil lamp with a savage swipe of his hand. Yvaine blinked in the sudden darkness. She couldn’t believe she’d won. Or had she? Two thumps told her Rorik had taken his boots off and tossed them on to the floor. She slid down in the bed and lay still, barely breathing, as he climbed in next to her. A minute passed in absolute silence. She racked her brain for something to say that might melt the chill all but forming icicles in the air between them. Remarking on the fact that Rorik still wore his trousers probably wouldn’t be wise. Nor was she inclined to ask how long a reprieve he intended to give her. On the other hand, she’d asked for time, not this ominous silence. Apart from finding out if Rorik could fall in love with her, it wasn’t unreasonable to want to know her husband better. Especially when she was dealing with a Viking who used a Christian oath whenever it suited him? ‘Jesu’, he’d said. And tonight wasn’t the only occasion. She frowned as she remembered the night she’d tried to escape. Not only would she swear that Rorik had said ‘Oh, God,’ not ‘Gods’, when he’d pulled her into his arms, he’d also told her she wouldn’t have made it to Winchester before being recaptured. She hadn’t thought to question him at the time, but how had he known that Winchester, a full day’s march from any coast, was the usual location of Edward’s court? How, for that matter, had he recognised the royal standard flying over the hall at Selsey? She turned her head. With the small window unshuttered, and her eyes now adjusted to the dark, she could just make out Rorik’s long form stretched out on the other side of the bed. She thought he’d folded his hands behind his head, but there was no sense of relaxation about him. ‘Rorik?’ His voice sliced at her through the darkness. ‘Yvaine, I expect to spend a damned uncomfortable night. I suggest you not add to my problems by testing my control.’ Silence fell again, with an almost audible thud. Yvaine lay utterly still. Dismay threatened to overwhelm her. The uneasy suspicion that she hadn’t thought through all the consequences of denying Rorik his rights in the marriage bed began to stir. And yet, how else could she protect herself ? Loving him, how could she surrender her body while withholding her heart? The answer to that was still beyond her reach when she fell into an exhausted slumber. She awoke as she’d woken for the past five years. Tense, wary, instantly alert.

It was just as well. The first thing she saw was Rorik, watching her from less than a foot away. They lay facing each other. The early morning light streamed through the window making his eyes glitter like diamonds encrusted in ice. It also illuminated with nervetingling clarity, the intent, searching expression with which he studied her. She stared back at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice the pulse leaping in her throat. He did, of course. A faint frown drew his brows together. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. ‘Am I such an ogre, Yvaine, that you should wake like that? Braced as though awaiting a blow.’ After the stony silence in which she’d fallen asleep, the regret in his voice shook her immeasurably. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘It isn’t you. I fell into the habit at Selsey.’ ‘Then you don’t fear me?’ ‘No. At least…No.’ ‘Good.’ A smile dawned. Coming up on one elbow, he captured the strand of hair he’d brushed aside and began to wind it around his fingers. Yvaine immediately shifted to keep some distance between them, and found herself on her back with Rorik leaning over her. She blinked up at him, wondering how she’d managed to put herself in such a precarious position. She was glad Rorik’s anger had passed, but for someone whose wedding night hadn’t gone according to plan, he was looking far too pleased with himself. She levelled her brows at him. ‘What do you mean, “good”?’ ‘Well, in order to know me better, you’ll have to permit a certain amount of intimacy. That would be difficult if you feared me.’ ‘Intimacy?’ she squeaked. ‘But…’ She couldn’t continue; her mouth had gone dry. When had that happened? For that matter, when had she lost the small advantage she’d gained last night? She had the distinct impression Rorik was about to turn the tables on her, but she wasn’t sure how. ‘Stop!’ she ordered as he leaned closer as if to kiss her. She thumped a small hand against his chest and gasped as the heat of his skin struck her. Warmth enveloped her instantly. She wanted to curl closer, to nestle into that seductive heat. ‘You’re not going to seduce me into changing my mind,’ she stated, and wondered who she was trying to convince. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he murmured, a wicked twinkle in his eyes. ‘But even if I did, you can always say no whenever you like.’ She eyed him cautiously. ‘And you’ll stop?’

‘I’ll stop.’ Still holding her captive with nothing more than the fragile shackle of her hair, he bent and closed his mouth over hers. Oh, the sweetness. The thrilling ripple of pleasure. His kiss was a seduction in itself, a siren call to surrender. Something softened, opened, trembled deep inside her. She wanted to sink deeper into the mattress, to feel the weight of his body over hers, to have him part her lips with his tongue. Not with the fierce pressure he’d used before the storm, but as he’d done that night on the beach, gently tasting, gently taking. Tentative, uncertain of what she might unleash, she returned the pressure of his mouth. He shifted the angle of his head, shaping her lips to his, tracing their outline, enticing her to the same seeking movements. Her fingers pressed into the muscles of his chest. She lost all sense of time; knew only the slowly spiralling pleasure of his mouth moving on hers. And, again, that strange yearning ache. He raised his head and looked down at her, eyes narrowed and glittering. Yvaine swallowed and tried to speak. It took several attempts before she realised she didn’t know what to say anyway. The hard beat of his heart against her palm seemed to have robbed her of thought. But it was that powerful rhythm that restored a sense of caution. It was too heavy, too fast. Tension hummed in the small space between them. The muscles against her hand were like tempered steel. ‘’Tis morning,’ she managed, in a voice that sounded as if she was calling a timid creature to her side, not trying to hold off a considerably more dangerous one. ‘This isn’t…I mean, we’d best be up and about—’ ‘I doubt anyone will expect us to be up with the thralls.’ ‘No, but…’ She drew her hand away, clenching her fingers against the sudden loss of heat. ‘That…reminds me. What am I supposed to do here?’ He watched her, as if weighing the strength of her resistance, then shifted his gaze to the curl he’d captured. Slowly he began to unwind it. ‘While Gunhild is mistress here, why not rest, recover from the past few days. When she’s gone you may do as you please. Within reason.’ She ignored that last bit. She wished she could ignore the hand that almost…oh, almost…brushed the tip of her breast as he straightened the curl wrapped around his hand. ‘You intend to send her away?’ ‘I’ll see she’s well provided for, but I won’t have her in the same household as you.’ ‘Oh.’ She thought about that. ‘What about Othar? Will you send him away, also?’

‘Mayhap,’ he said absently, watching the curl spring back when he released it. He immediately recaptured it and began to unwind it again. ‘He needs to be kept busy.’ ‘Is that wh—?’ She broke off with a gasp as his knuckles brushed her breast in passing. Her nipple tightened on a thrilling little tingle of pleasure, but the sensation was so fleeting she wasn’t sure if he’d meant to do it. ‘Is that why he had to leave Norway? Idleness?’ His hand stilled. His gaze flashed to her face. ‘You seem very interested in Othar all of a sudden.’ Yvaine swallowed. She’d barely been aware of what she was saying, had been talking only to retain some hold on her senses. Now it appeared she’d stumbled into another pit. ‘He is part of the household,’ she said. ‘And your brother.’ He frowned. Then with an abrupt movement that left her feeling horribly bereft, he untangled his hand from her hair, turned and rose from the bed. Keeping his back to her, he flung up the lid of the chest, ignoring the clothes on top that promptly slithered to the floor, grabbed an undershirt and yanked it on. Yvaine watched as he continued to dress, torn between relief and a sharp sense of loss. Then he turned to face her and the feeling of abandonment wasn’t quite as keen-edged. The muscles in his jaw were locked tight, but his eyes weren’t cool as she’d expected. ‘Perhaps ’tis best you know,’ he said. ‘Othar was challenged to a fight and disgraced himself.’ She sat up, drawing the bearskin to her shoulders and wrapping her arms around her upraised knees. ‘A duel? Do you mean a joust?’ ‘No.’ He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to pull on his boots. ‘He’d wronged a man. Forced the fellow’s wife, or so she claimed. In our duels, the one challenged strikes first, and when Othar failed to draw blood with his first blow he ran from the ground. I had to pay compensation to prevent him becoming a target for revenge from his opponent’s family.’ ‘Rather like our Saxon wergild,’ she murmured. ‘Where the victim’s family receives payment from the culprit.’ ‘Aye, but in this case I had to take Othar away until the talk died down. Not only had he attacked, or tried to seduce, a virtuous woman, he’d branded himself a coward.’ ‘Hmm. No wonder he and Ketil were friends.’ A fleeting smile came and went. He stood, picked up his dagger, sheathed it, and fastened it to his belt. ‘That was a little different, sweeting. Ketil offered marriage. Probably because Orn’s family run a prosperous ale-house and Ketil saw an easy life

ahead, with as much drink as he could hold. When Orn refused him, Ketil took the girl, intending to force her into marriage.’ Yvaine raised her brows, but not a flicker of awareness crossed Rorik’s face. She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘What happened?’ ‘She got him drunk and managed to escape unharmed. Unfortunately she didn’t find her way home until the next day, so Ketil put it about that she’d spent the night with him. Orn, being the only suitable male in the family after his son died last year, challenged Ketil in order to prove him a liar.’ Yvaine fell silent, considering the different codes of behaviour implied in Rorik’s explanation. Apparently he saw nothing odd in the fact that it was permissible for him, or any other man, to carry off a woman when a-viking, so long as they adhered to a strict code of honour at home. Was it because the victims of viking raids were English? But if that was so, why had he married her? ‘That’s where I’ll be this morning,’ he said abruptly. ‘With Orn’s family. I have to tell them what happened.’ She looked up, quick sympathy overriding all else. ‘I’m sorry, Rorik. That sort of thing is never easy. But it wasn’t your fault. Unless you can see the future.’ He halted, half-turned away from her, before reaching for the door. ‘It shouldn’t have been difficult in this case.’ ‘No, but—Wait!’ she cried as he twisted the key in the lock. When he glanced back, frowning, she searched for something to say, to keep him with her a moment longer. His abrupt leave-taking, without a touch, or even a word of farewell, was dismaying. He was so changeable this morning; indulgent one moment, curt the next. For someone bent on seduction, he couldn’t seem to leave fast enough. And she was as contrary. ‘Rorik, what ails your father? I might be able to help him, ease his pain.’ His frown cleared, but the sombre look stayed in his eyes. ‘The healers say his heart is tired. There’s nothing to be done, nor will he accept help. And speaking of help,’ he added before she could argue, ‘you’ll have to manage without Anna this morning. Though no accusation was made, Gunhild will be the first person to enter this room once we’ve both left it.’ ‘Oh.’ She glanced down, not sure if guilt or embarrassment was heating her cheeks. ‘I can manage to dress myself,’ she muttered. He nodded, hesitated as though he might say more, then opened the door and left.

The moment Yvaine stepped into the hall all activity stopped. The slaves tending the cookpots simmering over the fire looked up and stared. Ingerd paused in her task of shaking out the bench furs and fixed her with beady eyes. From a corner of the room Anna stepped forward, only to halt when the girl beside her caught her arm. Gunhild rose from her seat at the loom and moved towards her, a gleam of anticipation in her eyes. Yvaine braced herself as the woman approached. She would be polite if it choked her. ‘Good morning to you, Gunhild.’ ‘That is yet to be seen,’ Gunhild retorted, sweeping past her into the bedchamber. ‘And ’tis nigh on noon.’ Yvaine grimaced at the woman’s retreating back. Then, spying Egil hunched in his chair, watching the encounter, decided boldness might win her respect from that quarter. She crossed the room, walking with considerable care so she wouldn’t favour her bandaged knee. Instantly the air of tension in the room was dispelled. The slaves exchanged knowing smiles and turned back to their pots. Ingerd pursed her lips thoughtfully. The girl with Anna nudged her and said something that banished the look of concern on Anna’s face. And Egil’s gaunt features relaxed into a faint smile. ‘Here, girl,’ he said, indicating the place beside him. ‘You’re moving as if you spent the night riding hard. Or being ridden,’ he added with a rusty chuckle. ‘You’d best sit down.’ Yvaine gave him a prim look and obeyed. He chuckled again, and slumped back in his chair. ‘Should you not be resting, my lord?’ She eyed the bluish tinge about his lips. It had occurred to her that Egil could answer several questions that had nagged at her after Rorik had left, but she didn’t want the information at the expense of the old man’s precarious health. ‘Plenty of time to rest in the grave, my girl. And call me Egil. We Norse don’t hold with high-sounding titles. The name we’re called on our name-giving day and a nickname earned later are good enough. Except for those with an ambition to be king,’ he added grimly. Yvaine tilted her head. ‘That would be King Harald, I expect.’ ‘Hmph.’ He peered at her. ‘You’re well informed. No tavern wrench, then. Aye, King Harald.’ He gave a snort.

‘Harald Fairhair he was once called, before he put a crown on his head and announced at the Gulathing he was King of all Norway. Nothing but a land-grabbing tyrant, if you ask me. And when he didn’t grab a man’s land, he demanded money.’ Yvaine raised her brows. ‘You think those of us who go raiding aren’t any better? You’ll understand when you look about you, girl. We cling to the edges of the fjords here. During summer our sheep graze on the lower slopes, but the winters are long and hard, and further north there’s nothing but ice and snow. Only the Lapps make a living there from fur trading and whaling, and Odin knows they’re always on the move just to survive.’ ‘So you fight to win more land.’ She nodded. ‘’Tis not so different in England.’ ‘Aye, but there you have land for the taking. When the men who defied Harald lost their farms, they had nothing. Not all turned towards England, you know. Nor even Normandy.’ ‘What became of them?’ she asked, genuinely interested. ‘Packed up and went to Iceland.’ Egil shrugged. ‘Sounds like a nice inhospitable sort of place, doesn’t it? But the colony prospered. The people formed their own Thing with its law-speaker and justice for all.’ ‘But you stayed.’ ‘No one drives me off the land that’s been in my family for generations,’ Egil growled. Then added with a cynical snort, ‘At least, not so long as we pay tribute.’ Yvaine watched him, wondering if the tribute exacted by the king was another reason for Rorik’s viking raids. ‘Aye, we kept the land,’ the old man murmured. He sank deeper into the furs wrapped about his shoulders, staring into the fire as though the past could be seen in the flames. ‘And yet, despite that, I was worried that Sitric would go off to Iceland. He was always a rebel, and Rorik would’ve followed him into Hel itself.’ Yvaine went still, hardly daring to breathe. ‘But he didn’t?’ she asked very softly when nothing more seemed forthcoming. ‘No.’ Egil stirred. ‘Settlement was too tame for Sitric. The young hothead joined up with Guthrum, King of the Danes.’ He sighed, shook his head. ‘’Twas the year I took Gunhild to wife. You’d have thought Sitric had battles enough here to fight. He and Gunhild hated each other on sight, and he resented the way she treated Rorik, especially after Othar came along. But that didn’t stop him leaving one night without a word to anyone.’

‘Not even to Rorik?’ She frowned, remembering Rorik telling her he’d been ten that year. A rebellious older cousin, standing between him and an unpleasant stepmother, would have seemed like a hero to a young boy. ‘Just as well,’ Egil said drily. ‘Sitric knew what I would’ve done if he’d taken Rorik with him. Thor’s hammer! The boy wasn’t yet full grown, although strong and as brave as any warrior twice his age.’ Yvaine smiled and he grinned faintly in response. ‘Aye, I’m proud of my son. Why not? And Rorik was more than capable of fighting his own battles, so don’t go thinking Sitric abandoned his cousin. He was a man to be proud of, also. I’d raised him from a lad, my dead brother’s son, and he was like a son to me.’ ‘What became of him?’ ‘Hah! You have all a woman’s curiosity, girl, but ’tis no gentle tale. Suffice to say that Sitric didn’t see much excitement with Guthrum either. That same year Guthrum and Alfred of Wessex signed a treaty and the Danes settled in the east of England. The Danelaw, you English call it. Sitric stayed in Guthrum’s service, but he was restless. Every time he came home I wondered when he’d leave Guthrum for another leader, or to fit out his own ship. Then, after that last visit, four years after Sitric joined the Danes, Rorik went with him.’ ‘To England?’ ‘Aye, to England. And six years later Sitric died. That’s all you need to know, girl. If Rorik wants to tell you more, he will. But know this. Family honour is the most important thing in a Norseman’s life. If a kinsman is slain, then vengeance will be taken. There’s no choice, no argument. Sometimes the head of a family, or the finest, may be killed, though he disapprove or not know of the initial crime. And it doesn’t only apply to sons and brothers, but to cousins of the remotest degree, to foster children who’ve lost their own father, like young Thorolf, and to any who marry into the family. Honour, girl. Remember that.’ ‘Yvaine has a greater awareness of honour, father, than many a man,’ Rorik said from the doorway. She turned her head, her heart giving a little leap at the sound of his voice. He filled the doorway, tall and powerful, but, just for an instant, as he crossed the room towards her, she saw not the fierce warrior of her girlhood dreams, but a child who had never known a mother’s gentle touch, a boy growing up among men whose code was harsh and unforgiving.

Doubt shook her, almost crushing her resolve. When he reached her, tipped her face up to his with one long finger, and brushed his mouth across hers, she drew back, wondering if the brief caress was nothing more than a step in her seduction. A faint frown came into his eyes. ‘Don’t you, my sweet?’ ‘What?’ Egil chuckled. ‘What did you do to the girl last night? First she can’t walk properly. Now, a mere kiss of greeting and you’ve addled her wits.’ Yvaine blushed and straightened her spine. ‘My wits are perfectly all right, thank you, my lord. I believe we were speaking of honour. I seem to be discussing the matter rather frequently of late. However—’ she rose; the lady of the manor taking leave of impudent peasantry ‘—I’m sure you have other matters to discuss with your son and I, uh, need to speak to Anna, so if you don’t mind…’ Anything else and she would find herself in a verbal morass. Ignoring Egil’s broad grin and the narrow-eyed speculation on Rorik’s face, she turned on her heel and stalked with as much dignity as she could muster to the other end of the hall. ‘Good morrow, my lady,’ Anna greeted her when she arrived, somewhat flushed, at the girl’s side. ‘As you see, they have me busy already.’ Yvaine peered at the table as though examining priceless relics. Anna seemed to be using a heavy glass smoothing stone to press the fine pleats of a linen shift. ‘Mmm-hmm.’ Her maid frowned. ‘Are you all right, my lady? They wouldn’t let me near you last night or this morning, and you seem somewhat—’ ‘I’m perfectly well, Anna. Perfectly well. As for last night—’ she took a deep breath ‘— apparently ’tis custom, when the bride’s virtue is called into question for the bridegroom’s family to, er, see to things.’ ‘Hmph. I could have told them you were still a maid, if only from the rumours flying around Selsey. But Rorik warned Thorolf and me not to mention you’d been married before. He said, ’twould only cause trouble, and no one else knows. Except Britta, of course, but she’s not here.’ ‘Aye, well, what of yourself, Anna? You haven’t been mistreated, I trust.’ ‘Indeed not. I have a cosy corner in the loft above the entrance, and food a’plenty. One of girls showed me how to make that curd mixture we ate last night. Skyr, they call it. ’Tis quite tasty. And this task is simple enough, once one gets the knack of it.’ She cast a quick glance around the room and lowered her voice. ‘But I’d watch Gunhild, if I were you, lady. While you were talking to Rorik’s father, she came out of your bedchamber looking as sour as old milk. And earlier I saw her with Othar out near the dairy. They had their

heads together like a pair of thieves, but when they saw me they broke off and went their separate ways.’ ‘Mayhap Gunhild was disappointed to find proof of my innocence,’ Yvaine murmured, all too conscious of her bandaged knee. ‘As for her talking to Othar—why wouldn’t she? He’s her son.’ ‘Aye, and as like as two peas, if you ask me. But still I say be wary. It wasn’t natural, the way they stared at me, then parted so quickly. ’Twas somehow…furtive.’ ‘Hmm.’ Yvaine left it at that. She had enough on her mind without looking for spectres where there were none. ‘Egil just told me that Thorolf is his foster son,’ she said to divert her maid. ‘Aye. Thorolf ’s father used to go a-viking with Egil in their young days and was lost overboard in a storm. Egil has treated Thorolf as one of the family ever since. As he seems like to do with you, lady, judging by the way you were chatting there, so friendly.’ Anna shook her head in wonder. ‘Maybe Egil isn’t as fierce as he tries to appear.’ ‘If that’s so, you may put it down to age and illness. I warrant he would have been fierce enough in his prime from the tales Thorolf has been telling me. He’s even kept his old ship. ’Tis moored down at the fjord with Rorik’s vessel.’ ‘Is it? Perhaps I’ll walk down that way.’ Yvaine glanced about the hall, careful to keep her gaze away from Rorik and his father. A walk sounded good. Some fresh air might even clear her mind. ‘It seems I have time before we eat, and I’ve scarcely seen what my new home looks like. Do you come with me, Anna?’ ‘I have to finish pressing these shifts, lady. But if you intend to walk to the fjord, take care.’ She levelled the smoothing stone at Yvaine in warning. ‘I wouldn’t put it past that Othar to push you into the water.’ Yvaine had to smile. ‘He wouldn’t dare,’ she said. ‘Besides, I can swim.’ Rorik kicked back on the bench and watched Yvaine walk out of the hall. She took the long way around, circling the firepit to avoid having to pass him on her way to the door. He stayed where he was, resisting the urge to go after her, to tear down the wall of resistance she’d been busily erecting when she’d escaped him just now. He’d practically seen the stones go up, one by one, when he’d bent to kiss her. So much for the plans he’d made earlier that morn, as he’d watched the dawn light move across her face. Even in sleep she’d touched something deep within him. With the golden fire in her eyes shuttered, there’d been a look of sweet, untouched innocence

about her that aroused a need so urgent, so all-encompassing, even the memory made him ache. Gods, he’d wanted her; wanted to be inside her, part of her, to— ‘Rorik? The light dims. Is it evening, my son?’ Rorik shoved frustration aside, and looked at his father. They’d begun speaking of Orn, of his last voyage, but Egil had fallen into a light doze, leaving him to his thoughts. Now there was a greyish tinge to the old man’s face that looked ominous, and his breathing seemed laboured. ‘Not yet, Father, but I’ll carry you to your chamber. You should rest.’ ‘’Twas Harald, you know.’ ‘Harald?’ Rorik got to his feet. ‘Snorrisson?’ ‘No, no.’ Egil’s hands moved fretfully on the furs. ‘Harald Fairhair. I was telling Yvaine. He wanted land, and money.’ ‘A common ambition.’ ‘Aye. You know that, Rorik.’ Egil looked up, almost pleading. ‘’Tis why I married Gunhild. She brought wealth into the family. Enough to buy more land from the King. I’d promised your mother, you see.’ Rorik frowned. A vague memory stirred, of himself as a very small child asking Egil about his mother, and having the subject brushed aside. Since then his life had been too full to admit more than fleeting thoughts of a woman he’d never known. He’d forgotten the occasion, and Egil had never mentioned the wife who had died in childbirth. Until yesterday. He sat down again. ‘My mother?’ ‘I…cared about her,’ Egil murmured. ‘So I promised not to go a-viking again.’ Rorik gave a short laugh. ‘That I can understand.’ ‘Hah. Promised Yvaine, have you?’ Egil eyed him with sudden disconcerting awareness. ‘Aye, how a man’s past returns to haunt him. But Yvaine isn’t like your mother, Rorik. She’s strong. A fighter. I lived to regret that promise, and yet…Even after your mother died I kept it. ’Twas the only reparation I could make,’ he added in such a low tone Rorik barely caught the words. ‘’Twas not your fault she died, father.’ ‘Wasn’t it? A man pays for his sins in this world, Rorik. But when I stopped raiding there was no wealth coming in to see us through the bad winters, or to acquire more land.’ ‘So you married Gunhild.’ Rorik shrugged. ‘She’s efficient, I’ll grant her that.’

‘Aye, efficient. I thought her safe enough, too. She wasn’t young, past childbearing age, or so I was told. But never underestimate a determined woman.’ He struggled upright, reaching for Rorik’s arm with sudden urgency. ‘I never meant to get her with child, Rorik, but the woman tricked me. Or maybe Loki had a hand in the business, and now you’ll have to deal with Othar.’ ‘I can handle Othar.’ ‘No! You don’t understand.’ Egil’s fingers gripped like claws, the muscles in his throat worked. ‘Listen to me. Don’t give Othar any authority. I’ve ordered my ship to be refitted. Let the boy take it and—’ He broke off, his face going white. Sweat beaded his upper lip as he gasped for air. His grip tightened with ferocious pressure, but before Rorik could do more than seize his father’s arm, Egil made an odd little sound in his throat and slumped forward, losing consciousness.

Chapter Ten A t Selsey she’d never been allowed beyond the manor walls, and when she’d walked within the compound there’d been nothing to soften the bare earth, no flowers to tend. Here, the grass was a lush green carpet beneath her feet. Wildflowers bloomed in profusion, their scent rising on the clean mountain air as her skirts brushed their petals in passing. Bees hummed; the sun shone. Here she could walk unhindered. The irony of it, given her present situation, made Yvaine smile wryly as she crossed the narrow meadow between house and fjord. She halted when she reached the shore and looked back at the cluster of buildings. The hall, a dairy, a huge barn that no doubt held lofts for the slaves, and beyond it an open structure of racks for the drying of fish. A blacksmith’s hut was set a safe distance from the house, its occupant wielding a hammer with practised ease while a shaggy pony waited, its tail swishing in lazy counterpoint. Behind the small settlement rose the forest, a dark thicket of pines that would provide shelter when winter’s storms blew ice and snow down the valley. No doubt the place would be cold and bleak then, she thought, but the hall was snug. She could be happy here. If Rorik loved her. Sighing a little, she started walking along the shore. A short distance away, men worked on a longship she assumed was Egil’s. Beside them, Sea Dragon rocked gently at her mooring, bringing back memories of the past few days. Of Rorik standing by the steering oar, grey eyes glittering in the sunlight, teasing her, arguing with her, wanting her. Even then she’d known he was her fate, her future. Perhaps if she’d listened to her heart from the beginning, she might be more certain now of what she was doing. Then again, what did she know of love? All she’d had were the dreams of her young girlhood,

and they had been snatched from her by the reality of her empty marriage. She’d become a shadow, empty, unfeeling—until a pagan marauder had strode into her life and turned it upside-down. And in doing so had given her more than had any man. Gentleness, humour, the promise of passion. While she, who professed to love him, held everything back. Yvaine frowned; her footsteps slowed. Shouldn’t love be a giving thing? Not something that counted the cost? A sudden rattle broke through her thoughts. Startled, she looked up, to see a small boat being moored to the pier. The apparition that climbed out of it was enough to drive the puzzle of who was giving what to whom momentarily out of her head. Covered from head to toe in a hooded blue cloak embroidered with strange symbols, the figure was like no one she’d ever seen. Hairy calfskin shoes, tied with long laces, emerged from beneath the cloak’s hem. The laces had large tin knobs on the ends that clanked as the visitor approached. Yvaine gaped at this unmelodious footwear for a full five seconds before she managed to wrench her gaze upward. The next thing she saw was a pair of hands clad in furry gloves that looked for all the world like animal paws. One paw held a skin pouch; the other carried a long, wooden staff topped by a brass knob. Above the knob, set in a face that held the lines of countless years, a pair of gentian blue eyes regarded her with equal interest, and no little amusement. ‘Ah! The golden child I saw in the flames. Good. I am in time.’ The stranger’s voice was low, feminine, and unexpectedly sweet. She tucked the skin pouch away beneath her cloak and extended her hand towards Yvaine, touching her shoulder gently. Yvaine decided there was no doubt as to the visitor’s identity. Eyeing the furry hand warily, she took a step back. ‘You fear me, little one? No need.’ The woman smiled. ‘I’m Katyja, who tells only of good things. Although for you—’ her smile dimmed as she studied Yvaine. ‘For you I must tell the truth if ’tis shown me. You must be warned.’ ‘Are you the witch Rorik spoke of ?’ Yvaine asked bluntly. ‘Let me tell you, far from being in time, you’re a little late. Not that your warnings would have done me much good from here.’ Katyja laughed. ‘I see the future, child, not the past. We’ll talk of that later. In the meantime, I’ve travelled far. This house has always welcomed me with good food and sweet wine. I hope nothing’s changed.’

‘Far from it, I imagine,’ Yvaine muttered. Then, feeling guilty for her unmannerly outburst, summoned a smile. ‘My regrets if I seemed tardy in my welcome. I’m afraid we English are unused to…uh…witches dropping by.’ Katyja laughed again as they began walking across the meadow. ‘English! That explains the journey I saw, and yet, there was more. But no matter. Such things show themselves in their own time.’ ‘Hmm.’ Yvaine decided such cryptic utterances were not comforting. She was about to search for another topic of conversation when Anna emerged from the house, hesitated, saw them, and began to run. ‘Something’s happened,’ she said, alarm sprinting up her spine. ‘The jarl,’ Katyja said calmly. ‘The Norns will cut his thread this night.’ Yvaine sent her a sharp glance, but before she could speak, Anna reached them. ‘My lady, thank the Saints you didn’t go far. ’Tis Rorik’s father. He was talking to Rorik, then with no warning at all it seemed, he fell into a stupor. Rorik managed to rouse him, but he only mutters and tosses on his bed. Gunhild is at her wit’s end and—’ Anna finally caught sight of Katyja and stopped, gaping. ‘Your slave is also English?’ Katyja asked. ‘What is she saying?’ Yvaine repeated the news as they hurried towards the house. The instant they were through the inner doorway, Gunhild rushed forward. ‘Katyja! Thank the runes you’re early this year.’ ‘May the Gods look kindly on your house, Gunhild. I’ve come to see this child—’ Her voice held a faint question and Yvaine realised she hadn’t introduced herself. ‘But I’ll be glad to use my skill to make Egil’s last hours more peaceful.’ Gunhild sent Yvaine a dismissive glance. ‘My stepson’s wife. Come. I’ll take you to Egil.’ Katyja nodded. ‘We’ll speak later, child,’ she murmured before following Gunhild. ‘What an odd person,’ Anna whispered, as they watched Katyja’s tall figure disappear into the solar. ‘And what in the name of all the saints are those things on her feet?’ ‘Shoes,’ Yvaine said very firmly. ‘Don’t worry, Anna. She’s a witch, but I think she means no harm. Indeed, I’ve heard such people have healing powers, but we’ve always been afraid of them in England because the Church has forbidden—’ She realised Anna was staring at her as if she’d expressed a desire to tie clanking tin knobs to her own shoes, and hastily decided this wasn’t the time for a discussion on the merits of witchcraft.

Giving Anna a distracted smile, she hurried towards the solar, only to be met in the doorway by her husband and his stepmother. ‘You have no place in there,’ Gunhild snapped. ‘Leave my husband to his own people.’ Yvaine ignored her. Looking up at Rorik, she touched a hand to his arm. ‘Rorik, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?’ ‘No.’ His tone was curt, but he covered her hand with his. ‘My father wouldn’t know you, and Ingerd is tending him. She was his nurse and knows his ways. Perhaps under the circumstances you could supervise the slaves today, so Gunhild is free to sit with my father. I’ll leave the two of you to work it out.’ He gave her hand a quick squeeze and returned to the solar. ‘How typical of a man’s reasoning,’ muttered Gunhild, but, this time, without rancour. ‘Set two women to run the same household.’ ‘’Tis only for a day or so,’ Yvaine said, feeling more in charity with the woman. After all, she might be a widow before the day was out. ‘You must be worried, Gunhild. I’ll say a prayer for Egil’s recovery.’ Gunhild considered her, eyes hooded. ‘Do as you will,’ she said at last. ‘For what it’s worth.’ And with that enigmatic statement hanging between them, she turned and walked quickly out of the house. ‘Your father rests quietly, Rorik. The end will not be long, I think.’ Katyja came into the hall and sat down in the visitor’s chair opposite Rorik. She glanced at Yvaine, seated next to him on the jarl’s chair, then at Gunhild, on the bench beside them. Her brows rose but she said nothing. The evening meal had been a family affair, eaten quickly and in a preoccupied silence that Yvaine, for one, hadn’t felt like breaking. The karls and slaves chatted among themselves, but their voices were subdued, a low murmur in the background. ‘You should rest, Gunhild.’ Katyja lifted her drinking horn and took a sip of wine. ‘Ingerd is with him.’ ‘Later, perhaps.’ Gunhild indicated Katyja’s empty trencher. ‘Have you eaten your fill, Katyja? Is there something more we can offer you?’ Katyja shook her head and set aside her drinking horn. ‘As usual, your house has looked after me well. Now ’tis my turn.’ ‘Forsooth, we need some good news,’ muttered Gunhild. ‘I’ll look into the flames for you, Gunhild. But first—’ Katyja beckoned to Yvaine. ‘Come to me, child.’

Yvaine felt Rorik shift beside her. ‘Refuse, if you wish,’ he said. ‘No one will think anything of it.’ But Yvaine caught sight of Gunhild’s expression of scornful anticipation, and knew the woman was waiting for just such a refusal. ‘Am I not a Norsewoman now?’ she asked with a fleeting glance at him. Something she couldn’t read flickered in his eyes. Then he shrugged and indicated Katyja. Suppressing a slightly queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, Yvaine rose and walked around the firepit. Katyja stood also and, placing the fingertips of one hand lightly against Yvaine’s forehead when she halted before her, closed her eyes. ‘Do not speak,’ she instructed. Silence fell; even the karls and slaves stopped their chatter to watch and listen. After several minutes, Yvaine began to relax. This was nothing more than mummery, she thought. There was no chanting of incantations or mixing of potions. Katyja merely appeared to be in some sort of trance. Then with a small jolt she saw that the witch’s eyes had opened. For a second she started blankly at Yvaine, then her vision cleared and she lowered her hand. ‘You don’t believe,’ she said at once. ‘But no matter. When the time comes, you’ll remember my words and be strong. Listen well, golden child. I could not see all. Only a journey and two ships. One fleeing, one pursuing. And before that, danger. A threat that reaches back beyond your time. One thing more. Do not falter. Death surrounds you, but it does not touch you.’ ‘That’s enough, Katyja!’ Rorik shot to his feet and strode around the firepit to pull Yvaine into his arms. ‘What in Thor’s name do you mean by frightening my wife with your talk of danger and death?’ ‘I’m sorry, Rorik.’ Katyja took a step back. ‘I don’t speak so by choice, but ’tis good that you’re swift to protect her. You will always be so, I think.’ ‘There’s no need to think about it,’ he snapped. ‘’Tis my duty to protect my wife.’ ‘Not duty. You fight the true cause, but there’s no need. You’ll each give strength to the other.’ Rorik’s eyes narrowed. ‘You ramble, woman. Let us hope your ramblings are more propitious next time you visit. Tonight you’ve said enough.’ ‘But, Rorik, Katyja has yet to read the flames.’ Gunhild, listening avidly, was clearly not pleased by this abrupt termination of the evening’s entertainment.

Rorik turned an icy gaze on her. ‘Another time, Gunhild. My father, your husband, is dying. I’m going to sit with him, and I’m not leaving Yvaine to any more predictions of doom and death.’ Gunhild coloured angrily. ‘A Norsewoman wouldn’t fear anything Katyja has to say,’ she retorted, and, rising, she stalked into Egil’s chamber. Rorik turned back to Katyja, his expression shuttered. ‘My thanks for what you did earlier for my father. You’re welcome to rest by the fire for the night and take what provisions you need for your journey.’ ‘Thank you, Rorik. And I’m sorry if—’ She was cut off as a shrill cry echoed from the solar. Ingerd rushed into the hall, staggering and waving her arms. ‘Dead,’ she shrieked. ‘The jarl is dead.’ Instantly, a long wailing arose from the women’s bench. ‘Oh, Rorik,’ Yvaine turned in his arms and put her own around him. He grasped her shoulders and set her aside. ‘My father wouldn’t want all this weeping and wailing over him,’ he said. ‘Send those slaves to bed, then get yourself hence. I’ll see you in the morning.’ ‘But—’ But Rorik was already striding away. Yvaine gazed after him, feeling as if he’d slapped her. And yet, what more did she expect? Rorik didn’t need her. Or rather, he wanted something from her that had no place elsewhere in his life. Even when Katyja’s ominous prophecies had caused him to leap to her defence, he’d spoken only of duty. Oh, wasn’t this the very thing she’d feared? That despite Rorik’s desire for her, she would live the rest of her life with the sting of rejection, with this cold feeling of being on the outside? Trembling, feeling tears fill her eyes, she turned away, trying to regain some composure before doing as Rorik bade her. The touch of catskin against her hand brought her up short. ‘Let him go, child. He doesn’t yet accept what is.’ Katyja smiled in understanding. ‘I wish I could help you further, but only the Norns know our fates for certain. I’m permitted to see but a little.’ ‘Norns? Oh…the three spinners.’ ‘Aye. The spinners who sit by the Well of Fate. Past, Present and Future. They weave each person’s thread into the tapestry of life, and when our time here is past, the thread is cut. ’Tis fore-ordained.

‘And ’tis time we retired,’ she added, patting Yvaine’s hand again. ‘Do as your husband bids you, little one. And try not to fret. I might not have seen all, but I saw how he watches you. If you would have more, you must show him the way.’ And how was she to do that? Yvaine asked herself the next morning as Anna braided her hair. Rorik hadn’t even shared their bed last night, although at one point she’d thought she’d heard the door close. The sound hadn’t been loud enough to rouse her fully. In her dreaming, half-dozing state she’d merely sensed a presence, but there’d been no other sound, no movement, and when she’d opened her eyes—she wasn’t sure how long after— the tiny room had been empty, the pillow next to hers unused. ‘Are you sure ’tis wise to go out, my lady?’ Anna murmured, covering her hair with a fresh linen kerchief. ‘Rorik has gone off to supervise the digging of some sort of burial mound, and I don’t like the notion of you walking alone. There’s a strange air about the place today.’ ‘I won’t go far.’ She peered into the metal plate Anna was holding up for her, wondering if she should thank her maid for informing her of her husband’s plans. ‘Has Katyja left?’ she asked, nodding absent approval at her reflection. ‘At dawn.’ Anna laid the plate aside. ‘Gunhild wasn’t too happy about it. She seemed more upset about Katyja saying she came to see you than at losing her husband. I’d stay out of her way if I were you.’ ‘Don’t concern yourself. I intend to. The last thing I need is to be told, yet again, that I’m not wanted here.’ ‘Er, no, my lady. I mean, there doesn’t seem to be anything for you to do. Ingerd insisted on preparing Egil for burial and no one is arguing with her.’ ‘’Tis the last thing she can do for him, I suppose. And at least her grief seems genuine.’ She turned. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, Anna, how do you go on with Ingerd? She seems…strange.’ ‘Oh, she’s a harmless old crone. She’s so ancient the other slaves treat her with some respect, which pleases her. Of course she thinks she knows everything. She’s been hinting all morning that Gunhild’s rule will continue, despite the jarl’s death.’ Yvaine shrugged. ‘’Tis only natural her loyalty is to Gunhild. And it matters not, so long as she’s not unkind to you.’ ‘No, she’s not unkind. And the others have been friendly. ’Tis surprising really, because they take their orders from Gunhild. Perhaps they don’t agree with Ingerd’s predictions and think to curry favour. After all, you’ll be mistress here now.’

‘Mayhap,’ agreed Yvaine, but she didn’t pursue the subject. The gossip and petty quarrels that went on amongst the women of a household had never interested her. Nor did she have any intention of taking Gunhild’s place until Rorik had arranged for his stepmother to live elsewhere. She’d learned all too well, at Selsey, that a household could have only one mistress. ‘I’m going to walk down to the fjord again,’ she said, rising. ‘Don’t worry, Anna. I’ll stay within sight of the house. I might even meet Rorik on his way back.’ But when she entered the hall a few minutes later, she saw that her walk would have to wait. Gunhild was nowhere in sight, and the slaves were milling about, apparently having nothing better to do than glance towards the solar—where she could see Ingerd moving about—and give vent to loud lamentations. Training and instinct took over. In less than a minute Yvaine had the slaves busy with preparations for the noon dinner—Rorik would just have to make do with something cold, she decided, when he didn’t turn up for the meal. Once the remains were cleared away, work began with a vengeance. A house karl was directed to replenish the oil in the lamps; the floor was swept clear of scraps discarded by the dogs; the two centre chairs rubbed until the wood gleamed. She even had the huge shield hanging over Egil’s chair taken down and polished so the gold and jewels flashed and glittered in the lamp-light. So fascinated was she with the shield, with its painted images of gods and heroes, that by the time she thought to take her walk, the sun was more than halfway between its apex and the peaks of the western mountain range. No matter, she thought, escaping from the hall at last and starting down the path leading to the fjord. At this time of year the light lasted for hours, and she’d been inside all day. She needed fresh air, and solitude. But solitude was not to be granted her. The first person she saw as she crossed the meadow was Gunhild. The woman was standing alone by the pier, watching her. Telling herself she could hardly turn around and go off in the opposite direction, Yvaine summoned a sympathetic smile. ‘I suppose I should thank you,’ Gunhild said without preamble as she approached. ‘Ingerd tells me you’ve kept the slaves from idle chatter all day.’ ‘It seemed the sensible thing to do,’ Yvaine responded, wondering when Ingerd had spoken to her mistress. ‘Oh, I wasn’t criticising.’ Gunhild’s lips pursed in a tight smile. ‘I’m grateful. I couldn’t stay in there a moment longer this morning. All that weeping and wringing of hands.’

Sympathy flickered. So, too, did a touch of guilt. Had she misjudged Gunhild? Had the woman merely reacted with spite to the threat of displacement before rational thought had reasserted itself ? ‘Would you like to walk with me, Gunhild?’ she asked on impulse. ‘’Tis pleasant out here, and peaceful.’ She glanced about, suddenly realising just how peaceful it was. ‘Where are all the men?’ ‘At the burial mound, with the rest of the family. I’ve just come from there.’ Gunhild watched her closely, as though awaiting some response. When none was forthcoming, she turned and gestured in the direction Yvaine had been heading. ‘The bathhouse lies this way. Have you seen it?’ ‘No.’ Yvaine fell into step beside her, telling herself she would not feel excluded. She’d had better things to do than stand around all day watching men dig a hole in the ground. Even if the rest of the family had been there. ‘You have a house especially for baths?’ ‘I’m surprised Rorik hasn’t shown it to you.’ Gunhild sent her another prim-lipped little smile. ‘A hot bath can be soothing. Although you appear to be walking a little easier today.’ Yvaine kept her face impassive. ‘No doubt the very brief demands he made on you last night helped in that respect. You must be thankful, since you were wed only for convenience.’ So Rorik had entered their bedchamber last night; had stood there, watching her sleep. Why hadn’t he stayed? ‘I see no convenience for Rorik,’ she answered, determined not to let Gunhild see that her barbs, if barbs were intended, had struck home. ‘That’s because you’re ignorant of our ways.’ Gunhild indicated a fork in the path that veered uphill, away from the fjord. They started climbing. ‘You were virtuous, I admit it. And to lie with a virgin gives a warrior strength and protection in battle.’ ‘Rorik didn’t need to marry me to take me to his bed.’ ‘No,’ agreed Gunhild slowly. ‘He didn’t.’ She sent Yvaine a quick sidelong glance, then gestured to a small wooden building that stood to the side of the path. ‘But here we are. As you see, we’re not far from the fjord, so water can be easily fetched.’ Metal clinked as Gunhild drew up the chain hanging from her left-hand brooch and selected a key. She inserted it into the lock on the door and turned it. ‘We keep the bathhouse locked to discourage the karls and slaves from using it as a trysting place,’ she explained, pushing the door open. ‘’Tis a secluded spot.’ It was indeed. Yvaine glanced around. The light was much dimmer here, beneath the trees. The breeze whispered through the pines like the sighs of departing souls; leaves

rustled in the undergrowth as some small creature fled from the sound of their voices. She remembered telling Anna that she would stay within sight of the house. Still, it was less than a minute’s walk from the main buildings if one took a direct route through the forest. And she wasn’t alone. Shrugging off the strange feeling of unease that had come over her, she followed Gunhild over the threshold. And was instantly entranced. The room was larger than she’d thought, and made snug with furs hanging from the walls and heaped on a bench set to one side. A firepit, laid with kindling, was placed at an angle to the bench, creating a cosy corner. Cauldrons, already filled with water, hung on tripods above it. But it was the tub, just above waist-height and occupying most of the remaining space, that held her bemused gaze. It looked big enough to accommodate the entire household. ‘Saints above,’ she exclaimed. ‘You could swim in it.’ ‘Not quite.’ Gunhild bent to strike a flint and hold the flame to the kindling. ‘Would you like a bath?’ she asked, straightening. ‘You probably feel covered in dust after working all day. I’ll send a slave with drying cloths, and to haul more water.’ Yvaine considered the offer. Gunhild was being positively helpful. It didn’t quite ring true, but she could see no point in challenging the woman. Gunhild could well have thought twice about antagonising the new mistress of Einervik. And a hot bath sounded wonderful. ‘Thank you, Gunhild. Would you send Anna, too, with clean clothes? I appreciate the thought.’ ‘’Tis nought.’ Gunhild gave her that tight-lipped little smile again. ‘You’ll have plenty of time before the men return, so don’t hurry. A burial mound takes some digging, since it needs to be large enough to take a ship and Egil’s horse and dogs. They’ll be killed at the graveside.’ Yvaine repressed a shudder. She knew from the Norse sagas that a wealthy man was buried with his weapons and other amenities, sometimes even slave girls, to provide comfort for the afterlife, but foreknowledge didn’t lessen the impact of Gunhild’s statement. Was the woman hoping she’d shame herself by causing a scene at the funeral? she wondered, as Gunhild gave her a brisk nod and departed. Though she seemed more amenable, most of her remarks had had an edge to them. Perhaps she was merely tactless, Yvaine thought, trying to be charitable. Then turned her head sharply as an odd little snick sounded. ‘Gunhild?’

No answer. Heart pounding, she rushed over to the door, seized the latch and tugged. It didn’t move. She stared at it in disbelief then, realising what had happened, sprang for the small window beside the door. But when she finally got the shutter open, fumbling in her haste, only the empty forest met her gaze. ‘Oh, stupid!’ She slumped against the wall, cursing herself for being so easily tricked. But at least her fear of being locked in, hidden from the world, had abated at the affirmation, seen beyond the window, that there was a world out there. Nor was she helpless. The window was too small to climb through, but if Gunhild didn’t send slaves as promised, she’d shout until someone heard her. Indeed, Gunhild would know that, she thought, frowning. If she’d been locked in by intent, surely she wouldn’t have been left free to call for help? Also, Rorik would start asking questions if she didn’t turn up by nightfall. Yvaine shook her head. She’d become so used to being on guard against malice, she’d panicked without cause. Gunhild had probably locked the door from habit. Or to ensure she had privacy in case she hopped into the bath before anyone other than Anna arrived. Taking a steadying breath, she straightened and began wandering around the room, pausing when she discovered a trio of oil lamps on spikes in the corner opposite the firepit. That answered the question of how people could see to wash themselves in the middle of winter, when they’d hardly leave the door and window open. She was about to cross to the fire, to search out a burning twig to light the lamps, when the key rattled again in the lock. She turned, a smile of greeting on her lips. It winked out the instant Othar strolled into the room. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded at once, and could have kicked herself when her voice shook. She reached out and gripped the edge of the tub. There was no need to panic. Anna would be here at any moment. Othar grinned and kicked the door shut behind him. The movement made him stagger slightly. ‘Rorik ordered me to clean up before the funeral feast tomorrow.’ He stuck his thumbs in his belt and rocked back on his heels. ‘I didn’t expect to have company, but since you’re here…’ ‘But you must have known.’ Yvaine frowned, not sure if Othar had known the bathhouse was occupied. Perhaps Gunhild wasn’t the only one with a key. Perhaps Othar had come straight from the burial mound. He certainly needed a bath; she could smell the sour ale on him from where she stood.

‘Then I’ll leave you to bathe,’ she said as calmly as she could. Forcing herself to relinquish her grip on the tub, she took a step forward. Othar stayed where he was. ‘Please let me pass, Othar. If Rorik finds you here—’ ‘Afraid he’ll divorce you? Don’t be. If you please me, I’ll look after you.’ ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ she said sternly. ‘Now—’ He took a step forward. Yvaine sent one quick glance towards the door, then retreated, her mind racing as she tried to think of a way out. If she could get Othar to follow her, perhaps she could make a dash for freedom once he was on the far side of the tub. He hadn’t locked the door, and the ale in him might slow him down. Or it could make him more vicious. Perhaps she’d be wiser to keep a solid object between them. Wild visions of being chased around the tub until someone came to her rescue flashed through her mind. She took another step—and felt ice spill through her veins as her foot came up hard against another solid object. She was trapped. She glanced down. Three wooden steps, obviously intended to facilitate climbing into the tub, barred her path. On the other side of the steps, a wide conduit led from the tub to a hole in the wall. ‘Don’t bother trying to jump the steps and the drain in those long skirts,’ Othar advised. ‘You might hurt yourself.’ ‘You’ll be the one hurt if you don’t get out of here,’ Yvaine warned. ‘Anna and a couple of slaves are on their way.’ His smile was enough to make her doubt that last statement. She immediately seized the more likely threat. ‘Then what of Rorik? You’re mad if you think—’ ‘Don’t you say that!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t you ever say that!’ He sprang forward, anticipation turning to rage so swiftly, Yvaine had no time to dodge before Othar seized her arm. At the same moment, a branch in the firepit burst into flames, lighting his face from below with a reddish glow that turned his expression demonic. She screamed as he yanked her against him. ‘I’ll show you,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll show you I’m a man and not the boy everyone thinks me.’ Her stomach roiled as the stench of sour ale struck her face, but his words restored reason. She was facing a human fiend, not a supernatural one. It was human force trying

to turn her, to pin her against the tub. She screamed again, this time more in rage than fear. She got her hands up, wedged her fists against his chest, and was just drawing breath for another scream, when the door slammed open. Rorik strode into the boathouse, seized Othar by the collar of his tunic and seemingly with nothing more than a flick of his wrist hurled his brother through the open doorway. Yvaine watched in awe as Othar skidded on his side through a carpet of pine needles and crashed into a tree. She’d known Rorik was powerful, but the strength needed to send a man almost as tall as himself tumbling and threshing helplessly across the ground was terrifying. She gazed up at him, unable to control the fine shivering that seized her limbs. ‘Did Othar touch you?’ he demanded, every word edged with ice. ‘Not…not the way you mean.’ ‘But he was going to.’ When she didn’t answer, he turned and advanced on his brother. Yvaine got one brief glimpse of the murderous fury on his face and dashed after him. ‘No! Don’t kill him. He’s drunk, I think.’ ‘Drunk or sober, he knows better than to intrude on my wife in the bathhouse.’ ‘She asked me to meet her here,’ Othar yelled, stumbling to his feet. ‘She planned it. To escape from you.’ Yvaine gaped at him in horror. She’d all but forgotten the vague plans she’d made on the ship to enlist Othar’s help. Now she felt memory stamp itself on her face in a rush of guilty colour. ‘No! Gunhild locked me in.’ She turned to Rorik, knowing she was babbling but terrified he wouldn’t believe her. ‘I don’t know how Othar got the key…mayhap they’re scattered all over the place, but…’ A sharp movement of his hand cut her off. ‘I know enough of my wife to know you’re lying, Othar,’ he said still in that chillingly level tone. ‘I’ll have no man here I can’t trust. Drunk or not, you’ve run wild long enough. After the funeral tomorrow, you will leave Einervik until you learn how to behave.’ ‘Leave?’ Othar’s eyes widened. ‘You’re banishing me? You can’t do that.’ ‘I have done it. Now get out of my sight, before I forget you’re my younger brother and give you the thrashing you deserve.’ ‘But—’ ‘Move!’ Othar staggered back, his mouth opening and closing. ‘We’ll see about this,’ he got out before lurching away through the forest.

Yvaine didn’t watch him go. Her entire attention was on Rorik. He turned, pinned her gaze with his, and started forward. The implacable purpose in his eyes had the strength draining from her limbs in a heartbeat. ‘Rorik…’ ‘Don’t stop me.’ Her eyes went wide. Her heart bounded into her throat, its frantic beat racing faster with every step he took. He reached her, wrapped his big hands around her shoulders and drew her against him. She gasped as their bodies touched. He was rigid, hard all over. Sensation after sensation rioted through her. Before she could sort them out, his mouth came down on hers. He kissed her as if he hungered, as if he craved. Every instinct she possessed longed to satisfy that hunger, appease his craving. ‘I have to do this,’ he said hoarsely between kisses. ‘I can’t stand to see another man’s hands on you, when I—’ He shuddered, held her tighter. ‘I have to know you’re mine. Mine. Yvaine.’ Her eyes widened in the second before he started kissing her again. Had that been desperation in his voice? How could she tell when her senses were reeling? When he was holding her locked against him so that she didn’t know who was shaking, whose heart was racing; knew only that the world could have exploded around them and his hold wouldn’t have slackened. ‘Release me from my promise,’ he said against her mouth. ‘I need you…need you…’ She tried to answer, couldn’t. He was kissing her too desperately. She couldn’t even think. She made a small, frantic sound and he drew back; enough to give her air at least, to tremble at the desire blazing in his eyes. The full force of his will washed over her in a wave of fierce demand, yet she wasn’t afraid. This was right. This was the moment. ‘Rorik…’ ‘Do you trust me not to hurt you?’ he asked, every word sounding as though it was torn from him. When she nodded, he swept her close again, his face buried in her hair. ‘Then let that be enough,’ he groaned. ‘Please let that be enough for now.’ ‘Aye,’ she whispered. And lifted a hand to his cheek. ‘’Tis enough, Rorik.’ He held her a moment longer, shudders racking his powerful body. Then with an almost agonized sound of yearning, he picked her up and carried her into the bathhouse.

Firelight flickered, sending showers dancing across the walls, as he stood her beside the bench. He stepped away once, to wrench the key from the lock, slam the door and lock it. Then he was back, his hands going to the brooches holding her outer garment in place. Yvaine trembled as she watched him. His eyes were narrowed, wholly focused on the task of releasing the clasps, of lifting the woollen garment from her and tossing it aside. Desire drew the lines of his face taut, but she sensed the fierce control he had over himself. When he loosened the neck of her shift, it was she who pushed the sleeves down, letting the soft linen slip to the floor, she who reached to unfasten the ties of her undershift. He would not merely take. She would give. But shyness intruded. Her hands fumbled on the ties. She had never stood before a man, naked. And he was still fully clothed. She looked up, uncertain, and understanding gentled his face. Holding her gaze, he stripped off his tunic and undershirt in one swift movement and reached for her. Yvaine gasped as his hands encircled her waist, gasped again when he drew her against him. Her flimsy undershift was no barrier at all to the heat, the exciting friction of hairroughened muscle against her softer flesh. The assault on her senses was almost too much. She whimpered and he held her tighter, bending his head to hers. ‘I went to the house,’ he said hoarsely, his mouth buried in her hair. ‘You weren’t there.’ ‘No.’ She frowned, struggled free of the drugging pleasure of being in his arms. A strange, elusive awareness teased the back of her mind, that there was more here than mere desire. But the thought slipped away. Reason was impossible when he held her like this, while his hands moved over her with barely restrained urgency, caressing, possessing. Need rose, the need to mate with him, to be one with him. Love welled, filling her heart until it eclipsed all else. She was his. It was as simple as that. ‘I was here,’ she answered softly. ‘I knew you’d come.’ ‘Always.’ He drew back, his heart pounding against her breast as he lifted her off her feet, holding her with one arm while he tossed the bench furs on to the floor. For an instant the room swung dizzily, then he laid her gently on the makeshift bed, quickly stripped off his remaining garments and came down beside her. ‘Always,’ he repeated, and slowly drew her undershift away. Apprehension washed over her, just for a moment as he leant over her. He was big, incredibly powerful. The muscles beneath her hands were like tempered steel, but suddenly she realised he was shaking. His skin burned as though he was in the grip of fever. She was helpless against his much greater strength, but as his gaze followed the

firelight flickering over her body, she saw that against his need of her, so too, was he. In their private world of passion, vulnerability was shared; they both held power here. The knowledge enthralled her, but then he made a rough sound in his throat, covered her breast with his hand, and excitement shivered through her on a ripple of heat. ‘I’ve ached to see you again like this,’ he said very low. ‘To touch you like this. To know you in every way there is.’ She turned her face into his shoulder. ‘I ache, too,’ she whispered. ‘Somewhere inside. ’Tis the strangest feeling.’ The soft confession drew a groan from him. Holding her close, he stroked his hand down her body until his fingers tangled in the honey-gold curls between her legs. ‘Here?’ he asked, and, parting the soft folds, touched her with exquisite care. She cried out, arching into his touch. Her head fell back, and with an almost savage sound of triumph he covered her mouth with his. She expected a swift possession; tried to brace herself for it. Instead he kissed her with heart-shaking tenderness, until she was responding without thought. Caressed her until she was almost insensate with need. Only when she was moving helplessly beneath him, breathless little cries breaking from her throat, did he move to cover her body with his. He framed her face between his hands, holding her still for his gaze as he began to enter her. Her breath caught at the blazing intensity in his eyes, at the sheer intimacy of the act. Firelight flickered, sending light and shadow chasing over him with every slow thrust of his body. There was pain; she’d expected it. Despite his promise, he was too big not to hurt her this first time. But, oh, the wonder of feeling him become part of her, the wild excitement of being held captive beneath him, the sheer delight of giving. Sweet, honeyed weakness invaded every limb, softening muscles that had tensed, easing the burning sensation as he pushed deeper, until he was seated to the hilt, until all she could feel was him, his hand clamping her lower body to his until she wondered that their very bones didn’t meld. She felt her inner flesh quiver around him and cried out as indescribable pleasure speared through her. ‘Gods,’ he groaned. ‘Don’t do that.’ He raised himself on one forearm, easing some of his weight from her. He saw her eyes widen as the shift pressed him impossibly deeper, and possessiveness flared, warring with needs that were just this side of violent. He was almost afraid to move, afraid he’d lose control. She made him feel all powerful, yet terrifyingly vulnerable. The conqueror triumphant; a supplicant at her feet.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, and barely recognised the hoarse sound of his voice. She nodded. At least, she thought she did. How could she tell when she was stretched on a rack of unbearable anticipation? He seemed to understand for he began to move, slowly at first, and then with a power that swept her beyond thought, beyond awareness of anything but the two of them, enveloped by firelight, moving as one. Trembling became tension, coiling tighter and tighter. Her heart felt like a tiny battering ram, hammering against her ribs until she wondered why it simply didn’t burst under the assault. Her body arched, wanting, needing. Oh, the need…She closed her eyes, clinging to him, unaware that the frantic sounds she was making threatened to drive him to madness. He slid his hand between their bodies, pressed his fingers to the point where they joined, and suddenly the tension exploded. Her body clenched and released, flooding her with sensations she could never have imagined. Indescribable pleasure; the sweetest madness. She felt him go rigid, felt the harsh groan that tore from his throat, and with a helpless little sob, yielded control of her senses to him, surrendered utterly to the waves of ecstasy washing over her. Until there was nothing but peace, and the gentle heat of the fire, and Rorik holding her as if he’d never let her go. Soft, trusting, she lay in his arms. He watched her as she dozed. She had surrendered with such sweet abandon, had rendered herself so open and vulnerable at the moment of completion, he’d all but lost his mind, had been taken to the very edge of consciousness by the force of his release. It should have been enough. It wasn’t. He frowned into the shadows beyond the firelight, fighting the urge to hold Yvaine closer, to wake her, as though in sleep she might drift away from him. He wanted her again, would always want her, but it was more than desire that prowled just beyond his understanding. More even than the need to protect her. It was as if some part of him was missing. And she was that part. She could bring him to his knees. He shook his head sharply, and as though she sensed the sudden tension in him, her lashes fluttered open. She looked up at him. And smiled. A velvet-covered fist slammed straight into his heart. Her smile held such sweet, shy, feminine knowledge that, had he been standing, he would, indeed, have fallen to his knees.

He bent his head and buried his face in her hair. He, who had never before hidden from anything or anyone in his life. ‘Sweet sorceress,’ he growled beneath his breath. ‘What is it about you?’ He felt her fingers touch his shoulder, a caress too swiftly gone. ‘Rorik?’ The uncertainty in her voice brought him back. She wasn’t responsible for the turmoil within him. At least, not intentionally. After her first time with a man, she needed petting and reassurance, not a husband who was suddenly groping about in the dark cavern that had become his mind. He lifted his head. ‘Now you’re my wife in every way.’ Well, that was certainly reassuring. A blunt statement of possession. But she made a humming sound of agreement in her throat that brought his body to instant readiness. He leashed the need to simply spread her legs and take her. The faint tell-tale stain on her inner thigh told him it was too soon for that. Oh, he’d pleasure her again, he’d bind her to him with every physical chain he could think of, but his own needs could wait until she’d healed. ‘I hurt you,’ he murmured, touching his fingers to the stain. ‘I’m sorry.’ An echo of pleasure shimmered through Yvaine at his touch. ‘Only for a moment.’ He bent to kiss the curve of her shoulder. ‘’Twill be easier next time. Elskling min.’ The last was said so low she barely caught the words, was too distracted by the heat of his body as he leaned over her, the tender note in his voice, the nibbling little kisses that moved up her throat. Had he said ‘my darling’? She couldn’t be sure. It was all mixed up with her own feelings, with trying to fathom his. So much had happened; impressions tumbled on top of each other, overwhelming her. But hope was strong. ‘Fortunately,’ he went on in that soft murmur, ‘we have the means to ease the hurt right here to hand.’ She blinked, trying to keep up with him. ‘We do?’ His mouth curved against her ear. ‘The bath. I presume that’s why you came here.’ ‘Well, aye, but…’ She shivered as he tasted the tip of her ear, then memory rushed back. ‘Rorik, you don’t believe—?’ ‘No, never.’ He lifted his head, suddenly intent, and framed her face between his hands. ‘I would never doubt your honour, Yvaine. But…for your own safety, don’t come here alone. At least, not until Othar has left Einervik.’ ‘I won’t, but, Rorik, Gunhild was with me.’

‘Gunhild?’ His eyes narrowed, and she realised his rage at finding Othar in the bathhouse with her had deafened him to her earlier explanation. ‘Aye. She promised to send Anna and some slaves, then locked me in. Mayhap Othar has another key, but…’ ‘He’d have no need for one,’ he interrupted. ‘The place is never locked. There’s a key for privacy if needed, but it hangs on a hook beside the door.’ ‘Oh.’ She frowned, not wishing to be the bearer of tales, but puzzled. ‘Gunhild told me ’twas always kept locked to prevent the slaves from using it as, uh, a trysting place.’ That brought his smile back. ‘Aye, she may have caught a couple here when they should have been about their work. I’ll question her about it. However—’ He glanced over at the wisps of steam rising from the cauldrons hanging over the fire, then looked back at her. His smile turned wicked. ‘Since we’re here, and since the water is now warm…’ Yvaine had to laugh, happiness bubbling up inside her at his quick change of mood even as she measured the cauldrons with a doubtful eye. ‘If you mean for us to bathe, I think we’ll need more than three loads to fill that tub.’ The gleam in his eyes was suddenly very male, and utterly sure. ‘Trust me,’ he murmured, bending to brush her lips with his. ‘There’ll be plenty for what I have in mind.’

Chapter Eleven G unhild claimed to have passed the key to Othar when she’d met him on her way back to the house, with instructions to give it to Anna, because a minor accident, requiring her presence, had occurred in the dairy. She had been all polite apologies for the trouble Othar had caused. Aye, he certainly needed to realise that boyish mischief, fuelled by too much ale, would not be tolerated. It had all sounded eminently reasonable when the matter had been broached on their return to the house last night. And Yvaine hadn’t believed a word of it. She was still brooding over the tale the following morning as she watched the slaves set up trestles for the funeral feast. Unfortunately, she was fast coming to the conclusion that she had to let the matter rest. Without evidence that there was more to Othar’s invasion of the bathhouse than a moment of misguided mischief, any expression of disbelief in Gunhild’s story would make her look foolish, or worse, a trouble-maker. Rorik might be patient with her doubts, but what could he do about suspicions that were so vague she couldn’t even explain them to herself ? No. Better to stay silent and make sure she was never alone with Gunhild or Othar again. It wouldn’t be difficult. They would be gone in a day or two, and besides, she had sweeter memories to savour: memories of the fierce restraint with which Rorik had taken

her, of sensations beyond belief, his tenderness afterwards. And then the playfulness he’d shown her in the tub. He’d been right, she thought, with a secret smile. There had been plenty of water for what he’d had in mind. She was still wondering at the pleasure that could be wrought upon her senses in a few inches of the stuff. Saints! A week ago she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of frolicking, naked, in a tub with a man, let alone surrendering the secrets of her body to him with such wanton delight. There hadn’t been an inch of her Rorik hadn’t kissed or touched. And then, later, when they’d returned to the house and retired, he’d held her in his arms while they’d slept. She gave a little skip of happiness, hugging herself as anticipation welled inside her. Then glanced around the hall to make sure no one had noticed. Really. She was supposed to be supervising the few slaves who had remained behind to prepare the funeral feast. At least, that was the reason Rorik had given, when, knowing parts of the ceremony would distress her, he’d stopped her attending Egil’s burial. His care for her made her feel warm inside. Even cherished, she thought, as she wandered over to the jarl’s chair under the guise of straightening the trestle in front of it. Rorik might be driven only by desire at present, but the future was suddenly bright and full of promise. As glittering as the jewels decorating the great shield above her. She looked up at it, remembering the excuse she’d given for accompanying Rorik to Norway without an argument, that of replacing her manuscripts. The purpose was still valid, she mused. When everything was settled, she would ask Rorik to procure some quills and vellum for her so she could start— ‘You seem fascinated by Ragnarök, dear sister,’ murmured a smooth voice behind her. ‘Praying for the Doom of the Gods, no doubt.’ Yvaine turned quickly, startled both by Othar’s approach and his mode of address— although, by Norse law, she supposed she was his sister. The notion didn’t comfort her. Her mood of happy anticipation took a slight dip. ‘You Norse believe it will come,’ she answered warily, glancing past him to make sure the slaves were still in the room, ‘since your gods are not immortal.’ ‘As you say.’ He looked up at the shield and nodded. ‘There on the left you see Odin being eaten by the wolf Fenrir, while below him Thor wrestles the serpent Midgarthsorm who will rise from the sea to do battle. He defeats the serpent, but dies from its venom. A useful lesson in that, perhaps, sister.’ ‘And on the right?’ Yvaine asked evenly.

‘Ah. There we see a happier outcome. The hero Sigurd slays the dragon Fafnir. After drinking its blood he understands the language of the birds, and they tell him where to find the dragon’s gold.’ ‘Hmm. Most interesting. Well, if you’ll excuse me, Othar, I must see how the preparations for the feast are progressing. If everyone has returned—’ ‘Oh, I left the burial ground early. No need to watch them throw dirt on the old man. He never liked me, anyway.’ The words were tossed out carelessly, like pebbles into a pond, but Othar’s tone was bitter. Yvaine had a sudden vision of that bitterness rippling outward, consuming every other emotion. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said awkwardly. ‘That must have made you…unhappy.’ ‘Aye, you understand, don’t you?’ He seized her arm, his eyes gleaming with a kind of feverish avidity that had both pity and revulsion roiling within her. But when she tried to free herself, temper flashed. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you yesterday,’ he muttered. ‘’Twas your own fault.’ ‘Then loose my wrist,’ she ordered, as though to a child on the verge of anger. His touch made her skin crawl, and yet she did understand his bitterness. On the other hand, that didn’t mean she had to put up with a bruised arm. ‘We have guests coming. I must return to my duties.’ For a moment she thought Othar might use his advantage of superior strength to detain her. His fingers tightened painfully, then he released her and stepped back. ‘Rorik might think he’s banished me,’ he said, his face falling into its usual sullen lines. ‘But he’ll soon learn his mistake. You’ll be mine. It will all be mine.’ He wheeled about and almost collided with Ingerd, who had come in unnoticed by either of them. The old crone waved a gnarled finger at him. ‘Woe to the man who would steal his brother’s wife,’ she shrilled. ‘Out of my way, you old bag of bones,’ snarled Othar, shoving her aside. Ingerd lurched to the edge of the platform, screeching in terror as she saw the fire below her. She grabbed for Othar, but he was already past her, storming towards the group of slaves who scattered like terrified mice at his approach. Ingerd’s foot slipped over the edge of the platform. Arms flailing, she swayed towards the glowing stones on the hearth. Yvaine sprang forward, seized a handful of Ingerd’s clothing and tugged with all her strength. Her action sent them both crashing to the floor, but at a safe distance from the fire.

She sat up, waving the other women back to their work as they scurried forward to help. ‘We’re all right. At least—’ she searched Ingerd for signs of smouldering clothes ‘— are you hurt, Ingerd?’ The old woman ceased her lamentations at finding herself in such an undignified position. ‘My foot touched the fire,’ she whimpered. ‘It hurts.’ ‘Let me see.’ She pushed Ingerd’s skirts up an inch or two and eased her soft skin shoe off. ‘There. ’Tis as I thought. The shoe protected you. See, your foot is only a little reddened, but stay off it for the rest of the day if you wish.’ She got to her feet and bent to help Ingerd on to the bench. ‘I think you should rest here awhile in any event. You’ve had a bad fright.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t think Othar meant—’ ‘Hah!’ The exclamation came with such strength, Yvaine blinked in surprise. Ingerd immediately cast a quick glance about the hall, her voice lowering to its usual soft whine. ‘You’re kind, Rorik’s wife. I’ll warn you. Why should that young wastrel have it all his own way?’ She drew closer, wrapping bony fingers around Yvaine’s arm. ‘Did you see his eyes?’ she hissed. ‘Take care, girl. He spoke of madness, but I thought he was raving. The rest was true. I knew at the time there was something going on that morning, though we slaves had been sent out to the fields. Had to get the harvest in quickly, or some such excuse. But the madness…I never saw such a curse in Egil, nor in his father and grandfather before him.’ ‘You’ve been here that long, Ingerd?’ Yvaine drew the old woman over to the bench, quelling an urge to prise the clutching fingers from her arm. ‘Aye, that long. I’m old, girl, very old. And always a slave. ’Twas always “Ingerd, do this” or “Let Ingerd do it”. But not for much longer.’ She glared at Yvaine with sudden malice and leaned closer. ‘Why should you be free, English girl, because Rorik wanted you? He’s not like his grandfather, though. Eirik the Just they called him, but what justice did I have once he’d taken his pleasure of me?’ The question was a little too apt for comfort. Yvaine banished the thought of her probable fate if Rorik hadn’t married her. ‘Men don’t always understand what we women consider important,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll speak to Rorik, Ingerd. I’m sure after all these years of service—’

‘No! You don’t understand.’ Ingerd shook Yvaine’s arm. ‘Gunhild says I’m going to be free. I told her everything last night, you see. I thought about it all day and decided she was the one. But the boy…I didn’t think about the boy…’ The old woman cast another nervous glance over her shoulder as voices sounded in the entrance passage, then leaned forward to hiss in Yvaine’s ear. ‘Listen well, Rorik’s lady. I don’t trust Othar, and Gunhild’s his mother when all’s said and done. If ought befalls me, seek out Thorkill. He was here that day. He knows the truth.’ ‘If ought…Truth?’ She drew back. ‘Ingerd, what are you talking about?’ But Ingerd looked around, cringing as she saw Gunhild approach. She released Yvaine’s arm and rose, scuttling away from the bench like a small, startled crab. Gunhild’s eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you were supposed to be watching for the men to return, Ingerd.’ ‘I thought they had, Gunhild.’ Ingerd sidled towards the door. ‘But I’ll watch. Oh, aye…I’ll watch…’ Cackling, she scurried out of the hall. Gunhild raised her brows. ‘Is it my fancy,’ she asked Yvaine, ‘or is Ingerd more than normally doltish today?’ ‘Ingerd had a bad fright, Gunhild. She almost fell into the fire.’ ‘Hmph. The old fool’s getting past her usefulness. Now—’ She turned to her slaves. Yvaine decided to retire to her bedchamber until Rorik returned. Gunhild’s callous remark, coming on top of Ingerd’s raving, had unease creeping back. She’d thought Ingerd’s warning had been meant for her, but did the old woman expect herself to become the victim of some nameless threat? If so, what could the unknown Thorkill do about it? Ingerd had said seek out Thorkill if something happened. In other words, afterwards. Where was the sense in that? The funeral feast was almost over before Yvaine realised that Ingerd was not at her usual place on the women’s bench. The discovery gave her such a jolt, she forgot her fascination with observing Rorik in a more formal setting. That was one thing about being relegated to the women’s bench in this all-male company. She’d been able to watch him to her heart’s content, listening as one man after another roared out a tale of Egil’s deeds—or misdeeds—that had the company laughing or yelling approval. But now, as the slaves cleared the trestles away and the guests began to look about for cloaks and caps, she tried to recall seeing Ingerd during the meal and could not.

She slid a sideways glance at Gunhild, who seemed not to have noticed that her guests, although perfectly friendly to Yvaine, had paid her scant attention. Instead, she was smiling. Yvaine shivered. It was strange how a smile could look so threatening. Especially when she could see no threat. Ingerd had been shaken by her fall and had probably retired to her loft in one of the storage burs. As soon as she was free of the hall, she’d check on the old woman and take her something to eat. It wouldn’t be long. Already some of the guests were on their feet. The jarl sitting next to Rorik clapped him on the shoulder as he rose and spoke in a jovial tone that reached every corner of the hall. ‘You’ll have to take your place among us at the Allthing, Rorik, now that you’ve succeeded to Egil’s chair. No more whiling away the summers raiding England.’ There was a short, embarrassed silence. Everyone very busily avoided looking at Yvaine. Except Gunhild, who sent her a swift raking glance as if to say raiding England hadn’t netted them much. ‘You shouldn’t be so hasty with your invitations, Hingvar,’ she advised. ‘Nor so quick in your assumptions. Rorik would do better to return to his raiding, than remain Jarl of Einervik.’ Several heads turned. Rorik also looked at his stepmother. He seemed no more than mildly impatient at her intrusion into the conversation, but Othar, Yvaine noticed, was leaning forward, watching his mother with avid anticipation. The food she’d just eaten dropped like a stone to the pit of her stomach. There was no reason for it, but she was suddenly braced, as though about to confront some unseen danger. When Rorik spoke into the hush that had fallen, she almost flinched. ‘Why would I do that, Gunhild?’ Gunhild set her knife at a precise angle on her trencher and folded her hands. ‘Because, Rorik, only a true-born son may inherit his father’s chair.’ This time the silence fell like a pall. It was finally broken when Thorolf rose to his feet. ‘What folly is this, Gunhild? You—’ Rorik silenced him with a gesture. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed on his stepmother’s face. ‘Explain that statement, Gunhild. If you can.’ ‘Oh, I can, Rorik, but are you sure you wish your guests to hear such a tale of deceit as I shall tell?’

An elderly Norseman, his richly embroidered, furtrimmed tunic proclaiming a jarl of some standing, also sat forward and spoke with authority. ‘If there’s any doubt in your mind, Gunhild, as to Rorik’s right of inheritance, it must be stated before witnesses.’ ‘In fact, I insist on it.’ Rorik rose and nodded to the man who had spoken. ‘Ragnald, I’d like you and Hingvar to stay. I regret that I must ask the rest of you to leave,’ he added, raising his voice to address the company at large. ‘My thanks for honouring my father’s memory and our house with your presence.’ Those guests still seated rose as one, hiding their curiosity behind polite faces. Gunhild ignored the speculative glances thrown her way and continued to sit, hands folded, a prim little smile on her lips. For all the world, Yvaine thought, like a cat that had got into the dairy. She saw Anna pass her and realised the slaves, too, were being dismissed. On impulse, she caught the girl’s hand. ‘See if you can find Ingerd,’ she whispered. Anna nodded and followed the others, pulling the door shut behind her. Yvaine debated the wisdom of putting the length of the women’s bench between herself and Gunhild against the risk of being noticed if she moved. She and Rorik might be closer physically, but, her earlier euphoria aside, she couldn’t be sure that closeness would hold under these circumstances. And she had no intention of leaving. Whether he admitted it or not, he might need her. He sat down again, exchanging a brief word with Thorolf, who had moved up the bench to sit next to him. Ragnald and Hingvar seated themselves opposite. Othar lounged at the other end of the room, a smile curling his lips. ‘You may speak, Gunhild.’ Rorik turned hard grey eyes on his stepmother. ‘And I hope you have good reason for curtailing the hospitality of this house at such a time.’ ‘Oh, I think you’ll find it very interesting, Rorik. I certainly did. It concerns your mother.’ Rorik frowned. ‘What do you know of my mother? She died years before you came to Einervik.’ ‘True,’ put in Ragnald sternly. ‘Not only that, but when you married Egil there was no one here who even remembered Rorik’s mother.’ ‘Except Ingerd,’ Gunhild pointed out. ‘If this is nothing more than women’s gossip,’ Hingvar grumbled, ‘we don’t wish to hear it.’ ‘Not gossip, my lord, but fact.’ Gunhild rose and, facing the elderly jarls, clasped her hands in supplication. ‘My lords, I appeal to you. A grave wrong has been done here, to

me and to my son. ’Tis not Rorik who should inherit his father’s chair this day, but Othar, who is legitimate. Rorik’s mother was never married to Egil.’ ‘What?’ exclaimed Thorolf. Yvaine glanced quickly from him to the others. Rorik was watching his stepmother, his eyes narrowed. The two older jarls appeared thoughtful but not particularly perturbed. Othar still lounged at his ease, but his face gave him away. He was watching Rorik with a malicious gleam that sent ice sliding through her veins. He knows, she thought. But how? Why didn’t he say something yesterday when Rorik banished him? ‘I see no need for all this drama,’ Ragnald observed. ‘A concubine’s son is equal under the law and is entitled to a share of his father’s estate.’ Hingvar nodded. ‘Aye. What difference does it make if Rorik’s mother was concubine or wife?’ ‘It makes this difference,’ stated Gunhild, abandoning her pose of wronged widow. ‘Othar should be Jarl of Einervik now. Not only that, but—’ ‘Hold! You go too fast, Gunhild.’ Ragnald’s bushy brows drew together. ‘As far as I can see, you’ve only got the word of some old woman to verify a tale nigh on thirty years past. Did Egil say anything to you, Rorik, that might clarify your mother’s position?’ ‘He never mentioned her,’ Rorik said slowly. ‘Until I brought my wife home. Then, ’twas only to say he’d cared for her.’ ‘Cared!’ Gunhild glared at her. ‘What did that unfeeling old man know of caring? He married me for the wealth I brought him, then tried to deny me a child.’ Her lips curled back in a sneer. ‘Now I know ’twas so his bastard son could inherit. And he used to speak of honour.’ ‘Egil believed in honour, Gunhild. Too much so to relate such a tale to a slave. If Ingerd knew my mother was a concubine, why didn’t she say so earlier?’ ‘A good point,’ Ragnald agreed. ‘Egil wouldn’t have spoken to a slave while his son remained ignorant. The woman is trying to cause mischief.’ ‘Egil was on his deathbed,’ Gunhild insisted. ‘For the brief time he spoke, Ingerd was alone with him. Then he fell senseless and remained so until he died. Ingerd was disturbed by what she’d learned and came straight to me, thinking, quite rightly, that I should be told.’ ‘And she didn’t think I had that right?’ Rorik asked sardonically. ‘You have no rights,’ she hissed, turning on him. ‘Because your mother was not even a concubine. No! Egil couldn’t maintain even that much propriety.’ Her voice rose as she

pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘You’re nothing but the son of a slave,’ she shrilled. ‘And worse! Your mother was not even Norse, but English. A captive such as your wife!’ Rorik shot to his feet. ‘By the runes, Gunhild, you’d better have proof of this. You say Ingerd knows? Then let her be fetched.’ A timid knock sounded on the door as he spoke. For an instant no one moved. Then Thorolf rose, strode forward and yanked the door open. Ingerd tottered into the room, supported by Anna. The wave of relief that swept over Yvaine left her shaking. But what had she expected? Ingerd looked as if she’d been abruptly jerked from sleep, staring about as though unsure of her surroundings, but she was alive. ‘Ah.’ Gunhild crooked a finger. ‘A happy chance, Ingerd. We were about to send for you.’ She waved Anna off. ‘We don’t need you, girl. Return to your quarters.’ With a disdainful air that would have done credit to a Christian martyr, Anna ignored her. ‘My lady?’ ‘’Tis all right, Anna. You may wait in my bedchamber. Thank you for bringing Ingerd.’ She knew immediately that she shouldn’t have spoken. Rorik’s gaze flashed to her, his eyes so cold, so distant, her heart shuddered once, as if she was the one about to be interrogated. ‘You, too, Yvaine. There’s no need for you to witness this.’ ‘For once we are in agreement, Rorik.’ Gunhild sent her a smug smile. ‘But at least we know, now, why you married the wench. Like calls to like, does it not?’ Rorik ignored her and jerked his head from Yvaine to the door. ‘Leave us.’ She stood. ‘Rorik—’ ‘Leave us, damn it!’ ‘No,’ she said very quietly. Keeping her gaze on his, she crossed the room to his side. ‘You once said my place is with you. I’m your wife, and have a right to stay.’ Something fierce blazed in his eyes, only to be instantly extinguished by Ragnald’s measured words. ‘Your lady is right, Rorik. This concerns her. She may be English, but you married her by Norse law and if Gunhild’s claim is true, Yvaine may wish to be free of the marriage.’ ‘No! I didn’t mean—’ ‘Oh, I don’t know, Ragnald.’ Gunhild’s harsh tones overrode her easily. ‘They seem to be rather well-matched. Between them there is more English blood than Norse.’

A muscle flickered in Rorik’s jaw. ‘We’re discussing my parentage, Gunhild, not my marriage.’ He nodded at the woman now standing at Gunhild’s side. ‘Tell us what you know, Ingerd.’ The old slave turned shakily towards him. She appeared so frail, Yvaine wondered that the gentle draught from the window didn’t knock her over. There was something wrong here, she thought. She could sense it, like a sound just out of hearing, a shadow just out of reach. But there was no time to search, to listen for that faint whisper. Ingerd was speaking, seeming to choose her words with care as a tale unfolded that closely mirrored Yvaine’s own. Except in one crucial detail. How ironic, she thought as she listened. Egil had claimed to care about Rorik’s mother but he hadn’t married her, had forced her to bear an illegitimate child. Rorik didn’t love her, and yet— ‘Do you think Egil was raving?’ Ragnald demanded, drawing her attention back to him. ‘No.’ Ingerd shook her head. ‘He knew me and asked if I remembered Alicia. Your mother, Rorik. He muttered about seeing the past repeated when you returned with your lady. But you were stronger, he said. You married Yvaine, whereas Alicia remained a thrall after he brought her from England, and he was shamed that he’d put family pride before her and you would suffer for it. So after—’ ‘Thank you, Ingerd. That’s all we need to know.’ Gunhild gestured smoothly, reclaiming everyone’s attention. ‘No doubt Egil did regret Rorik’s position. A man on his deathbed will always think of things not done and mistakes made. However, my lords ’tis the future that concerns us now, and I will see my son in his rightful place.’ Hingvar sat back, looking worried. He and Ragnald consulted together in low tones. Rorik watched them. He hadn’t moved, but Yvaine sensed the tension in him; that of a predator waiting to spring. She caught Thorolf ’s eye. He was frowning, but he gave her a brief nod and motioned for her to sit on the long bench. After one glance at Rorik’s stony profile, she complied. Gunhild was bending solicitously over Ingerd. Yvaine frowned as she watched them. It was all wrong, she thought again. But how? Why? ‘My lords.’ Gunhild looked up from her quiet conversation with Ingerd. ‘Of your kindness, allow me to dismiss my woman. She is old and frail and has endured much this day. If Rorik has any more questions they may be asked tomorrow.’ Rorik nodded before the other men could speak. As she watched Ingerd shuffle from the hall, Yvaine had to stop herself running after the old woman. She wanted to question Ingerd now. The feeling that tomorrow might be

too late was almost overwhelming, but she didn’t want to leave Rorik. Surely a few hours would make little difference. Perhaps… ‘Rorik.’ Ragnald rose to his feet. ‘Hingvar and I feel this matter is serious enough to be put before the court. I can’t believe Egil would have left the succession so uncertain, and yet the slave, Ingerd, seems definite in what she says. It must be judged in the proper manner.’ ‘And in the meantime?’ demanded Gunhild. ‘’Twill be nigh on a year before the lawspeakers meet again at the Allthing. Is Othar to be kept waiting while this son of an English slave rules a Norse estate? Even Thorolf has a better claim.’ ‘Now look here, Gunhild—’ ‘Proper observance of the law must be made, Gunhild,’ stated Ragnald, firmly interrupting Thorolf. ‘Whatever Rorik’s mother may have been, Egil acknowledged him as his son and he should share in the estate.’ ‘I have no intention of depriving Rorik of his share, my lords.’ Othar beamed as every head turned towards him. He waited, clearly savouring the moment, then stood up with lazy arrogance. ‘No, Mother, let me speak,’ he said as Gunhild opened her mouth. ‘I’m as shocked as any of you to hear what my father has done, but Rorik isn’t to blame. He’ll always have a home here, and I hope he’ll consider running the place for me.’ Rorik turned slowly. From where she sat, Yvaine couldn’t see his expression, but the false smile slid from Othar’s face. He took a step back. Rorik shifted his gaze to Ragnald and Hingvar. ‘There’s no need to drag our private business through the courts,’ he said quietly. ‘And no need to waste any more of your time. Ingerd spoke the truth.’ ‘What!’ Gunhild’s voice rose to a shriek. ‘You knew? And would have robbed my—’ ‘No.’ His flat response cut off Gunhild in mid-screech. ‘I knew nothing until a few minutes ago, but the things my father said to me on the day he died now make sense.’ He drew in a long breath and Yvaine sensed the shudder that went through him. ‘I believe Ingerd’s story.’ ‘Well, if you’re sure, Rorik,’ Ragnald cast a doubtful glance at Othar and shook his head. ‘I’m not certain this outcome is what Egil would have wanted.’ ‘Then he should have thought of that earlier,’ Rorik snarled. He controlled himself almost immediately, but Yvaine saw his fists clench so tight the knuckles whitened. Unable to bear the tension in him, she reached out and touched his hand. Without so much as a glance at her, he jerked away. ‘My thanks for your time and forbearance,

Ragnald. And yours, Hingvar. I’m sure you’ll understand that we’d prefer to discuss anything further in private.’ ‘Of course, of course.’ Hingvar, looking flustered, rose quickly and made for the door. Ragnald followed, but paused on his way out, looking back. ‘Don’t decide anything hastily, Rorik. You’re still your father’s son. If you need advice or help, please come to me.’ The door closed on a heavy silence. For several seconds, no one moved. Then Rorik stepped away from the jarl’s chair and turned, and Yvaine saw his face for the first time. Rage. Violent and barely controlled. But behind the fury in his eyes, she saw something that tore at her heart. She longed to go to him, to touch him—never mind that he’d rejected her comfort with a gesture that had stung like a slap—and knew this wasn’t the time. He looked at Othar and indicated his father’s chair. ‘Yours, I believe, brother.’ Othar came forward with alacrity. He flung himself into the chair and cast a satisfied glance around the hall. ‘Well, I must say you’re surprisingly calm about all this, Rorik. Are you sure you didn’t know the truth? I mean, ’tis you who are at risk of banishment now, isn’t it? I couldn’t say so in front of Ragnald and Hingvar, of course, cautious old fools, but unless you’re willing to continue raiding to contribute to the family coffers, you’ll have to leave. We could live down your being a bastard, but your English blood is a bit much to take.’ ‘Aye, I can just see what the estate’ll be worth with you in charge,’ Thorolf retorted. ‘You’ll bleed it dry in less than a year. Something Egil knew well, I warrant. No wonder he stayed silent. As for banishing Rorik for something he can’t help—’ ‘I’ll banish whomever I please,’ yelled Othar, jerking upright. ‘And you’ll be one of the first to go, Thorolf. You’ve always been against me, carrying tales to my father and getting me into trouble.’ ‘Thor! The suckling’s run mad!’ ‘You and Rorik can both get out now,’ Othar screamed. ‘I’ve had enough of you.’ ‘No.’ Yvaine rose, hardly aware of speaking. ‘Egil didn’t mean this to happen. There’s something wrong.’ ‘What would you know, English slut?’ Gunhild turned on her, her lips curling back in a sneer. ‘Coming here from some tavern or gutter with your innocent looks and fawning ways. I should’ve—’

‘Enough!’ Rorik’s command cut through his stepmother’s tirade like an axe shredding silk. ‘Yvaine might be married to a half-English bastard, but her blood is a damn sight better than yours, Lady of Einervik. She was cousin to King Alfred.’ ‘Indeed? Well, her royal blood won’t be added to this family.’ Hatred twisted Gunhild’s face. ‘Nor yours, bastard spawn of an English slave. You should have been killed long since in some raid.’ Rorik gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘So that’s why you were so assiduous in wanting vengeance for Sitric. I sometimes wondered.’ ‘Don’t mention that name to me,’ shrieked Gunhild. ‘He was another such as you. Arrogant, mocking, taking no account of what I brought to the family. Well—’ with a vicious glance at Yvaine ‘—better to be married for money than for vengeance.’ ‘Vengeance?’ Yvaine looked from Gunhild to Rorik. Pain, anger, every emotion she’d felt in the past hour suddenly coalesced into one thing. Fear. ‘Rorik—’ ‘We’ll talk later, Yvaine. Leave us now.’ ‘Why should she, Rorik? Have you lied to her as well? Poor girl. Doesn’t she know ’twas her royal cousin who had Sitric put to death? Dear me, no, I can see she does not.’ Othar laughed, his good humour apparently restored by this turn of events. ‘Don’t fret, Mother. I’m sure we can find a suitable position for our little English slave. Preferably—’ He broke off with a startled yell as Rorik wheeled, grabbed Othar by the tunic and hauled him out of the chair. Yvaine didn’t wait to see more. Reeling from what she’d just heard, she dashed out of the hall and into her bedchamber. The sight of Anna, sitting on the clothes chest, brought her up short. ‘I don’t believe it,’ Anna said at once. Yvaine stared at her, fighting back tears. ‘You heard?’ ‘The way they were all shouting in there? ’Twas difficult not to hear.’ Anna rose and came forward to take her hand. ‘My lady, don’t take any notice of that spiteful Norse bitch. If Rorik’s motive was vengeance he would’ve ruined you, not married you.’ ‘Perhaps he married me in a fit of conscience.’ Yvaine swayed, and a small sound of pain parted her lips. ‘Dear God. I don’t know which is worse. Revenge or pity.’ ‘But, my lady, think. King Alfred has been dead these five years past. Why take revenge now?’

‘Norse honour,’ she whispered. ‘Individuals don’t matter. A wrong was done to Rorik’s family by mine, and my cousin, Edward, still lives, so…’ She stopped, then closed her eyes briefly as if to shut out the truth. ‘Oh, Anna, ’tis all too likely Rorik’s motive was vengeance. On the ship, he wanted to know about my family. I wondered at the time why he seemed so bitter whenever Alfred’s name was mentioned. He must have realised as soon as he knew who—’ She broke off, staggering against the door as the truth struck home. The knowledge was like a knife-thrust to her heart; the pain stole her breath, would have doubled her over if Anna hadn’t been there. Even then she had to snatch her hand free, clasp her arms across her body, to hold on, somehow, before she shattered. Shattered into a million shards, never to be whole again. ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. ‘He must have known the instant he saw the royal standard flying over Selsey.’ Anna frowned. ‘There’s something wrong with the reasoning, but I don’t know what it is.’ She studied her mistress’s face. ‘And you’re in no fit state to think it through. Come and sit down, lady. God knows, you’ve been through enough today. But remember, so, too, has Rorik. What did you make of Ingerd’s tale?’ ‘I don’t know.’ She knew Anna was trying to distract her, to give her time to gather herself. She wondered if she could do it. It was taking all her willpower to thrust pain into a dark corner of her mind where she wouldn’t have to face it, wouldn’t have to acknowledge it. Even then it prowled, a hungry predator, waiting for that one unguarded moment when it could reach out and rend her heart with vicious claws. She couldn’t think and speak as well, while that fiercer battle waged within her, when the future she’d hoped for had been ripped from its still-fragile foundation. ‘Do you think Ingerd spoke the truth?’ Anna persisted. ‘Rorik believed her.’ Holy Mother, had he really kept her for revenge once he’d learned who she was? The fact that he’d married her made no difference. As far as Edward was concerned, she would be ruined, except— Edward didn’t know who had taken her. A tiny seed of hope stirred. Like the first small bud of spring, tentative, vulnerable, afraid to burst through the still-cold ground, but compelled by a force that bade it grasp its chance at life, and hold on. She sat up straighter, loosened the tight grip on herself. Think.

Ingerd. Rorik’s mother. The truth of his birth. He’d lost everything, she realised. If Ingerd had told the truth, he’d lost his home, his name, the very foundation on which his life had been based. And yet… ‘There’s something missing,’ she murmured. ‘I sensed it before, but thought ’twas because Ingerd had got the tale wrong somehow.’ Anna frowned. ‘Something missing? What?’ ‘I’m not sure. But I know one thing, Anna. Egil didn’t mean for this to happen. He was so proud of Rorik. I think…I think he even cared about him. At least, as much as these Norsemen seem to care about anyone. If he told Ingerd the truth, there must be more.’ ‘Then why didn’t she say so? You’d think—’ ‘Because Gunhild stopped her,’ Yvaine said slowly. And in her mind’s eye, she saw, again, Gunhild bending over Ingerd, her attitude one of solicitous concern that had rung entirely false. ‘Anna, I think we should find Ingerd and—’ She stopped, thought suspended, as a noise she’d been vaguely aware of for the past few seconds, suddenly increased in volume. Awareness flashed into Anna’s eyes at the same moment. Screaming. Women wailing and screaming.

Chapter Twelve ‘H oly saints, what now?’ Anna leapt for the door, Yvaine right behind her. They ran into the hall, only to find it deserted. ‘Outside.’ Yvaine was already darting through the doorway. She blinked as the late afternoon sun struck her eyes. The wailing had subsided, but there was a crowd down by the fjord, exclaiming and crying out. Nearer, Thorolf was moving swiftly across the meadow towards them. ‘What is it?’ Yvaine called, running to meet him. ‘What’s happened?’ ‘Ingerd,’ he said curtly. ‘She’s been found in the fjord.’ ‘Dead?’ The meadow grass seemed to rush towards her. ‘Here, steady,’ exclaimed Thorolf, catching her as she swayed. ‘Come on. Back to the house. You, too, Anna.’ ‘No!’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘Where’s Rorik? Please, Thorolf, tell me what happened. Anna and I were coming to look for Ingerd. To ask her some questions.’ ‘Well, she won’t be answering any questions now.’ Thorolf steered her into the hall, his face grim. ‘Odin curse it. I had a few myself.’

‘But how…?’ ‘I don’t know.’ He led her over to a bench and made her sit down. ‘Get your mistress something to drink, Anna, She’s as pale as wax.’ Anna hurried to obey. ‘There’s some ale left from the feast. Here, my lady.’ ‘I’m all right,’ Yvaine protested, but she took a few sips before laying the drinking horn aside. If nothing else, the ale might wash away the cold knot in the pit of her stomach. ‘Thorolf, where’s Rorik?’ ‘He went up the mountain.’ Thorolf thrust his fingers through his hair and took a few hurried paces about the hall. ‘Thank the Gods I saw him head that way myself, otherwise we’d have Gunhild accusing him of pushing Ingerd into the fjord.’ ‘Blessed Jesu!’ Anna crossed herself. ‘Was she pushed?’ But Thorolf was watching relief flood Yvaine’s eyes. ‘You didn’t think—?’ ‘No. At least, I know he wouldn’t attack Ingerd. But, Thorolf, he was so angry, so… hurt. What did he do to Othar?’ ‘Nothing. What would be the point? When all’s said and done, they’re half-brothers. Rorik’s been getting Othar out of trouble since the whelp reached manhood. Before, if truth be told. He merely threw him to the ground and left.’ He thought back, and grinned suddenly. ‘Gunhild started ranting at him, but Rorik just walked out in the middle of it. Can’t say I blame him. Nothing worse than a nagging woman.’ ‘This is no laughing matter,’ Anna scolded. ‘Well, I’ve got to admit there’s been little to laugh at today, but if you’d seen Gunhild’s face when Rorik just turned and stalked off without a word—But never mind that. We have to discover how Ingerd came to fall in the water and drown.’ ‘If she fell,’ Yvaine said. Thorolf frowned. ‘You’d better keep that suspicion to yourself, Yvaine. At least until Rorik and I get some answers.’ ‘If he comes back.’ ‘If, if, if. Of course he’ll be back. By the runes, woman, he’s just found out his mother was a slave and English to boot. Let him have some time to sort it out. Thor! I’m shocked myself. I never would have thought that Egil of all people—’ ‘But that’s just it, Thorolf.’ Yvaine leaned forward, hands clasped in unconscious appeal. ‘Egil spoke to me about honour. He was absolutely clear on the subject. He would never

have left Rorik in such a position. Ingerd knew more, I’m sure of it. And she was afraid of that knowledge,’ she added, remembering her encounter with the old slave. ‘She didn’t fall, she was pushed.’ ‘In broad daylight? With people all over the place?’ Thorolf shook his head. ‘Besides, Gunhild and Othar are down there now, lamenting with the rest, but until the clamour started, they were here in the hall.’ But Yvaine wasn’t listening. ‘Ingerd, herself, warned me,’ she murmured. ‘God forgive me, I thought she was raving, but ’twas fear. She didn’t even go to Gunhild with what she knew until the night after Egil died. She must have wondered all that day who to tell.’ Anna nodded. ‘You’re right, lady. I thought Ingerd was acting strangely that day. Poor old woman. I suppose loyalty to her mistress had become a habit. As for Gunhild and Othar, I’ve known they were conspiring all along. Especially after the bathhouse.’ Thorolf looked from one to the other. ‘Bathhouse?’ He was ignored. ‘Aye. I don’t care how far-fetched it sounds. Gunhild or Othar killed Ingerd. Do you remember how she looked, Anna? She could hardly stand upright. I thought maybe you’d woken her too quickly, but what if…?’ ‘What if she was given some draught,’ Anna suggested when she hesitated. ‘Enough to dull her mind and render her unsuspecting.’ ‘That doesn’t explain why Othar tried to attack me in the bathhouse.’ ‘They didn’t know about Rorik’s mother then. They had to get rid of Rorik another way, short of actual murder. I suppose even Gunhild quailed at the thought of the fuss that’d follow if Rorik died suspiciously, but if you’d been disgraced, if he’d divorced you in consequence and returned to his raiding—’ ‘Aye.’ Yvaine shivered. ‘’Tis what Gunhild said in the hall. “You should have been killed long since in some raid.”’ Thorolf grabbed Yvaine’s drinking horn, took a long swallow, and replaced it with the air of a man now equipped to deal with two females who were way ahead of him. ‘I shouldn’t have stayed away so long. Listen, you two. I’m going after Rorik. Until we get back, don’t go anywhere and don’t ask any questions.’ ‘Very well, Thorolf, but—’ she put out a hand as Thorolf turned to leave ‘—Ingerd spoke of one Thorkill. Do you know him?’ ‘Thorkill?’ He shrugged. ‘There’s no one here of that name, but ’tis a common enough one in Norway. What of him?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Yvaine shook her head. ‘If only I’d listened more closely to Ingerd. Othar had been rough with her, and she must have wondered then if she was in danger because she knew too much. She said if ought befell her to seek out Thorkill. He knows the truth.’ Thorolf frowned. ‘Rorik might know the man, but first I’ll have to find him, and Odin’s ravens know how far he’s gone. Yvaine, you’d best wait in your bedchamber until we return. You stay with her, Anna, at least until the other slaves are back. I don’t want you wandering around alone.’ Anna flushed, surprised out of her usual composure. ‘Very well, Thorolf,’ she said, quite meekly for her. He grinned and patted her cheek. ‘Sorry if I sounded as though Rorik’s mother being English was shameful,’ he apologised. He turned to Yvaine. ‘I doubt Rorik would’ve thought twice about it once he got to know you, but there’s no denying that the way Sitric died has haunted him for years. He admired his cousin a great deal. I didn’t know Sitric well myself, but he always seemed larger than life when Rorik and I were boys. One of those big, roaring men capable of every heroic deed in the sagas.’ He shook his head, murmured, ‘What a mess,’ and strode from the hall. ‘I suppose that was meant to be reassuring,’ Yvaine muttered as she and Anna shut themselves in her bedchamber. ‘But the fact is, I’m married to a man whose heroic cousin was killed in some apparently shameful manner by a cousin of mine. Alfred was heroic, too, let me tell you. He wouldn’t order a man’s death lightly.’ ‘I’m more concerned about Gunhild,’ Anna said. ‘It may be foolish, lady, but I can’t help remembering that witch’s warning. Especially the part about death surrounding you.’ Yvaine gave a little shiver, but rallied. ‘What did Katyja really say, Anna? She saw a journey. Well, how else would we get here?’ ‘And the two ships?’ ‘Hmm. Mayhap Edward came after me, then turned back, not knowing which way to follow. As for the bit about death, anyone could tell that Egil was dying.’ She fully expected Anna to point out that Egil’s wasn’t the only death in recent hours, but the girl merely shook her head. ‘I’ll be glad when Rorik and Thorolf return,’ was all she said. Yvaine nodded. She, too, would feel safer when Rorik returned, and yet the thought of facing him again filled her with dread. If he turned that remote, utterly expressionless gaze on her again, she thought she would shrivel inside. And yet, like someone with an

aching wound who knows a touch will cause pain but is unable to resist gently probing, she knew she had to find out the truth of why he’d taken her, why he’d married her. Hope could not be so easily abandoned, she’d discovered. Not where she loved. Even if it meant exposing its fragile petals to the icy blast of Rorik’s indifference. Rorik stood in the shadow of a grove of pines, leaning against a solid trunk, his gaze on the western mountain range, glowing palely golden as the setting sun struck the distant peaks. A stream bubbled past his feet, tumbling cheerfully over its rocky bed, before plummeting down the mountainside to the fjord far below. This had been the place where he’d dreamed boyhood dreams, of heroic battles and voyages to far-off lands. The place where he’d found surcease from the spite of a bitter and jealous woman. It was a place of wild beauty, a place he’d made his own, but it was still just a place. He could walk away from it and not look back. It hadn’t become part of him in one brief night of sweet desire; it didn’t hold his heart in the palm of one small hand. He closed his eyes briefly and let his head fall back against the tree behind him. Then straightened, whirling about, instinct bringing him to battle-readiness before he heard the sound of footsteps over the rushing water. ‘A bit risky, being up here alone,’ Thorolf observed by way of greeting. ‘I could have been anyone.’ Rorik relaxed out of the fighting stance he’d assumed. ‘Only you and I know of this place.’ ‘Aye, but the climb seemed a lot easier when we were boys.’ When Rorik made no response to this, Thorolf decided shock tactics were called for. ‘Ingerd’s dead,’ he announced. Rorik raised a brow. ‘Well, she’s old, and after the day we’ve had—’ ‘It wasn’t old age. She drowned in the fjord. Yvaine thinks it was deliberate.’ Pain slashed through him at the sound of her name. The same savage blow that had struck with brutal intensity in the hall when he’d realised, finally, what he stood to lose. The knowledge had been shattering, almost paralysing him, until he’d managed to cage it, to conceal the terrifying awareness of his own vulnerability behind a wall of cool indifference. He’d done it then, he thought, turning away. He could do it now. ‘Why would she think that?’ ‘She believes there’s more to the story Egil told Ingerd before he died.’

A short laugh tore from his throat, the sound so harsh a flock of birds exploded from the branches above them, shrieking in alarm. And as though their sudden flight snapped the brittle tension binding him, he whirled and struck the tree with his clenched fist. ‘Hel! What more does she need to hear? Betrayed by my own father. What better revenge for her?’ ‘I don’t believe that any more than I believe you married her for revenge,’ Thorolf said. ‘But if you’re not ready to listen to reason, I’ll wait. Not too long, I hope. It gets damned cold up here at night.’ ‘No one’s asking you to stay.’ Rorik sent his friend a narrow-eyed glare as Thorolf made himself comfortable on a patch of grass. ‘Can’t you take a hint?’ ‘No. Besides, compared to the mayhem going on at Einervik, ’tis nice and peaceful up here. I may stay the night, after all.’ ‘Mayhem? What mayhem? And what the Hel were you thinking of, leaving Yvaine alone down there? I thought I asked you to keep an eye on things until I got back.’ He started down the path, moving so quickly that by the time Thorolf realised his friend’s intent and leapt up, he had several yards to cover before he could speak again. ‘Yvaine’s safe for the moment. I told her to stay in her chamber. Besides, she wouldn’t thank me for trying to take your place as her protector. ’Tis you she married, Rorik.’ ‘I didn’t give her much choice.’ Not then, not later. ‘But I’m going to.’ ‘What does that mean?’ ‘I’m taking Yvaine back to England, to her cousin.’ Thorolf stared at him. ‘To ransom her? Won’t they think she’s been…uh…?’ ‘No, not for ransom. As for the other…’ Rorik halted his swift descent down the mountainside and fixed Thorolf with a grim look. ‘I’ll meet that when I come to it.’ ‘Hmm. You might have to postpone the trip. Know anyone named Thorkill?’ ‘What in the three worlds has Thorkill got to do with any of this?’ ‘He exists then? Who is he?’ ‘An old man who used to go a-viking with my—with Egil. I haven’t seen him for years. He lives in a shieling in the mountains.’ Thorolf gaped at him in horror. ‘All year round?’ Reluctant amusement flared briefly. ‘Anyone would think you’d never spent a night in the open during winter, not to mention being half-drowned at sea. The man likes his privacy. A pity we aren’t all so fortunate.’

Thorolf ignored this broad hint. ‘Well, Ingerd told Yvaine that if anything happened to her, Thorkill knows the truth.’ ‘What truth?’ ‘How the Hel do I know? But I know one thing, Rorik. Egil was no fool. Runes! He didn’t even want Othar born, so he wouldn’t want him inheriting more than his younger son’s portion. Find this Thorkill, hear what he has to say.’ Rorik gestured impatiently. ‘Nothing he says will alter the fact that my mother was English and a slave.’ He was silent a moment, then added, ‘It explains one or two things, though.’ ‘Such as?’ ‘Why my father hardly blinked at my marriage to Yvaine, for one. Ill or not, he would’ve ranted and raved despite knowing he’d never change my mind. I thought ’twas because he wanted me home and thought she’d keep me here.’ ‘He did,’ agreed Thorolf, pouncing on this point. ‘What’s more—’ ‘It also explains why I’ve never wanted to stay. Why I’m always drawn back…’ ‘To England?’ Thorolf frowned. ‘I thought ’twas because of Sitric.’ ‘No. And now there’s another reason to go.’ ‘Well, I don’t intend to stay here watching power go to Othar’s head, and I’d have trouble keeping my eye on that pert little maid of Yvaine’s from here, so count me in.’ For the first time that day, Rorik felt a genuine smile touch his mouth. ‘Thanks, my friend.’ ‘No need for thanks, nor for thinking that the men won’t follow you, Rorik. Who cares if you’re half-English? ’Tis the Danes who are at war with Edward now, not us. As for your mother being a slave, who’s to say Egil wouldn’t have married her if she’d lived? Perhaps this Thorkill might know if he had such a plan in mind. I think you should see him, if only to find out what else Ingerd knew, and was prevented from telling.’ Rorik’s eyes narrowed. ‘You think she was murdered?’ ‘She could have slipped fetching water, I suppose, but Yvaine says something’s not right. She and Anna seem to have it all worked out between them, but they lost me when they started babbling about the bathhouse.’ Rorik bit off a curse and started walking again, fast. ‘Damn it, I’d forgotten that.’ ‘Forgotten what?’

‘Othar threatened Yvaine in the bathhouse. I thought it no more than drunken impulse. ’Twas why I banished him. But Yvaine swore she’d been locked in after Gunhild showed her the place. In which case…’ ‘In which case they might have planned it to discredit her.’ Thorolf gave a silent whistle. ‘So that’s what Anna meant. Perhaps you’d better take Yvaine with you when you visit Thorkill.’ ‘I don’t intend to waste my time chasing proof of a tale I already believe. I’ve got a crew to collect and the ship to prepare.’ ‘I can do that while you and Yvaine hunt out Thorkill. The trip will do you both good.’ Thorolf sent a quick glance at Rorik, then studied the sky with innocent assessment. ‘Weather’s fine. It’ll give you a chance to convince Yvaine you didn’t marry her for revenge.’ For a moment he thought he might have gone too far with that remark. Rorik sent him a look that could have pierced mail at a hundred paces. ‘There’s a faster way down this mountain, my friend, if you’d prefer to take it.’ ‘Uh, no thanks, Rorik.’ Thorolf smiled winningly. ‘I’d rather be alive at the end of the trip.’ ‘Hmm.’ The rest of the trek was accomplished in silence. A like silence greeted them when they reached the house. No surprise there, it was late; the sun which never quite sank below the horizon during the fleeting northern summer, now lay shrouded in the grey mists of night. Murmuring something about food, Thorolf entered the hall, but Rorik strode directly to his bedchamber. He didn’t feel like encountering any of his family, and food was the last thing on his mind. He hesitated at the door, realising he didn’t know quite what to expect. After what Yvaine had learned in the hall, and his harsh dismissal of her, he could be faced with anything from tears to stony silence. Not that it mattered. He’d made his decision. Grasping the latch, he lifted it and pushed the door open. She was sitting bolt upright on the side of the bed, her hands clenched in her lap. Despite the late hour, she was fully dressed, even her hair was still covered. She watched him with the wary eyes of a wild creature, waiting to see what he would do.

He pushed the door shut behind him and forced the words out, before he couldn’t say them at all. ‘I’m taking you back to England.’ Her eyelids flickered, her only reaction. ‘Well?’ he demanded, flayed by her silence ‘I’d think you’d be pleased. You were trying to reach your cousin the day I—’ ‘Pleased? To return shamed so your revenge will be complete?’ Her voice was low, but he heard the tremor in it, saw the pallor on her cheeks. He couldn’t do it. Not even for the time he’d sworn to keep his distance from her could he let her think he’d used her like that. Oh, aye, he’d told himself revenge had tangled with the other reasons he’d taken her, because that was easier than looking too closely at something he hadn’t understood. But he was long past lying to himself. And he could never lie to her. ‘Yvaine, I’d never use a woman for revenge. Please believe that.’ She continued to watch him, her eyes dark, fathomless. ‘You asked about my family on the ship. You recognised the royal standard flying over Selsey.’ ‘Aye, but that had nothing to do with revenge. You didn’t cause Sitric’s death. Besides, once you’d recovered and I knew—’ He stopped dead and turned away, leaving her prey to a myriad tormenting questions. What did you know? she asked silently. That you wanted me? Do you want me still? ‘Then why take me to England?’ she whispered. He moved abruptly, as though about to pace before remembering he couldn’t stride freely in the tiny room. She saw his jaw lock tight. ‘I’m not about to repeat my father’s mistakes.’ She flinched as if he’d struck her, every word piercing her heart. ‘Of course. You’d rather your children be more Norse than English. I understand completely.’ ‘I doubt it,’ Rorik snarled, wheeling to face her. Then he went still, a strange expression in his eyes. ‘You could be with child. You’ll tell me if ’tis so, won’t you, Yvaine?’ It was more command than request, but Yvaine nodded, knowing she’d never use that circumstance to hold him. But there’d been something in his voice, in the sudden stillness of his body. Something…hopeful? No, she thought as he glanced away again and started unbuckling his belt. Hope was too strong a word. He’d sounded more cautious, as if too wary to hope. Did that mean he wanted a child? Their child? But in that case, why return her to Edward?

Then all at once she thought she knew, and defeat almost doubled her over. Darkness seemed to drop between her and the rest of the world, leaving only one harsh sliver of light, and within that glaring flame burned a single word. Ransom. Aye, she thought, closing her eyes as unbearable pressure built inside her. Hadn’t she’d thought of this before, on Rorik’s ship? How much more likely was that explanation now? He’d been exiled from his home; he’d need money to start again. It was perfectly logical. No one would think anything of his decision; ransom was a business. Oh, God, she couldn’t think about it now. Couldn’t ask him if it was so. An affirmation would crush her completely. And yet if she didn’t speak, if she didn’t break the grip of the talons buried in heart, she would break, screaming, crying, beating at him with her fists. Or worse, begging him to keep her. ‘Did Thorolf tell you about Ingerd?’ she got out on a ragged sigh. ‘About Thorkill?’ ‘Aye.’ He looked around, frowning. ‘And about your suspicions, but unless Gunhild or Othar have developed a talent for being in two places at once, ’tis more than likely that Ingerd slipped fetching water.’ She shook her head, clutching this new argument to her like a shield. ‘Ingerd never fetched water. She was too old to carry heavy pails across the meadow.’ ‘Then she went for a walk and missed her step.’ She frowned at him. ‘Ingerd was in no condition to go walking. Why are you ignoring this? Go and see Thorkill and—’ ‘Damn it! To what point?’ he yelled suddenly. ‘Because your father was an honourable man,’ she yelled back, and the heat of anger was momentarily fiercer than the pain. ‘He wouldn’t have told Ingerd such a tale if that was all there was to it.’ ‘Oh, you knew him so well, did you? After a day’s acquaintance?’ ‘I certainly knew enough of him to want to know more. If you won’t see Thorkill, I’ll find someone who knows where he lives, and go there myself.’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said, but more quietly. ‘Is it not more ridiculous to ignore what happened to Ingerd? I can’t, Rorik. I…’ She faltered; her voice breaking. It wasn’t only Ingerd’s death that tore at her so. Her emotions were balanced on a knife-edge, terror that Rorik no longer wanted her warring with pain and love and rage that he couldn’t see it, couldn’t see what she was fighting for.

‘Yvaine—’ He took a step towards her, hesitated, then sat down on the edge of the bed, leaving a couple of feet between them. As if she was a pile of flints that could explode in his face at any moment, she thought furiously. ‘What does it matter if Ingerd didn’t relate the whole story? What she did say was the truth.’ ‘Surely it matters that she was killed.’ ‘You really believe that?’ ‘Aye. I have to find out, Rorik. I feel so…guilty. If I’d taken more notice of her warnings, she might still be alive.’ ‘You mustn’t think that,’ he said at once, and gave a bitter laugh. ‘You weren’t to know the mess my father was to leave behind.’ The echo of pain in his voice momentarily steadied her. He’d lost everything, she reminded herself, her heart aching for him. She reached out, unthinking, and touched his hand. ‘Rorik, your father wouldn’t have betrayed you. I know it.’ He shot off the bed as though launched from a catapult. ‘That remains to be seen,’ he growled, reaching for the door. ‘But ’tis clear I’m not going to get any peace until we do see it. If you’re determined to question Thorkill, you’d better get undressed and get under the covers. ’Tis a long trip. You’ll need your sleep.’ ‘Well, my thanks for your gracious indulgence,’ she cried. ‘Holy Saints! ’Tis for you I’m doing—’ But she couldn’t go on, couldn’t speak the lie. It was for Rorik she was doing this, aye, but it was for herself as well, and if she failed she didn’t know how she would bear it. ‘Yvaine…’ He halted, surprise in his eyes, and she realised tears were spilling over her lashes. He put out a hand, touched her cheek… ‘Leave me alone,’ she cried fiercely, pushing at his hand before scrambling across the bed out of reach. She swiped her hand across her cheek, brushing away the tears. ‘I don’t want kindness. After we’ve seen Thorkill you can take me back to England and be rid of me. I’ll be glad to go. Glad, I tell you! And I hope—’ ‘All right!’ he roared ‘You don’t have to make yourself clearer. Gods! Anyone would think I’d been about to rape you.’ He flung the door open, then turned back to grab his belt. ‘You didn’t object to my touch last night,’ he bit out. ‘But that was before you found out I was the son of a slave.’ ‘You fool!’ Yvaine bounced to her feet, all but sizzling at this injustice. ‘If you were the King’s son you’d still be a thick-headed barbarian who wouldn’t know what was right in front of your eyes if it bit you.’

‘I hadn’t got around to biting,’ he purred with a smile that could have cut glass. ‘But don’t worry. From now on you can consider yourself free of me. I won’t bother you again.’ The door slammed behind him with enough force to shake the entire house. They left at dawn in one of the small faerings—and in a silence broken only by the passage of oars through water. Even that ceased abruptly when the sun was high above them and Rorik stopped rowing so they could eat a simple meal. Unbearably conscious of the hurtful words they’d flung at each other last night, Yvaine glanced about them. They were now deep into the mountain range. The fjord had gradually narrowed until sheer cliffs rose on either side, spearing towards the heavens. Beyond each bend another snow-capped pinnacle had loomed above them until she felt surrounded, overwhelmed by the stark, terrible beauty of the mountains. Despite the warmth of the sun, she shivered as she gazed up at the towering peaks. How insignificant were their human desires and foibles, she mused, compared to these creations of time beyond the memory of man. A distant rumbling made her start, and she glanced at Rorik in nervous enquiry. ‘Avalanche,’ he said briefly, and handed her a chunk of bread and some goat’s cheese. It was the first word spoken between them since the previous night. He’d eventually returned to their bedchamber. She had heard his low-voiced conversation with Thorolf in the entrance hall, then he’d slipped quietly into the room to wait out the hours before morning. Yvaine had lain awake also, too afraid to close her eyes in case she slept past dawn and he left without her. The fact that he’d agreed to go at all had puzzled her once she’d calmed down. She’d spent the remainder of the night torn between hope that Rorik might change his mind about taking her to England, and the heart-wrenching suspicion that he was only delaying the journey to ease her guilt over Ingerd. The frozen silence in which they’d spent the morning had threatened to bury hope beneath an avalanche of despair as crushing as anything the mountains could produce. And yet the long hours had given her time to think, to question. If Rorik wouldn’t use a woman for revenge, would he also not use a woman for financial gain? Other men would, aye, without thought, conscience, or even a flicker of awareness of the lady’s feelings in the matter, but Rorik was not like other men. Oh, was she foolish to think so? Despite all that had passed between them, she still didn’t know him, was achingly aware that part of him remained closed to her. Was she

foolish to wonder if his determination to return her to England sprang merely from his innate sense of honour—which might mean that he cared for her? He hadn’t touched her in any way; seemed scarcely able to look at her. What sort of woman held on to hope in the face of the stony wall he’d erected between them? One who loved, she thought, closing her eyes briefly. One who still cherished hope, because the alternative was simply too painful to contemplate. No matter what it cost her, she would do anything to keep him with her a while longer. To restore the terrifyingly fragile link between them. ‘Is it dangerous, the avalanche?’ she ventured. Rorik shook his head. ‘Too far away.’ He leaned forward to take up the oars again, his eyes holding hers, guarded, yet searching. Unwilling to let him see too deeply, Yvaine glanced away. ‘I think this must be the land the skald told me about,’ she said, indicating the mountains. ‘The land of the Frost Giants.’ ‘The Frost Giants live in one of the three worlds of myth.’ She looked back at him as the boat began to move forward again. ‘Three worlds?’ ‘Aye.’ He sent her that wary, probing look again. ‘We Vikings have a legend about a world tree, Yggdrasil’s Ash. It holds up the sky, and beneath its branches lies Asgarth, home of the Gods. Beneath that again are the roots, each covering the three worlds of myth. Midgarth, the world of men; the world of the Frost Giants, who are the mortal enemies of the Gods; and Hel, the world of the dead.’ ‘We Christians believe in Hell, also.’ ‘You mean your priests threaten people with everlasting punishment so they remain under the rule of the Church. Our Hel is merely a place for the dead.’ ‘I’ve never thought of it quite like that,’ Yvaine murmured. She remembered the fat, greedy priest at Selsey, thundering out promises of eternal damnation if anyone disobeyed Ceawlin no matter what cruelties he inflicted upon them. ‘Some priests take advantage of the ignorant and simple, I suppose, but there are others who are good. It seems very far away now.’ He frowned. ‘Then you’re not afraid for your immortal soul, Yvaine? You’ve been unable to hear the Mass or confess. In England you’d be considered my mistress, not my wife. Do you think your God will forgive you a sin you couldn’t help?’ ‘I wasn’t that helpless,’ she murmured, but the harsh note in his voice intrigued her. She opened her mouth to ask how he knew so much about Christianity.

‘Well, don’t worry,’ he muttered before she could speak. ‘No one in England need know of our marriage unless you tell of it.’ He gave such a violent pull on the oars the little faering almost flew out of the water. ‘Odin knows what your priests would do with you. Probably lock you away for the rest of your life. Hel!’ ‘Yours or mine?’ she asked whimsically, and dragged a reluctant laugh out of him. And suddenly it was all right again. The grim look disappeared from Rorik’s eyes, and when he started to tell her of other legends, the constraint between them eased. By the time he moored the boat to a jutting rock, where a barely discernible path meandered up the mountainside, Yvaine discovered that the tiny bud of hope was again blooming, fragile but persistent, in her heart. ‘Stay close,’ he said taking her hand as they started upwards, and even that small contact warmed her. The climb, too, lifted her spirits. She was stiff from sitting in the boat for so long and the stony path, though precipitous, was easy enough to follow. Every so often Rorik would lift her over the roughest patches. Yvaine started counting the number of seconds that passed before he released her, then wondered if she was fooling herself that they seemed to be increasing. So absorbed was she in these intriguing calculations that she didn’t notice Rorik had stopped walking until she bumped into him. He steadied her, but kept his gaze on the path behind them. ‘What is it?’ she asked, immediately forgetting sums and glancing back. After Rorik’s tales of myths and monsters, she wouldn’t have been surprised to see a Frost Giant or two, but the empty silence of the mountains surrounded them, as if they were the only people alive in the world. ‘I thought I heard something,’ he said. ‘Another boat.’ ‘Thorkill?’ ‘No. His boat was already there, tied under an overhang.’ He listened a moment. ‘’Twas probably nought. Sound carries in the mountains.’ But before they walked on, his gaze swept the rugged terrain as though examining every leaf and twig, and Yvaine felt a chill brush the back of her neck. As far as she knew, only Thorolf and Anna were aware of Thorkill’s existence, but what if someone had heard her and Rorik arguing last night? They hadn’t exactly been talking in whispers. Worse, what if Gunhild had overheard enough of Ingerd’s warning to make her suspicious? She’d been close enough by the time Ingerd had noticed her and fallen silent.

Without hearing all, conscious of her own secrets, might not Gunhild have set a watch on them? ‘Rorik—’ ‘Aye,’ he said as if his thoughts had been racing along similar lines. ‘We’re being followed. Quick! Up here.’ He virtually propelled her up the next section of rocky slope by the sheer force of his body. Heart pounding, Yvaine scrambled over a jutting ledge and found herself on a plateau overlooking the fjord. She had a dizzying view of the drop below them before Rorik pulled her across to the far side and shoved her behind him. He’d barely done so when a man leapt on to the rocky shelf from the path they’d climbed. He was armed with spear and axe, and in his eyes she saw a cold, emotionless purpose that stopped her heart. Without a word, he drew the axe from its loop on his belt, hefted it, then levelled the spear and spread his legs in a stance that looked terrifyingly efficient. Rorik’s hand had gone to his sword-hilt as soon as the man appeared, but now he let it fall to his side as he, too, widened his stance. ‘Move back out of reach and get down,’ he said, not taking his eyes from his opponent. Too terrified even to tremble, Yvaine forced herself to move, thinking he needed room to manoeuvre—although with his sword still in its scabbard, how was he going to deflect a thrown spear? Dear God, what if the man threw both weapons at once? The distance between them was so short, she doubted Rorik would have time to dodge in either direction. No, she thought, grasping at reason, their attacker wouldn’t do that. He’d save the axe for close combat in case Rorik was merely wounded. Oh, Mother of God— The prayer winked out of her mind as a death’s-head grin spread over the man’s face. Taking a short backswing, he launched the spear straight at Rorik’s heart. Yvaine didn’t even have time to scream. In a blur of movement so fast she would have missed it if she’d blinked, Rorik dodged to the side, caught the weapon as it flashed past, swung his arm in a backward arc and returned the weapon with a force that buried it deep in its owner’s chest. The man dropped the axe in his hand, his eyes widening in stunned disbelief as he stared down at the spear piercing his chest. His lips parted; he lifted a hand towards the weapon. His fingers never reached their goal. He staggered and dropped to the ground, choking.

Yvaine got shakily to her feet, hardly daring to believe it was over. So dazed was she by the rapid shift from danger to safety that when a voice spoke behind them she didn’t even flinch. ‘In all my life I have seen but one man perform that feat. Your father taught you well, son of Egil Strongarm.’ Rorik turned. ‘Thorkill,’ he acknowledged. His gaze went to the sword in the older man’s hand. ‘Were you intending to use that?’ ‘If yonder assassin had succeeded in killing you, aye.’ Thorkill jerked his head sideways. ‘The vermin still lives. You might discover his reason for an attack that was clearly intended to come from behind.’ ‘I don’t need to ask.’ But after a quick glance at Yvaine, Rorik walked over to look down into rapidly glazing eyes. ‘Gunhild sent you, didn’t she?’ The man stared up at him. ‘I was…to silence Thorkill. Or kill you…and the girl…if you got there first.’ His teeth bared in a hideous travesty of his earlier grin. ‘The old woman was easy…’ A rattle replaced the rest, and there was silence. Rorik stood for a moment, his mouth set hard, then with a gesture that spoke louder than any words, he shoved the body to the edge of the plateau with his foot. One kick and it dropped like a stone to disappear beneath the dark waters of the fjord. Thorkill nodded in satisfaction. ‘A fitting end for a hired killer.’ Yvaine finally unlocked her frozen muscles enough to turn. As she did so, Rorik came to her side and put his arm around her. ‘Are you all right, sweeting?’ She nodded; the only response she could manage, and he drew her closer. ‘This lady is my wife, Yvaine,’ he said to Thorkill. ‘We come with news of Egil’s death, and with questions.’ Thorkill glanced at the abandoned axe. ‘Questions with a high price, it would seem. But come. You’re both welcome to my home. It lies beyond the next bend.’ They started up the path, Yvaine grateful for the supporting arm Rorik kept about her waist. She felt numb, as though she was surrounded by a veil of silence. Rorik glanced down at her a couple of times as he and Thorkill talked across her, and gradually, warmed by his concern and the heat of his body, the feeling lessened and she could hear again. ‘I’m saddened to learn of Egil’s death, Rorik. And that trouble has come upon you because of it. Egil hoped you wouldn’t need the stone.’ ‘Stone?’ ‘Ah. You don’t know it all.’

‘I know enough,’ Rorik said grimly. ‘’Tis Yvaine who would come. But since we’re here, I might as well know what else Gunhild was at such pains to prevent me hearing.’ ‘First we’ll eat,’ said Thorkill, and indicated a turf and stone hut ahead of them. The shieling nestled snugly against the mountainside, sheltered by a craggy overhang. Rorik had to duck his head as they entered, but the interior was roomy; a smaller version of the hall at Einervik. As Yvaine sank on to one of the fur-covered benches in front of the firepit, Thorkill gestured to an ale jug on a nearby shelf. ‘Pour your lady a drink, Rorik. She looks like she needs one.’ He took up a ladle to stir the fragrant contents of a cauldron hanging over the fire. ‘Tell me, how does your Sea Dragon sail these days? Egil sent word that you were trying a longer steering-oar.’ Yvaine leaned back against the wall, listening with only half an ear to Rorik’s reply. Her senses might have returned to something like normal, but she was glad to let the conversation flow over her, to study their host while he and Rorik swapped seafaring stories. Thorkill reminded her of Egil, she thought idly, except that he still enjoyed robust health. His skin was weathered and lined, his hands gnarled, but his stature was straight and his white hair and beard were still thick. His clear blue eyes twinkled often, and she marvelled that a man so friendly and hospitable had once looted and killed at will. But that was long past. Lulled by the warmth of the fire and the tasty stew they were served, she sat quietly, almost dozing, until Thorkill rose and went to a chest against the far wall. Opening it, he lifted out an object wrapped in oilskin and returned with it to his seat. ‘This is what you seek, Rorik.’ Alert again, Yvaine drew closer as Rorik took the object and parted the skin wrappings. ‘Why, ’tis only an old stone,’ she exclaimed, surprised and little disappointed. ‘A rune stone, love,’ Rorik corrected, turning the stone over in his hands. It was small, only about a foot long and rounded at one end. Both sides were covered with strange symbols that Yvaine knew represented some sort of written word—unusual among the Norse. With vellum so rare and valuable, their stories were more often passed down by word of mouth. Only the laws, and the occasional grave marker, were carved in stone. ‘Can you read it?’ she asked. Rorik glanced from her to Thorkill, turned the stone over again and began to read. ‘“Read these runes. Egil, son of Eirik, son of Rorik, son of Einer, lay with a slave, Alicia, who bore him a son. Afterwards she died. The son Rorik lived and was duly adopted by law to be equal with any other children of his father. And being the only son and older

than those who may come after, he must take his father’s house, allotting shares to his brothers should any be born. The law-speaker Gudrik carved these runes.”’ There was a long silence when Rorik finished reading. He laid the stone on the bench and stared thoughtfully into the fire. ‘This is what Egil told Ingerd,’ Yvaine said at last, working it out. ‘What Gunhild stopped her from telling us yesterday. That man…’ ‘Aye.’ Rorik briefly covered her hand with his. ‘He killed Ingerd.’ ‘A defenceless old woman,’ she said angrily. ‘I’m glad you kicked him over the cliff.’ Thorkill laughed. ‘Spoken like a true Norsewoman. But your wife is English, Rorik, like your mother!’ ‘Does that matter?’ Yvaine turned to him. ‘Surely the rune stone proves that Rorik is his father’s heir, whatever his mother’s blood. Oh, Rorik, don’t you see? There’s no need for you to leave Einervik now.’ He gave her a quick glance, but was distracted by Thorkill. ‘You were leaving, Rorik?’ ‘Othar banished me. Not that I took any notice of that. I was planning to leave anyway.’ ‘That whelp!’ Thorkhill snorted. ‘I might have known he’d cause trouble, or rather, that his mother would. Not that Egil ever expected it. He hadn’t even met Gunhild when that stone was carved, but he wanted everything done to protect you, Rorik. After all, the son of a concubine is one thing. He has rights. The son of a slave becomes a slave also, regardless of who sires him. Egil wanted you recognised as his legal heir. He even held the full adoption ceremony. I was one of the witnesses.’ ‘I knew nothing of this,’ Rorik said. ‘Well, you wouldn’t recall it, of course. It must be twenty-five years ago. I think you were about three. Egil slaughtered an ox and made a boot from the hide of the beast’s right leg. Then we all set our right foot in it, one after the other, including you.’ ‘It must have caused some stir, surely,’ Yvaine said. ‘A ceremony so elaborate.’ ‘Egil kept it quiet. As far as everyone knew, when Egil took Rorik to Einervik, he was the son of a woman he’d met on his travels, married, and left her with her people because he wasn’t ready to settle. He took Alicia away after she quickened. To some distant farm where you were looked after, Rorik, until you were old enough to take part in the adoption ceremony.’ ‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to have simply married my mother?’ Rorik asked drily. ‘Especially if Egil cared about her as he claimed.’

Thorkill pursed his lips. ‘That I can’t say. She was English and a slave, and he was always proud, always aware of his position. But then you were born. His son. I think it took him by surprise, the feeling he had for you. He certainly settled down then, never went on another raid.’ ‘A little too late for my mother.’ ‘Aye, but you have to remember that when all this happened we were at war with the English. Runes! We’ve always been land-poor in Norway and there was England, divided into warring kingdoms, just waiting to be taken. ‘And, by Odin’s beard, we did it!’ he added, waving his drinking-horn in a toast to those long-ago days. ‘The very year you were born, Rorik, there was a Norwegian ruling the north from Jorvik. York, t’was once called. Only Alfred of Wessex held against us. A great warrior. A great king. And you needn’t remind me of Sitric.’ ‘I wasn’t going to,’ Rorik murmured. ‘Would I be so uncivil to my host?’ ‘I think ’tis the thought of my old bones that restrains you.’ Thorkill chuckled. ‘And they grow weary.’ He rose, stretching. ‘I sleep outside during the summer months,’ he announced, his eyes twinkling with mischief. ‘’Tis good for the blood. So you’ll be quite private here.’ Before either of his guests could reply, he scooped up a fur from the bench, gave them a grin, and departed. ‘He thinks frozen blood is good?’ muttered Yvaine, suddenly wide-awake at this abrupt end to the evening. She hadn’t expected to be alone with Rorik; wasn’t sure what to do. The opportunity to renew the physical bond between them was here, but in the face of his reaction to her touch last night… ‘Would you rather have the hut to yourself ?’ he asked quietly, getting to his feet. ‘No,’ she whispered, and, gathering all her resolution, looked up. ‘I want to be with you.’ She wondered if he would understand her deeper meaning; could read nothing in his eyes. He nodded and crossed to the door. ‘I’ll be back,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ve one or two questions still to ask of Thorkill.’ Well, at least he hadn’t refused to sleep in the same room with her, Yvaine encouraged herself as he shut the door. She rose, tossed some furs on to the floor for a bed, and started to unfasten her brooches. She wasn’t sure what she would do. Frolicking in a tub when she was already naked and lying in Rorik’s arms was one thing; her heart threatened to lodge in her throat at the thought of tempting him by sitting naked by the fire—although, unbound, her hair

would cover her to her hips. Only one thing kept her resolve alive. An endearment she wasn’t even sure he’d been aware of uttering. A rune stone, love. That sweet single word was enough. Enough to hope he might change his mind about taking her to England. Enough to dare to reach out, to find out if he still wanted her. She would think only of that. Rorik closed the door quietly behind him, looked up and went utterly still. Even his heart stopped. He had no need of it, nor for the breath that caught in his throat. She was life to him. She was everything. She sat by the fire, combing her hair, her bare legs curled to the side. The honey-gold mass fell over her shoulders like a silken cloak, parting slightly with the movement of her arm to show tantalising glimpses of the curve of her hip or the graceful sweep of her back. She glanced up at the closing of the door, her lovely eyes wide, enigmatic, but behind the shadows he thought he saw a shy, fugitive longing. It was almost like the first time he’d seen her, he thought. Except that this time she wasn’t hurt. And this time he wasn’t going to reach out and take. But what if she wanted to give? If only he could read the mysteries in her eyes. Her pose was temptation incarnate, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t his own need that had him seeing an invitation where there was none. Yet she’d removed every stitch of clothing. He realised, without surprise, that a fine tremor vibrated through his limbs. How could he walk out of here and not try to bind her to him with every tie he could think of ? Not try to imprint himself on her, mind, body, soul, so she could never forget him? He came forward slowly, as though any sudden movement might startle her. He went down on one knee, reached out a hand to cradle her face. Just like that first time, he thought again. But though her eyes held a hint of uncertainty, there was no fear, and this time, when he parted her hair to reveal the soft curves of her body, he knew he would be lost forever. Knew and cared not. She shivered a little as he looked at her, the movement sending firelight flickering over her skin, warming her, creating a rosy flush. No, not just the fire’s heat, he thought, as he watched her nipples tighten. The way he was watching her was doing that. Her body knew him, wanted him.

Gods, she was beautiful. He could have gone on looking at her, just looking, for hours, even while the yearning in his soul, the throbbing in his loins, made him ache beyond bearing. ‘’Tis not just…kindness?’ The whisper reached him, drawing his gaze upward. ‘Kindness?’ he echoed. Suddenly the hesitation in her eyes was unbearable. His hands went to her waist. He stood, pulling her up with him and into his arms. His mouth was on hers before the answer reached his lips. ‘Does this feel like kindness?’ he demanded between kisses. ‘Does this—’ he let her feel his teeth against her throat ‘—or this—’ he arched her over his arm, clamped his mouth over her nipple. Yvaine cried out, ceasing to think, ceasing to hear or see. She could only feel. Feel the violent pounding of his heart, the hard strength of his arms, the almost brutal demand of his mouth. She clung to him, wanting to get closer, to ease the throbbing between her legs that was growing hotter and wilder with every strong movement of his lips at her breast. With an almost agonised groan, he released her and started stripping off his clothes, heedless of ripped seams and dangling laces. Yvaine swayed, she couldn’t stand, her legs felt like water. She trembled uncontrollably at the fierce intent in his eyes, would have dropped to the floor had he not hurled the last of his clothing away and bent to her. With a powerful movement that wrenched a wild cry of excitement from her, he lifted her against him and lowered them both to the fur bedding. ‘If this is kindness,’ he growled against her mouth, ‘’tis for myself.’ ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she gasped, clinging to him. ‘Rorik. It doesn’t matter.’ But he drew back, his hands gripping her face, forcing her to look at him. His thighs held hers wide apart; she could feel the hot, powerful length of him pressed against her, but he held still, the strain of control making him shudder with every breath. ‘It does matter. Yvaine, I wasn’t going to take you again until you could choose.’ She heard the words, understood them, but dimly. It didn’t matter. He could have said nought and she would still be his. ‘I have chosen,’ she murmured, and arched beneath him in frantic feminine demand. He almost heard the explosion as his control cracked. She was quivering beneath him, soft, open, wanting. Forgetting everything but the blind need to possess her, to be inside her, part of her, he joined their bodies with a powerful thrust that had her screaming under the sudden lash of ecstasy.

He closed his mouth over hers, knowing with one last vestige of sanity that she’d be embarrassed later if she thought Thorkill had heard. Then the sweet hot pulsing of her body around him was too much. A harsh groan tore from his throat. Holding her as if the world itself had vanished around them, he unleashed the full force of his need, until she cried out again and again, lost in total surrender; until the hot spurting of his seed inside her joined them for all time, creating new life. If he was very, very lucky, Rorik amended, when his heartbeat returned to something like normal and he could think. Yvaine lay beneath him, so still, so utterly limp, she seemed scarcely to breathe. He lifted his head sharply, remembering the unrestrained power with which he’d taken her. She was still new to love-making, and so delicate, so soft. Wondering at the slenderness of a body that could cling to him with such passion, he raised himself on one arm, splaying his fingers across her belly, pressing gently. She could be with child. He was torn between the violently primitive need to make it so, and the yearning to have her come to him freely. Her lashes fluttered open. She looked up at him, and smiled. Just as she had that first time. And again, he had to break the connection, to let his head fall forward until his brow rested on hers. That smile of shy feminine knowledge was going to strike straight at his heart every time he saw it. Not only at his heart, he realised wryly, as renewed tension invaded his muscles. He lifted his head, watched her eyes widen as she felt him quicken inside her. Her inner muscles quivered delicately around him, making him groan with the exquisite pleasure of it. The need for completion hammered at him, but not this time…not this time… ‘Did you think once would be enough?’ he murmured against her lips. He began to move again, a gentle, rocking motion designed to draw this out until they were both sated, both senseless with pleasure. She gasped and trembled beneath him. ‘A hundred times,’ he whispered. ‘A thousand. ’Twill never be enough.’ No, never, she thought as a tide of voluptuous weakness washed over her, ecstasy building, flowing, gently tumbling her over a crest before building again. She’d wanted to talk to him. To ease her uncertainty about what he intended to do now that he knew the truth of his birth. But it didn’t matter; there was time enough for that. She couldn’t think of anything but the heat of his body, the coiled power of the muscles beneath her hands, the sweetness of his kisses after the whirlwind that had gone before. England, his family, everything could wait.

Chapter Thirteen B ut Gunhild and Othar hadn’t waited. ‘Gone? What do you mean they’ve gone?’ Rorik stared narrow-eyed at Thorolf over the remains of their supper. He and Yvaine had reached Einervik that afternoon. In the presence of the free karls and slaves of the estate, he’d produced the rune stone and related Thorkill’s account of the adoption ceremony. There had been much talk and wonderment over the supper table, but now, taking advantage of the long summer evening, the slaves had drifted away to their own affairs, and Yvaine had retired to their bedchamber. It was time to deal with his stepmother and brother. ‘Othar said he was taking Gunhild to stay with a friend, and he wanted us gone by the time he got back,’ Thorolf reported. Rorik frowned. ‘That doesn’t make sense. By morning, everyone up and down the fjord will know of the rune stone. Why assume we’re still leaving?’ ‘Well, I’m preparing for a voyage regardless.’ Thorolf shrugged. ‘Perhaps they’re hoping you’re still taking Yvaine to England, and that their version of Egil’s story will be forgotten by the time you get back.’ ‘Hmm. Staying with a friend? The woman doesn’t have any friends.’ ‘Then perhaps he’s taken her to Kaupang. Who knows? The point is, Rorik, they have reason to lie low until we’ve gone. I think Ingerd might have been dead before she went into the water. There was a tear in the back of her shift. It was too small to be caused by a dagger so I can’t be sure, but when Anna and I hunted around we found some blood in a clearing above the fjord. If the killer lured Ingerd there and stabbed her, say with a cloak pin, then rolled her body into the water, from a distance ’twould look as though she’d slipped and tumbled down the slope. Of course, nobody can remember seeing anything. Bunch of fools.’ ‘The murderer seems to have had a fondness for sharp weapons,’ Rorik murmured. ‘Although he tried something a little larger on us.’ ‘What!’ Thorolf sat bolt upright. ‘Are you saying…?’ ‘Aye.’ Rorik tipped his drinking-horn at his friend. ‘Gunhild does indeed have reason to lie low. Her intent was to silence Thorkill before he could speak, or to kill us all if Yvaine and I got there first.’ ‘Gods! Did they think I’d stay silent if you all ended up dead?’ ‘Probably not, but with the three of us gone and the rune stone destroyed, you’d have no proof that Gunhild had a motive for murder, let alone had one committed. I’d

confirmed Othar as Jarl, openly before witnesses. In fact—’ he leaned back in his chair, gazing into the fire ‘—as a plan it wasn’t badly thought out. If you went looking for evidence that Othar had usurped my position, then silenced those of us who knew about the stone, I warrant all you’d find would be the remains of a tragic fire in Thorkill’s shieling. As for Ingerd, could you swear the blood you found and the tear in her clothing wasn’t caused by her striking something sharp when she fell?’ ‘No, but…Hel, Rorik, what in the three worlds made them think you’d be easy to kill? ’Tis like Othar to act first, then panic at the thought that you might survive, but I would’ve thought Gunhild had more sense.’ ‘I’d rather know why she isn’t here to brazen it out. We either wouldn’t have returned, thereby making her safe, or we’d return with a tale that merely removed Othar from his chair. All she had to do was claim that Ingerd didn’t tell her the whole story.’ ‘And your would-be murderer?’ ‘Deny all knowledge; suggest we were set upon by an outlaw. Although in this case, one who talked before he died. That possibility might be keeping her in hiding until we’ve sailed.’ ‘I should think it would. By the Runes, Rorik, you could have them outlawed and banished from Norway for this.’ ‘Very likely. But I’ve got no time and less inclination to chase after my ambitious relatives. Let them creep back when they hear we’ve gone. How soon can we get a crew together?’ Thorolf frowned at this apparent end to the discussion, but answered readily enough. ‘Another day. I didn’t send out a war arrow, but I made it clear that men were needed in a hurry.’ ‘You did tell them we’re not going a-viking.’ ‘Of course. And, uh, speaking of such things, I want to buy Anna’s freedom.’ Rorik’s brows went up. ‘You have been busy.’ A sheepish expression crossed Thorolf ’s face. ‘I knew she was going to be trouble,’ he said with comically false gloom. ‘Right from the start. Do you think Yvaine will mind losing her maid?’ ‘Of course not. Anna will still be her friend. But I don’t want payment, Thorolf. When we get to England, they’ll both be free.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Or have you forgotten that things are different there?’ Thorolf stretched his legs out and contemplated the toes of his boots. ‘’Twas good enough for you, once. You were even—’

‘Enough!’ Rorik stood up and strode over to the fire. He threw the dregs of his ale into the flames with a quick, jerky movement, causing sparks to fly. When they subsided he turned back to Thorolf. ‘Sorry,’ he said abruptly. ‘Of course you know what returning to England will mean. I wish you luck with your Anna.’ ‘Thanks. But, Rorik, what are you going to do about Gunhild and Othar? ’Tis all very well to say let them creep back. You can’t be thinking of leaving them in charge here. Apart from their crimes, you should have heard the orders Othar was giving yesterday, contradicting himself, and—well, never mind. Sometimes I think he’s not sane.’ ‘There’s a real possibility that you’re right,’ Rorik said quietly. Thorolf blinked at him. ‘Hel, I was only jesting.’ ‘Aye, but you’re remembering, aren’t you?’ Rorik nodded as memory and comprehension chased each other across Thorolf ’s face. ‘Remembering those uncontrollable rages Othar used to fall into as a child if he was thwarted in the smallest way. How he always accuses people of being against him. According to Thorkill, when my father married Gunhild there were rumours of an ancestor or two who’d been locked away. ’Twas why Egil tried to prevent Gunhild from bearing a child.’ ‘Thor’s hammer! Does Yvaine know?’ ‘Of course not. I spoke to Thorkill alone so as not to frighten her. I couldn’t understand why, if I was legally adopted, my father still worried about Gunhild conceiving. After all, a man wants many sons.’ ‘Not with the curse of madness.’ Thorolf shook his head. ‘What will you do?’ Rorik returned to his chair and sat down. ‘Tomorrow I’ll see Ragnald about selling the estate.’ ‘Selling!’ Thorolf sat upright, startled all over again. ‘That’s a bit final, isn’t it?’ ‘You know I’ve never been content here. I’ll leave Othar enough to support himself and his mother, but—’ ‘What!’ ‘I can’t leave them with nothing,’ he said impatiently. ‘Besides, I warrant ’tis Gunhild who’s behind everything. Othar might have thought to suppress some of the tale, but I can’t see him coolly waiting until after the funeral so Ingerd could give just enough evidence to convince everyone I was the son of a slave, then arranging to have her killed. Left to his own devices, he would have confronted me the minute he heard the truth.’ Remembering Othar’s avid anticipation when his mother had announced the partial truth of Rorik’s birth, Thorolf had to agree, but he looked far from satisfied.

‘I hate to think of Gunhild being left with anything,’ he grumbled. ‘Damn it, she’s getting away with murder.’ ‘Ingerd’s killer is dead and disposed of without comforts for the Otherworld. As for Gunhild, she’ll lose wealth, power, and position. In all but country, ’twill mean banishment in truth.’ ‘But what about you? You’ll still need a base.’ Rorik merely shrugged. Thorolf ’s eyes narrowed. ‘Ragnald might be interested in buying Einervik,’ he said slowly, watching his friend. ‘Three of his sons are married with families, and he mentioned at the funeral that Ari was thinking of moving to Iceland to ease the problem of overcrowding.’ ‘That would certainly simplify matters.’ Rorik rose and stretched. ‘Well, I’m for my bed. I’ll see Ragnald in the morning and settle on a fair price. You’ll need your share, too, Thorolf. My father would have wished it.’ ‘Thanks, but ’tis not necessary. Unlike you, I picked up the odd piece of gold and silver whenever we raided England.’ He continued to watch Rorik as he added, ‘Not that I’m going to do that this time. I’m merely coming along to make sure you don’t put your head in a noose.’ Rorik cocked a quizzical brow as he turned away. ‘Why would I do that?’ he asked lightly. ‘Why indeed?’ muttered Thorolf, but he said it into his drinking horn as he watched his friend walk out of the hall. He had a niggling feeling that he might already know the answer. An answer that solved the puzzle of why Rorik was selling Einervik with no plans to settle elsewhere. An answer that made reparation to the English king for Yvaine’s abduction while allowing Rorik to avenge Sitric’s death. An answer he couldn’t oppose without impugning his friend’s honour. Rorik intended to offer himself in single combat against Edward. And unless he was willing to kill Yvaine’s cousin, he didn’t expect to survive the encounter. Something was very wrong. Yvaine stood in the sunlit doorway overlooking the fjord and cast her mind back over the past few hours. Everything was packed and, even as she watched, being stowed on board Sea Dragon. That was the problem. Everything was packed. Or in readiness to be loaded at the last minute. The great shield had been taken down; the fur of Rorik’s ice-bear rolled and tied

with rope. Even Egil’s elaborately carved bed had been dismantled and taken on board. It was a wonder she still had a bed to sleep in that night. And that wasn’t all. Beyond the household walls, a steward was totting up what was owed to the karls, several slaves were being freed, children given small trinkets. It was perfectly obvious, even if she hadn’t learned what had passed between Rorik and Thorolf from Anna, that Rorik didn’t intend to return to Einervik. She shifted uneasily, cursing herself for falling asleep last night the moment her head touched the pillow. Understandable after two virtually sleepless nights, but in light of the fact that she’d neither heard Rorik enter their chamber, nor leave it at what must have been an ungodly hour this morning, more than a little disastrous. Now she was groping about in the dark, knowing what he intended, but not knowing why. She frowned in the direction of the pier, noting the empty space beside Sea Dragon. Othar must have taken Egil’s longship to go into hiding with his mother. They must have gone some distance, she decided, if he needed a ship instead of one of the smaller faerings. But that wasn’t her concern. Seeing Thorolf, standing in the stern in solemn consultation with a crewman, she started down towards the water. Then halted. Even if Thorolf knew more than he’d told Anna, she doubted he’d enlighten her. In truth, she didn’t want company, which was why she’d escaped from the house after helping Anna pack up their belongings. She needed to clear her mind, to think how she would tackle Rorik when he returned. She turned to look up at the mountain behind her. A thick pine forest covered the slope to a considerable height, but sunlight streamed through the trees, creating glades of light and shade. Perhaps she could sit there, within sight of the hall, and sort out the questions in her head while she watched for Rorik’s return. The sound of a door slamming inside the house decided her. Yvaine began to climb, trying to make sense of the nameless dread that brushed, a ghostly whisper, across the back of her mind. Something had changed. From the moment they’d left Thorkill’s shieling, there’d been a calm, implacable purpose about Rorik that unnerved her. She felt as if the passion they’d shared had been but a moment snatched out of time, the memory of a dream. He wasn’t cold towards her, or even distant, but since she’d woken yesterday, he’d been treating her with the grave, gentle courtesy he might have used towards a guest who had been tipped over the edge of the world and almost devoured by the dragons who awaited her there. Was that why he was taking her to England? she wondered suddenly. To recover? What did he think would happen to her there, where dragons of another sort lay waiting, ready

to strip her of all chance at happiness? He must know she would be whisked away from him the instant Edward clapped eyes on her. A fine shivering started deep inside her. Surely there was no longer any reason to return to England. A message to Edward, in her own hand, explaining what had happened— with certain facts omitted—and assuring her cousin that she was honourably wed and content, would allay immediate reprisal from that quarter. Their time in Thorkill’s hut had convinced her Rorik still desired her. He no longer had reason to leave Einervik. Why was he cutting all ties with Norway? Why did he need so much money that he had to sell his home? Unless… Dear God, was he thinking of offering Edward some sort of…compensation? As if the two nights they’d shared, the happiest, the most wondrous of her life, had rendered her less worthy. She stopped walking, wrapping her arms around herself and blinking away a tear. That would be worse than being used for ransom. Surely Rorik couldn’t have shared those nights with her, taken her with such fierceness, such heart-shattering tenderness, and still give her back—with payment for damage done? She couldn’t think it of him. And yet… he was taking her to England. The sharp snap of a broken twig jerked her out of her thoughts. She blinked, looking around, a startled exclamation parting her lips as she realised that, deep in thought, she’d climbed higher than she’d intended. She turned to peer through the trees, searching for a glimpse of the fjord. A flash of water reassured her, but the sunny glade she’d seen from the house was now far below her and to the left, and here, deep in the pines, the light was muted. It was very quiet. Even the breeze had dropped. Uneasiness of another sort stole over her. She glanced over her shoulder, straining to hear any sound that would convince her the snapped twig had been caused by the passing of some small creature. The shadowy forest seemed to listen with her. Silent. Waiting. Nothing stirred. She shook her head and started downhill, scolding herself every step of the way. She hadn’t even managed to climb in a straight line, for heaven’s sake. But no matter. With the fjord to guide her she could go straight down to the meadow and walk back along the shore. In the open.

‘Silly,’ she muttered, her heartbeat slowing as the edge of the forest came into view a few minutes later. With Gunhild and Othar gone there was no danger. Funny, though, how it was easier to believe that when she stepped into the sunlight. She glanced around, realising she was further from the house than she’d anticipated. The hall was out of sight, around a slight bend. In front of her, midway between fjord and forest, a great pile of earth blocked her view of the shore. She’d stumbled on to Egil’s burial mound. There was no gravestone, she saw as she approached, but no doubt Rorik would leave instructions to have one erected. She wondered idly if she might have come to like the old man, given time. She thought so. He’d made mistakes, aye, but he’d paid for them with years of loss and regret. She stared at the bare earth that, by next summer, would be covered with sweetsmelling meadow grass and wildflowers. Which of his father’s mistakes, she wondered uneasily, was Rorik determined not to repeat? A cloud passed over the sun as if in answer. She shivered, looking skyward. Strange. There were no clouds. Then what… Pain exploded in her head before she could finish the question. She gasped, staggered, lifted a hand. When her fingers touched nothing she tried to turn, to cry out, but the mound of earth was rushing towards her, darkness closing. Another shadow moved. She had one brief glimpse of a grinning face, floating, amorphous…then everything went black. She knew what had happened the instant she woke, and terror bludgeoned her like a war club. Her heart stopped; her vision hazed, the scene before her wavering in cloudy patterns as memory clashed with cruel reality. A ship, like Sea Dragon but not. A crew of Vikings, but a scarce half-dozen of them. A leader who was tall and fair, but whose eyes were a cold blue, and whose face wore an expression of such vicious triumph she stayed prone on the deck, eyes squeezed shut again, too terrified to move in case Othar discovered she was conscious. The sun beat down on her aching head. She ignored it; an aching head was nothing compared to the panic churning inside her. How long had she been lying here? She had no idea, but it helped to concentrate on the question. Not much, but enough to steady her disordered senses, to resist the urge to fling herself into the sea. Rorik would come after her. She knew that beyond any doubt. All she had to do was survive until he found her.

Where was Othar taking her? By the motion of the ship they were already at sea, but— ‘She’s been lying senseless a long time. How hard did you hit her?’ Othar’s voice directly above her had her fingers pressing into the deck. Her breath seized. ‘Not that hard,’ growled a second voice. ‘The wench should have stirred long since. Who is she, anyway?’ ‘You’re right,’ muttered Othar, ignoring the question. ‘She sleeps overlong for a simple tap on the head.’ He kicked her in the ribs. Shock wrenched a cry from her. Knowing that feigning sleep was now impossible, she let herself roll with the blow and sat up. The movement made her head swim dizzily, but she’d put a few inches between herself and Othar. Waving away his crewman, Othar sat down on an upturned pail and smiled at her. ‘Good,’ he said, as if she’d woken quite naturally. ‘You’re awake. I was getting bored with no one to talk to.’ Yvaine could only stare at him. Her head seemed to be stuffed with feathers. She couldn’t think, couldn’t reconcile this pleasant, smiling Othar with the vicious, selfindulgent youth who’d had her knocked senseless and kidnapped. ‘Your men,’ she finally got out. ‘I can’t tell them anything,’ he scoffed. ‘They wouldn’t understand. I suppose you don’t either, but when I’ve explained everything, you’ll be grateful.’ ‘Grateful…’ ‘For saving your life. My mother would’ve had you killed.’ ‘She tried…that man…’ ‘Aye. She sent Hjorr after you. I told her the scheme wouldn’t work. I’ve seen Rorik fight, so I knew Hjorr wouldn’t stand a chance. She should’ve listened to me.’ ‘You didn’t go away,’ she murmured, struggling to work it out. ‘No. At least, only to an island a few miles down the fjord. Far enough away so Rorik wouldn’t know I was waiting. I knew you’d come back with the stone. I told my mother so, but she hated Rorik so much she wouldn’t listen to me.’ Othar leaned forward. ‘I think she’s gone a little mad,’ he confided. ‘I couldn’t tell if she was talking about Rorik or Sitric. She hated you, too. It changed her. She was quite clever until then, but now I’m in charge.’

Everything in her recoiled at his closeness, at the smiling face, the gleaming, feverish eyes. She forced herself to stay still, to keep her voice steady. ‘Where is your mother, Othar?’ ‘On the island. She would have tried again, you see. I couldn’t let her kill you. Besides,’ he added with a touch of spite, ‘she didn’t think I could plan, but she was wrong.’ ‘You left Gunhild on an island?’ ‘Something like that,’ he answered vaguely, waving a hand. Yvaine swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. A hideous thought had struck her, a suspicion more chilling than all the rest, but she wouldn’t let herself think about it. Othar tapped her arm, smiling again. ‘I’ve been very clever,’ he boasted. ‘I’ll show Rorik that I can have everything, too. I’ve got a ship and some men, and now you.’ ‘Where are we going?’ she managed. Aye, keep him in this complacent, satisfied mood. It was eerie in its unfamiliarity, but, blessed Mother, better that than violence. ‘Ireland. You’ll like it. My mother didn’t. ’Twas another plan she wouldn’t consider. I always thought she was on my side, but she turned against me like everyone else. You won’t, will you? You understood about my father.’ Yvaine shook her head even as her mind raced. Ireland! Would Rorik remember that Othar had mentioned Ireland on board Sea Dragon? Would he discover which way they’d gone, or would he cross the North Sea directly to England? Dear God, he could go anywhere. ‘How long will it take?’ she whispered. ‘Oh, a few days. We have to stay close to land. You see how clever I am? I don’t know as much about sailing as Rorik, so we’ll go up the west coast of Norway and straight across to the Orkneys. Then we’ll follow the islands and the English coast. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?’ ‘Aye, very good.’ Othar looked pleased. ‘I knew you’d think so. ’Twas my plan to take you, also. I thought we’d have to draw you into the forest with a message of some sort so we could take you overland to the ship, but you made it easier by turning up at the burial mound. No one would’ve thought anything of it, if they’d seen me there.’ Yvaine cleared her throat. ‘A message. Is that how…Ingerd…?’ ‘Hasn’t Rorik discovered that yet? He’s not so smart, after all. Aye, my mother told Ingerd to meet Hjorr in a clearing above the fjord. She thought ’twas where she’d get her reward.’ Othar laughed. ‘She got her reward all right, and so will anyone who goes against

me.’ He threw back his head as he spoke, wild exultation in his eyes, but an instant later he hunched forward again, glancing quickly from side to side. ‘You’ll have to keep a lookout for Rorik,’ he whispered. ‘No one knows where we’ve gone, but Rorik’s good. He used to take me hunting, so I know he’s good. You’ll tell me if you see anything, won’t you? I’m going to be very busy with my ship.’ Yvaine nodded, surprised she could make even that response. When Othar rose and left her, she was incapable of movement for several seconds. It was plain that she, the crew and the ship were in the hands of a madman. A madman who didn’t have a tithe of Rorik’s strength, endurance or experience. The knowledge beat at her, over and over, until, finally, the pitching of the ship broke through the hammer blows of fear. She edged back until she could sit against the side. She had to stay calm. It was no use panicking about Othar’s madness or lack of seamanship. While the sea remained calm there was little danger, and the crew, at least, appeared to know what they were doing. She studied the men cautiously, making sure she didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Unkempt hair and beards made them look uncannily alike. None were familiar. She remembered Gunnar and Ketil, and was suddenly thankful that one had left Rorik’s ship at Kaupang and the other was at the bottom of the sea. On the other hand, she thought as she intercepted a sly, sidelong glance, these could be worse. Shuddering, she raised herself and peered over the side. Far behind them a dark grey line marked the horizon. It could have been cloud, or the fast disappearing shores of Norway. There was no other land in sight. They had begun the crossing westward. Yvaine sank back to the deck and gingerly probed the tender spot at the back of her head. Her hair was still braided, but her headkerchief was missing. She had no recollection of losing it. Given how far they’d come, and the position of the sun, she must have been unconscious most of the day. The thought of being handled by Othar and his men while she lay senseless had her stomach heaving, but she forced the images away, reached instead for a waterbag that lay nearby. The cool trickle of liquid sliding down her throat made her feel immeasurably better. She would survive this, she vowed, fisting her hands around the bag. While they were at sea, with the ship undermanned and Othar intent on getting away from Rorik, she might be reasonably safe. The real danger would come when they landed. But no matter what, she would survive.

And that had been an empty vow, or no, she thought two days later as she rubbed eyes burning from the strain of watching the equally empty sea. Oh, she survived. Had she been hungry, thirsty, abused, she would still have held on to life. But she had water. Othar tossed her some food whenever he ate. Someone had even handed her a bucket when she’d eyed the communal slop-pail with a mixture of embarrassment and despair. When the demands of nature had to be met, she arranged her long skirts to retain some degree of modesty, even though the chuckles, the leers, the whispered jests, flayed her spirit. So she survived. But, by the saints, she was tired. The strain of being constantly on guard was sapping her strength, stripping her nerves raw. Too afraid to sleep, she dozed for minutes only, jerking awake at any sound or movement that came too close. She’d made a place for herself between a sea-chest and a cross-rib near Othar’s station at the stern, thinking that if he was bent on emulating Rorik, he wouldn’t be inclined to share her. At least not immediately. She’d been right, but there was a chilling flaw in her strategy. Othar chatted to her incessantly, pointing out how clever he’d been as though seeking her approval. And she was forced to respond, to keep him in his smug, self-satisfied mood, to avoid tipping him over the edge into the violence that simmered just beneath the surface. For it was there. It shrilled in his voice whenever the men were too slow to carry out an order; it twisted his face whenever the wind drifted and he had to change course. It was there when he fixed her with the hungry stare she’d seen in the bathhouse, and she dreaded the moment when they’d be alone, knowing her apparent acquiescence, now, would make rejection that much more dangerous. Yet what else could she do? Tell the men Othar had kidnapped his brother’s wife? Force a confrontation at sea where escape was impossible? She couldn’t be sure they would take her part, especially when one of them knew she’d been taken near Einervik and had helped Othar in the taking. Even if she threatened them with Rorik’s vengeance she might not be safe. To men of little thought and brutish instincts, the threat of vengeance had few teeth when there was no sign of the avenger. They could rape her, throw her overboard and disperse to lie low the minute they landed. She was balanced on a knife-edge. Like the line she walked with Othar, danger threatened no matter what course she chose. And she might be forced to choose soon, she thought, hugging herself against a chill as evening closed in on the second day. The western isles and the north of England were now within easy reach and, for the better part of an hour, the men had been demanding

to go ashore to take on more provisions. Both areas were settled by Norsemen and thus safe ports, but Othar was making no move to change course. She didn’t know whether to add her voice to the men’s in the hope that Othar might listen to her. Landing would slow them down, give Rorik a chance to catch them. But if they beached the ship for the night, she would be staring danger in the face before ever they reached Ireland. Heaven save her, she didn’t know what to do, what to pray for. Was no longer sure her prayers would be heard. Battered by fear and exhaustion, she felt utterly alone. Had God forsaken her because she loved a heathen? she wondered vaguely, staring at the distant horizon. The priests would say so. They would denounce her love for Rorik as a sin. Then I am indeed a sinner, she thought, clenching her fists on top of the side in a burst of defiance. For I love him and always will. If that makes me a heathen, too, then so be it. And in that moment when anger and fierce resolve burned away some of her tiredness, an image of Katyja flashed through her mind. The words she’d dismissed and long forgotten echoed as clearly as though the witch stood beside her. You will remember my words and be strong. Two ships…one fleeing, one pursuing. Death surrounds you, but it does not touch you. ‘Two ships,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Rorik.’ She sank to her knees, folding her arms on the topmost plank as she strained to see in the dimming light. The horizon misted before her eyes, creating wavering patterns, so that, for an instant, she thought she’d seen something. A flash, as though the setting sun had struck something bright. She squeezed her eyes shut, looked again. Nothing. And yet, she could have sworn— ‘And I say we are going to Ireland.’ She sprang up, turning and slamming against the side as Othar shouted the words behind her. He was still at the steering oar, but the other men had left their posts to confront him in a group, the man who had knocked her senseless a pace ahead of the rest. ‘We’re not here to throw our lives away,’ he growled. ‘You never mentioned Ireland.’ ‘Well, I’m telling you now. I’m the leader of this ship, Kalf, and—’ ‘Leaders can be replaced,’ Kalf interrupted. ‘Especially one who lies. You promised us loot in England if we didn’t interfere with your business.’ He jerked a thumb at Yvaine. ‘’Tis time to deliver.’

At a rumble of agreement from the others, some of Othar’s bluster wavered. ‘You’ll get your loot,’ he said sulkily. ‘No one’s asking you to stay in Ireland. You can leave us and go. You can even take the ship,’ he added, as though coming up with a brilliant idea. ‘’Twould be difficult to go anywhere without it,’ Kalf snapped. He bit out a curse and gestured with rough impatience. ‘You fool! The Celts drove us Norsemen from Ireland a few months past. Aided by the Danes, Odin curse them. Haven’t you seen the beacons along the coast? We’ve been spotted. If we land, our lives won’t be worth a thrall’s ransom.’ ‘But we have to go to Ireland,’ Othar yelled. ‘Rorik won’t look for us there.’ ‘Rorik?’ Kalf ’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why would Rorik be looking for you, Othar? You said he’d been banished.’ Yvaine’s lips parted. She took a step forward, glanced over her shoulder. Nothing. When she looked back, Othar was speaking again, his face sullen. ‘It doesn’t matter. You were the one who wanted provisions, Kalf. Here’s your chance.’ ‘Not in Ireland. You change course for England, or we’ll do it for you. By morning we’ll be off the northernmost part of the Danelaw. Get the Danes to take you to Ireland if you’re set on losing your life.’ Othar’s lips thinned, but it must have been plain, even to his deranged mind, that he was outnumbered. ‘All right,’ he muttered. ‘We’ll take on more food in England. Raid a town or two.’ Looking thoughtful, the men nodded, dispersing to their places in a silence that spoke louder than words. Kalf sent her a long look, before he, too, turned away. Yvaine sank back against the side, her heart pounding. One more night. One more night before she would have to face Othar, or try to escape. Could she do it? They would be landing very close to the border, which dissected England roughly from southeast to north-west. Once on land, could she risk asking Kalf to help her? He alone of the crew seemed wary of Rorik. Would that wariness incline him to stand alone against his leader—in Norse law a crime punishable by death—or would he throw in his lot with the others? She didn’t know, but there was one thing she was sure of. The question was going to keep her awake for another night. ‘They’ve changed course for England.’

Out of sight, below the horizon, the lookout on a ship with a gilded wind-vane yelled the information down to his leader’s second-in-command. Thorolf nodded and strode aft to pass the news to Rorik. ‘Do you think they saw us?’ he asked, when there was no response. Rorik tore his gaze from the seamless line dividing sea and sky. ‘If our informant was right,’ he said curtly, ‘Othar has a half-dozen men. He can’t afford to have someone on the mast as lookout.’ His hand clenched around the steering oar with so much force he wondered the wood didn’t crack. ‘I hope.’ ‘Aye. His crew must have barely enough time to sleep. Even Othar will have to pull his weight.’ ‘Aye. He won’t have time to—’ His teeth snapped shut on the rest. ‘She’ll be all right, Rorik. Tonight we’ll get close enough to chase him into land, or board him at dawn, before he has much warning. You’ll get her back.’ A muscle flickered in Rorik’s jaw. Aye, he’d get Yvaine back, he vowed, and stopped his thoughts right there. Because if he let himself consider the alternative he’d lose his mind. Even the thought of Yvaine in the hands of brutal warriors for one more night caused his gut to tie itself in knots. Every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to give chase now, to close the distance between the two ships and snatch her to safety before daylight was lost. And he knew he had to wait, to give Othar as little warning as possible. His brother was too unpredictable. If he turned on Yvaine before they were close enough to save her, Rorik knew he would go mad. And if he lost the rigid control he was hanging on to by a thread, he’d be no help to anyone. He would get her back. He wouldn’t let himself believe anything else.

Chapter Fourteen S houts ripped through the curtain of sleep that had fallen over her like a pall. Yvaine sat bolt upright, blinking in the grey light. Dawn had crept up on her while she’d succumbed to exhaustion. Before she saw the danger accompanying it, a hand fisted around her braid and hauled her to her feet. ‘Bitch!’ Othar screamed. ‘You were supposed to keep watch. You were supposed to warn me.’ His free hand flashed upward, catching the side of her face without any warning. Her involuntary cry was cut off when his arm swung back the other way. This time his fist was clenched; this time he let her fall.

She dropped to the deck and lay motionless, her mind hazing. Then, spurred by the vague thought that she wouldn’t cower at his feet, she forced her head up. Othar was storming about the ship in a mindless frenzy. She flinched as he kicked a pail out of his path. He snatched an oar from one of the men and swung it at the mast. The crack of shattering wood had her flattening herself to the deck as splinters flew. ‘We don’t need oars,’ he yelled. ‘We have to get away. Hoist the sail!’ She blinked at the sail. It bellied out in the wind as it had for the past few days. Before she could wonder why Othar couldn’t see it, he rushed past her. ‘No, we’ll land. That’s it. We’ll land and run. You hear me, Kalf ? Why aren’t the oars out?’ ‘Holy Mother of God,’ she whispered. ‘He’s run mad.’ She wasn’t sure if she crossed herself; her mind was drifting like fog. Moving as if she was crawling through the stuff, she pulled herself up against the side. One side of her face felt numb; her legs barely supported her. She hung on, trying to see through the mist in front of her eyes. Something wavered in the distance. Land. They’d sailed into a wide bay; hills surrounded them on three sides. And ahead… She narrowed her eyes. Were those tents on the hill above the beach? She couldn’t see, couldn’t be sure. But even if a bustling city loomed ahead of them, why would Othar descend into raving incoherence? She turned her head in time to see him throw a sea-chest over the side. There was an immediate explosion of rage from its owner. ‘Fool!’ Othar swung a fist at the man even as he looked around for something else to jettison. ‘We have to go faster! He’s put up a red shield. He wants to fight.’ Fight? Who? Still clinging to the side, Yvaine peered toward the stem. Sea Dragon. Oh, God, it was real. There was the red and white sail, billowing in the wind. The fierce dragon’s head on the prow dipped towards the water, cleaving the waves as though devouring them. A red shield hung from her prow, a challenge to battle. She looked warlike, menacing and unstoppable. And she was gaining on them fast. ‘Rorik!’ Her scream was snatched away by the wind, but her movement as she staggered sternward alerted Othar. He sprang to intercept her, dragging her back against him and wrapping an arm around her throat. ‘I’m not finished with you,’ he shrieked. ‘Not finished.’

‘Leave her alone, Othar.’ It was Kalf, looking as if he’d finally realised there was more to her presence than the simple kidnapping of an unwilling wench. ‘You’re behaving like a fool. If that is Rorik behind us, he doesn’t intend to fight a battle at sea, his sail is still up.’ ‘Of course it’s Sea Dragon, you dolt. Do you think I don’t know my brother’s ship?’ Othar’s arm tightened, almost cutting off her breath. ‘All right, ’tis Rorik. Then you’d better have a good reason before I go against him.’ ‘I’m Rorik’s wife,’ gasped Yvaine, barely able to get the words out. ‘Othar—’ ‘Be silent.’ Othar’s voice was suddenly ice-cold. As cold as the dagger he drew and pressed to her throat. I’ve felt this before, she thought through the roaring in her ears. That night on the beach… But the memory vanished as Othar’s grip shifted. He began to crowd her against the side, one hand fisting in the neck of her shift as he forced her upper body over the rail. ‘Don’t move, Kalf, or I’ll slit her throat.’ Kalf obeyed. The others stood like statues. No help there, Yvaine decided, fighting dizziness as the sea rushed past her eyes. But helpless or no, she would not die. She would not die with Rorik so close. ‘Othar, if you kill me, Rorik will hunt you to the edge of the world. He’ll—’ ‘I’m not going to kill you,’ he snarled. ‘I’m going to slow Rorik down. And I hope you drown before he gets to you.’ She felt a hard shove, Othar’s hands on her hips. Then there was nothing around her but air. ‘He’s less than a quarter-mile ahead, Rorik. You were right. The battle challenge made him run for shore. He’s trapped.’ Rorik held the ship steady into the waves, grateful for the grim concentration needed to overtake Othar. The distance between the two vessels was shrinking rapidly. He could see people moving about on Othar’s ship now, but the sun was bursting over the hills ahead of them, shining right in his eyes. He couldn’t tell which one was Yvaine. ‘He won’t have time to hurt her if he’s worrying about me catching him,’ he muttered, and tried to believe it. ‘She’s alive,’ yelled Thorolf, shading his eyes with his hand. ‘There, amidships, with Othar. What in the name of…He’s throwing her overboard!’

Rorik shoved the steering oar violently to one side as the shout left Thorolf ’s lips. The big vessel listed dangerously, almost taking the mast overboard, then steadied and leapt forward, a hound freed from the leash. At the same time Yvaine disappeared beneath a rolling wave. Rorik grabbed Thorolf, spinning him around with an ironfisted grip on his shoulder as his friend sprang for the side. ‘Take the styri,’ he ordered, unbuckling his belt. He flung his sword to the deck and stripped off his tunic and undershirt. ‘No, wait.’ Thorolf cast an anxious glance at Rorik’s set face. ‘The ship will get there faster. Yvaine can swim, remember? She kept on telling you so. She’ll be all right. Wait until I have to bring the ship into the wind.’ Rorik didn’t answer. He was poised on the side, every muscle tense, as he scanned the surface of the water. ‘Why doesn’t she come up?’ he said through his teeth. ‘She can swim,’ Thorolf repeated, hoping to the Gods Yvaine was still alive to give truth to the statement. ‘She’s fully clothed. And with those damned brooches—there!’ He went over the side in a low, powerful dive that took him well clear of the ship. Cursing helplessly, Thorolf yanked on the steering oar as he saw why Rorik hadn’t waited. An off-shore current was sweeping Yvaine right into the path of the speeding, oncoming ship. He’d have to slow down or alter course to avoid running over her; both alternatives would waste precious time. But Rorik was a powerful swimmer. Thorolf prayed his friend would reach Yvaine before she tired. The shock of cold water closing over her head jolted Yvaine back to full awareness. That was something to be grateful for, she thought grimly as she kicked towards the surface. Nothing happened; her legs were tangled in her skirts. She reached down to pull them free of the heavy wool and sank deeper. Panic clawed at her throat. She fought it back, struggling to rid herself of her heavy brooches. Her chest was burning, she couldn’t see… Ah. The second brooch opened, her top garment floated free. Her head broke the surface seconds later and she gulped in air, letting the waves take her as she turned this way and that, searching frantically for Rorik’s ship. Before she could locate it she was swept down into a deep trough. She couldn’t even see the land from here, she realised, panic raking fresh claws across her throat. Waves were all around her, surrounding her, huge swells carrying her across

the bay, not directly into shore. She might stay afloat if she got rid of her outer shift, but swimming against such a heavy sea was impossible. Already the effort of keeping her head above water was sapping her strength. Her light skin shoes felt like logs tied to her ankles; her shift tangled about her legs, hampering her movements and threatening to drag her under again. She struggled with the wet ties at her throat, almost sobbing when the sodden knots defeated her. Suddenly Sea Dragon loomed ahead. She opened her mouth to cry out, swallowed salt water instead as a wave slapped her in the face. The ship was lost to sight as she slid down the other side of the rolling swell. Then, out of nowhere, a strong arm gripped her from behind. ‘’Tis all right, my darling girl. My brave love. I’ve got you.’ ‘Rorik…’ She choked on another mouthful of water, tried to turn her head. ‘Hush. Be still. We’re almost there.’ And they were. The ship was beside them, a solid haven of safety. Hands reached over the side to pull her from the clinging embrace of the sea. A moment later Rorik hauled himself on board, water streaming from his powerful body. He took her from Thorolf, pulled her into his arms and held her as if defying the very Gods themselves to wrench her from his embrace. ‘I didn’t think I’d be in time,’ he said hoarsely. ‘You didn’t come up and I thought—’ He broke off, shuddered. ‘I’m all right,’ she whispered. And burying her face in his shoulder, she burst into tears. The storm didn’t last long; a few seconds only to let all the tightly stoppered fear burst forth, to give in to relief at seeing him again, at being safe in his arms. Rorik held her, saying nothing until she gulped, sniffed and fell silent. Then he tipped her face up to his, his eyes going the colour of ice as they narrowed on her jaw. ‘Did Othar try to knock you senseless before he threw you into the sea?’ ‘No.’ She covered his hand with hers when he lifted it to cradle her cheek. The numbness was wearing off, a painful throbbing was taking its place. ‘This was earlier. He ran mad…lost all reason. Oh, Rorik, you don’t know. I think Othar has killed Gunhild.’ ‘Aye.’ He drew her closer, as though he would shield her from the knowledge. ‘We found her on one of the islands in the fjord. Strangled.’ ‘Strangled!’ She gazed up at him in horror. ‘God have mercy.’

‘Don’t waste your pity,’ said Thorolf behind her. ‘The woman cold-bloodedly used Ingerd, then had her killed, and had no compunction about sending her hired assassin after you and Rorik.’ ‘I know, but to plot like that for Othar only to have him turn against her—’ She shivered, then realised she’d been shivering all along. ‘Hel!’ Seeing it at the same time, Rorik turned his head. ‘Get the sail down,’ he yelled to his men. ‘We’re going in under oars. Any of you look this way for the next few minutes, you’ll be going in without your heads.’ He bent, picked her up and carried her to the stem. ‘Here, sweetheart, get out of those wet clothes. You can wear my tunic.’ ‘There’s a mantle here somewhere,’ Thorolf offered as Rorik set her down near the steering oar. He turned away to rummage behind a pile of axes. ‘You were wearing it when we left.’ ‘Aye.’ Drawing his dagger, Rorik sliced through the ties at the neck of her two remaining garments and stripped them down her body. He tossed his shirt and tunic over her head and yanked them into place. Yvaine hugged the warm garments to her as Rorik rolled the sleeves up past her hands. She had to smile wryly at the picture she made, but Rorik’s expression remained carved from stone. He took his mantle from Thorolf, wrapped it around her waist and fastened it with the pin to make a rough skirt. ‘You’ll have to hold it up to walk,’ he said. ‘But ’tis better than nought.’ ‘Aye. Rorik, what—?’ ‘You haven’t slept,’ he interrupted, and stroked his thumb across her cheekbone. She studied him, seeing the shadows beneath his eyes, the way the skin was drawn tight across his cheekbones, the rigid line of his jaw. ‘Nor have you.’ ‘No. There were enough nightmares chasing me without leaving that door wide open. The same nightmare that chased you, I expect.’ He lowered his hand, gently touched her aching jaw. ‘Was this all?’ he asked very low. ‘Aye. I’m all right, Rorik. Just…’ Her lower lip quivered. She blinked hard against another onrush of tears. Tears of relief this time as she realised she’d probably escaped being alone with Othar by mere minutes. ‘Just tired.’ ‘Aye. You’ll be able to rest soon, sweetheart.’ His voice was impossibly tender as he urged her to sit down on the deck. No sea-chests this time, she thought vaguely. There was nothing on board but men and weapons.

‘Othar won’t come near you again,’ he vowed as he stood and began to untie the lashing on the steering-oar. He called out an order to his men and the ship began to move forward again. The abrupt change from bobbing about on the waves to purpose and power had Yvaine’s tears drying in a second. ‘Where are we going?’ As if she didn’t know. ‘After Othar.’ ‘But…to take him back to Norway?’ ‘No.’ The single word had her scrambling to her feet, her heart in her throat. ‘Rorik, no. You mean to kill him, don’t you?’ He didn’t even glance at her. ‘Othar brought about his own death the minute he took you.’ ‘But the hand he dies by will be yours. Please. Don’t do it.’ That brought his head around. ‘You care what happens to Othar?’ ‘No.’ Her lashes quivered at the glittering intensity in his eyes, but she held his gaze. ‘I care what it will do to you. He’s your brother. And he’s not…sane. Besides, he didn’t intend to kill me. He threw me overboard to give himself time to get away from you.’ ‘If he did,’ Thorolf put in, ‘he’s not going far.’ He’d been standing nearby, ostensibly studying the shore, but able to hear every word. Now he glanced over his shoulder. ‘We might have more to deal with than Othar, Rorik.’ Rorik continued to watch her for several unnerving seconds, then narrowed his eyes at the beach. ‘Looks like Othar has run into soldiers of some sort.’ ‘Aye. Just what we need. To land in the middle of a battle that’s none of our business.’ Yvaine peered towards the beach; it seemed to be swarming with men. She had to suppress a craven desire to suggest that they simply turn around and sail away. She’d had enough of violence and fear and uncertainty. ‘Have someone take that red shield down,’ Rorik ordered. ‘Put up a white one.’ ‘What does that mean?’ she asked. ‘A white shield means we want to talk, to treat. If they’re Danish they’ll know that.’ ‘And if they’re English?’ ‘We hope they’ll know that.’

‘Dear God. Rorik, Othar isn’t worth—’ She stopped as a fluttering movement far above them caught her eye. Those were tents on top of the hill, she realised, lifting a hand to shade her eyes from the sun. Several of them. And flying from the largest… She stared in disbelief for several seconds before excited recognition dawned. ‘The standard of Wessex,’ she cried, turning and gripping Rorik’s arm. ‘Rorik, look. ’Tis the standard of Wessex. ’Tis Edward.’ The ship slid gently into the sandy shallows as the words left her lips. ‘What do you think?’ asked Thorolf, low-voiced, when they were immediately surrounded by soldiers. ‘I think Edward is going to ask questions first.’ Rorik took Yvaine’s hand and led her towards the side. ‘Tell the men to stay on board. If anyone reaches for a weapon, he’ll answer to me.’ ‘As if we have a choice.’ Thorolf eyed the small army surrounding them and tried a smile. No one smiled back. Yvaine looked from the phalanx of unmoving warriors to Rorik’s face and felt excitement metamorphose into dread. He had that implacable air of resolve about him again, as though nothing and no one was going to swerve him from his course. ‘Rorik, I’ll speak to Edward first. He’ll—’ ‘No.’ He released her hand, vaulted down to the sand, then turned and lifted her over the side. As he did so, a soldier came striding along the beach towards them, sword in hand. He was tall, brown-haired, and dressed in a businesslike leather tunic and woollen chausses. A leather helm covered his head, but left his bearded face bare. Alert blue eyes swept over the ship, lingered on the white shield, then came to rest on Yvaine. After another quick glance at Rorik’s face, she grabbed up her makeshift skirts, darted past him, and raced down the beach to throw herself into her cousin’s arms. ‘Edward! Don’t kill anyone. Please.’ ‘Yvaine?’ Edward removed the arms she’d flung around his neck to prevent any murderous impulse and held her back a few inches. ‘By the Rood, it is you. We thought you lost. Your priest at Selsey sent word that you’d been taken by Norsemen, and—But the why and the how can wait,’ he amended, his keen eyes studying her face. ‘The bastard who tried to kill you won’t bother anyone again. Whoever these fellows may be, I owe them my thanks for your life.’

‘Indeed you do,’ she affirmed, nodding rapidly. Then stopped. ‘You saw what happened?’ ‘Enough to have men waiting when those savages landed. Their leader came charging up the beach, offering me the Lady Yvaine of Einervik or some such nonsense. He was raving; a madman, but when he said your name I knew he was the one who’d taken you. I despatched him.’ ‘Oh.’ She drew back, her gaze falling on Edward’s bloodied sword. ‘You killed Othar.’ Explanations whirled in her brain. Before she could pick out the least dangerous one, she felt Edward’s hands tense around her arms. She looked up. His gaze was fixed on a point beyond her. Surprise flickered, then his face went very still. ‘Greetings, Edward.’ Yvaine felt her own face go blank. A strange humming filled her ears. She had to force herself to move, to step out of the king’s hold and turn so she could see Rorik. His gaze held her cousin’s, but beneath the cool glitter in his eyes a spark of amusement showed. ‘Rorik,’ Edward said, equally coolly. ‘You’ve caused me quite a deal of trouble over the past few years. Cost me nigh on a company of soldiers. I suppose I’ll have to forget that now.’ ‘You know why.’ ‘Aye.’ Edward cocked a sardonic brow. ‘Is it over, or is my life about to be forfeit for Sitric?’ ‘’Tis over,’ Rorik said curtly. Then added, ‘You were never at risk.’ ‘My relief knows no bounds.’ Yvaine shook her head. She was getting dizzy again from watching one hard face then the other, but one thing was perfectly clear. ‘You know each other.’ Both men turned to look at her. As if they’d just remembered she was there, she thought, anger spearing through the discomfort of her wet hair and still-damp flesh. But Edward’s eyes widened as he got his first good look at her. ‘Blood of the saints! This is no place for you, Yvaine. Look at you. ’Tis a wonder you’re still on your feet, and —’ ‘Oh?’ Yvaine plunked her hands on her hips. ‘Why would you think so, cousin? I’ve only been kidnapped, thrown into the sea, rescued by a man who doesn’t listen to a word

I say, and now I discover that the two of you know each other well enough to share some stupid notion of male humour that escapes those of us with more than half a wit. Why would I be anything less than perfectly well?’ Rorik’s lips twitched. ‘She’s perfectly well.’ ‘So I see,’ Edward retorted. ‘Obviously the child I sent to Selsey has grown a full complement of female fangs.’ ‘Indeed she has,’ Yvaine agreed, holding his gaze with grim meaning. ‘And because you sent that child to Selsey, Edward, you owe me now.’ ‘Enough, little cat.’ Rorik took a step forward, closed his hand around her arm. ‘Your cousin isn’t used to your methods of negotiation. He and I will sort this out.’ ‘But—’ Aware that the king’s brows were climbing towards his helm, Yvaine searched frantically for an explanation that wouldn’t put a noose around Rorik’s neck. ‘You’ll have to let me catch up first,’ Edward said tartly before she could speak. ‘I presume by your tone, cousin, you had some complaint about your husband.’ ‘You must have known she would,’ Rorik said far too softly. His words alone, never mind the menace in his voice, were enough to have the king glaring. ‘Am I a soothsayer? ’Twas arranged through intermediaries as these things are. By the saints, my father had just died. I was up to my ears in council meetings and…’ He trailed off as he registered the icy glitter in Rorik’s eyes. ‘And I didn’t know the man,’ he finished, frowning. Rorik’s voice went even softer, even more dangerous. ‘Then let me enlighten you.’ But Edward’s eyes were narrowing as realisation dawned. ‘What is this?’ he demanded. ‘You had time to exchange life sagas while you fished Yvaine out of the sea? Perhaps I was over-hasty in despatching the scum who tried to kill her.’ Rorik shrugged. ‘If you hadn’t done it, I would have.’ ‘Oh, no, Rorik…’ He glanced down at her, but not in answer. His fingers tightened briefly about her arm, then he pushed her gently in Edward’s direction and released her; a move that threatened to break her heart. ‘Yvaine shouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘Are there women in your camp who can care for her while we talk?’ Edward’s gaze shifted. ‘Of course! What am I thinking of ? Wulf—’ He clicked his fingers to summon one of his men. ‘Take the Lady Yvaine up to the camp. That wench

whose bed you’ve been warming is about the same size. Make sure she looks after my cousin well.’ ‘But—’ ‘Go up to the camp, Yvaine.’ Rorik’s quiet command cut her off. ‘Nothing’s going to happen that you need witness.’ What about the things she wasn’t going to witness? ‘Aye.’ Edward agreed. ‘This is no place for you. We’ll be along in a moment. After I despatch the rest of those pirates.’ She’d forgotten all about Othar’s men. With a shocked exclamation she glanced past Edward. Several yards away Othar’s crew had been lined up and forced to their knees, their hands bound behind their backs. They were still alive, staring sullenly before them, but— She didn’t see anything else. Rorik seized her arm and whipped her around to face him before she fully realised the bundle of clothes at the end of the line had been Othar. ‘I see you heed your cousin as little as you heed me,’ he said through his teeth. ‘I didn’t fish you out of the sea to have you catch a fever. Go! Or I’ll carry you up to the camp myself.’ At least that would get him out of Edward’s reach. But exhausted, all too aware such a reprieve would be temporary, she capitulated. ‘All right, I’ll go, but only if you swear not to kill anyone.’ ‘I have no intention of killing anyone.’ For some reason that made her feel more afraid than ever. She turned her head. ‘Edward?’ The king’s gaze was shifting back and forth between her and Rorik. ‘Is this the debt you mentioned, Yvaine? I am to kill no one involved in your disappearance?’ He glanced again at Rorik, speculation in his eyes. ‘Very well. I grant your boon.’ ‘’Twas Othar who intended to harm me,’ she said, as though in explanation. ‘The others didn’t know who…who I was…’ She stumbled over that, let it go. Edward could make of it what he would. He was no fool; he knew there was more to the story, but at least she didn’t have to worry about her husband and her cousin killing each other. That left one other thing. The insidious fear that, now she was safe and back in England, Rorik might sail away without seeing her or speaking to her again. She looked up at him, striving for a courteous tone that no one would question, while her eyes sent a very different message. ‘I would like to thank you properly, my lord, for

your care of me, for saving my life.’ She might as well bludgeon Edward over the head with that as often as possible. ‘Perhaps later…’ His mouth twitched; amusement sprang into his eyes. She suddenly realised how absurd she must look, chin held at a dignified lady of the manor angle while her hair dripped down her back and she clutched his mantle to her to avoid tripping over it. But as her lashes quivered, as anxiety and doubt clouded her eyes, his expression gentled and the cold hand fisted around her heart eased its grip. He took her free hand, lifted it to his lips and pressed a kiss into her palm. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said in a voice meant only for her ears. ‘I’ll find you. Wherever you are.’ Several hours later she was beginning to doubt that statement. Rorik hadn’t found her and she had been summoned before the king. She obeyed the summons with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Hope when she remembered the way Rorik had held her when he’d plucked her out of the sea. Trepidation because she didn’t know what he’d told Edward and feared it had been the stark, unadorned truth. Was that why she hadn’t seen him all day? she wondered. Because, unable to kill Rorik, Edward had sent him away, and he’d agreed to go out of a sense of honour? True, she’d spent most of the day sleeping, but now the sun was laying a shimmering golden path across the sea, and ‘I’ll find you wherever you are’ was taking on an ominous new meaning. As if some time was going to elapse before he started looking. She glanced down at herself as she followed Wulf through the camp, unhappily aware that, though she was grateful for the borrowed clothes, a mantle of Lincoln green and a primrose woollen gown were not the most seductive of garments. On the other hand, a modest appearance was probably more appropriate for her coming interview with the king. Especially given the way she’d behaved on the beach. She bit her lip, barely suppressing a wince. What had possessed her to speak to her liege lord and sovereign like that? She remembered Edward as a young prince when she’d first come to court. He’d been kind enough, in the distant, careless way of a much older cousin, but he’d been ruler for five years now; had ruthlessly held his crown against another cousin whom many felt had had a stronger claim, and she doubted he’d tolerate such licence again. If he’d been told the truth of her kidnapping, she wasn’t even sure which Edward she’d be facing. The kind, older cousin or the king whose ruthless ambition was to rule all England.

She was about to find out. Wulf paused outside a large tent, pulled aside the leather flap across the entrance and motioned her inside. Heart thumping, she stepped over the threshold. ‘Ah, cousin.’ Edward rose from his chair behind a plain work table and came forward. ‘Edward, where is Rorik? What did he tell you? Where are the ships and all his men?’ The minute the words were out, she closed her eyes in despair. ‘I…I mean…Sire!’ She sank into a deep curtsy. ‘Oh, don’t spoil it,’ he said with more than a touch of sarcasm. ‘I’ve been dealing all afternoon with people who should be grateful they’re keeping their heads, but apparently don’t share that view.’ She looked up. ‘Who?’ ‘Hmm. Still the direct, straight-to-the-point girl who informed me she’d accept my choice of husband for her as her way of fighting for my crown, but I’d better not forget it.’ He motioned for her to rise and walked around the table to sit again. ‘Well, Yvaine, if it’s any consolation, Rorik told me what Ceawlin did to you. I suppose I should have sent someone to make sure you were well treated, but why in the name of God didn’t you write asking for help?’ ‘I did,’ she retorted, frustrated that he’d ignored her question. ‘Ceawlin read the first letter and tore it up. When he made it plain that a messenger would be spared only if he approved my missives, I gave the next one to the priest. He returned it to Ceawlin and I was locked in the solar and starved for two days. The slaves were too afraid to help me, the churls likewise. Besides,’ she added, relenting a little as Edward grimaced, ‘’twas only that one time that he actually beat me.’ ‘Aye, so Rorik said.’ He waved her impatiently to a chair. ‘Clearly, he knew what he was about when he carried you off for ransom.’ ‘Ransom,’ she repeated, seating herself in obedience to his gesture. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t keep the tartness out of her voice. ‘I see. How much was I worth?’ Edward waved that off. ‘The subject was dropped once the reason was given. Rorik merely said that he found his father dying, discovered his mother was English, and decided he’d taken enough revenge for his cousin’s death. He swore he was about to bring you home when his brother ran off with you. And, I tell you, Yvaine, I will never understand the Norse.’ He thumped his fist on the table, making her jump. She blinked at him, still grappling with this drastically abbreviated version of events in Norway.

‘The man decides to take revenge on his own people, killing off my soldiers year after year because Sitric’s stupidity got himself and his men hanged, and yet when I kill his brother, Rorik tells me he would’ve hanged Othar like the rabid dog he was, rather than give him an honourable death by the sword. Incomprehensible!’ ‘His own people?’ She shook her head. ‘Rorik didn’t know about his mother at the time of Sitric’s death.’ ‘No, but you mistake my meaning. For a long time I’d thought of Rorik as one of us. Saints, there’s only five years between us, we were friends, God damn it. He’d even been Christened.’ ‘What!’ ‘You didn’t know that?’ Edward’s brows rose. He was still a moment, then he leaned back in his chair, watching her. ‘Well, how should you? Unconscious, taken for ransom. Why would Rorik discuss such matters with you?’ ‘Why indeed?’ Yvaine said grimly. But she couldn’t afford the luxury of taking offence now. ‘The Norse have a rigid code of vengeance,’ she began. ‘Good God, girl, you don’t need to tell me that!’ This time the chair arm received a thump. ‘’Tis not so different from our Saxon wergild. A man’s blood-price should his life be taken. Saves on soldiers,’ he added with heavy meaning. Yvaine winced. Better get off that subject. ‘How did Rorik come to be Christened?’ she ventured. The king eyed her narrowly. ‘The subject interests you?’ ‘I know ’tis not an unusual occurrence.’ Oh, aye, she could play the game of giving an answer without answering as well as anyone. Edward seemed to accept it, though, for his scowl eased slightly. ‘I suppose it began when my father signed that treaty with Guthrum years ago, creating the Danelaw. Guthrum became a Christian, and when Rorik signed on with him a few years later he was properly Christened as well. Guthrum only lived a month or so after that, however, and on his death some of his followers decided the treaty no longer applied to them. The Danes rebelled, and the Norse started raiding the continent.’ ‘What did Rorik do?’ ‘When Sitric went off to Normandy with the rest, Rorik came over to us. He was still young, only twenty, and had been used as a messenger between Guthrum and our court several times. My father took an interest in him. Indeed, ’tis a wonder you never met the man, but you were only a babe, and we were away more often than not.’ She shifted restlessly; it wasn’t her childhood she needed to hear about. ‘And?’

Edward shrugged. ‘Rorik divided his time between England and Norway. He’d just returned from a visit home when we heard there’d been a battle at sea against the Danes.’ His frown returned. ‘My father was building a navy so we could protect the coast, but this particular day was disastrous. The five vessels we had ran aground on a sandbar and the men were slaughtered like rats in a trap. Our soldiers had to watch from the shore, helpless. Their only redress came when the Danish ships were damaged as well, and the crews were forced to land.’ ‘What happened?’ Yvaine asked, as Edward paused. ‘Father had the Danes brought to Winchester and hanged for treason. Somehow Sitric and his men were in the middle of it.’ ‘So they were hanged, too.’ ‘Aye. Rorik spoke for them but to no avail. He left, swearing vengeance.’ ‘But he never threatened you or Alfred.’ ‘Is that supposed to make me look more kindly on his actions now?’ Edward demanded, thumping the chair arm again. ‘He did bring me back, and…and I should thank him for saving my life. Twice, if you count taking me from Ceawlin.’ She thought that was a nice touch. ‘If he’s still here…’ ‘Oh, he’s here somewhere.’ Edward jerked an impatient thumb to indicate the camp. ‘You didn’t see the ships because Rorik’s Sea Dragon has been pulled up to the foot of the cliff and Thorolf has taken the other, and the crew, back to Norway. Since you insisted on sparing the lives of the vermin who served Rorik’s brother, they went with him, in chains. It was that or be left here without food and weapons when we break camp.’ ‘Oh.’ She wondered if she was supposed to feel guilty for depriving Edward of a mass hanging. ‘I don’t even know where we are.’ ‘Near Chester,’ he said curtly. ‘I’m thinking of restoring the town as a military base.’ ‘Oh. Well.’ She managed a shrug. ‘I suppose Rorik will have to wait for Thorolf to return then.’ ‘I suppose he will.’ She winced at the short agreement. Obviously, leading up to the question she really wanted to ask was not the best way to placate the king’s temper. ‘Edward, will you please tell me what you’ve done with him?’ ‘Done with him? You took care of that when you insisted I didn’t kill anyone. A rather rash request when you think what else I could do, but, putting that aside, I’d think you’d be more concerned for your own future.’

‘What do you mean?’ ‘You’re a wealthy widow, cousin. Or had you forgotten? You’ll need a husband to hold your lands. I intend to look into the matter.’ She gaped at him, her voice rising in horror. ‘You’d send me back to Selsey?’ ‘Why not? Ceawlin’s gone.’ ‘But—’ ‘A strong man, of course, to weed out any remnants of rebellion there. One who has no lands of his own to divide his loyalties. Not to mention one who can handle this tendency you’ve developed to make demands.’ ‘But—’ She couldn’t go on. Her throat was too tight. Dear God, how had it come to this? What was she to do? It was no use telling Edward she was already married to Rorik. He’d consign such a union to oblivion; dismiss it out of hand. She’d dismissed it, she remembered. A few heathen words over a cup of ale doesn’t make me your wife, she’d said, and Edward would agree wholeheartedly. And then marry her off with indecent haste in case there were any little consequences. She couldn’t let it happen. She couldn’t— ‘’Twill give you something to think about on your way back to Winchester tomorrow,’ Edward concluded. ‘What?’ She struggled to take it in. ‘Winchester? You’re sending me away? Tomorrow?’ ‘Aye. In fact—’ He clapped his hands and Wulf stepped through the entrance. ‘You’d best be off. ’Tis a long journey and you’ll need to rest. I think we’ve said all we need to at present. I’ll send a message when arrangements are made.’ It was dismissal. She couldn’t believe it. How could he arrange her future like that, and sit calmly waiting for her to leave? Dazed, sick to her stomach, Yvaine rose. Wulf was holding back the curtain. She barely had enough wit to drop a curtsy to the king before she followed the young man from the tent. Her legs were shaking; her mind hazed… No! She wouldn’t panic. There was a solution somewhere. She just had to find it.

Chapter Fifteen T he sun had vanished completely by the time Yvaine found Rorik’s tent. And though the soft, pearly light of the summer evening would last for an hour or two yet, a few fires had been lit about the camp. The scent of wood smoke drifted on the breeze, mingling with the mouthwatering aromas wafting from the cooks’ fires. Several men were strolling

in that direction, thinking of their supper; others gathered around the largest fire where a noisy dice game was in progress. No one was paying her any attention. Hefting the bundle of clothes that was her excuse should anyone question her, she scratched at the leather curtain hanging across the front of the tent. ‘Enter.’ A shiver went through her at the sound of Rorik’s voice. Her heartbeat picking up, Yvaine obeyed. He was standing behind a table, his hands braced on either side of a scattered pile of parchments as he leaned forward to study them. A pallet bed occupied the space to one side of the tent; a chest and two chairs the other. Though daylight prevailed outside, here the light was muted; the candles in the branched holder on the table had not yet been lit. He glanced up as she entered, then straightened and strode swiftly around the table towards her. ‘Yvaine. When I enquired of Wulf ’s girl, she said you were like to sleep until morning.’ ‘I woke up.’ She’d had some vague plan of throwing herself into his arms the moment she saw him, but he stopped abruptly a few feet away, his brows drawing together as he studied her. A cold fist uncurled in her stomach. She didn’t know what he was searching for, but she had the horrible feeling he wasn’t finding it. ‘I’ve been with Edward,’ she hazarded. ‘Or I would’ve come sooner.’ ‘You shouldn’t be here at all,’ he said. His eyes narrowed further. ‘Are you all right?’ ‘Aye. Although I know this bruise looks…’ He moved abruptly; stilled. Then, as she hesitated, he came forward and touched his fingers fleetingly to her jaw. ‘You look as fragile as mist. But…that wasn’t what I meant. You shouldn’t be here, alone with me, at this hour.’ Given all that had passed between them she had to smile, even as her heart sank a little. ‘’Tis not so late. I thought you might need the clothes you lent me.’ ‘Aye. Thank you.’ But he made no move to take them; just stood there, watching her, so close she could feel the warmth of his body. ‘I’m glad Thorolf has gone back to Norway so quickly,’ she said into the silence. ‘Anna must be out of her wits with worry by now.’ ‘Aye.’ He glanced towards the entrance. ‘I think…’

Oh, no. He wasn’t getting rid of her that easily. Before he could take her arm, she slipped away from him, placed his clothes on a chair, then crossed the small space to sit down on the bed. She hoped Rorik couldn’t see how precarious was her calm pose of being at home in his quarters. Calm. That was a jest. How could she be calm when her entire future depended on this last desperate throw of the dice, when her heart was still beating too quickly, her mind a prey to fear and doubt? When he stood there by the entrance, that remote stillness cloaking him again, as though waiting to take her back to her tent. ‘Rorik, will you tell me…about Sitric?’ She closed her eyes, cursing herself for her cowardice, then opened them on the realisation that it might be better this way. If they could talk, dispel the distant air that had fallen over him… ‘What do you want to know?’ She shook her head, pulled her thoughts together. ‘Why did you spend years avenging him when he brought about his own death?’ He hesitated, as if contemplating the option of picking her up and removing her bodily from the tent, but he must have sensed her determination to stay, to have answers at least, for he turned on his heel and walked across to the empty chair. ‘’Twas Sitric’s men who were avenged,’ he said curtly, sitting down. ‘Not him.’ She nodded. ‘I don’t think you could have killed Alfred or Edward, Rorik.’ ‘Maybe not.’ He paused, shrugged. ‘At the time I was furious enough to kill anyone, but ’twas anger at Sitric as much as at Alfred. I felt betrayed by them both. By Sitric for turning his back on Guthrum’s peace, and by Alfred for condemning Sitric to the death of a common felon. To a Norseman, hanging is the most shameful of deaths. My father nearly went mad when he heard. It shattered his health.’ ‘So you appeased his family honour with a vow of vengeance,’ she murmured. ‘Only to think he’d betrayed you in turn.’ ‘I wasn’t exactly loath,’ he said dryly. ‘Sitric’s men didn’t deserve to die that way, since they’d only been following orders. For all they knew, outright war had been declared.’ She had to smile. ‘Your male reasoning defeats me, but I suppose only a warrior can see different degrees of death. They all look rather final to me.’ ‘I suppose they do,’ he said soberly. ‘When you’ve come as close to it as you did this morning.’ ‘But you were there. You saved me.’ ‘After putting you at risk in the first place.’

She frowned. ‘How so?’ He gestured impatiently, indicating her bruised face, her borrowed clothes. ‘None of this would have happened if I hadn’t left you at Einervik that morning.’ ‘As well say none of it would have happened if I hadn’t walked into the forest,’ she retorted. ‘Or if I hadn’t pestered you to seek out Thorkill.’ A faint smile crossed his face at that. Encouraged—dear God, it didn’t take much; she would have stayed if only to savour these few precious moments with him—she pressed on. ‘How did you know where Othar had taken me?’ The smile vanished. ‘An old karl who had sailed with my father recognised the ship some miles down the fjord. He thought it odd that ’twas moored at an island where there was no farm or village and suspected it might have been stolen. He arrived at Einervik soon after I got back from visiting Ragnald. And just as we discovered you were missing.’ She squelched a twinge of guilt. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have walked so far, but, truly, I thought there was no danger.’ ‘A mistake I made, myself,’ he said grimly. ‘And for which I’ll never forgive myself.’ ‘Oh, no, Rorik. It wasn’t your fault. Were you supposed to know Othar’s mind?’ ‘Perhaps not.’ His tone said he should have. ‘Anyway, we spent some time searching for you. Several of the men had seen you start towards the forest, but then you apparently vanished like smoke. I decided to investigate the old man’s story. When we got to the island the birds were disturbed. Screaming and flying about. For a few minutes…I thought—’ Her heart leapt. Surely it was more than desire for her that had his face tightening like that, his body bracing as if for a blow. She almost rose to go to him, but he sat forward suddenly, resting his forearms on his thighs and gazing down at his linked fingers. ‘’Twas Gunhild, as you guessed. I went back, collected the crew and set sail, only stopping at the coastal villages until we found the one where Othar had picked up more men. It didn’t take long to discover his route. Word spreads when men speak too freely in an alehouse. Although there was no talk of a struggle when you were taken on board.’ ‘I’d been struck over the head,’ she explained. ‘Othar had been waiting, watching for an opportunity to get my attention or summon me by some ruse. He followed me, knocked me unconscious and had me carried overland to his ship.’ Rorik’s fingers locked tight. ‘I swear, Rorik, Othar didn’t hurt me again until this morning.’

‘Being so undermanned probably hampered his usual style,’ he muttered. ‘But whatever it was, I thank the Gods for it.’ He rose abruptly and strode over to the entrance, lifting the curtain aside and looking out at the camp. The light was dimmer now; from the side she couldn’t see his expression. But then he turned his head and her breath caught. Though he still held the curtain aside, he was focused on her with an intensity that, weeks ago, would have stopped her heart. It did now, but for a different reason. ‘Yvaine, why did you run to Edward like that? On the beach.’ She stared at him. That was the last question she’d expected. ‘I was afraid of what he might do if you told him that you were the one who carried me off.’ ‘I did tell him that. I just gave him a reason for it he could understand.’ She nodded. ‘Ransom. Revenge.’ ‘Better that than confounding him with the knowledge that I wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to look after you. Couldn’t have borne not knowing what had happened to you.’ Her eyes widened, but before she could do more than form a silent ‘Oh’ of wonder, he glanced away, jerking his head toward the camp. ‘Come. It grows dark. I’ll take you back to your tent.’ He thought he could leave her to mull over that for the rest of the night? Not while she had wits in her head. And not while he was standing there gripping the curtain as if about to wrench it from its moorings. ‘Well,’ she said mildly, ‘it seems perfectly obvious that nothing I said or did on the beach was necessary? Since you and Edward are such good friends.’ ‘Oh, it was necessary. But this isn’t the time or the place to discuss it. I’ll have no gossip about you. Bad enough that I carried you off, but at least Anna was with you then.’ He would have no… Bad enough… Now he was concerned for her reputation? She clamped her hands around the edge of the pallet and resisted the urge to scream. Impatience with male reasoning would get her nowhere and screaming would only bring soldiers on the run. Soldiers wouldn’t help. If her plan was to work, it was time to bring out the warships.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,’ she said, waving a hand with airy unconcern. She hoped he wouldn’t notice the tremor in her voice. ‘When I left Edward, he was busy planning my next marriage.’ The weatherbeaten leather in his hand buckled with a crunch. Rorik wheeled to face her, his eyes slitted. ‘I wondered if you were going to mention it,’ he said through his teeth. ‘Oh, aye, you may well look surprised. Did you think Edward wouldn’t inform me of his plans for you? Dangle her before some thegn who’s still questioning his loyalties, he said. Get her safely married and breeding, he said. You don’t seem particularly upset by the prospect.’ ‘Well, I was at first, but—’ ‘What?’ ‘I said I—’ She broke off with a jerk as he dropped the curtain and strode over to the table. He snatched up the candle-sconce and turned to glare at her. ‘Stay there,’ he ground out, stabbing a finger at the bed. ‘Stay right there. Don’t move!’ ‘What about my rep—?’ she began, but he was already out of the tent. She wondered if the tremulous smile curving her lips constituted movement. She was still debating the point when Rorik returned with the candles lit. The short trip didn’t appear to have improved his mood. He dumped the sconce down on the table with so much force, the flames flickered wildly and nearly went out. She wiped the smile off her face. ‘You were upset at first, but now you’re not?’ he snarled. ‘Edward’s planning another political marriage for you and you’re not saying a word in protest?’ ‘No. You see—’ The rest vanished on a gasp when he took the two strides necessary to haul her off the bed and into his arms. ‘Three times I’ve thought I’d lost you,’ he said, no discernible change in his expression. ‘That’s three times too many. I’m not standing still for a fourth.’ ‘Three?’ she managed. She could feel the smile coming back. There was still an obstacle in their path, a kingly obstacle, but her heart was soaring with happiness. Rorik was crushing her against him, glaring at her, but he was shaking as if with a fever. ‘When I found out I was the son of a slave; when Othar took you; when you ran to Edward on the beach as though you couldn’t wait to get away from me.’ ‘Oh, no, Rorik.’ She flung her arms around his neck, clung. ‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘Gods.’ The shaking increased. He bent suddenly and buried his face in her hair. ‘I thought you wanted to be free of me. I thought…just now…you spoke of Edward’s plans as if going to another man meant nothing to you.’ ‘Only because I was so unsure. I needed to know how you felt about me, and I didn’t know how to ask without making you feel bound by honour. Or worse, if you’d felt only pity. Not upset? This past hour I’ve been desperate.’ The shaking stopped. He lifted his head and she caught her breath at the smile that transformed his face. In that fleeting, precious moment, she saw the boy he’d been, before the years of vengeance had carved the stern lines on his face. ‘Desperate?’ ‘Beyond despair.’ Wonderingly, she touched a hand to his face. The smile was fading, but he wasn’t distant now. Raw emotion darkened his eyes, love, longing, a burning desire that yet was achingly tender. ‘You went away,’ she explained. ‘After that night in Thorkill’s hut, and again this morning. Somewhere deep inside yourself where I couldn’t follow.’ ‘Did you want to?’ he asked very low. She nodded, and, raising herself on tiptoe, touched her lips to his. ‘I would follow you over the edge of the world itself, Rorik. I love you.’ ‘I didn’t know how much I needed to hear those words,’ he said huskily. ‘Didn’t know that I loved you from the moment I saw you lying in that hall, so hurt, so courageous. It wasn’t until the truth of my birth came out. Losing everything didn’t matter then. You were all I wanted.’ Tears welled in her eyes and he shifted his hold, cradling her face between his hands. ‘What? What is it?’ ‘I needed the words, too,’ she said, smiling through the misty veil. ‘Then take them,’ he murmured. ‘For you are everything to me. All that is good and true and gentle in my life.’ He bent and kissed her. ‘Elsknan. Beloved. Keeper of my heart.’ Her lips parted as he folded her close again, his kiss gentle, cherishing, and yet so deeply possessive she lost all sense of self, of separateness. He was hers; she was his. For eternity. It was there in the beating of his heart against her breast. In the whispered words that made no sense, and yet held all the meaning in the world. It was there in the sweet delirium of desire, simmering beneath the surface of a tenderness she had only dreamed of. And when he lifted his head, it was there in the look they exchanged, of love, immeasurable and everlasting.

‘I’ll never let you go,’ he said. ‘’Twould tear me apart to see you married to another.’ ‘It won’t happen,’ she assured him. ‘You see—’ ‘By every god in Asgarth, it won’t happen,’ he vowed before she could explain. ‘I’ll tell Edward you’re with child by me and make sure every prospective bridegroom hears the same story if I have to.’ ‘What?’ She clutched at him, alarm crashing through her euphoria. ‘The only reason you’re not already meeting Edward on the battlefield tomorrow is because you saved my life.’ ‘He promised he wouldn’t kill anyone involved in your kidnapping.’ ‘Then he’ll have someone else challenge you. He’ll do something. We’ll have to get away, but—’ Dismay widened her eyes. ‘But how? You have no crew, and by the time Thorolf gets back—’ ‘Hush, little love.’ He reinforced the tender command by kissing her. ‘I was planning to kidnap you again even before I knew your response to Edward’s plans. To hold you until I won your heart, or we knew there was a child.’ ‘Holy Saints! You were going to force the king’s hand?’ ‘If you loved me. Or even if you didn’t,’ he added, a wicked smile dawning through the implacable purpose in his eyes. ‘I knew you didn’t hate me. I was going to build on that.’ ‘I think I should protest that,’ she said, frowning. ‘But since I do love you, it seems foolish to worry about it.’ She shook her head; she had worse fears. ‘But what shall we do? Where—?’ A scratch at the curtain interrupted her. Yvaine froze, her fingers digging into Rorik’s shoulders. He loosened her grip, set her gently aside and strode over to the entrance. When he drew the curtain back, Wulf was standing in the aperture. She wondered uneasily how long he’d been there—and what he’d overheard. ‘My lord. The king sends this message.’ The young man grinned at Yvaine, seeming not the least surprised to see her there, and handed over a rolled parchment. ‘It doesn’t require an answer,’ he said, and strolled away with a wave of his hand. Rorik stared after him for a moment, then let the curtain drop and unfurled the parchment. ‘What does it say?’ Yvaine whispered, bracing herself for the worst.

To her utter astonishment, a grin very like Wulf ’s lit his face. He finished reading, threw back his head and laughed until he was breathless. All she could do was watch and wonder if the news was so disastrous he’d lost his mind. ‘It seems,’ he said when he recovered and realised she was staring at him in dismayed enquiry, ‘that Edward has decided I can best repay him for depleting his army by supervising the improvement of his navy. My vow of allegiance would be required, of course, and to ensure it he’s suggested that I marry a certain widow.’ She gasped. ‘Marry? A certain…Ohhhh!’ Her fists clenched. ‘If I wish to accept his terms, I’m to present myself, with said widow, at his quarters in an hour’s time when his priest will be available to marry us. An hour’s time,’ he repeated thoughtfully. But Yvaine was still spluttering. ‘I’ll never forgive him for this. All that time he was tormenting us. Playing with us, when…But why?’ ‘To punish me,’ Rorik said drily. ‘A blind fool would have seen my reaction to his plans for you. Knowing threats wouldn’t keep me in line, he decided to employ a subtler bait. And got a little vengeance of his own into the bargain.’ ‘Well, I didn’t kill off a whole lot of soldiers. What about my feelings?’ ‘He used them, you little innocent. The cunning bastard is probably laughing himself into fits right now, having watched you run straight to me.’ ‘I didn’t run straight to you,’ she said with dignity. ‘I picked up your clothes first.’ Then, narrowing her eyes. ‘But I’ll still never forgive him. I was sick with dread until I remembered the one escape left to me.’ He looked up, still amused, from another perusal of Edward’s message. ‘What was that?’ ‘I was trying to tell you before. All I had to do was publicly announce that my conscience dictate I enter the cloister and that would have been the end of any marriage plans. Edward couldn’t gainsay me without defying Holy Mother Church, and that he would never do. It wouldn’t have mattered then, you see.’ A little smile touched her mouth, that held all the sadness she’d been braced to bear. ‘If you didn’t love me, nothing would have mattered.’ ‘Oh, sweetheart.’ His smile gentled into a look of love, so all-encompassing, so heartfelt, she felt tears prick her eyes again. He tossed the missive aside and reached out to take her in his arms. ‘There’ll never be a day when I won’t love you,’ he murmured against her mouth. ‘Never a day when I won’t need you.’

‘And I you,’ she whispered back. ‘Make love to me, Rorik. I want to be close to you again. I need to feel safe.’ ‘Safe? Like this?’ His low laugh sent a cascade of delicious shivers down her spine. ‘There’s a misguided notion if ever I heard one, but—’ he started backing her towards the pallet ‘—far be it from me to deny a lady’s wish.’ Already quivering in anticipation, Yvaine waited for him to lift her on to the bed. Instead, he lifted her against him, turned and sat down on the edge of the pallet, settling her on his lap, facing him. Instinctively she shifted her legs, straddling him, her eyes widening in surprise. ‘Like this?’ ‘This isn’t our feather bed at Einervik,’ he murmured. ‘You’re too small and delicate to lie between me and an army pallet. And we have scant privacy here. This way we can keep our clothes on and still be close.’ ‘Oh.’ She glanced towards the entrance. ‘You think someone will intrude?’ ‘If they do, they’ll soon leave,’ he said, grinning. Then he took her face between his hands. ‘But if you want to wait until we’re married…’ She shook her head. She didn’t think she could wait. And judging by the hard evidence separated from her by just two layers of clothing, she doubted Rorik could either. And yet, he was holding back, waiting for her answer, because she’d felt that slightest hesitation. Something opened, flowered, deep inside her. Love welled, springing free with nothing held back; a flowing tide that she knew would toss her hither and yon over the years, but would always return her to this place of safety, to his arms. He was ruthless, she knew. He would always have that hard edge of danger. But he loved her. That made them equal. ‘Until we’re married?’ she repeated softly. She gave him an innocent smile from beneath her lashes and wriggled against him. ‘Oh, you mean as Christians?’ ‘Little witch,’ he growled on a sharp intake of air. He lifted her slightly to push her skirts out of the way. ‘You knew.’ ‘I learned of it from Edward.’ She gasped as his hand found her, stroked. ‘When were you going to tell me…ohhh?’ ‘I didn’t mean to keep it from you,’ he whispered. ‘I’d buried it deep.’ He moved his hand again, one long finger pressing inward, circling. ‘As deep as I’m going to bury myself in you.’ She cried out, wanting more, and with a muttered imprecation, he withdrew his hand to wrench open his chausses, before urging her close again.

The first demanding touch of his body had her shaking with mingled need and doubt as she realised suddenly how vulnerable she was in this position. He gently opened her, pushed upward, stroking her as he thrust so that she trembled in his hold even as her thighs tightened in an instinctive attempt to stop the invasion, to slow it at least, to let herself adjust. ‘’Tis all right,’ he whispered. ‘You know I won’t hurt you.’ ‘Rorik…no…I can’t…’ ‘Aye, you can,’ he murmured. ‘That’s it. Give yourself to me. My own sweetheart.’ His words flowed over her, easing her tension. Somewhere beneath the flood-tide of passion waiting to sweep her away, she knew he was asking for more than her body. Knew he wanted her acceptance of all that he was; her acknowledgement of the ruthlessness that was an integral part of his nature, her trust that he would never use it to hurt her. He wanted her completely open to him. Vulnerable. His. Desire replaced doubt as sensations, more thrilling than any he’d shown her before, washed over her. She felt the liquid pulses of her response around him; those wickedly clever fingers never left her. Knowing that what he was doing was hidden excited her unbearably. The fact that she couldn’t control it, couldn’t close her legs or retreat against his restraining arm, had her trembling in helpless surrender. Only trust, she realised dimly. Only utter trust could make it like this. And love. Then with a groan that came from deep within him, he crushed her against him, forcing her forward and reaching so deep, he had to stop her scream of ecstasy with his mouth. She clung to him, sobbing with the intensity of the pleasure flooding her senses, holding him close as she felt his own release shudder through him, making him, in that sweet, incomparable moment, as vulnerable as she. Hers. Until, with passion spent, they simply held each other, still joined, her head tucked into his shoulder as their heartbeats slowed and their breathing levelled. Eventually, when an errant breeze found a gap beneath the tent, making her shiver slightly, he lifted her, gently disengaged their bodies and stood to return their clothing to a state of respectability. ‘I think I could sleep for a sen’night,’ she said dreamily, standing up on shaky legs as he straightened her skirts. ‘Tonight you’ll sleep in my arms.’ He gave her a wicked grin as he steadied her, but sobered almost immediately to frame her face between his hands. ‘Will you forgive me, sweetheart? For not telling you I was a Christian?’

‘Aye.’ She smiled up at him; there’d never been any doubt. ‘For you’ve told me the most important thing.’ ‘Always,’ he said. ‘I will love you through this life and beyond. That is my troth. The vow I give you before we meet any priest.’ ‘And I give you all that I am, Rorik of Einervik. My vow of love, for all eternity. No matter what words are spoken to bind us.’ He smiled, took her hand and led her towards the entrance. ‘Then come, sweet wife. We have an appointment to keep.’ Outside, all was calm and still. Guards patrolled the camp, but at a distance. Dogs slept. Horses dozed. In an indigo sky scattered with diamonds, the moon sailed across the heavens on its endless journey. The warm clasp of Rorik’s hand around hers was sure and strong. And when they reached the king’s tent, the golden glow reflecting from the candles within seemed to reach out and enfold them, as, hand in hand, they stepped over the threshold to claim their future. A Moment's Madness By Helen Kirkman Contents

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter One Essex, England 917 A.D.—Vengeance was a duty S igrid fled through the flames of Ragnarok, the end of creation, when gods and mortals died. The world, her world, burned. Death pursued her. Saxon curses rang in her ears. Dane, they yelled, Viking whore. We will have revenge on you. The cry of vengeance chilled her to the bone. Her breath sobbed and her feet slid on the dark shingle path between the buildings. The heavy footfalls kept gaining on her. Was there nowhere to hide in the sacked town? She allowed one desperate glance over her shoulder and then winced as she ran full tilt into a stone wall. At least that was what it felt like, but it moved. A skin of flexible metal, tough as the scales of the World Serpent pulled through her hand, almost tearing it. It was a man clad in a corselet of chain mail, bloodied sword upraised. She screamed. But the sword did not strike. It vibrated between them in the firelit air, like something living. But he held it back. If she was going to die at the hands of a Saxon warrior, let it be quick. Her gaze sought his face, hard and stern under the war helm. She saw his eyes, blue English eyes. They were made of magic. At least, that was the only way to explain it. Because the insane thing she did next she could only have done if she had been spellbound. Her pursuers crashed round the corner and slithered to a stop and her body moved of its own accord in a split instant of speed. Her spine straightened and her hands closed round an arm made of solid muscle encased in rings of iron. The words came out of her mouth, without thought, not in her own Danish but in Saxon, so there could be no mistake. “Go away,” she said. “I am his.” The three, in their ripped and filthy tunics, their chests heaving, wavered. Their eyes, still wild with the lust of the chase and heated with ale, looked not at her, but at the mountain of chain mail she was clinging to.

There was silence. Nothing moved. Sigrid’s heart beat as though it would stifle her and her lungs heaved. What had she done? How could she have gambled her whole life’s worth on one instant? How could she have trusted her fate on a momentary impression? Because that was all she had had: one glimpse of his face in the gathering dark, and there was nothing tangible to tell her that this man was better than any other. He was as Saxon as her pursuers. He was part of an army which had fought all day and had won, and which now had a grudge to settle on the Danish-held town. She was mad. The chain mail she was clutching at had blood on it. Its wearer was a man and a soldier and trained in the use of brute force; and yet she had seen his face. But then it happened: something her dead warrior-husband, for all his terrifying power, would never have done for her. She felt the solid muscle under her hand move and before she knew what had happened, the mail-clad stranger had swung her round behind him, blocking her from the others with his body, and turned the bloodied sword on her pursuers. The man’s voice, deep, English and entirely reasonable, said, “If any man takes a step forward, I shall kill him.” Three sets of eyes narrowed in that age-old assessment of will and strength that every man has for every other. Even Sigrid’s own eyes turned to the man who now protected her. He was tall and well-made. He had body armor, which her pursuers did not, and the cross-guard of his reddened blade flashed gold. There was no chink of weakness in the man beneath the armor, not the remotest consciousness that he might not win. He meant what he said, with a chill finality that brought the sickening realization of just how rash she had been. If any of the ale-sodden brutes took up the challenge, she would run. He would have to let her go. No one could fight three people, one-handed, with a captive dangling from their left arm. But her pursuers had seen the terrifying chill that she saw. They vanished, melting like evil spirits into the shadows. There would doubtless be easier pickings elsewhere. She would have less than an instant. She twisted, trying to break the grip of the ice warrior’s left hand before he realized, before he had time to spare a thought for her. But she did not even have that. The grasp on her wrist tightened. “Wait,” he said, just one word, but it was a command.

There was no one else in sight and she could not break his hold. She was dragged round in front of him. She took another look at his face and wondered what on earth she had seen there. It was handsome enough, as far as you could tell under the helmet and the dust, but the eyes—the eyes were frozen to the depths. Dane. Viking whore. We will have our revenge on you. “Let me go,” she said as steadily as she could. “Where to?” She blinked. But it was not really a question, because he did not stop for an answer and the clipped, reasonable voice continued. “This army is completely out of control. It is commanded, if that is what you can call it, by the biggest…fool in the entire kingdom of Wessex. He is not going to do anything to stop what is happening and even if he tried it is far too late.” At least, that was what she thought he said. Her English was good, but he had an accent that was almost incomprehensible. And it was the last thing she expected a Saxon to say. He shifted his grip, bringing her arm closer under his so that she could feel the quality of his strength. “Do you not have any kin to protect you?” he demanded. There was nothing in his eyes but the chill. She made herself look straight into them. “I did,” she said. “I had a husband. He is dead.” Her hand went instinctively to her neck where the silver amulet ring hung suspended on a thin leather strap, no longer round the thick, invincible bull neck of her husband. Her hand shook. The amulet was hidden under the threadbare linen of her chemise, but she could feel every sharp metal outline attached to the ring. There were weapons: two swords, three staffs and Odin’s spear. She knew them by heart. They had never left her husband’s skin while he lived. Never would, because they were part of him. Now they were hers. No one else would claim them, because they were afraid. So was she. The thin strips of metal felt like lead weights against her flesh. Her mind filled with the nightmare visions of eager, triumphant faces bringing her the death news. People she knew, people of the town, falling over themselves to be the first to tell her. That Ragnar was dead. That even the strongest, the most terrifyingly vicious of men might be slain by the death rain of arrowheads.

That was how it had happened. From a distance, because none could abide Ragnar’s rage at close quarters. It seemed every man had seen him fall, right at the day’s end, driven hard against the forest’s edge. Dead. They had found the amulet among the withering leaves of autumn. But none had reached his corpse. Ragnar was lying somewhere out there, unburied, under the dark shadows of the trees, meat for the ravens. And for his companions in spirit, the wolves. “He is dead,” she said again, and the words were as heavy as the metal round her throat. She thought, when the Saxon felt her shiver, that there might have been some flicker of reaction in the frozen eyes. Unless it was just a trick of the fading light. “I see.” It had been a trick of the light. “Then you are better off with me.” The grip on her arm tightened again and she found she was walking down the hill with him, her feet scarcely touching the ground. She was utterly lost now, whatever she did. She had trapped herself by her own actions. She would never get away from a man like this, and if she did, then her fate would be exactly the one he had dragged her away from. She tried one last effort to escape, pulling against his arm, kicking out and twisting her body without warning. She was hauled upright with a faint sigh of exasperation. It cost him no effort at all and he did not even speak. She shot him a glance of pure terror. She had used all the strength she had and he had scarcely noticed. She did not try again. They walked through the flames of burning buildings. People ran, singly and in small, pathetic groups. Sometimes they screamed. The end of the world. But after Ragnarok when the world was destroyed, a new beginning was supposed to come. She could not imagine it following this. None of the fleeing figures approached them. It was as though they walked through the destruction and yet were not part of it. She began to feel unreal, so that her mind dizzied with it. Her whole life was gone, disintegrating before her eyes and none of it actually touched her. The only thing that touched her was the man at her side.

She kept walking, but the dizzying feeling of dislocation increased. The dark bulk of the familiar buildings of the town and the glimpses of orange flame lost all meaning, as if they had nothing to do with her at all. The one thing that remained real to her in the gathering dark was the Saxon and his grip on her arm, as strong and inescapable as the grip of midwinter. She stumbled over something in the street. She did not look at what it was because she did not want to know. She was hauled upright again but this time she could not move. She could not put one foot in front of the other. He stopped. Perhaps he would let her go. Perhaps he would decide she was not worth the trouble and let her slide into the ditch and die where she lay. She felt the mail-clad arm slide round her waist, pulling her against the solid, metallic mass of his body. She gasped and her head landed on his shoulder. It made her hair fall down, spilling in unruly waves across his chest and his shoulders, and she thought it was over. But his English voice, close against her hair, said, “It is not far, just by the walls, there is a barn and some storage buildings. That is where we are going,” and he started walking again. She made her feet move. He had not attacked her yet. He would wait until they got to their destination; and there were two words in what he said that revived some stubborn part of her spirit. The walls. If where he wanted to take her was right by the wall of the town then surely she would find her chance to escape him, and if she could just gain the shelter of the woods, that was it: freedom. The flicker of hope became a small flame somewhere deep inside her. She would survive this, whatever it took. She walked. It was easier now, because he could take most of her weight and he hardly seemed to notice it. But the dizziness in her head and the numb feeling of unreality only strengthened. It was like moving in a dream. The light was dimming, no flames in the lower levels of the town, less noise, fewer people, only herself and the mail-clad man. Nothing else in the world. She began to drift. “We are there.” She started. She could not actually have swooned away. You could not be unconscious and still walk. But she found her head was pillowed on his uncomfortable shoulder and one of her hands had slid halfway round his corselet and was balanced against the buckle of his sword belt.

Panic crashed through her, bringing her senses painfully alive. She jerked away from him and it was allowed, as far as arm’s length, but no farther. His heavy hand was clamped round her wrist, holding her with an ease and an understated strength that terrified. She tried to guess how far it was to the gate. “The gates are guarded,” said her captor, “and the woods are full of the remains of a routed army. I doubt whether the fact that they are fellow Danes will save you.” The sane part of her brain knew he was right. Yet there must be somewhere she could hide, where no one would find her, Danish or English. There was no other choice. “Let me go.” He thought, when he looked at her, that she seemed no more substantial than a spirit. Her wrist, caught in his hand, was so slight he could crush it with two fingers. The woman was a Dane, an invader in his land. One of that terrible, destructive force that murdered and plundered and destroyed all it could find. Her husband, whose death she had thrown in his face, would this day have killed and maimed people he knew, people he had fought with. The duty of those who were left alive was vengeance for the slain. Anyone would have told him so, except his priest and, for reasons of political expediency, King Edward of Wessex. Perhaps. He looked down on the white, shadowed face. So Danish, from her ice-blond hair to her subtle eye makeup to the outlandish dress, a brightly colored sheath of wool over nothing but a thin chemise that left her slender arms exposed to view. She was an enemy. She was frightened. She was nothing at all like his dead wife. He fought down memories of the headlong road to disaster, the road that had allowed no turning from the day he had offered marriage to Elswyth. Elswyth, who had been so beautiful, so haunted by restless energy, so utterly beyond his reach, even to the very last. Elswyth, who had hurried onward, as always, to her fate. The fate she had not deserved. There had been no redemption for that disaster. Fate would go ever as it must. Except—it had been wrong. That was all he could think of. Fate.

This woman had chosen to cast hers in his hands. And he had taken it. He had scared off her pursuers. That had been his choice. He knew he could not act as they would have done, but now…neither could he let go of the girl’s fragile wrist. He looked at its tiny breakable bones engulfed in his shield hand. He should break them. He should break her neck the way some courageous Viking hersir had broken Elswyth’s. He turned over the small hand that lay in his and knew he could not do it. Far away, in the upper reaches of the town, someone shrieked. It was a sound that held nothing but despair and he was sickened by it, sickened by the senselessness of the battle. And by what had happened after it. At least that was no longer being done by his men. Not now. The sound came again, piercing them both. He felt her flinch. He dropped the sword that was worth more than a king’s ransom in the dirt and both of his hands fastened round hers. “If you stay with me,” he said, “you will be safe. I give you my word.” He stopped. The words, insane words to say to a Danish woman, clawed at his parched throat. But they would not be stopped. He could feel fate clawing at his back. Someone opened a door close by and torchlight struck at them through the gathering dark, making her huge gray eyes luminous. “Will you stay?” Sigrid could see the Saxon’s face. It dazzled her a little in the unexpected light. That must be what made her believe that she could see in it a pain that matched her own. Her gaze fixed on the stark, masculine lines half concealed by the battle helm. She saw the eyes. She forgot the burning town and the Saxon army. She forgot the Vikings hiding out in the woods. She forgot everything. There was only herself and this stranger, nothing else in the entire world. She looked into his eyes and she knew, at some level that defied reason, that whatever answer she gave would decide not only her fate but his. “Yes.”

Chapter Two

T he Saxon had put her in a room. Room was probably an exaggeration. It was a small storage area at the end of a barn in which half the army appeared to be making its temporary headquarters. They all seemed to belong to her captor. She watched as a large, bearded man called Ceolfrith removed assorted agricultural implements from her bower. He had a neck as thick as a tree trunk and he had looked at her as though she could not possibly belong to middle earth. She was sitting on a large wooden chest, doubtless containing someone’s looted possessions. They had found her a cloak, but she could not bear to put it on even though she was shaking. She did not know who it might have belonged to. “Well,” said Ceolfrith with yet another look at her, “I will leave you to it.” He departed clutching a handful of pitchforks and she was left alone with her fate. The insane one she had chosen with a Saxon warrior. But her captor, the Saxon warrior, was not looking at her at all. He was not even facing her. He took off his helmet. A flood of tangled hair streamed down his back, coiling like a hoard of dragon’s gold across the baser metal of his chain mail. It was neither blond, nor red yet seemed to hold something of the softness and the fire of both. It was as fair and as bright as flame. She sat on the chest with her hands folded, one piece of plunder stacked neatly with another, and watched this dazzling display. She waited to see whether he would take off anything else. He did not. The expensive war helm with its gleaming boar images and its comb of twisted wires fell unregarded from his hand. He turned round. He had the brilliantly clear, high-colored complexion that went with the hair, and he was handsome, very handsome, in that vivid, boldly drawn way that so suited men. She looked at the strong face, the lithe, well-made body, the brightly glowing hair and the fine skin. Everything spoke of an ardent animation that was not there. The deep blue eyes, which should have held and reflected all that unquenchable life were as cold as ice. She was quite alone with him. Apart from half the Saxon army removed by a little distance and a makeshift curtain hung on an ashwood spear across the doorway. Her heart began to race and she thought that her breath would choke her. He looked at her as though he could see that, as though he could mark and count every labored breath, hear the hammering pulse of blood through her veins. It did not move so much as one thick dark gold eyelash.

Cold heart, she thought, cold heart. “May I sit down?” She tried not to jump. So the niceties were to be observed a little longer. “Of course,” she said, playing the game, anything to give herself time. And she politely made room for him on the wooden chest because it was the only thing it was practical to sit on, apart from the floor. It was better in some ways because he no longer towered over her in his menacing and well-used corselet. On the other hand, it was not such a large box. She wished she had gone closer to the edge, but she could not move now without being obvious and the illusion of civilized politeness was all she had left. She stared at him. He was so much younger than she had first thought. He could not be that much older than her. He had a smudge of dirt above his right eyebrow, which he seemed completely unaware of. “Look,” he said, in his strange accent, “I shall have to go now, but—” “Go?” she shrieked in sudden panic. She tried to collect herself. She did not want the entire barn full of animals beyond the makeshift curtain to hear her. “Go?” she asked, and resisted an insane urge to clutch at his mail-clad arm again, the way she had when she had first seen him. She felt as though the entire world had been removed from under her feet once more, which was mad. First she was appalled by the thought of him staying and now she was thrown into a panic because he was not. It was hysteria. There was no other explanation for it. She had to get control of herself. “Oh,” she said, because she had no choice, whatever he did. It could have been a question or a statement of acceptance, whichever was the most appropriate, and she tried to close her mind to the Saxon army reposing just beyond her doorway. “Back to the town,” he said. “There are still a few things to sort out.” Sack. Pillage. Of course. How could she forget? He had her stashed away. He might as well go back for more. This was the best part of a battle. Her husband had enjoyed it almost as much as killing. “Ceolfrith will look after you.” How thoughtful. She tried to imagine escaping through the small window with he of the tree trunk neck and the ham fists watching her.

“He will find you something to eat and whatever you will need for the night. If there is anything else you want, ask him. We probably have it.” At that, she could not resist. “Of course,” she said, turning her head so she could look at the cold blue eyes. “Plunder.” The Saxon just stared back. “I doubt whether much of it was originally Danish.” She had, of course, arrived in the wake of an invading army herself, an army that had invaded England. Her people had first raided this land, then invaded it and then settled. The Englishman, and his like, were actually engaged in reconquering land that had once been theirs. Her own husband, the monster, had spent his adult life plundering. There was something in the clear eyes and the dirt-streaked face of the Saxon that made knots of her insides. She could not look away or say another word. But it was he who dropped his gaze. He rose and picked the cloak she would not wear. “Put that on,” he said, “before you die of cold.” He had seen, then, how much she was shaking and when she still did not move, he dropped the cloak round her shoulders. “You might as well wear it. It is one of mine,” he said, his voice rich with irony. She watched him go, with his cold face and his warm, lithe body and his bright hair swinging across his warrior’s shoulders, and her voice stopped him at the doorway. “I do not even know your name.” “It is Liefwin,” he said, but he did not ask hers. She would not be a person in his eyes. “Sigrid,” she said to his back, because she would not be consigned in his mind to the rest of the looted goods. The makeshift curtain swung back into its place and she was left, sitting on someone else’s possessions, huddled in a cloak that belonged to a Saxon marauder called Liefwin. What a splendid irony that was. “Lief ” meant dear or beloved. “Wynn” was a friend. Beloved Friend. He ought to have been called something with “wolf ” in it, or “stone.” Ceolfrith, the tree trunk, brought everything she wanted and that which she did not. She was not, of course, surprised. Promises made in the dark while staring into someone’s eyes could only be understood to relate to safety from having your throat cut by some drunken oaf. They did not relate to anything else.

She looked at the extra heap of bedding crowned by a change of clothes that would definitely not suit her. There was no logical reason why it should seem like a betrayal. It was what she had expected from the start. She was Liefwin’s piece of plunder and he could do what he liked with her. She had known that. She would have been a fool to think otherwise. And she was not that much of a fool. But then Liefwin of the heart-wrenching eyes had had no right to look as though he meant what she had wanted him to mean. Still less did he have the right to look at her in the torchlight as though he could not survive without her help. It was all nonsense, of course. She had not been able to face what was happening to her and so she had retreated for a moment into some silly dream. It was just a shame that she had chosen to do it at the moment that would decide her fate. She got up and began pacing the small confines of the storeroom. Life did not hold real choices for people like her and you never got anything in this world without paying for it. She was alive. And whatever happened could hardly be worse than living with her husband. She aimed a kick at the pile of bedding with the trousers and the tunic on top and then sat down on her own heap. The cloak he had cast over her shoulders was incredibly warm. It was heavier and richer than anything she had ever owned. It was a man’s cloak, fastened with a brooch at the right shoulder, so usefully designed to leave your sword arm free. The brooch was an intricate design of gold and silver set with an amethyst which must have come from some unimaginably faraway place in the East. There had been another brooch rather like it placed on the tunic. What must it be like to be so solidly rich, instead of sottishly indulgent one day and destitute the next? She took the fine cloak off and dropped it on top of the tangled heap that belonged to the Saxon. She went to bed. She had candles, out of real wax, more sinful luxury. She knew they must be plundered, like everything else, but she was so desperate about the dark that she left them lit. She crawled under the covers, but however much of the bedding she heaped round her she could not get warm. She lay still and waited.

It was late when Liefwin got back to the barn. He could feel the sickening exhaustion that always followed battle clawing through every muscle. The pain in his chest from the wound had risen to such a pitch that he could hardly breathe. He had not looked to see what the damage was. There had not been time. Now all he wanted to do was get rid of his armor, free himself from the dragging weight of metal at shoulders and waist. He knew he was so close to the edge of exhaustion that if he could but cast himself on the dirt floor of the barn right now, even he would sleep. But it was not over yet. Ceolfrith would still be awake. There would still be him to deal with, and the girl. “Well?” Liefwin sat down beside the older man’s massive bulk, because it was so much easier than standing. “I got to them first.” “And?” He thought of the half-dozen men he held captive. He had snatched them from under his commander’s nose: the leaders of the Danish-held town. “They say they had no choice but to join with the shipmen from Denmark and the Danish army. What else could they say?” Ceolfrith shrugged. “Perhaps it is true. Perhaps they would rather live in peace with King Edward of Wessex as overlord than be stirred up by a raiding army every year. The ones in the town have settled. It is a bit different from plundering expeditions and there are enough English left amongst the people in Essex, and even in East Anglia.” The only word of that which stuck in Liefwin’s mind was peace. It was like a talisman that shone somewhere far beyond his reach. It was something he had given his heart to years ago, before it had drowned in bitterness. He shifted his weight and tried to ease the pain in his side and saw Ceolfrith take breath for the next question. “So what does Oslac-Witlack say to all this?” Oslac who lacked the wits and the guts and the self-control to command himself, let alone an army. “He would have killed them.” “And you did not?” “They are Edward’s prisoners, not mine, and not Oslac’s.”

Liefwin got a look that told him that was not an acceptable answer, but he did not have a better one. He closed his eyes but that was a mistake, because then he could see the frightened face of the Danish girl, like a delicate white frame for the huge, accusing eyes which could outstare him. He opened his aching eyelids and tried to focus his attention on the next question. “So who gets to tell King Edward that although we have defeated the army we have also sacked his potential allies and burned down most of the only fortification between Maldon and Colchester?” The answer to that, at least, was easy. Liefwin’s lip curled. “Oslac-Witlack. Who else? I helped him put together the message describing his triumphs. Once Edward hears that, he will be out of Huntingdon and down here within a matter of days. Besides, this is where he should be now. He could still lose everything we have gained if he does not go on to secure Colchester. It would have been done by now if I had been in command and not Witlack.” “You never know when to give up, do you?” Liefwin thought that that depended upon your definition of giving up. But he could see the expression on the other man’s face in the light of the torch stuck in the floor behind them. “Don’t panic,” he said, supplying the necessary reassurance. “I am not going to start another campaign. I have given the men my word that after this they can go home and I will keep it.” “Oh, we can go home, can we? It would be more to the point if you did, instead of sitting there looking like a walking orc-nea…” Orc-nea were the unquiet dead. He could not look that bad, surely… “…talking about starting another campaign, when you have done more than your share and have not been home for two years…” The word home cut like a knife across exposed flesh. Just the thought of it was impossible to Liefwin. Ceolfrith knew that and to say it now was…to provoke him. He could see the disingenuous expression in Ceolfrith’s eyes, which meant he suspected something was wrong and he thought if Liefwin lost his temper it would come out. Well, it would not. The last thing he was going to do was admit his present weakness and add to Ceolfrith’s burdens. “How can I be a walking orc-nea if I am sitting down?” he asked, because he had always been able to talk rings round Ceolfrith. “Besides, if you think this is a slow

campaign, take your complaints to Oslac. For Edward to give the command to that… that…just because he owed him a favor—” Ceolfrith snapped at the bait. “Kings,” he snorted, “always owing favors. But then I suppose they cannot help it and favors have to be paid. You cannot be too hard on Edward. We all do things we wish we had not.” Liefwin felt the gasp which rose in his throat. He tried desperately to choke it down. That had not been intentional on Ceolfrith’s part. Ceolfrith would not call up the power of such terrible memories deliberately. He had to believe that. It was Liefwin’s own fault. Some chance phrase like that should not be able to tear him apart. He tried breathing through the damage that was hidden under his chain mail, but a small sound escaped him. He thought it was scarcely audible. But Ceolfrith must have heard it because Liefwin felt a hand touch the ripped sleeve of his tunic below where the chain mail ended. He could not stand sympathy and he did not indulge in memories. Even if now they pressed on him because of what had happened in the town and because of the Danish girl. Liefwin moved, twisting his body away so that the hand fell off. But he should not have done it so quickly. He did not know how he suppressed the gasp this time and his voice blurted out, “What about the Danish girl?” “No problems. What would you expect? No one would dare to even look at her if she was yours.” Liefwin could hear the baffled edge of disapproval and he knew the effort it must have taken for Ceolfrith to hold on to his temper. Once they would have enjoyed shouting at each other over something that one of them disapproved of, but not now. The only thing left was the older man’s forbearance and there was nothing Liefwin could do about it. “Of course,” said Ceolfrith, delivering the final blow, “she is terrified.” Liefwin got to his feet, far too fast again. He clutched at the wall and he could see Ceolfrith’s expression change to one of alarm and anxiety and, of course, guilt. There was far too much guilt. He stood up straight and willed himself not to show the slightest further sign of weakness. “You are hurt. I knew it. It was when—” “No,” Liefwin lied. He hated lying, but it actually rose quite easily to his tongue. He began undoing his sword belt. “Is there any water?” “Yes. Hold on, I will help you with the armor.” But Liefwin had to get rid of his companion. Now.

“No. I will do it. Go to sleep.” This time the finality in his voice would have told anyone. He saw Ceolfrith glance away from him, toward the room that held the Danish girl. But there was nothing he could say to his lord. Liefwin watched until the darkness swallowed his loyal retainer and then he let the jeweled belt fall where it would. He took hold of the corselet, which was when he realized that he could no longer lift his left arm above the level of his chest. Brilliant. Somehow he managed to get out of the mail coat without screaming. The tunic and the shirt underneath were easier because he could tear the seams. He buried them under a pile of junk so Ceolfrith would not see them and stepped into the flickering, smoky light of the torch left burning in the dirt floor. It was possibly worse than he had expected. The whole of his left side appeared to be black and it had bled, but not much. Well, it would either heal itself or not. That was as fate willed. It held no interest for him. He took off the rest of his clothes and found the water. It was so cold it stung against his skin, but he welcomed that. It was clean. He sat down, out of the light, wrapped in his cloak, to think about tomorrow and about how to contain Oslac-Witlack from doing any more damage until Edward got here. And then he realized he was not thinking of that at all. It was the girl. In the dark he could see every detail of her fine, heart-shaped face. He heard her voice with its quaint Danish accent. He felt the gentle weight of her body leaning against his in the hell of the sacked town, so slight a thing, no more than the weight of a child. She had looked like a maiden, with her pale hair spilling round her shoulders and down her back. She had looked so delicate that if you touched her with your battle-soiled, Dane-slaying hands, she would snap in two. Yet she had outfaced her pursuers and she had taken the step that had plunged them both into something he had never expected. He moved uncomfortably against the rough mud wall that dug into his back even through the heavy material of his cloak. But he could not free himself of her image. She was so beautiful and her terror had made her so vulnerable. He remembered the way her head had buried itself against his shoulder and the way her slender arm, bare to the elbow, had slid round him like an embrace. He felt her soft warmth infusing his hand through her outrageous Danish dress.

His hard-won breath quickened and he could feel the stirring in his naked body under the cloak. He shut his eyes, but that only made it worse. She had looked at him, in the torchlight outside the door, as though she trusted him, and he had lost his head completely and given her his word. He sat forward and the pain stabbed at him. But he no longer knew whether it was the pain of his body or his mind. What had he done? And what the hell was he thinking? He forced himself to stand up. She was not some willing maiden. She was a woman—a woman whose husband had just been killed by the army he was part of. They were enemies. Nothing she had done this night had been by her choice and she would hate him. He moved and the pain made him stumble. He must sleep or he would die. He looked round for where Ceolfrith had left his bedclothes. He stopped. There was only one place they would have been put because he had not explained otherwise. And Ceolfrith had said she was terrified. He ran the few steps that led down the passage to the storeroom and ripped the curtain aside. Sigrid did not move, even though her heart hammered and every primitive instinct inside her wanted to flee. There was nowhere to go, and she would keep her dignity. She lay quite still, feigning sleep. She watched him. He did not make any noise at all, the Saxon marauder. She watched his every move. She saw the powerful, shadowed bulk wrapped in a loose cloak pause, looking toward where she lay and she kept quite still. She scarce allowed herself a breath. She saw him cross the room to gather up the pile of bedding she had kicked across the floor. She could see him quite clearly now that he had moved into the circle of light cast by her extravagant candles, whereas she was in shadow. His hair glowed against the dark material of the cloak. It was exactly the same color as the candle flame. Still no sound. If there was one thing that had unnerved and disgusted her more than any other it had been her husband falling on her in her sleep. It was low. The smoldering anger of living for six years at the mercy of another such marauder as this burned bright in her heart. She watched him drop the brooch which had been left on top of the tunic and fail to find it in the murky recesses of the floor. So stealthy. So arrogantly self-focused.

The anger choked her. He would know she was watching him. He would know he would have to fight her every step of the path before the inevitable ending. “Lost something?” she inquired sweetly just as he gave up and began to turn away. He started and dropped the bedclothes in a scatter across the floor. She almost laughed with a triumph that yet held the savage undercurrent of hysteria. Just for that instant she had him. She…she realized what she had turned him back from. The doorway. He had not turned toward her. He had turned toward the door. He had been going to leave. Perhaps he already had some other woman whom he preferred, perhaps he had a dozen. But he had not turned toward her, not until she had spoken to him. He looked round. All huge shadows and glinting eyes and flaming hair. Her heart shriveled within her. What had she done? Why had she let her temper get the better of her in the one battle she could not win? She must have invoked the wrath of fate this night to have handled things so ill. “Sigrid?” He had heard her name, after all. She watched in horror as he straightened up and moved, with nerve-racking slowness, toward her. She sat up, spine achingly straight, hands buried like fists in the bedclothes. He sat down on the floor beside her and the cloak slid down across one shoulder. Candle-flame hair scattered across white skin. He did not appear to be wearing anything under the cloak. Well, of course not. He was about to go to bed, possibly hers. She could not tear her gaze away from the smooth expanse of naked skin exposed by the sliding cloak. The skin that would soon touch her like— “Have you not slept?” It was such a mild remark, so incongruous in the face of her terrified thoughts that she could not reply. “Sigrid?” There was a little more force to that. She must speak. She must make some answer and then perhaps he would go away. Back to whatever she had interrupted him from with her powerless, ill-placed anger. She opened her mouth to make some stupid, inane reply, something that would pacify him into leaving. But to her horror all that came out was a wordless choking sound, rasping and hideous next to the smooth assurance of his voice. She jammed her hand against her mouth. She wanted to speak properly. She wanted to make him go away. She wanted to show him she still had some control. But she did not. It

was gone. Gone when she looked at his naked skin and the size of him and when she thought that she had put herself in his power because she had believed she could bear it. She could not. She had lived through too much this day and seen too much. There had been too much death and too much horror. Just as there had been all her life. That was what wanted to escape from her mouth—all the helplessness and the horror. Not words and clever stratagems. There were none left. She had passed the limits of her strength with her reckless, foolish challenge to him and she could not follow it through. If she could just stop herself from crying in front of him. If she could prevent him from knowing just how feeble she was. She could scarce breathe. But if she just— He touched her. She felt his heavy hand close over her small fist to pull it away from her face. She did try to resist him. She did try for one instant to pit her strength against that warrior’s arm. But it was impossible. She watched her fist drawn away and swallowed up in his. She looked at the solidity of the naked arm stretched out from beneath the concealing cloak, the way the muscle moved under the white skin covered with fine golden hairs. She wondered what would happen if she screamed. Nothing, of course. If the Saxon rabble in the barn down below heard her, they would probably start cheering. She watched the other arm move. Her fixed gaze took in bruises, a piece of skin missing and…something dreadfully wrong, surely? She looked up. The Saxon’s head was bent forward in that helpless angle that in any other circumstance would have spelled defeat. She heard a small choke in his breath that might have been the echo of the hideous constriction in her own throat. There really was something wrong, hideously so. She thought he would stop. But he did not. The hand kept moving, slowly, actually shaking, with an effort that was too awful, too agonizingly stubborn for her to understand. She wanted only to put an end to such hopeless, unnecessary persistence. And, to her terror, she could feel below her anger the dreadful stirring of pity. She wanted the pity to stop. But it would not. It welled up inside her, like her unshed tears, with a life of its own. It grew until it swallowed up everything else: enmity and hate, anger and the last vestiges of her fear.

She did not understand it. It was wrong. But she felt it, like an extension of her own pain except worse, because at least she was activated by a desire to live whereas the cold eyes of the Saxon had held nothing. She could not bear it. Anything to stop it. She moved her free hand and it collided with his and became inextricably entangled with it and then with her other hand and his. Madness. She looked at the untidy mess of the four interlocked hands and the worst happened. She burst into tears. She did try to stifle the noise. But even so she just waited for him to give her a clout over the head and tell her to shut up. He did nothing. She thought that was impossible and then she stopped thinking about anything at all except flames and destruction and the long, drawn-out misery of her life. When she came to herself, she was curled up on her side, in as small an area of the bedding as possible. The Saxon’s right hand rested lightly on her tangled hair. She was still holding on to the left hand, attached to the bruised arm, the one that had caused the whole disaster. In fact she was clutching it so hard that the bones in her fingers ached. She managed to relax them, just slightly. The hand on her head withdrew. But she no longer cared about that or about what he did. She no longer cared about anything. It was as though every emotion it was possible to feel had been used up and there was nothing left. Whatever was going to happen would happen. She woke when he moved. She started. She had not actually been to sleep surely? Not…not with the marauder right beside her and…yes, still clutching at his hand. She had. He was still there. The light from the guttering candles wavered as his black shadow leaned over her. She was too exhausted even to panic. She waited for the familiar painful assault and the overpowering smell of stale beer and staler sweat. His body blocked out the light. His loose hair slid across the side of her neck, making her skin shiver. She felt his hand touch her face. She sensed his warmth, nothing else, just warmth and the touch of skin: clean and solidly masculine, and the hand on her face rather callused.

He was leaning forward. The cloak gaped and through her half-closed eyes she could glimpse the dark secrets of his body, all strong lines and black shadows. So powerful and yet so sleek, so different from her husband. Not one gross mass of male flesh in which bull neck merged into barrel chest into hairy belly; not that, but a fiercely perfect arrangement of bone and tight muscle. So spare and so utterly purposeful. She found all that dark, shadowed perfection frightening. Yet it was so different that it was impossible to look away. He leaned lower, his face over hers. She did not move. She did not even turn her head or take the breath to cry out. His mouth found the delicate rise of her cheekbone, just below her lashes. She felt its dark, moist heat, the faint desperation in his breath. It lingered and lingered, until her tired senses swam and there was nothing else in the world except the touch of his lips and the sense of his presence, and she no longer wanted him to go. Her hand was still entangled with his and she thought she tried to hold on to it, but it slid out of her grasp, leaving a small, cold space. The next time she woke, it was to reality.

Chapter Three T he cold had seeped through Sigrid’s bones. She could not move. Somewhere below her room she could hear the sounds of half the Saxon army waking up ale-sick. She shuddered and it hit her with the force of a storm—where she was and what had happened. She must, she absolutely must, move before someone came to find her. She was lying in a ball on her side, her right hand curled up beside her face as though it ought to be holding something. She looked at it and the rest of her memories slid into place. Her mind saw the beautiful, shadowed face of the Saxon, felt the physical warmth of his body, the clasp of his hand around hers, the dark, exhausted touch of his lips. But it was more than that. Her mind was filled with the picture of the bent head and the bruised arm and the feeling of wordless understanding. Was that what his magic was? Was that what had drawn her to place her fate in his hands? Yet how could it have been? How could she have understood that in one instant in a half-dark street? She did not understand it now. She just felt it and— In the pit down below came the revolting sound of somebody spewing up last night’s ale over somebody else. The complaints of the afflicted led to a fight and she heard bloodcurdling yells and the rending sound of splintering wood. She put her hands over her ears and tried not to whimper with terror and disgust and sheer helplessness. Heaven protect her, that was what life was about, not dreams of supposed magic.

She forced herself to crawl out of the heap of bedding and into yesterday’s crumpled clothes. She tried to set them to rights, but she felt dirty, crushed and so tired she could scream. Someone, yelling louder than the rest, put an end to the fight. She thought it might be Ceolfrith. It was. He arrived at the curtain to her storeroom a few moments later. He brought food. She could not make herself eat it even though she knew she needed it. Because sooner or later she would have to face her captor, in the light of day, no magic and no dreams, just the fact that she now belonged to one of the rabble surrounding her, the rabble which had burned and looted an entire town in a drunken frenzy of destruction. She had a long time to wait. Her captor, it seemed, was busy elsewhere. By the time Ceolfrith came back again to fetch her she was pacing the small confines of her room. Ceolfrith was perhaps the same age as her father. She thought he possibly felt pity for her and that was not encouraging. She followed him out of the barn, through the sorry remains of the rabble. They did not molest her. If her path approached them, they stepped backward. If they looked at her, Ceolfrith glared. But behind her, she could hear the hissing run of their whispers. It was a relief to get out into the open air. It was cold and it was going to rain. It seemed as though the memory of summer had died in the flames overnight and the bleakness of the world matched her mood. She was shown into someone’s bower, well-made and furnished and with a fire in the hearth and rushes on the floor. It was warm. It was…she forgot the bower. She forgot everything except her captor. He was standing against a tapestried wall, bathed in the glow of a polished copper oil lamp. If she had to find one single word to describe his appearance, it would be flawless. He turned his glowing, golden head. Just slowly, as though there was no hurry. It made her so angry, she could spit. She felt as though she was about to die on the spot. She had not eaten, she had scarcely slept, her eyes felt swollen from last night’s crying, her clothes were dirty and her underdress had rips in it. In him there was not the slightest sign of a day and a night spent ravaging. Her furious eyes took in every detail, from the heavy woolen tunic that finished in a line of gold embroidery just above the knee, to the dark gray trousers, to the stylish, intricately made leather shoes. The tunic was a carefully dyed shade of blue. Whether it had more embroidery at the wrist was impossible to tell because the sleeve edges were hidden by arm rings of twisted gold. The thin leather belt at his waist had a gilded buckle and strap end decorated in the style of some fabulous beast and set with what looked like garnets.

Well, she thought savagely, that was all as it should be. If you had plundered someone’s wealth, you wore it. She had saved the face for last and it did not disappoint. It was as devoid of any demeaning human passion as she could have wished. It made it satisfyingly easy to wipe from her mind the frightening memory that last night she had burst into tears over the mere sight of his hands. That now seemed impossible. She could never have imagined that someone like him was either hurt or could have shared the hot and helpless misery of despair. She could forget it. He obviously had. “Well,” she inquired, seizing the initiative before he did, “where would you like to start?” His eyes darkened and she savored the fierce pleasure of having disconcerted him. He had doubtless expected hysterics. It did not last more than an instant, of course. You did not get to defeat a Viking army by being easily disconcerted. But she had seen that instant of confusion, and he knew she had. “By deciding your future?” he shot back. “I did not think there was anything to decide.” He turned away, which was infuriating because she lost the advantage of being able to catch any remotely human expression that might have crossed his face. She glared at the lithe figure outlined against the colored wall, hating its unconscious assurance. They all stood like that, anyone over the rank of conscripted soldier, with their heads held as though the rest of the world was there merely to do their bidding. She did not know what he was waiting for, but it was some minutes before he spoke again. Then he said without turning his arrogant head, “You must have some kindred left.” She blinked and then she understood. Her gaze moved from the embroidered tunic to the thick torqued gold at his wrists. He was beautiful and he liked fine things and the easiest ways to obtain fine things were either through plunder or through ransom. He thought she was worth something to somebody. He could not have made a greater mistake. She was such a pathetically unloved and unimportant object that the idea almost made her laugh. She must get a grip on herself. Her mouth had actually begun to form the bitter word no, when she stopped. He did not know that she was worthless. He knew nothing about her. If he thought she could add to his collection of arm rings, who was she to disappoint him? She took a breath. “Well,” she began, “I do have a cousin who…” He turned round. He would never believe her. She could never fool that clear cold gaze.

“Well?” he prompted in mocking echo, impatience lending a sharp edge to the coolness of his voice. That did it. Her smoldering anger ignited and brought a courage that was quite reckless. She smiled, not too sweetly. “I have a cousin who would pay dearly for my safe return.” She let her gaze flick just once over the red gold at his wrists. She saw his surprise and tried to pull herself upright into as fair an imitation of the unthinking arrogance of his pose as she could manage. She held his gaze. If only she had better clothes, if only the brooches that pinned her tunic were of anything better than iron and copper. But her husband had seldom wasted any of the spoils of war on her. His gaze did not move an inch. If she had at least taken the time to comb her hair. She would never make him believe. No one had ever put the slightest worth on her. Not since the day she had been born and certainly not since she had come here with Ragnar. Ragnar…she did have something of value. Silver. Her hand touched the leather ribbon at her neck, toyed with it, tried to seem casual. He would be impressed. If he did not steal it off her straight away. But…this was her chance. She would never have another. Now. But her hand on the thin leather, the leather that had been worn by someone else, was strangely reluctant, and her heart beat painfully. “I am worth much to my family,” she lied, and Ragnar’s amulet slid out from beneath the neckline of her dress. The charms suspended from the silver ring jangled: two swords, three staffs, Odin’s spear. He watched. Her breath tightened in her throat. His eyes would widen, assess the worth, wonder at the fine craftsmanship of such an exotic foreign trinket. She saw an instant of wonder and then the blue eyes became slits of ice. “A family heirloom?” Of course it was an odd treasure for a woman. It was a man’s token, a warrior’s token. A Viking’s. The Saxon would hate it. She hated it. Her hand began to shake. She thrust the hideous, evil-looking thing beneath her dress, her mind swirling with helpless fury. She forced breath through her throat, made herself speak. “The worth of that is nothing to what my cousin would give you.” “Indeed? And just where would he be, this cousin?” “Skaldford.”

She had no very clear idea of where it was. Her horizons extended no further than the memory of her home in Denmark, a nightmare sea journey and the confines of the now ruined town. “Shealdford?” “Shh—” Her nervous voice faltered over the peculiar English sounds. Sh was a ridiculous noise to make at the best of times and the way he said it…“Skaldford,” she snapped, tossing her head with what she fondly imagined was an assumption of arrogance and hoping the wretched place was not in the middle of some Danish army. “You have only to send your messengers there and I am sure it will bring you even as much as you could desire.” He began to walk toward her. Perhaps the assumption of arrogance had been too convincing. She took a step backward and collided with a chair and a table she had not even seen. “You may sit down,” he said, and took the chair on the opposite side of the wooden table. Placate him. Placate him, for heaven’s sake, and he might do what she wanted. She sat in that unexpected luxury, a chair, just as though she had sat on chairs all her life and not rough benches. She produced another smile. “I could get you my wergild,” which was the price her avenging kindred ought to have extracted if he killed her; if she had had any kindred, if he had not been so utterly safe from the vengeance of a mere Dane. “More…” her voice stopped. He was pouring mead from a silver-chased flask. There were small purple, crescent-shaped marks on the back of his hand. She nearly shrieked. No. No, it could not have been her. She could not have done such a thing. She could not have been so desperate for his touch last night that she had dug her fingernails into his flesh. Please no. It must have been her. She could hardly see some Viking hersir trying to scratch him to death. How could she have done it? Humiliation crawled through her veins. What if he referred to it? What if he said something about last night that— “Mead?” The scratched hand held a cup in her direction. She took it. She remembered how that hand had felt in the other world of last night: like a lifeline against drowning. She swallowed the entire contents of the cup in one draught. If only he would give her some more. She dangled the cup casually in front of the flask in his hand. He poured some more, but the finely shaped eyebrows climbed.

She did not give the lowest curse. She swallowed more and the sweet liquor burned like fire in her empty stomach. “And which of my men do you think should be given the glory of a journey to Shealdford?” he inquired in his improbable accent. “I do not think I have any idiots among my retainers.” If she slapped his arrogant face he would probably kill her. She resisted the impulse and her hand curled like a vise round the mead cup. She gritted her teeth. “Then if it is beyond their small store of valor, let me go and I can promise—” “You? Do not be ridiculous—” “Well, at least I am not afraid…” He got to his feet with a force that sent the heavy wooden chair crashing to the ground and made the table rock dangerously. You should never challenge a warrior’s courage. She had watched while her husband killed someone for that. She looked up into a face that was now brilliant with all the passion she knew should live in that vibrant soul. The blue eyes blazed in a way that made her blood race and her heart beat strangely. “Do you have any idea where Shealdford now lies?” shouted Liefwin at the huge gray eyes fixed on his. “Somewhere between the last known position of the Danish force of Cambridge and the route King Edward’s army is likely to take from Huntingdon.” “But—” she began. He let his gaze rake from the pathetically small hand clenched round the empty mead cup to the childishly large eyes. “You will not do such a thing. Do you understand me? I will not allow it,” he yelled in a voice that would have deafened a mutinous churl. He kicked the chair out of the way and strode across to the window before he strangled her. He could not stand the closely confined room with her any longer. He ripped open the shutter and felt the cold wind strike his face like shards of ice, reminding him that the summer was long gone and it was nearly Martinmas and winter. The wind froze his skin but not what was in his heart. If only he could breathe the pureness of that frigid air deep inside him. But the morass of pain in his chest was too strong and it defeated him. He told himself it was because of his injury but he knew it was not. It was not physical pain, it was memory. The memory that had stirred in him since he had first seen the

Danish girl against a background of flames, and behind the memory lay a shameful blank where feelings should be. He did not have any. He was aware that he ought to, but the only thing that got through was guilt, and now anger. He had no wish to be responsible for the girl. She was a Dane with bizarre talismans hung round her slender neck. He did not know why he did not either throw her back to the wolves or do what she so obviously thought he was going to do. As for sending some poor churl all the way to Shealdford in the hope of getting some pathetic ransom… He turned round when she was not expecting it and saw that he had terrified her to the depths of her soul. There was no disguise for it and no help. He thought of Elswyth and how terrified she would have been before she died. The thought still had the power to make his gorge rise but at that moment, sensing the Danish girl’s terror of him so strongly he could smell it, he no longer wanted vengeance. He wanted an end to it. There was no other decision that could be made. In fact it had been made last night when he had told her, no asked her, to come with him. “I will take you to Shealdford myself,” he said as though somebody else spoke using his cold, uncompromising voice. “I cannot leave until King Edward gets here with the main army, but that will be very soon. Then the men are going home and I am going to Tamworth. I will take you to Shealdford on the way.” You could hardly describe Shealdford as being on the way to Tamworth, but she did not seem to have the slightest grasp of geography. “Tamworth?” Perhaps she did. She was looking at him as though she did not believe a word he had said. He discovered that stung even though he could scarcely expect anything else. “Yes. We are on loan from the lady, King Edward’s sister.” “You are from Mercia?” “Yes.” What did she think he was, some lumbering East Saxon or a moron from Wessex? She poured herself another cup of mead, which he did not think she should. But then maybe that was better for her. He watched her drink the lot and wondered whether she would be ale-sick in the morning. She put down the cup with her slender little hand and said, “And you are going to take me to Skaldford?” He tried to swallow the surge of anger. “Shealdford,” he said. The place was not, would not remain, Danish. He took a breath that hurt. “I have said I will do it. You have my word.”

“Oh?” If she had been a man, he would have killed her for the doubt in that single word. He could feel his hand reach instinctively for the seax at his belt. Now he had petrified her again. He dragged his hand away from the long single-bladed knife and then heard the noise outside, because he was right beside the window. He glanced out. It was not starting already, surely? It was. He could see them in the distance, coming for him. Not just his men, surely, but some of Oslac’s West Saxons. That would sit ill with Oslac. He looked back at the frightened girl. So much left unsaid. So much he did not even know how to say. Such a gulf between them and yet he had made the link that would hold them fast until he took her to Shealdford. The noise came to him on snatches of cold October wind. “Look, I shall have to go but—” he paused “—the next two weeks…” he said, starting in the wrong place. He stopped in the face of the gray eyes. He wished she had done something with her hair. She looked like a virgin of fifteen, a rather mead-soaked virgin. “For the next two weeks. I do not—” “I am to live as your mistress,” she said. No one would dare to even look at her if she was yours. Ceolfrith’s words were in his mind and he knew they were true. “Yes, but—” “And then when you have finished with me you leave me at Skaldford and go home to your wife…” Sigrid stopped in the middle of a breath and she was reminded irresistibly again of the man she had been forced to watch her husband murder for insulting him. The look of stunned shock and that terrible whiteness of the victim’s face were burned into her memory. “I do not have a wife.” She had got as far as her feet. But the mead took its revenge, making her light-headed so that her legs would not carry her and she had to clutch at the table for support. She became aware of a roaring noise that was something separate from the dizziness in her head. She thought it came from outside. It dragged her attention from the Saxon’s voice, which seemed to be explaining something to her.

“…Sigrid, I do not expect…” She could not concentrate on anything except the increasing noise from outside. It sounded like yesterday. “What is happening?” “It is nothing. It is just—” It was how a raid started. She could hear yelling and shouting and the drumming of weapons on linden-wood shields, and cutting through it a sound of pure horror: the howling noise of a wolf, but made by a human throat. The noise Ragnar, her husband, had made when he lost his mind. Her brain went dark. She became aware that someone had hold of her by the arms. “Sigrid…” Ragnar never spoke with an accent like that. Ragnar was dead on the battlefield. Even though she had not seen it, there was no possibility of mistake. Too many people had been only too eager to tell her so and she had the amulet. Ragnar would never be able to touch her again. Yet she shivered and the amulet dug into her skin, crushed between their bodies, hard and sharp. But she could also feel the warmth and the strength of the hands on her bare arms, controlled strength, not meant to punish, only to hold her. Her blurred vision caught the edge of the red-gold hair and the blue tunic of the Saxon. She was leaning against him. Her hair fell onto his shoulder. “You are not him,” she whispered stupidly into expensive blue cloth. “What? Sigrid, there is nothing to be afraid of.” Did he not realize? Could he possibly not understand what was out there and the full horror of it? She tried to speak through the hoarseness in her throat and managed to force out that single unspeakable word. “Berserker,” she said. But the world stayed in its place. His arms were around her and his hands buried themselves in her loose hair. His body felt as it had looked in the candlelight and the shadows: a thing of hard-packed muscle and lithe grace. She could feel its every contour through her dress. She could feel all of its warmth, so at variance with the coldness of his heart. “Sigrid, it is not—” “Yes, it is. You do not understand what they are like.”

The sound came again, unquenchable in its blood lust, the triumph of savagery over anything human. She raised her head, twisting it to try and see out of the open space of the window. “You do not know what they are like when they become mad,” she said. “They are like wolves. When the fit is on them, neither fire nor iron can hurt them and they will kill anything and nothing can stop them because Odin protects them and…” “Stop it. Do not. Sigrid, look at me.” His voice was calm. So calm when she was trembling with horror. She felt his hand move round to support her head and turn it irresistibly toward him. She looked at his face. It was not afraid. “That is not some warrior with the wolf ’s fury on him. It is just someone drunk on ale trying to pretend he is a wolfcoat. They are my men. They are just…it is just…” She was looking straight into his eyes and she suddenly realized what it was. The horror faded, but it left behind it something slightly sick. She said, “Your men. Yours. They are getting ready for the victory feast.” “Yes.” It was said without even the slightest pause and with no explanation, but then there was no need for him to say anything else. She was clutching at him, her body pressed itself intimately against his. His arms were round her and his hands touched her back and the vulnerable curve of her neck underneath her hair. Saxon, and outside the rest of them were cheering and screaming over the deaths of her kind and the destruction of her whole life. She choked for breath, pulling herself away from his touch. His hands slid from her shoulders, touched the bare skin below where her sleeves ended, making her shiver. She tried to free her arms from his grasp, but the strong, warm fingers closed. The screaming reached fever pitch. Something thudded against the door. She stared at his marked hands on her flesh. There was another thud. She flinched, in spite of all her determination not to. The hands tightened. “Remember what I said.” But all she was conscious of was the screaming, the screaming and the feel of his hands. Another thud. She could not stand this.

“Why are they here instead of in the town?” Her voice rose in desperation. The inarticulate screaming clarified itself into a word, a single word repeated over and over. Liefwin. The strong hands let her go. “They want me.” He went. They dragged him through the door, so many hands clutching at him as though he were some godlike hero come back from Valhalla to middle earth. They bore him away, lifted high on their shoulders and she was left, in the bright room with the fire and the lamps and the tapestries. Quite alone. She thought the noise they made would never stop. She buried her head in her arms, but even that did not block it out. It swelled in sickening waves. Liefwin. If only she could not make out what they said, but she could and that one repeated word scored into her mind. Her hands clenched themselves into fists, tangling in her hair and pulling on it and the small pain was a relief from the greater pain inside. It was a long time before the shouting began to recede, fading away into the ruin of the town. She raised her head and her gaze fell on the mead flask. She poured. Her hand was shaking. She drank all that was there. Liefwin, they shouted in the distance. It drowned out the howls of the mock berserker. Liefwin, she thought. And to her shame, what came into her mead-fuddled head was the warmth of his body and the way her head had fit on his shoulder and the way it felt when his arms closed round her. Her fingers tightened on the cup. Liefwin was part of the yelling mob that had taken and plundered the town. Liefwin was, if not Saxon, then English. Liefwin was celebrating yesterday’s carnage. Her duty was to think of her dead husband. Her hand moved to the small white scar at the corner of her eye, which had been her husband’s morning gift, just so that she recognized what her place would be in the order of things and what would happen if she stepped outside it. That was how life always was. She was used to it. You just had to accept it and twist what advantage you could out of it, no time and no thought for anything else. That way, you survived. She was a great survivor. She swallowed the last small drop of mead in the cup and waited.

He did not come back. There was a maid who came in and set the room to rights and menservants who carried in everything, including some locked chests belonging to Liefwin. She came into the possession of a mirror, a comb, bowls, a pitcher of water, salt for cleaning her teeth, a woman’s cloak, material of all sorts including silk ribbon, needles, thread, a pair of tweezers…it went on. She had a very fine bed with warm covers and bright blue hangings. She had more mead. The maid looked at her as though she should have two heads. Sigrid sent her away. He still did not come back. The victory feast must be going well. She made a circuit of the room. It was large. It was three-quarters cleaned. There were two beds. The other, still in its original state, had hangings of sea-green. They were faded and somewhat dusty, but the embroidery was worked in real gold thread. She was not sure who had lived here. It had been neglected, but it was impossible to say whether this was due to bad housekeeping or lack of occupants. Surely, in that case, someone would have stolen the curtains if they had realized it was gold thread. She felt a hysterical laugh rising in the throat. Someone had stolen the curtains. Someone had stolen everything. She was expecting the thief to come back at any moment. She had drunk too much mead. She drank some more. Eventually she went to bed. She kept her shift on.

Chapter Four W hen she opened her eyes, it was daylight and she was alone. But that was impossible. She sat up and scrabbled at the bedclothes as though there might be some stray English marauder there that she had overlooked. Nothing. It was true. He had not come back. He was lying under the mead bench somewhere in a drunken stupor and they had left him there to rot. Speaking of mead, she had a crashing headache. She clawed her way across the bed and opened the bright blue curtains.

It must be late, but the fire was in a better state than she would have imagined. It was raining. Sharp drops hissed and spit into the glowing embers through the hole in the roof that let the smoke out. She slid to the floor, her feet stumbling like lumps of lead. She did not remember leaving her new cloak out by the hearth. If only there was some mead left. There was. Perhaps it would settle her headache. She drank. She noticed the pale green hangings had fallen down on the other bed. How odd. They were such beautiful work in spite of the dust. They were the only relic of the previous owner of the bower and they fascinated her. She wandered across the room in her shift and gathered up a handful of embroidered cloth. Her hand touched something faintly warm. What was left of her brain seemed to freeze inside her skull. She looked down in the dim light that came from the fire and through the hole in the roof. It was a shoulder, attached to an arm and a mop of gleaming red-gold hair. She shrieked. It moved. The flood of gold raised itself and someone groaned. Her hand slid across living naked flesh, across a heavy shoulder, down the long, elegant shape of an arm and landed in a tangle of sea-green material. “It is you.” “Of course it is. Who did you think it was? Beowulf ?” “No, you have only two arms,” she said as the other one emerged from the covers. “What?” “Beowulf. In the story. Did he not tear off the swamp monster’s arm and keep it as a sort of trophy?” This was not the moment to discuss poetry, not with her heart pounding and her mouth as dry as last year’s straw. Why had she swallowed another cup of mead? She tried to think. Liefwin the Saxon had managed to raise himself as far as his elbows. She could not see his face, only the golden sweep of his hair. “Oh,” he said, half groan, half growl deep in the throat. It was followed by a sort of gasp. If his head felt anything like hers, she understood. It would, of course—he had had a lot to celebrate. Her lip curled. “Ale-sick?”

She looked at the size of his shoulders and the way the muscle in them rippled when he moved. Her heart pounded harder. Moon-mad wantwit. Why had she taunted him with that? Her hand, tangled in the disordered bed hangings clenched itself into a fist so tight it hurt. “No,” said the bright tangled mass of hair and the brutal shoulders. “It is more likely to be frostbite. Did you have to take all of the bedclothes? How many do you need? You could have left me something.” She blinked. “I did not think—” After one more look at the shoulders, she swallowed. …that you would expect me to have a second bed made up in case you were too drunk to crawl as far as the first. “If this thing is alive,” he said, indicating the dusty bed hangings, “I am going to kill you.” She flinched. She could not help it, because that was the way her dead husband had begun many conversations. I am going to kill you. And at that moment the Saxon looked up and saw it. Humiliation that he had seen how weak she was, and all the smoldering resentment of the past stung her. But there was no expression that she could read in the rather bloodshot blue eyes. “It must be late,” he said without the slightest change in his voice, and that was it. Nothing else. No taunts. No display of masculine triumph. Not yet. She let out her pentup breath. He sat up. She thought that he had meant to take the bed curtain with him. But her forgotten fist was still embedded in it and the material pulled with a small tearing sound across the solid expanse of his chest, and she saw what was really wrong with him. The whole of his left side was an appalling shade between black and purple. There was an area of crushed skin in the middle where something, presumably his chain mail, had bitten through the flesh. She gasped and let go of the bed hanging and he fairly snatched it out of her hand, even though it was too late. She wondered whether or not she was going to be sick and cursed herself again for swallowing mead on an empty belly. There was one of those dreadful silences during which the only thing that could be heard was her choking breath. Finally her voice said, “Have you done nothing about it?” She got a look that would have slain a fire-breathing dragon. “No. It is unnecessary.”

Unnecessary? Well, if he wanted to be dead within the week, that would suit her. Just perfectly. At least she could not see the damage anymore, only an expanse of pale green cloth. Buried, which was what he should be. What he would be if he did not…“There must be someone skilled in healing who could help you.” The dragon-slaying look intensified, increasing the feeling of rather queasy unsteadiness. A spurt of sudden anger rescued her from it. “Surely,” she snapped, “you could find one. Or if that is beneath you, I am sure your loyal retainer would do it…” He leaned forward. Her voice stopped. His hand, clutching the gold-embroidered cloth, was a white-knuckled fist. It looked as though it would like to have been wrapped around the gilded hilt of his sword. Or perhaps around her neck. “I do not require anyone’s help.” Least of all that of a pathetic, insignificant captive. Not said. “I will not have this referred to, particularly not to Ceolfrith. Do you understand me?” Despite the sickening shortness of her breath, she managed to fix her gaze on the arrogant turn of his head with a look that could have done its own degree of damage. “I understand you only too well.” His mouth thinned. “It is late,” he said with painful restraint. “I must go.” Good. If he wanted to hasten his own end by going out in that state she…she realized what it meant. He was going. He was far too important to stay with a small piece of Danish flotsam like her. She was free. Free until tonight. Her heart leaped. “Yes, lord,” she said, and got to her feet with a speed that did nothing for her headache. She began to gather his clothes from where they had been drying near the fire. “Sigrid, leave that.” She clutched at the tunic. Surely he had not changed his mind already? She shook out the heavy folds and began straightening the material as fast as she could. Could he see how unsteady her hands were? “Will you leave that and come here?” She stood with her back to him, her fingers twisted in the rich cloth of his tunic, unable to make herself move. “Please.” The last word choked, as well it might. She did not believe it could have been spoken by the same person. Well, it was either him or Beowulf. She looked round and found he had moved and was, she fancied, regretting it. It was hard to tell for sure, because the

large hand she had scratched the night before hid his face. The way he had wanted the dusty bed curtain to hide his body. But it was words from another story that came into her mind. The one about a man who was quite alone and kept his thought-hoard to himself and his heart bound fast, just as a noble warrior should. She knew by heart every song and every poem there was to know. They were so much better than real life. The one about the solitary man was English, very appropriate. The lord Liefwin seemed to have got it badly. There had been something odd about that small choking sound that had been forced out of him. She knew it. “All right,” she said. No response. Always assuming that he had a heart to bind. She took another look at the drooping head and moved first to the table, where she found the other cup and poured. Fair was fair. If she could start the day on the mead, so could he. She turned round with the cup in her hand. He was leaning back. He had his eyes shut. It made a lot of difference if you could not see that frozen look. It left only the golden warmth of his hair and his skin. He was braced against the wall, his large, naked body half-smothered in the faded abundance of the bed hangings. It made him look rather exotic and not quite real: a fit subject for a saga. He opened his eyes. Perhaps a saga with trolls in it, made from stone. She proffered the cup and got a rather narrow look. Surely he could not tell she had been on the mead herself ? “Sit down.” She wondered whether she could get him to choke again on the word please, but he was taking the cup out of her hand and his fingers touched hers, not the stuff of legend at all, a man’s hand. She sat down rather abruptly. She sat on the very edge of his bed and she did not say another word. But she was burningly aware of his closeness and of the fact that he was clothed in nothing but gold bracelets and a rather thin piece of cloth. Even though all she could see were the tops of his shoulders, his arms and a glimpse of one shapely foot.

She waited. Liefwin swallowed the mead in one go. It did take the edge off physical pain, but it did nothing to help him deal with the girl. She was wearing her fragile maiden look again, all flowing hair and delicate arms, delicate everything else. His gaze took in all of it from the slender shoulders to the bare ankles, every smooth and softly rounded part of her that could be glimpsed or imagined through her shift. She seemed utterly unaware that she was still exactly as she must have been when she first got out of bed. She had gathered up his things for him and fetched him mead and now she sat so passively next to him while he was wrapped only in some moth-eaten rag. She seemed to have no consciousness of that, and yet he could make her afraid of him. He was beginning to think that someone else had done the same before him. But despite that, only two minutes ago she had been trying to tell him what to do. She was incomprehensible. There was no particular reason why he should bother about what she thought. No reason why he should have to bear with her vagaries and the things she said, the painful memories she seemed to cause just by existing. He had not asked to be encumbered with some stray Danish piece. Except it was too late. He was trapped by his own word. He had to see it through, like everything else. Only a coward backed down from what he had set his hand to. She sat so quietly and so still. But he was used to assessing people and he could sense the nervousness that lay hidden in her. He seemed to do nothing but snarl at her like some bad-tempered warg. “Sigrid,” he said, trying to pronounce its Danish syllables properly. She looked up and the great gray eyes held his gaze. But he could see in their depths that she really was afraid of him, even though he had given his word she would be safe. It stirred something unpleasant in the dead hollow inside him, and he realized he disliked seeing the fear in her eyes quite intensely. “Sigrid,” he said with sudden strength, “I know we agreed for the next two weeks to the pretence that you are my mistress, but that is as far as other people are concerned. In these four walls there is only us. I do not expect you to have to wait on me or…” He stopped. She was looking at him with her little mouth open, and the gray eyes were so large he could have tripped over and fallen into them. Had he been bellowing at her

again? He took a breath, which hurt, and began again more slowly. Perhaps her English was not as good as he had thought. “It is as I said yesterday. There are no expectations. We need hardly see each other. I will be out. You have a maid to look after everything. I have servants. I…” His voice trailed off. Nothing seemed to be getting through. She was looking at him just as though he really were some warg. He moved and the pain in his ribs hit with the force of a Norseman’s ax. But behind it was the other pain and he was staring again into the abyss. How could she do this to him? He should have had more than four hours sleep in the two nights after a battle. That was all that was wrong with him. He leaned back against the solid hardness of the wall, trying to take the pressure off his damaged ribs. The pain would become quite bearable if he just breathed properly. He became aware that someone was pressing the mead cup into his hand again. It was full. The cool honey liquid splashed onto his fingers. The girl’s small hand withdrew. “You did not believe me…” He stopped. He had not meant to say that. It was unnecessary. It did not matter what she thought. But he could not stop himself. Her eyes became opaque. “About what? Oh, of course I did. It was just that—” He stared at her and the cozening words died on her lips. “Do not lie to me about such things.” Just the force in his voice was enough to make the rapid color come and go in her face. He could not soften it, and he had to fight for the control that had always come so easily to him. “Sigrid,” he managed, more evenly, but it was too late. The surprise and the apprehension in her face had already hardened into defiance, and she no longer took the trouble to disguise the animosity that lay beneath. “Why? What should I believe?” He held on to the shreds of his temper with an effort. “I have given you my word.” She seemed to have no concept of what that meant. “I have said that while you are with me you are safe.” “Oh, I see. Everything else might have been taken from me, but I am to have my… safety?” But the memories in his mind made him proof against that sort of scorn. “It is more than some had.” The coldness in his voice now covered everything. “I must go. Now.”

He paused, waiting for the wench to move, but she did not. Why should she? It was nothing more than a conceit of his to keep thinking she was a maiden who could be shocked. He made his way past her, letting the obnoxious rag fall to the floor. He did hear an agitated rustling noise behind him, but he was still too angry to look back. He had spent far too long arguing already. He slid the gold rings off his arms and poured water, one-handed. He washed. Everything. Including his hair in case there really had been something alive in that moth-eaten curtain. He did not give so much as an empty curse what she thought. He found his clothes. He could feel by now the sickening light-headedness that came from lack of sleep and the damage to his left side, and the emptiness of his life, the futility of all that he was trying to do, hit him as it had not done for two years. But there was no choice but to go on. He managed the trousers, the leather windingas around his legs, even the shoes. But he could feel how slow and awkward his movements were becoming. He picked up the shirt and the tunic which had to be pulled on over his head. There was another rustling noise from his bed as though the Danish girl had moved again. Well, she would doubtless enjoy the weak-kneed fool he would make of himself over this bit if nothing else. He closed his eyes. It was done and he had neither fainted nor thrown up the remains of last night’s ale. He looked round and reached out for his sword belt, carefully because the scabbard was damaged, but it slid from his clumsy fingers to the floor. He could not move. He wondered what he would do if the pain in his side became more than it was possible to control. The rush-strewn floor seemed an unlikely distance below his feet and his sight began to distort. Perhaps he was going to disgrace himself in front of the wench after all. He could not. He knew that his pride would not allow it. He gritted his teeth and leaned forward with his good hand outstretched. The floor got no closer. There was another agitated rustling sound and then the slender, bare arm of the Danish girl swam into his blurred vision. She was going to pick the sword up for him. “Don’t!”

He could see the pattern-welded blade splitting that small hand in two. He dropped to the floor and his right hand snatched hers out of the air before it could touch the sword. But he was off balance and he landed in a jarring thud on his knees and his left elbow. The floor and the naked arm and the sword disappeared for one searing instant. He fought the blackness out of his mind. Pain always receded in the end if you kept your head. He concentrated with the discipline born of practice. The girl’s unscathed hand lay softly in his. “What did you think I was going to do?” said her lightly accented voice from the other edge of the cosmos. “Try and cleave you in half with the blade?” It was not a thought that had occurred to him. If his prisoner had been some Viking hersir it would have been obvious and yet there was no reason why her heart should not hold the same desire for vengeance. But the small hand had somehow entwined itself with his even as she spoke and it stayed there. He was not used to seeing the face of his enemy in the face of a woman. There was a small pause during which he was aware of nothing but the pain and the feel of her hand. He clawed himself upright. It took the weight off his left arm, but that did not seem to help much and he could feel the faint beginnings of sweat under his newly washed hair. He shoved the heavy mass out of his face and looked up. She was sitting next to him on the floor in her indecent shift. He expected to find the same mockery in her eyes that had scorched through her words. But the eyes were as opaque as when she had been lying to him. She kept his hand. His gaze dropped to the sword. “The scabbard is broken.” At least his voice sounded in reasonable shape. He reached slowly across to show her where the wood had cracked open and the leather covering scarcely held it together. He had to use his left hand because she did not let go of his right. The leather split when he moved it and the bright blade spilled out onto the floor. He heard the faint hiss of her indrawn breath. He caught the gold-embossed hilt and it slid obediently enough into his fingers, but it felt strange in his left hand. Swords were alive just as much as people were. This one was old, yet as sleek and deadly as the lightning it was named for. “It is a snake-blade,” she said. “One that will never break.” Her voice told him she knew how old it was and what it was worth and he wondered at that.

But then she would know, if her husband was a warrior. “Its name is liyt ræsc.” “Lightning.” She frowned and then repeated it, somehow getting her Danish tongue round the final sh sound this time. “Liyt ræsc.” “Yes.” He stared at the pattern-welded steel, tempered and hardened beyond the skill of any smith now living. The separate twisted bands of metal visible in the blade were overlain with the runes of power, one from each aett: Ur, the strength that must be controlled; Eolhx, protection, the sword symbol, the mysterious other self; and Tir, the just victory. His hand tightened on the hilt. They had been placed there long before the sword was his. He should have had Hægl, the sudden destroyer. Shivers touched Liefwin’s spine and he made himself look away and toward the cross carved on the ornate chest in his corner of the bower. He let that sign fill his vision. That was the new Way. That was what should be thought of. He became aware, again, of the faint warmth of the girl’s slender fingers around his. He glanced at her face, but she was not looking at him. The fine eyes still watched the sword as though it was some uncontrollable animal that would strike. He noticed for the first time that there was a jagged notch in the blade from the carnage of the battle for the town and that that was the focus for her eyes. There was a pause and then he gathered up the jeweled belt and the broken scabbard and moved to stand up. He wanted to use his right hand to steady himself, but it remained in her hand and he was helpless to break that grip. He managed it but the light-headedness made him stagger. She had risen with him and her thin, bare arm moved seemingly without thought around his body to stop him falling. He did not understand why she did that. It was as though they were battle opponents in the strange Viking convention of the hazelled field. Inside the ring of hazel branches you fought to the death; outside it, honor permitted no act of aggression. It was as though by unspoken consent, his wounds and her tears lay on neutral ground. She was so close to him, touching him in much the same way she had when he had half carried her through the streets of the burning town. He could not take his eyes from the bare skin of her arms and neck, the gentle rise of her collarbone and the softness of her figure, half visible, half guessed beneath the thin shift.

Her nearness and her half-clothed state brought warmth to his body like a flood. Stronger than fatigue or pain it beat in waves he could not control, until he was aware of nothing but the desire to do what she would most hate him for. She was staring at him and her eyes were wide and dark. He pulled himself away. Heaven knew why. He had no honor left. He knew it, if others did not. But he still could not harm her. Perhaps she was his atonement. He picked up his cloak. Oslac and the six prisoners and an argumentative and ale-sick army made up of men from two separate provinces, that was what he had to deal with. He threw the cloak round his shoulders and turned to the door, remembering at the last minute to pick up the gold arm rings with which to impress Oslac. The girl watched him in silence. There was also, of course, the remains of the helpless Danish population and the liberated English desiring revenge.

Chapter Five S igrid staggered back to the bed and fell on it. She dived under the warm covers, trying to bury herself, pulling them high round her naked shoulders as though she could hide what had already been seen and assessed to the last detail. She shivered. How could she not have thought until that last breathless moment that she had been walking round halfnaked in front of the Englishman? She covered her aching head with her hands. How humiliatingly stupid. Except that he did not actually want her. Not unless she threw her arms round him while she was wearing nothing but her shift. And perhaps not even then. All he saw when he looked at her was a ransom in waiting. She was lucky it was so, and if things turned out differently it was likely to be her fault for flaunting herself. What a fool she was. Why should she care for the fact that he had been hurt by some now defeated and probably dead Danish warrior? She should be glad. She came up for air and fixed her gaze on the bright blue bed hangings. Perhaps it was because the Englishman met it with a determination that would not have disgraced the monster-slaying Beowulf. But courage did not make him any less her enemy. It just made him more dangerous. It was her lawful husband she should be thinking about. Ragnar. Ragnar the Wolfcoat. Ragnar the Dead. It did not seem possible that a terrifying force like Ragnar could be

gone. She tried to imagine that formidable shape lying slain beside the trees. So close to the sanctuary of concealment and unable to reach it. And no one had been able to reach his body. No one had been able to bury him. She would much rather he had been properly buried. Otherwise a tortured spirit like his might not rest. Nothing left of him but the amulet. She drew it out. It felt warm against her hand, as though it had life. The metal was heated by the warmth of her own body, of course, and yet the strange shapes still seemed alive, still seemed wholly Ragnar’s. She tucked the ring away, out of sight under her shift and her hands clenched. She could feel the shock of her husband’s death still there, deep inside her, but she could not make herself grieve, not after what he had done. Wolfcoat. She shuddered. Her fingers twisted in the bedclothes and her tired, frightened mind turned to the way the strong body of the English marauder had been there between her and her thoughts of the berserker and how unexpectedly gentle his arms had been. She sat up. That was madness. There was no help for her there and neither should she wish it. What would happen when it was time to go and collect her make-believe ransom? She did not care to imagine the depth of the fury in that winter-cold heart. Liefwin was prepared to put up with her on the promise of money. It was what he wanted. His very last thought as he had left the bower had been for the gold arm rings. One thing was clear. She could not sit still and wait for disaster to strike. She had to escape before it did. All she needed was money and an armed escort of about thirty. Easy. She started when there was a noise at the door. Not her captor come back. Please. But it was only the maid, carrying a jar and a pitcher and what smelled like fresh bread. “What is this, lady? Not up yet? How tired you look. Did you not get much sleep?” Sigrid clutched the bedclothes round her. The insinuation in the words and the antagonism beneath were so blatant it occurred to her to wonder whether this was the bed companion that kept the lord Liefwin away from his Danish captive. She was so comely. Sigrid glared at the shapely hips and the breasts that were far larger than hers. Trollop. The maid smiled. Sigrid smiled back with equal sincerity.

“Of course,” said the wench, setting down a pitcher of fresh water. “I did not get much sleep myself…” So it was true. That and the English marauder. “The victory feast, you know. I was there, as cup bearer…oh, and I suppose my lord Liefwin told you about the prisoners? They say he will have them killed. A public execution…oh, lady, should I not be saying that to you? Perhaps you knew them?” “Prisoners?” she asked, and her throat was so dry she could hardly get the word out. “The leading men of the town, so they said. But they were a sorry-looking lot to me. The execution…” “They cannot kill those men.” “Can they not?” The taunting voice suddenly changed into bitterness. “What mercy do the Danes ever show? Lady?” The wooden bowls Liefwin had used for washing clashed in the girl’s hands. “But they did not want to…it was not…he could not…” The maid turned round and looked at her, and the words died on Sigrid’s lips. “Anything else, lady? Would you like me to help you dress?” The bitter eyes of the Saxon girl took in Sigrid’s thin shift and the rumpled mess of the bed. It was impossible to tell from the wreck of the sea-green curtains across the room that Liefwin had slept elsewhere. “No, I want nothing.” Sigrid watched the girl leave. I want nothing from any of you Saxons, she thought. But it was not entirely true. Her hands touched the parcel of clean white linen. Bread. The scent of it. It made her belly churn. She touched it. Still warm. And made of fine wheat flour, not rough barley and grits from the quern stone. Cheese, fresh and white. A jug of ale. But she suddenly did not care for the ale. She wanted food and an end to drowning her sorrows and wallowing in the consequences. She ate. Everything. And then she heated water over the fire pit to wash. Sigrid dipped her hands into the warm water in the fine bronze bowl. There was soap. Two lots of it. She reached for the first with dripping hands. The scent of lovage, clean, astringent, released by the dampness of her fingers, the scent that…Liefwin. That scent had clung to the Saxon’s newly washed skin and his damp hair. Liefwin. Her mind seemed to expand and blossom with the one glimpse she had had of him, washing himself. Before she had been able to force herself to look away. She thought her memory would hold forever the power of that smooth sinuous line that stretched from strongly made shoulder to hip, to taut buttock, to thigh and tightly curved calf muscle, narrow ankle and lithe foot.

It was so stupid of her to think of that. It was irrelevant if he was beautiful. It was nothing to her if he did not seem to belong to the same kind as Ragnar. He was still a predator, as all men were. He was the kind of man who arranged public executions. Her hand tightened and the soap slid out of her grasp, landing in the rushes on the floor, buried in murk. She bent her head, but what came into her mind now was not Liefwin of the scented skin but her husband. Her husband and the prisoners. It was not her fault. She took off her shift. A wife was not responsible for her husband’s crimes. She buried her face in soothing water and then her whole head. She had her own disasters to cope with. You had to look out for yourself in this life. No one else would. She came up gasping. She picked up the soap made with honey and sweet marjoram that was obviously meant for her and began to wash her body. Six captives she hardly knew were not her problem. She was a captive herself and she had nothing. She began to dry herself, but the cloth shook in her hand. It was not true. Women always had one thing. And the way he had looked at her just before he left… It was how the world worked. She could not do it, not after she had just escaped from one form of slavery. But she had nothing else left to bargain with. She could not let six men be hanged for her husband’s fault. She prepared herself to grovel. He did not come back until it was well dark, but she was still sitting with rapt attention by the well-stoked hearth. She had ale warming by the fireside. She had flavored it with agronomy and precious caraway seeds. She heard him coming and she leaped up to cast dried lavender heads on the glowing fire. Their scent filled the warm room while the rain beat and hissed outside. She heard the door latch. She saw it open. She stood up. She had spent most of the day making herself a new underdress from the loot—no time to pleat it, but the material was very fine. It had short sleeves despite the autumn weather, because he seemed so fascinated by her arms. She had brushed and cleaned her tunic. She had compromised with her hair by leaving it uncovered but coiling it softly up behind her head.

She wished she had the English maid’s generous bosom. She smiled. It was not returned. He moved forward into the light. She swallowed. She had forgotten in the space of a few hours just how formidable he was, how utterly frozen his eyes were. How could she ever have thought she could bend that to her own will? He might as well have still been wearing his glittering chain mail and helm. Invulnerability walked with him. He undid the amethyst brooch that held his wet cloak and, sliding it from his heavy shoulders, swung it round to spread it to dry before the fire. She should be doing that for him instead of standing stock-still like a wantwit. “L-lord,” she stammered, and her voice sounded not husky and seductive but as rusty as though she had not used it for a week. “Let me.” “No need.” But she managed to catch some of the swirling folds in her hands. He shrugged slightly and let it go. “It is late,” he said. “I thought you might have been asleep.” Was it a reproach? Perhaps he wanted solitude. Perhaps he was tired because of the wound. Perhaps he had already rutted his fill on the English maid. Perhaps the last thing he wanted was to be bothered with her. She stole a glance over her shoulder as she arranged swathes of cold, wet wool out to dry. It was impossible to tell anything from that face. She fiddled uselessly with the cloak. He said nothing. She turned round. Stone face. This whole thing was hopeless. She did not know why she had started. He moved away, and because she was watching him with every fiber of her attention, she saw it: the slight, carefully disguised awkwardness, and she had it, the one chink in the close-wrought battle armor. “Sit down,” she said in the steady nonconfrontational tone she had used when it had been necessary to deal with Ragnar. “I have mulled ale. I will pour you some.” She did not pause for any response but moved as smoothly as her words. She was used, after all, to dealing with wolves. He sat in the chair she had placed at the perfect distance from the hearth and she held out the steaming cup. He took it, but the eyes that met hers held not the heat of brute force to be soothed but a cool intelligence as sharp as a sword. She was aware of a small flutter of alarm in her stomach. She quashed it and dredged up another smile, daring to add the faintest challenge this time.

“So,” she said, “if I ask you how you are faring, will I get my head bitten off the way I did this morning?” He did not smile. He never seemed to do anything so human, but there was a small change in the quality of the gaze that held hers and she knew that was, perhaps, as close as it got. That minute change in the cold eyes made little shivers run across her skin and she trembled as she had not done with her fear when he came into the room. “Was I really that bad?” “Worse,” she returned with a strange courage. The change in the eyes deepened in response and she felt as though the ground had disappeared beneath her feet and she had plunged into something she would never be able to control. It terrified her. But it was also exhilarating. “Well?” demanded her now reckless voice. “It is—” “—nothing?” she supplied. “Nothing anyone can do anything about,” he amended, and the brilliance, the… whatever it was in his eyes made her tingle and she sat down beside him rather abruptly. “Can you not tell me what happened to you?” If there was one thing she knew from living off and on with a warrior, it was that they liked nothing more than talking, nay endlessly boasting, about fighting. But she did not get the complacency she expected. She got a look of surprise and something sharp behind the brilliance that almost made the alarm flutter again. “I do not exactly remember. My attention was elsewhere at the time.” But she had become something of an unwilling expert on the craft of battle. She watched the faint movement of the muscle in his throat as he drank some of the ale. “I would say someone hit you with a shield boss, more than once.” A shield could, of course, be just as much an offensive weapon as an ax or a sword. She got the surprise again and this time, perhaps, the acknowledgment she expected. Was this the moment? If only he would guzzle down the ale as Ragnar would have done instead of holding the silver-chased cup between his hands. He hardly seemed to want it. He put the cup down. Now.

She reached out and her hand settled prettily over his where it lay on the table. His flesh was warmed from the heat of the room. Would he remember how they had touched just so that morning? How he had moved like lightning to protect her from the sword’s bite? That was in her mind now. It had been inexplicable, instinct perhaps, the way he had saved her from harm. Nothing more. No reason for her to feel suddenly unclean. She focused her memory on the notched blade of liyt ræsc. “It was a splendid victory,” she lied, trying to find the right tone with just the correct mix of natural distress and reluctant admiration; not too much bitterness, some acknowledgment of his superiority. No response. No vaunting tale of his own achievements. The blue eyes simply narrowed. Why would he not say something, anything? She leaned forward. She had left the neck of her dress loose under the brightly colored tunic. Surely he must notice. He did. She was sure he did. “I know how much I owe to you.” Nothing, not one word. She began again, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. “You…you have every right to wish your revenge on me, on all of us. But you chose only to show generosity.” She could not quite force her tongue round the word mercy. “For what reason, I know not. I know only that you must have some reason for it in your heart that…” And it came, the reaction she had wanted, just when she had given up hope. It came and the cold eyes were suddenly luminous with feeling, the loosely clasped hand under hers tightened. She had him. She did not understand why, but she surely had him. “You have shown so much mercy—” she could say it now, the words swam from her mouth “—that I would not ask more but…” She allowed a pause, entirely contrived. He reacted. “Sigrid, what is it?” There was sharpness in his tone. But the eyes still held light. He bent his lovely head with the rain-darkened gold hair and the finely colored complexion toward her, and because she had knowledge of him, her ears caught the faint indrawn breath that betokened vulnerability. She tightened her hand over his in counterfeit of the true coin of her instinct to pity his hurts that morning.

“Lord,” she murmured. He frowned. But whatever it was still lived in the depths of his eyes, and that was what she would go for. Except that something in her own chest seemed to constrict with a pain just like his. She closed her mind to it. She must not fail now. “Lord—” she began again. “You can use my name.” “Liefwin,” she purred. Dear friend. Her enemy. “I have no right to ask you for more than you have given, but I heard of the…of the men of the town who are your…your prisoners…” The hand moved under hers. She closed her fingers on it with the strength of her desperateness. “I would beg your mercy for them even though you have the right to kill them. I know there is nothing to offer in compensation, no wergild, and as for me, I am yours already and I would be so with all I have if…” She slid her hand suggestively across the back of his, and then up his arm, across the heavy gold bracelets and the fine wool of his tunic. It was like sliding her hand across one of those stone pillars wrought by the giants in earlier time. Her mind again filled with the one searing glimpse she had had of his naked body, all tough muscle and sinuous lines, as hard and uncompromising as his heart. Her chest tightened further. She dropped her other hand to his knee, below the table. Her fingers found the smooth material of his trousers, the thick muscle beneath. Her hand curved round the hard mass of his leg. Her heart was beating like August thunder. His thigh was so solid, bigger and thicker than she had expected. It filled her hand and made her palm burn like fire. Her hand shook. She made herself push it higher. Something sharp and unknown stabbed through her insides so that she thought she must be fit to swoon. It was fear. It was that or it was the strange exhilaration she had felt when she had sought to seduce him with words and she had seen the reaction in his eyes. Her fingers tangled with the embroidered hem of his tunic. She could sense the dark, secret warmth of his body underneath the fine material. That warmth, the heavy masculinity of his body…it set her senses alight and yet it filled her with terror. It was too much, too unknown, too dangerous. She looked up and saw his face. She should not have done that. She should not have looked at his eyes. She could not move and she could not draw back. Her throat locked up so that she had to force the words past her lips. “Such gratitude as would be mine to show would—”

The stone-hard arm flicked out of her grasp in one small, controlled movement that sent her hand spinning harmlessly backward through the air. It was so effortless, so utterly unexpected, she scarce understood what had happened. He stood up. No overturned chair this time, no shouted words, but the entire world had changed. Two steps to cross the room with no sign of the weakness she had thought to exploit, only the raw strength that she had seen from the first, that she had felt under her hand. He leaned against the wall, in the black shadows. She could not see his face, only the poised, arrogant lines of his body. “If you are going to take up whoring you would do better to save it for Oslac. He is in command here, not me. I lead only the men of the éored of Mercia.” How that must rankle. She glared full at him. “I am sure Oslac would give your charms all the appreciation they deserve,” he said, and his gaze on her body was as cold as ice, “but you are just as unlikely to get the payment you want. Assuming I understand you properly.” He did. His scorn cut. It was unfair. The whole thing was unfair. She had suffered enough through being married to an abomination. She had not asked for this. She had not asked to have her home destroyed and her life. She had not asked to be captured. To have to abase herself by pleading with some mood-proud English thane who thought everything and everyone was beneath him. She was not a whore. She ground her teeth. If his precious sword had been within her grasp now, she would have used it. “I am asking you to show mercy to those who are in your power.” It came out like some vile accusation and it was treated as such. “Why should I? Do you realize what they have done? Do you know where I have been this last hour? Watching my cousin Alfwin struggle with death. He has scarce seventeen winters. He is unlikely to see any more and it will be up to me to tell his fifteen-year-old wife that she has no husband and the child she is expecting will have no father. “Do you know how many more men are dead and how many more will never be whole again? Do you know how many more women will be grieving like Alfwin’s wife? Like you?” “I…but I did not ask for—” It made no difference. She might as well not have spoken. He moved in the shadows and the bright, cold eyes raked her.

“Did I or did any of us ask to have our country invaded, our homes robbed and destroyed, our families killed or taken as slaves?” “Well, you have had your revenge,” she spat, focusing her thoughts on the burning hell of the town. “Now I suppose you wish to complete it on a group of poor captives who can no longer defend themselves.” Why had she ever thought… “No.” “I suppose you think vengeance is…what?” “I said no. Even though it is what I should do.” “I…but then…” She stopped, utterly confounded. Why? If his cousin died, that alone would be enough to cry out for vengeance, let alone everything else he had said. It could not be for her persuading. He could hardly be expecting any return of her pretended affections after this. He was not even looking at her, but at something else across the room. Yet there was nothing there except the carved chest. Perhaps he was looking at nothing at all because, when he spoke again, his voice held nothing. “I am not going to kill six people for doing something they were forced to do.” “Forced?” Her voice came out as a sort of squeak. He knew. He knew what had happened. Someone in his position would know, doubtless. She should have realized, would have, if she had thought about it. But he could not know that…she wanted to ask, to make him speak. The blue gaze flicked over her and then away again. No, she did not. “If you lived in that town, you must know, surely. Those men had no wish to oppose King Edward. One of them, for heaven’s sake, is English. Yesterday’s battle took place because the Danish army of East Anglia and the shipmen wanted it. It was their representatives who persuaded the men of your town, was it not?” She would not betray herself if she could only stay silent, stay still. But her hand went to the amulet at her neck. Her luck he did not see. He was not even looking. It was the other corner of the room which fascinated him. “One of those sent to persuade was a wolfcoat, a berserker. It was a Dane who caused the first deaths here.” She bowed her head, forced herself to stillness. Her fingers were clenched tight round a long thin shard of metal shrouded in thin linen. Odin’s spear. Berserkers belonged to Odin.

She forced her hand away, as though the Englishman could see what she did, guess the significance of what she held hidden. She straightened her fingers. She must try to appear as though nothing…he had not finished. “The agreement to join the battle,” he said, “was made across the body of the man the berserker killed outright and the screams of the one he left half-alive.” Her head was forced up. She had not understood quite that much. Sickness choked inside her. She must not let him see it. She swallowed bitterness. But his eyes watched her with the look that could measure the wellspring of her breath. It had not been her fault. What had happened had not been something she had had any control over. She had to cling to that thought, because if she let even one suspicion of weakness, one harsh searing trace of guilt enter her mind, his English eyes would see it. She held her head very high, very still. But she wondered whether he did see it. There was a small flicker in the depths of those watchful eyes and she thought nothing could deceive that careful assessment of what people truly were. “I did not know,” she said, “but even if I had—” The words it could have made no difference were cut off as something frighteningly dangerous flared in the piercing eyes. “It is not my way,” he said. “I would not care to complete that man’s handiwork.” Contempt dripped from the cold preciseness of his English voice. “But they said you were going to have them killed.” Her gaze never left that elegant, jeweled figure. “No, not so. That was only Oslac’s drunken boast and they are not his to kill. It was not something I said. Who told you I did?” There was no reason why she should protect the English maid from that chilling wrath. “Who was it?” “It was just something I overheard. I must have misunderstood,” then, “so they are safe?” “Perhaps. I have told you, I am not in command here. You might still need to use your charms on Oslac. Or perhaps you should save them for King Edward since I took possession of the prisoners in his name.” She could not even respond to the gibe, not with the screams of the maimed man ringing in her ears. “Edward would kill them.” “Not if he has any sense.”

“What do you mean?” “I mean that if Oslac can be prevented from sacking and burning everything in sight, the entire countryside is set to rise with Edward when he gets here. I think a magnanimous royal gesture from him is going to have far more effect than six heads.” If that were true…if such a thing were possible. The poised, arrogant figure and the cold voice of the Englishman seemed to mock her. “He would not do it.” “My money is on it.” The irony in his voice was unmistakable and the thought occurred to her that for someone who was here on loan he had been rather high-handed in taking prisoners off his commander. “Edward’s goal is the same as his father’s, a peace that lasts.” The irony was quite gone from his voice. She thought of the English King Edward’s father, Alfred of Wessex, the one called “the Great,” the one who had stopped the advance of her people. She could not see his eyes for shadows. “Unlike Oslac,” said Liefwin the Mercian, “Edward is a king.” He used the word dryhten, which could also mean war leader. “He will do what is best.” The handsome face swam out of the dimness and the irony was back in full force. “Understanding and forethought are to be preferred in every case. That should be the duty of kings. And thanes. I thought you knew Beowulf off by heart.” He picked up the still-damp cloak. She watched him, so perfect, so seemingly untouchable, as he crossed to the door. He paused. “Were you expecting me to behave like some Danish berserker? I would not sully my hands so. Such people do not deserve to walk on middle earth and they would not if I found them or any of their like.” She turned her head away, in case he saw, in case he could read what was inside it. Surely it would not be beyond those cold blue eyes to do so. She heard the door shut. Such people do not deserve to walk on middle earth. They would not if I found them or any of their like. He knew there were so many things she had not told him. What would he do, Liefwin the Mercian? What vengeance would he not feel bound to take if he found out? If he suspected for one moment that the berserker was, had been, her husband?

Chapter Six T he next day, she made herself go outside.

Raw, cold air pinched her face and her fingers, and she had to hold her skirts high out of the mud. It was going to rain. She made sure she had her back to the ruin of the town and then she looked up. She expected the brawling rabble of three days ago, but it was…orderly. Men moved between the straggle of buildings with an air of purpose. They called to each other in Liefwin’s accent. Someone laughed. It seemed impossible after so much destruction and so much hell. She lifted her gaze higher, across to the shadows of the distant woods where Ragnar had died. Was that dark fastness still crawling with the fugitives who had managed to gain its shelter? She did not know. How would she ever get away? And she had to, as soon as possible, before…her name. Among the men’s foreign voices, someone had called her name. Liefwin. But it was not. It was Ceolfrith, the loyal henchman. He looked almost furtive. “In here.” She was hauled into a small dim room with nothing but benches and a bed. Her eyes widened and then she saw that the bed was already occupied. “Do not worry. Alfwin cannot hear us, poor lad.” “Alfwin? The lord’s cousin?” Watching my cousin struggle with death. The bitter words seemed to strike at her out of the air, driving her feet forward, toward the bed. She looked down and stifled a scream. It was what Liefwin would look like if he were dead. Behind her, something moved. A dense, hulking shadow tilted crazily down the wall, uncanny, death-dark. It fell across the ash-pale face before her and she felt the small hairs rise on the back of her neck, the way they did when only one person was near. The amulet round her neck dragged like lead, as though it would force her head down, as though it had the power, as though it still held the life force of its owner. But that was impossible. Its owner was gone from this world forever. The dead were dead. They could no longer harm anyone. Except draugar. They were never dead. They were shadows that— “What is it?” She blinked and found the familiar bulk of Ceolfrith standing beside her. The grotesque shadow he had cast across the bed solidified into something quite ordinary. The arrangement of light and shade on the pale face of the warrior lying in front of her changed and she saw how young he was, the strong structure of the man’s features stretching the rounded flesh of the boy. He was not so very like Liefwin after all, just the

bright hair and the wide cheekbones, perhaps. It was…it was a much more open face than Liefwin’s. The muscles in her neck unclamped. “Will he live?” “If you had asked me that yesterday I would have said not, but now, maybe. It is Liefwin I want to know about, not Alfwin. Perhaps you could tell me what is wrong with him.” “Me? Why should I know…” She stopped. She was supposed to be the lord Liefwin’s trull and bed companion. “Why do you not talk to him yourself ?” she snapped. “For pity’s sake, woman, if I could talk to Liefwin, would I be asking you?” Of course not. Who would ask the opinion of a Danish bed warmer? He was as bad as his master. Except…except he was worried, miserably so. She clenched her teeth. What was this? A conspiracy to make her feel sorry for Saxon marauders? Mercian marauders? She would not. She did not. There was a faint groan from the bed. Ceolfrith’s gaze flicked toward it. “Looks so like Liefwin. Like Liefwin used to look before…” Before what? “Do you know how old Liefwin was when his father was killed?” No, and I do not care. “Killed?” But she knew the answer before it came. “By Viking raiders.” She glared at him. “Not six winters. It was me that was like a father to him even though he had enough kin. He was a good lad, for all he was too strong and too clever by half.” She could imagine too clever by half, but her mind balked at the thought of Liefwin as a five-year-old running around with muddied knees. And no father. “We used to have some terrible arguments,” said Ceolfrith, with what she could only describe as wistfulness. “I was hard on him, but you have to be when someone is going to be in charge of people and is as strong as he is.” For strong substitute arrogant and coldhearted. “Perhaps it was too much. But I wanted to teach him to think.” Ceolfrith kicked some nonexistent debris under the bed. “I succeeded.” Understanding and forethought are to be preferred in every case. You would have done better to teach him to feel. Her lip curled. “And now he repays you by not bothering to speak to you?”

“It is not the lad’s fault.” But she had lost patience with such sentiment. She did not see who else’s fault it could be. It was hardly likely to be Ceolfrith the misty-eyed retainer’s. “It is nothing extraordinary,” she snapped. “Six broken ribs, I would say. Perhaps he should not have been so busy sacking the town.” “What?” “Bruising,” she relented. “It must be, or he would be in a worse state than his cousin by now, surely. It pains him and sometimes he seems to find it hard to breathe. But,” she added at the sight of Ceolfrith’s face, “he is not coughing up blood and he certainly doesn’t seem to think it is something anyone needs to be concerned about.” Particularly not someone who brought him up. “I do not know why he has to make such a mystery about it.” “I do—” “Ceolfrith, have you seen…” They both started. They must have been too deep in their own thoughts to hear the door. “Oh, I am sorry,” said the newcomer, coming to a crashing halt in the doorway. “I did not realize…” He was a large young man with bright red hair and freckles, clad in a byrnie. He obviously knew she was his lord’s foreign bed warmer because he looked at her with that avid curiosity that made her skin crawl. “Later, Cerdic,” said Ceolfrith, “just—” But she did not stop to hear the rest of it. She did not want to hear anything else Ceolfrith had to say and she had nothing to say to him. The carrot-headed youth grinned at her with gap teeth. She picked up her skirts and surged past him, out into the cold daylight. The folds of her cloak brushed across his chain mail. But she did not deviate from her path by a hairbreadth and he jumped back with what might have been another apology, but she did not stop to hear. She had to get away from the turmoil of her thoughts. She crashed past two more idiots in chain mail. They stared after her like the gaptoothed redhead. She surged round the corner, out of their sight, anywhere she could be on her own and not plagued by Mercians.

She would bar the door of the bower and bury herself in eternal darkness if she had the slightest hope that it could keep a man like Liefwin out. If it would give her peace. If — She heard his voice, unmistakable this time. He was shouting. The way he had shouted at her when she had suggested he might let her go to Skaldford to collect a nonexistent ransom. A shudder took her as she remembered the force of that. Her shoulders sank closer against the cold damp bulk of the wall behind her. The wind whipped at her cloak, shadows tugged at its flailing edges and she realized the desperate urgency of her steps had taken her in entirely the wrong direction. “Colchester could have been taken,” yelled the scourge of the Essex Danes. “I could have done it.” She imagined how his face would look, just as she had seen it, with the fires that lay beneath that frozen surface shockingly visible. “The fortress could have been ours by now, just like this town.” The voice had an utter, blood-freezing confidence. Memory took her further back, to the moment of bottomless panic when every defender of this town had realized they were lost. The moment had had a hideous inevitability of its own. After the first shock of disbelief had come the growing, numbing awareness of just how unstoppable, how terrifyingly competent the assault had been. She thought she knew, now, where that competence had come from. “Nonsense,” said another voice, attempting to counter, drawing out the shape of the word in the heavy-toned speech of Wessex. “Nonsense,” it said again. It spoke louder, blustering to cover the unease, and she knew without even seeing the speaker that he had been favored with his own glimpse of the fires beneath. “We needed time after the battle…” Anger gave the voice a sharper edge, volatile and full of aggression, the kind of anger that sprang quickly and willfully, and so was all the more dangerous. “Time for what?” Liefwin’s voice in answer sank back into ice, black ice that had its own danger. The sort that made knots out of her insides, the sort to be avoided at all costs. But her feet drew her closer toward the open window, the open door round the side of the building. Because she could no longer make out Liefwin’s words, only the ice. “…wholly wrong…” Her shoe caught a small stone. “…lose people’s support…” She held still but the stone wavered, skittered into a ditch with a tiny smacking noise. “…not just raiding parties. Something outside the walls of this town that…” Her heart thudded.

If only she could hear. What outside the walls? What raiding parties? Where? And if there were, how would she ever get through them, ever get away to where she might be safe? The Wessex man protested, muffled, indistinct, mumbling against Liefwin’s cracking ice. She eased farther forward. “Dead,” said Liefwin, “all of them. So that you would now know mercy existed.” Her hands tightened on the roughness of timber. Her skin crawled. “I will not just stand aside and do nothing.” She jumped. His voice was suddenly so close, beside the door. She heard the heaviness of booted feet, fast, angry. She clutched at her windblown cloak, twisted. “My men will find these raiders, these Vikings, these Danes. They will never escape.” The chill of the words cut through the thickness of the wall between them, inside her skin. She sprang for the concealment of the next building. But she had left it too late. She heard the footsteps in the open air. She had nowhere to go. She turned round. “What the—” It was not Liefwin. “By all the saints…” Small brown eyes sunk in too much flesh, a scraggly beard, nondescript hair, massive flesh. Not particularly tall, just massive. Gold. Laughter. He saw her and he laughed, the man from Wessex. “What a little prize.” His hand moved. She actually saw it move but it was not his hand that caught her, just above the elbow, in a jangle of heavy gold. “Sigrid. Here? How…how opportune.” She looked up. At Liefwin’s eyes. They held hers and they sought something out of her eyes. She did not know what. All she knew, all she read, was that the anger was still in him, too, and behind it a terrible frustration. It was quite different from the other man’s anger. It was controlled, by some ruthless exertion of willpower. But that was not the only difference. It was different because Liefwin was different. Everything, but everything inside him was directed to the purpose his mind chose to give it. “Let me take you back.” Of course. The prisoner had stepped out of her cage, had gone out of her allotted sphere, was wandering around the enemy camp as though she had a will of her own. The pressure of his grip on her arm increased, not exactly punishing, just inexorable, drawing her away, toward the sunlight pooling round the door, toward him. Her feet moved.

“Saint Birinus! That is never your—” She missed the rest, because Liefwin spoke, in his ice voice, and her feet were moving down the path they should have taken, toward the bower. She did not know the exact words that were said because she could not bear to hear herself described as she was, in that flat Saxon drawl. Not even in Mercian. Particularly not in Mercian. Not from his lips. But he was drawing her away and there was no room in her mind to think of it. The only thing she could think of was the touch of his hand on her arm. She could feel each separate finger through her clothes. She spared one glance for the other man nearly hidden by the deep-blue bulwark that was Liefwin’s shoulder. He was standing in the mud staring after her. She felt as though she could sense his gaze through her shoulder blades all the way back to the bower. “Who was that?” Liefwin shut the door. The bolt clicked home. “Do you want to know?” Yes. No. She did not know. She just had to say something. The scourge of the Essex Danes, close up, standing over her while she sat at the little table inside four close walls was too much. “Why not?” “What were you doing outside?” Talking to your loyal retainer because you will not, said her mind. Introducing myself to your dying cousin. Not a single word would come out. “Sigrid?” She knocked over the mead flask by accident. “I wanted air. I did not realize it was forbidden to step outside the door.” She tried to keep her voice firm, but she was already on her feet, mopping up the mead by reflex. Ragnar would have flattened her by now. Mead was expensive. She could not get it mopped up fast enough. It dribbled over the edge of the table. The cloth was soaked. It smelled sweet, pungent. Too sweet, too pungent. Too much. It was not her mead. It was not her expense. It was not even the Mercian’s. It was plunder. Sack and ruin, now endlessly going on somewhere outside the town until the scourge of the Danes stopped it. She flung the soaking cloth at the wall and the scourge of the Danes caught it before it could strike the bright tapestry, quite absentmindedly, by working out where it would land

and how fast it would fall and in which direction. He was not even trying. She sat down again. “You do not have to tell me who that man was,” she said. “I do not want to know. I do not see how it can possibly matter.” She sounded childish. She was so furious with herself for letting weakness show. Her hands were not steady. The mead cloth hissed in the fire pit, a shadow moved, collected itself into the savage shape of the Mercian beside her. “That was Oslac. Commander of this army. Vaguely related, in a way that no one but he can remember, to the High King Edward of Wessex. He is an idiot.” She blinked. Oslac. Oslac who wanted the six prisoners Liefwin held. Oslac who stood back and allowed looting and rape and pillage after the battle. Mead fumes rose out of the flames. Flames. Flames all round her. “I remember now,” she said. “I remember you said that to me when I thought we were all going to die in the fires of the world’s end. You said it was because of an idiot.” “Yes.” There was a breath of hesitation and then skin, mead-damp, warm beyond compare, touched hers. As though it had a will of its own, like compulsion. But once it touched, it settled. No half measures, just assurance, so full of purpose, always. “I have never heard anyone speak like you.” She thought of Ragnar the Wolfcoat and what would have happened if one of his men, someone like Harek perhaps, had spoken openly just so. Or even if someone as invincible as Ragnar had spoken so of some jarl or king. But thoughts of retribution did not seem to affect Liefwin of the clear, steady eyes. “Are you not…wary.” She had enough sense to substitute another word for afraid. “Even a little wary of what power that man, that Oslac, has if he is in command?” “No.” Her eyes sought his face. Such coolness. “Are you not wary, not afraid of anything?” The face did not change, but it was odd how eyes so bright blue could go quite dark in an instant. Black. “Not anymore. Except—” “How enviable.” “Nay, do not envy me that, Sigrid. It is no boon.” “It seems so to me.” Shivers crossed her spine. “There is so much in the world eager to do harm and now there are wolves howling outside the walls—” She cut herself short. She did not want him to know she had been

slinking outside his door, standing there, deliberately listening to all that he said to his commander. “Wolves?” Her gaze turned away, fixed on the flames in the hearth. But their warmth could not reach her and she shuddered because Ragnar was in her mind, would not leave it. She had not meant to think of him, only of the unknown raiding party. But Ragnar would not go. His memory hung between them like a death shade, visible only to her. “People can be wolves.” The words seemed to force themselves past the dryness of her lips. “Human wolves? Why do you say that? What do you mean?” His voice was sharp and the hand touching hers seemed to vibrate with a sudden tenseness, but she could not look at him, only at the heart of the hearth whose warmth could not reach her. “Berserkers?” Her hand clenched. At least it would have done, but his stopped it, quite deliberately, so that his fingers interlaced with hers and she could not move. It could have been a response to the betraying sign of her fear or it could have been the physical counterpart of the sharpness in his voice. This time she did not dare look up. She hardly dared breathe. She tried to fight the tightness out of her body, because he would feel it through the helpless bond of her hand. “You are afraid, are you not? You were afraid before, when they came to get me for the victory feast and someone howled like the wolf-mad. You were terrified.” She bit her lip. The urge to blurt it out. To tell him exactly why she was afraid and exactly what her particular wolf-mad husband had done was almost overpowering. But she could not. He had made it so clear to her what he thought of the things her husband had done. He hated it. He was fast on the path of vengeance. That hatred, that stone-hard contempt would fall on her. He had every reason. So she suppressed it all and her voice said only, “It is because I have seen what they can do. We all have. The whole town has.” The whole town had landed in destruction because of it. There could be no doubt in her mind now about that. She could say it. Common knowledge. It was all she could say, and the only warmth left in the coldness was the Mercian’s hand touching hers. She thought he would speak, question her further—she even heard him draw breath. But he did not. His hand, incredibly and beyond the limits of imagination, closed gently for one instant around hers. She thought she would never forget that touch as long as she

lived, never be able to survive without it. But it slid away. His hand hovered for an instant above her skin, so close she could sense its touch in her mind. So infinitely far beyond her reach. She wanted to clutch at it. But she could not. Because of who he was. And then the hand withdrew and she was left with nothing. Her breath scratched in her throat. “Do sorrows never end?” The words burst out. Like an accusation, with all the force of despair, not just for the hopelessness of her situation now, but the despair that had crawled with deadly strength beneath the surface of her life, ever since she had grown old enough to understand what life was. Her shoulders hunched and she glanced up, because she expected some reaction to that. It was there, in the wide darkness of his eyes. But it was not the bitter cold of his anger. It was something else, something she recognized by instinct. It was a raw, mirror image of her own despair. Then it was gone, suppressed so quickly she might only have imagined it. Because there was nothing she could see now but the relentless shield of his will. But she knew she had judged aright. Because judgments like that arose not from knowledge, not from skill, but from recognition. “There is no end, is there?” she said out of the dragging weight of her life. “I do not know.” She recognized the weariness in his words, saw how the whole fierce unsparing power of his mind was summoned up to push that aside. “All that is given to us is to do what we can with the strength we have.” “And if we have no power to do so?” Her gaze was caught in his, just as her mind was caught by that resolve. “We all have power over our own deeds.” It was terrible, the way he said that, the look in his eyes. “I do not know,” she said, “that that is true. There are others who have their part in shaping out lives. No one is isolated, whatever choices we make.” “Yet our choices are still our own.” His eyes, those eyes that saw and thought too much, pinned her, as though he could see inside her head, right through to the deepest parts inside, to where Ragnar’s death shade lurked and the shades of all those other deaths her husband had caused.

“I cannot see an end to this. Not for me.” He did not say anything else. She did not reply. Because there was nothing she could say. He held her gaze a moment longer and then he stood up. His cloak swirled. Gold flashed. He went outside and she watched him go. Watched until he was long beyond her sight. Watched the space where his body had been. Watched the very air that he had breathed. She buried her head in her hands. She was so tired. But there was no rest. And no other choice but one. She had to get away.

Chapter Seven H ow? The four walls of her prison would suffocate her. Sigrid’s feet paced the room in everdecreasing circles. Everything jumbled in her head: the burning horror of the town, Liefwin, the pallid face of Alfwin the child warrior and the death shadow over it, Ragnar. Ragnar and the screaming man. Ragnar forcing compliance on a whole town for the blood lust he craved. Ceolfrith’s worried face. Liefwin. Liefwin’s touch. Liefwin who never stopped thinking. Liefwin whose father had been killed by Vikings. Liefwin who was on the path of vengeance. Liefwin who never, never rested. Liefwin with the cold heart and the warm, warm body. She tried not to remember yesterday in this room. How it had felt when she had laid her hand on that solid knee and touched that muscular arm hung with gold. It had been pretence. She did not want Liefwin in that way. She did not want any man. They were vile. Pain and sorrow had no ending. It was beyond anyone’s deeds or anyone’s choice to change that, whatever he said. She remembered the weariness in his voice that had underlain the unceasing determination he so fiercely believed in. She thought of his wounds. Her hands balled into fists. She did not feel sorry for him. Her choice was made. Anything else entertained in her mind was madness. She had to get away. Now. But she had nothing. Nothing except what she could loot in her turn. The silver-chased cups and the silver-backed mirror were worth most. If she could only pilfer just one of her captor’s arm rings she could make her way to the ends of the earth. Back to Denmark if she wanted to. Back to a family who did not want her.

She dropped to her knees beside the two chests in the corner that held the Mercian’s possessions. Locked, and far too heavy for her to carry. She ran her hand over the nearest, so beautifully carved, a cross in the middle. Her hand traced its outline. Liefwin was English, that was naturally what he believed in. If only she knew more about it than what she had picked up from her Saxon neighbors. The new Way held such comforting thoughts. Thoughts. She must think. If she was going to survive, she needed food and more clothes than she had and anything she could get her hands on that was portable and salable. The moon was waxing. Tomorrow night there might be enough light to make her way, and still enough shadows to hide in. Surely one person could evade whatever evil lay beyond the walls. The storm that had been gathering out of the cloudy, windblown sky hit. She could hear what sounded like hail drum against the roof. If only it were possible to steal a horse. She would look at how they were kept. She came to the conclusion that it would be easier to subdue the whole of Britain single-handedly than to steal anything off Liefwin. She had made two forays, one after dark in a freezing rain that should have kept all of Liefwin’s churls and hearth companions where they belonged, beside the hearth. It had not. She was watched. Guarded. She might not actually be kept in fetters, but it came to the same thing. She could not move without some Saxon oaf breathing down her neck. Liefwin the clutch-fisted was not going to let one pile of ransom money, however paltry, escape him. When he came back, she was sewing, not fine clothes for seducing the unseducible, but thick, solid clothes for surviving autumn in the rain. Hail. She could hear it. The door shut with a bang. His thick cloak was black from the rain. Water streamed off his rain-darkened hair. That was surely not a small lump of white ice on his shoulder. It was a hailstone. It fell off and began to melt on the floor. “Lord?” She did not know what to expect after all that they had said. Coldness, perhaps, to match the traces of hail that still clung to his cloak.

Their choices, such as they were, had been made long ago. Their feet trod paths that were quite different. Quite set. “You are soaking. You must be…” frozen. There might be anger left over from yesterday’s disastrous attempt at seduction. There might be anger left over from finding her running loose round the camp while he was discussing with his commander the next step in King Edward’s campaign of conquest. Reconquest. There might be suspicion. There might be…there might be the terrible destructive weariness that seemed to dog not just her footsteps but his. On their quite separate paths— “Liefwin?” She had used his name. What on earth had she used his name for? He looked at her. His face was white, dead white, no trace of its habitual color. It looked like his cousin’s face. The chill prickling of dread stroked the back of her neck. The light from the oil lamp threw his shadow across the tapestried wall. Dark, moving. She got to her feet and her sewing fell to the floor. “You look as though you have seen a ghost,” he said. “No!” He frowned, because it was far too vehement a reply and she wondered whether that would be enough to call down his wrath on her head. But he said nothing else. He moved into the light of the fire. His strong fingers reached up to unpin the amethyst brooch at his shoulder. He was not very handy at it. The solid fingers fumbled with an awkwardness that was painful to watch. Would he never manage it? She was not about to offer her assistance after last night’s stupidity over seduction. She picked up her sewing and shook bits of dried meadowsweet and woodruff off it. She looked up just as the momentous task of undoing the brooch pin was accomplished. He swung the sodden cloak off his shoulders. He was still soaking. The tunic and trousers clung to every last muscle of his body. The bone needle stabbed into her finger through two thicknesses of cloth. She swore. In Danish. At least he would not understand it. She clutched at her finger underneath the cloth and he glanced across at her but made no comment. Then, “I should get changed.”

It might help. Puddles of melted hail were forming round his feet. The stylish shoes were probably ruined. He took a step forward. You could see the shadows of the muscle in his thighs through the soaking tunic which clung to the soaking trousers which clung to his soaking flesh. The ruined shoes stumbled. She dropped her sewing for the second time. “The blue tunic and the gray trousers are dry and there is some mulled ale on the hearth. I…” Mulled ale flavored with herbs and spices, the weapon of failed seduction. Yesterday suddenly thrummed between them like ringing harp strings. She got a look colder than the hail that beat against the roof and found its way hissing into the flames of the fire. She snatched up the fresh tunic and trousers. “Dried by the maid, not me. I am sure you can accept them without the slightest danger,” she said thrusting the clothes in his direction. He took the other end of the tunic. A droplet of water fell off the end of his streaming hair onto the back of her hand. So cold. It stabbed her flesh like cutting ice. She jumped. Her hand slid down the tunic until it touched him. She let out another Danish oath. Nobody could be that cold and still be alive. “For pity’s sake,” she snapped in English, “come over to the fire and take your clothes off.” It was a second before the realization of what she had said hit her. Her jaw dropped. How could she have… But he laughed. It had the force of a small miracle. She had never imagined him capable of such a reaction. Neither perhaps had he, because the laughter faded under her stunned gaze into a breathtaking smile that yet held behind it the uncertainty of something long unused, or perhaps long forgotten. The oath, this time, was only in her head, but it lost none of its force for all that. If he possessed such a smile, why did he never use it? It vanished even as she looked at it, but a little of it lingered, perhaps, in his eyes. “It is all right,” he said. “You do not have to tell me you did not mean that as it sounded. But all the same, I think it is an even better approach than last night.” Her face flamed. But he did not seem angry as she had expected and the softness lingered surprisingly in his eyes. She wondered whether he was just too exhausted and perhaps too ill to bother with fury. She remembered the glimpse she had had, or imagined, of the savage power of his weariness that morning.

She thought he looked ill. She thought he looked like Alfwin. She shivered and pushed the thought of black shadows aside. And of despair. If he wanted to call a temporary truce she could do with it. Perhaps it really was not possible to face sorrows without end. She was simply too tired. Too tired to deal with anything more complex than wet clothes. So she concentrated on things as they were and, making a derisive noise to show that she was not afraid of him, she inquired, “Are you going to die of cold while you stand there flattering yourself ?” But he was an impossible man to put down, and the remains of the unexpected smile kindled again, making her face burn hotter. She let go of his clothes and turned away to look for some hot water, putting as much space as she could between them. But the warmth seemed to seep down from her face and her neck deep inside her. She found the cloths, a jug of steaming water and a bronze bowl. She risked the smallest of glances in his direction before bringing them across. The sword belt was slung over the back of the chair. He was peeling off the wet tunic. He did not know she was looking at him. She saw with no disguise the painfulness of his movements. She could not understand why so much had to be hidden. Why he did not at least trust in Ceolfrith. Even if they had had one of their fondly remembered arguments, surely it could be forgiven in one who loved him with the unstinting love of a father. So cold. “Cloths,” she said, before his hand could move to the trousers, “and hot water.” “It is all right. I can get it.” “I have already done it.” He half turned. She did not react by so much as the movement of a muscle to the hideous mess that was his left side. She tried to gauge, without appearing to look at him, whether it was better or worse. Ceolfrith would never believe that this was the only glimpse of Liefwin the coldhearted that she was likely to get. She held out the cloths. While you could hardly say it looked better, it did look clean. Perhaps it was the length of time he seemed to spend out in the rain, but the area of crushed skin in the middle of the bruising did not look elf-shot. She handed over the water jug and the bronze bowl and her gaze was caught not by the hideous bruising but by the creamy skin and the light covering of golden hair across the undamaged part of his chest, the way the compact muscles moved.

She looked away and became very busy with the mulled ale. The strange warmth seemed to have spread right through her body, radiating outward from the pit of her stomach to the tips of her fingers. She gave him a long time to get dressed while she concentrated on getting the strange and tingling feeling of warmth under control. When she turned, he was dressed again, although his tunic was unbelted and his feet were bare. He was dragging a comb through his tangled hair with a ruthlessness that made her wonder how many teeth it would have left by the end of the process. “Here, drink this.” She held out the heated cup. He stepped across to take it. His whole body was shaking. No one should be that cold. No one should drive themselves into such a state. She understood that much if nothing else. Right or wrong, friend or enemy no longer seemed to matter. On a practical level it was something she could deal with. He swallowed the ale with a satisfying speed and she refilled the cup. Perhaps he was not shivering quite so much. “Drink the rest of that and sit down. No, not there—” and when he gave her a startled look “—closer to the fire.” She did not say lord and she did not say please. She just looked at him. He stared back. “Anything else?” he inquired with a certain understated challenge. She took it up instantly. “Yes. Turn the chair round a bit so the heat can dry your hair.” She caught up the heavy, wet swath as he moved and fanned it out over the back of the chair. “What are you doing?” There was no amusement, now, only sharpness. “Being more practical than you,” she retorted so that there could be no possible misunderstanding that she was trying to seduce him again. She was no longer afraid of him. Not right now. In fact she felt rather light-headed and daring. She slid down beside the chair and touched his naked foot. It moved just as she had expected and she caught it deftly and held it fast between her two hands so that he could not free it without either treading on her or kicking out at her. She did not think he would do either, not unless he really lost his temper. She was right, but his voice when he next spoke told her that it had been a rather dangerous ploy after all. “Sigrid, just what do you think you are about?” She took a breath and then she plunged on with it.

“I am not thinking at all. I do not want to.” She could not explain it, not even to herself. It must just be that a person could only take so much of disaster and loss and uncertainty and sheer…aloneness before they had to seek something else. Or at least pretend to themselves that there was something. “You said right at the beginning,” she persisted, “that in these four walls there was only us, nothing else, and we could do as we wanted. I am doing what I want.” She knew it did not make sense. Perhaps it was just cowardice on her part. She could not face what had happened and what her future held, and just for tonight, she wanted to shove it away somewhere unseen where it could not torment her. She tried glancing up at the face above her, but it was impossible to read. The smile was no longer there, although she did not think there was antagonism. She took a breath and added carefully, “But it is as you said, there are no expectations.” There was complete silence. Perhaps she would have things her way. She would soon know. Her hands moved experimentally across his flesh. Nothing. Her touch firmed, moving from the strong arch of his foot to the thickly padded heel. But if the frozen foot did not pull itself out of her grasp, neither did it relax. If it was not precisely a victory, at least the truce seemed destined to last. Her fingers moved with greater gentleness along the more delicate bones in the top of the foot and then down toward the toes. His flesh chilled her fingers. “If you want to get chilblains,” she said on the chance that there might be a remnant of the amusement still left in the frigid depths of his mind, “just carry on as you are doing.” “I am sure I already have them. What do you think I do? Come home to this every night?” The remnants of amusement were still there. She hid a smile. I am sure you could, she thought. If you were moved to allow it, I am sure all the English trollops would be falling over themselves. Her hands moved faster and with more confidence and for no reason at all the foot suddenly relaxed. She looked up. He sat with his head thrown back and his eyes halfclosed. The closed eyes and the pale face. For an instant she lost the safe warmth of the room. “Do you believe there are such things as draugar?” she blurted out. The blue eyes opened, startled.

Why on earth had she voiced that, and so abruptly? “As what?” She did not know the English word for them. “The undead. They walk. Draugar seek vengeance. They are usually round burial grounds but…” If they had been killed on a battlefield and not properly buried, who knew what they might do or where they might roam. “Oh. Something like orc-neas? No.” There it was, just like that, complete confidence. She was aware of a twinge of envy at such single-mindedness. “Why on earth would you be thinking of such things?” Because of you. You and your cousin. Because your cousin is on what might be his deathbed, and because you behave in a way that is likely to drive you there and I do not know why. Because of shadows. Because I am still afraid of my dead husband. Draugar seek vengeance. “No reason.” “No reason?” His hand landed on her shoulder. It was still half-frozen. She could feel its coldness seeping through her dress, but it was alive and he was no longer shaking and there was, perhaps, just the faintest tinge of color in his face. The hand, despite its coldness, felt…“What do you think happens to the dead?” she asked, because more of his single-minded conviction was what she craved. There was no hesitation at all in the answer. “They are dead and their souls rest in a place marred by no sadness until they are called on the Last Day.” A place marred by no sadness. “Do you really believe that?” “I have to.” She was touching him and this time she felt a faint shiver. But then his hand moved from her shoulder to touch the nape of her neck in a gesture of such unforced tenderness as she would not have believed him capable of. The hand felt blissful. She might as well admit it to herself. Blissful. He was so close and so large and so unafraid of the things that frightened her. She was even favored with a faint return of the devastating smile.

“If you had had as many sermons from Eathelward the priest as I have, you would not dare believe otherwise.” He did not really know why she had asked, but he had said what she most longed to hear, and it was inexpressibly comforting to have his smile and his touch. She picked up the other foot and began to massage the life-giving flow of his blood back into it. The foot was such a pleasing shape, big and solid, but so well formed, so free of marks. But then he would always have had the best shoes of the best leather made just for him. The arch held a particular fascination. It did not look as though it could hold up anything so large and heavy as him but it did, without the slightest ill effect. It was like magic. She traced her thumb across it. He did not move. She glanced up again, carefully, so as not to dislodge the thawing hand which he had forgotten to move from the hollow where her neck met her shoulder. The eyes were really shut this time. She was not sure whether he actually slept, or whether he just floated in that dreamlike state between sleeping and waking. His body was totally relaxed and she thought he might, after all, have drifted over the edge into sleep. His skin had taken on a golden glow that might have been largely a reflection of the firelight but which was nevertheless reassuring. Little strands of his hair were beginning to dry, lifting away from the heavy mass in a nebulous cloud. The foot in her hand became slowly heavier. It was an unconscious movement, something he could not help, and it brought a small savage thrill inside her, as though that slight, involuntary movement was a chink she had made in the armor of his cold indifference. His flesh pressed against her fingers, quite warm now, and intimately alive. Hers. She held it, wrapped close in her hands, as long as she wanted, until its heaviness made her arms ache. She let it go at last, very gently, so as not to disturb him. His hand still rested on her shoulder. Outside, the wind howled its will and the rain beat against the walls. It was so warm beside the fire and he was so warm. She reached up and plucked the empty ale cup out of his hand. No reaction. He really did sleep. His hand slid across her shoulder when she moved, like a caress. It was not by his will. It was quite unconscious, yet it had the power to make her shiver, not with cold but with a feeling that arose from the power of the unknown warmth simmering deep inside her. She caught the hand just as it reached the very edge of her shoulder. Warm. Warm, now right through. She pressed it gently against her and the warmth seemed to melt her entire body into a feeling of yearning that was like pain.

Her breath caught and she held the hand tighter. He did not move. He did not know what she did. She slid the hand round to touch her bare skin, above the neckline of her underdress. She felt the shape of the solid fingers against her skin, the flat palm, the thick firm rise of flesh at the base of his thumb. It made the yearning need well up inside her until she thought she would die of it. She twisted her neck, pressed her face against his hand. Her lips parted, sought that firm, solid mound below his thumb, touched him. She felt him stir. She looked up in terror. If he woke, if he woke and found her like this, if she had to face those bright, fierce Saxon eyes…but he did not wake. His head moved against the chair, not conscious, not full of whatever bitter spirit it was that drove him so hard. She watched his face and it held her like a spell. That was the spell you could surrender to. That was his magic and she wanted him like this, just for this moment. All the dangerous force, all the unknown English thoughts of his mind buried, only the uncomplicated warmth left and the strength. The strength that had first saved her from her attackers. She wanted his comfort. The east wind hit the wall of the bower with a viciousness that threatened to flatten it. She wondered if it was ever possible to feel peace. If it was possible for her, if it was possible for someone like him, if it was possible for anyone. She shivered and her fingers clutched at his again. He did not wake and his hand stayed in hers. She was alone in the world and she had nothing. She moved closer toward him. Her body touched the solid shape of his leg. He slept. There was no one else here, only the two of them. She buried her head in the folds of the loose tunic that covered the swelling hardness of his thigh, just above the bent knee. They had each other and the world outside could rage in bitterness. She curled her arms around the solid curving shape of his calf muscle as though she was a small child and clung to it.

Chapter Eight I t was the cracking of a log in the hearth which woke her. She started in alarm and felt the same movement in the person she was leaning against. She blinked and tried to cudgel some coherent thought out of her sleep-fogged brain. What was she doing? Why was she…she looked up and saw the face of the Mercian. She gasped.

She saw his eyes widen and for an instant saw the same bewilderment that she felt, the same confusion, like waking from a dream. He was leaning back in the chair, his tunic disordered and open at the neck, his hand resting on her bare skin. She was curled up on the floor beside him. Her weight pressed against him and her arms were wrapped round his lower leg, like a little girl no taller than someone’s knee. Her eyes met his and there was no coldness. The blue eyes were hot, hot as the blue heart of the flame in the hearth. They burned her and she recognized the dangerous force that was in them, the age-old desire of men. Yet the desire in him sought a response from her that was equal in its searing heat. For one instant it was there. With no thought of the danger or the consequences, of who he was or what it meant. It was just there, at the most primitive level a woman faces a man. His hand, the hand she had placed on her own bare skin, moved across her flesh in the very caress she had tried to make counterfeit of. The heat scorched her. Her gaze dropped from his face to his hand. She watched the slow sureness of its movement. She watched her own flesh press against his and the heat inside threatened to consume her. “No…” The raw, desperate sound of her own voice brought her back to her senses. She looked at his hand. She thought of his strength. She remembered how much reason they had to hate each other. She did not want him, not really, not like this. What she had done before had been by her will, under her control. She could not face what he really was. What he might do. She lunged to her feet, scrambling away from him, blindly, colliding with the edge of the table with a force that brought another gasp. She clutched at the rough, solid wood and it bit into her hands. But the pain was a relief. It brought sanity. She had just done the most dangerous, stupid thing imaginable. She had never wanted a man in her life. It was vile, what men did. Something you had to endure and she was so lucky that Liefwin the Mercian had not wanted her. He had not, did not. Please say he did not. He would know it was a mistake. Just the shock of waking so suddenly, like coming out of a dream. It disordered your senses, nothing more. But she did not dare to look at him. Until she heard the door latch. That made her move. “What are you doing?” “Going out.” “Out?”

He shut the door again, closing out a frigid blast of rain-laden air. “I thought you might prefer it.” He turned his head and looked at her, not with the anger she expected, but with a kind of weary patience that made her feel like a child again. He just stood, perfectly dressed, belted tunic, fresh cloak, new boots, and waited. She watched him and knew it had all been of her imagining. Everything. Thoughts of warmth and comfort as much as thoughts of terrifying lust. It had all arisen from her weak, idiotic behavior. He must think she was simply moon-mad. Please let him think she was mad. She tried to get her thoughts into order, to say something sensible, not what rose out of her sick imaginings. She tried to speak to him as she had before, as though the truce between them still lasted. As though that moment of hideous revelation had not happened to her. “You should not be going now,” she said. “Not this late, in the middle of a storm. You are ill. You will kill yourself if you carry on like this.” “Hardly. I have a few things to sort out with Ceolfrith, that is all. I will be back later.” So coldly said. Only she who was the shaking, babbling, lame-witted fool. “It…it is not necessary for you to go because I…” She stopped and yet there was nothing in his eyes now to frighten her, just the habitual coldness and with it a weariness even he could not disguise. She had fallen asleep without intending it, just like him. He had known she had been sitting beside him and it was quite a natural accident that she should have leaned against him. He did not know what she had done or what she had thought while he was asleep. He need never know. And as for that moment of confusion when they woke, it had been nothing but her own foolish fears. He seemed to set no significance on it, not now. So surely she had enough confidence to retire behind her bed curtains with him in the room. After all, he was there at some time each night, while she slept, and he had not slaked himself on her yet. “It cannot be necessary,” she said again, trying to turn the emphasis away from the danger of what did or did not lie between them in this room toward the world outside. “You are ill. Ceolfrith will understand.” He turned right round. He leaned with his back against the door, his heavy, cloaked figure totally blocking it.

“Ceolfrith will understand, will he? What will he understand? What you have told him, perhaps?” And she realized what the intolerable confusion in her mind had betrayed her into saying. No. The denial sprang ready formed to her lips, just as it always had when she had done something to displease Ragnar. Self-defense. It was how you dealt with those who were stronger than you were. You lied and cajoled and cheated. “Yes,” said her voice. It did make the blue eyes flicker. He had obviously expected the denial just as she had. What on middle earth had made her tell the truth? She waited for the uncontrolled storm of wrath. “Perhaps you could explain that?” asked the one who had been taught to think but not to feel. His voice was very calm. She set her shoulders back. She found that she had the courage to meet his eyes squarely. She did not flinch, and it was actually a relief to be able to say exactly what you thought, on equal terms and hang the consequences. “Because he was so worried about you and I could not stand to see it. No one should have to be that worried about you just because you do not happen to want to speak to them, especially not someone like Ceolfrith, after all he has done for you.” “Is that what he said?” There was no change in the voice. Think. Think, do not feel. “Of course not. He cares about you too much.” “Yes. I know he does. That is why I did not tell him.” The words shocked. The shock should have been hers, but it was not. It was Liefwin the Invincible’s. The mask slipped for an instant and she saw it. He had not meant to say that. She, the useless piece of Danish ransom in waiting, had made him say it. “Perhaps you could explain that?” she asked in turn, with a calm just as dangerous as his. “It was in the battle for the town.” Something inside her flinched, even at the mention of that. But she listened and she watched him. She could not help it. “It happened near the end. Ceolfrith was…battle weary. All the men were. They have been here too long. Have fought for too long. They should have been back at their homes before now.”

She stared at his perfect English face. There was no mention of himself in that brief statement that said so much and implied so much more. No mention of his having been at war with her people for too long. No discernible trace of longing for his home. Just the opposite. Liefwin seemed to think of himself in some quite different category from the rest of his fellow men. I cannot see an end to this. Not for me. The words rang in her head. She had thought it was despair. Perhaps it was not. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps there was nothing more in the heart of her enemy but implacability. But she could not leave well enough alone. “What,” she insisted, as though this would give her some clue to the frozen wastes of his mind, “happened with Ceolfrith?” “Weariness can make people reckless. Ceolfrith got himself into some trouble. I got him out. That was when it happened. The wound.” He spoke not as though he had rescued someone he cared about from mortal peril, but as though he was explaining Ceolfrith’s behavior as one of the foibles of some species of being other than his own. “But…” Her mouth opened and shut. There was no clue there at all. There was nothing. “But—” she began again. “I could not see the point in telling him.” “You could not see the point? The man is worried sick about you. I have told you. He cares about you. That is the point…” Her words gave out under a silence that could have frozen the North Sea. More fool Ceolfrith, she thought, more fool him. What was it she had thought the first time she had set eyes on all the cold perfection of Liefwin standing in the torchlight? A face you could break yourself on. Just as well that she would never be such a fool. Just as well she would never wish to care for him. Just as well he was her enemy. “The fault,” she said, with a finality that was completely reckless, “is not with Ceolfrith. It is with you. Your coldness and your arrogance.” He did not react. Not in any way she could see. Well, she would make him react. She would make him see that it was his own fault.

“When I spoke to Ceolfrith, he told me no more than two sentences about your childhood. That was all I needed. The rest was obvious. It should be more than obvious to you. If you cannot recognize loyalty when it is staring you in the face, what sort of a dryhten,” she spit his own English word back at him, “are you?” That made his perfect mouth twist. But his eyes did not flinch from hers. “Ceolfrith knows exactly what sort.” And if he tells you that, thought Liefwin, I will probably kill him. The wind nearly tore the cloak off Liefwin’s back, the slanting rain stung his face, half blinding him. He shouldered his way through it, like knocking aside a living opponent. But it was not to the lighted communal building where Ceolfrith would be that he turned first. It was to the quiet room that held Alfwin. He would be asleep, doubtless, and everyone said he was not going to die, but still… It was only the servant who slept, curled up in the warmth of the fire, not Alfwin. He sat down beside the bed. “Alfwin? Why are you not asleep?” “Is there any ale left?” He looked at the tightly-drawn face. So it was that bad. He poured ale. “You do not have to lift me. I can—” “Don’t be stupid.” But it was harder than he had expected, harder than it should have been, surely. He did not think that he gave anything away, but he could see another protest forming on Alfwin’s lips. He forestalled it in the most direct manner to hand. “Swallow,” he advised, “before you drown. No, not that fast, or you will…choke,” he added as a quantity of ale landed on his sleeve. “S-sorry.” “I could get them to bring you some poppy—” “No. I am all right. Liefwin.” “What?” He settled Alfwin’s weight back against the bolster and tried not to let relief show. “You really are hurt, are you not?”

“What?” The hellcat Danish wench. It had to be. Who else had she been talking to and about what? He should not feel surprised. She had made it abundantly clear tonight what she really thought of him. So there was no reason why it should feel like the bitterest kind of betrayal when she lied to him, or if she broke his confidence, or when she tried to pretend she really wanted to share his bed. She had more than enough reason to hate him. He thought she did. “Do not be angry. It was just that I overheard Ceolfrith talking to that Danish girl you took.” Liefwin’s hand tightened on the empty ale cup until the carved pattern cut into his flesh. “I know why you did not tell Ceolfrith about your wound. You are always so—” There was nothing worse than praise that was not deserved. Liefwin’s voice cut across the word generous with the sharpness of a sword. “It is easier for me if people do not know, that is all. Particularly people like Oslac, for example,” he added more lightly. “So you can just keep your aledribbling mouth shut.” That brought a creditable attempt at a grin and then, “But it is not anything serious is it? I mean…” Yet another reason for keeping such things to yourself. People did not like their leader to have too many problems. It made them nervous. “It is just annoying, not serious at all.” And it was not. He could not understand why this time he should find it so difficult to carry on and do what had to be done. It was the Danish girl. It had no explanation and no reason, but ever since he had plucked her out of the disaster of the town, the entire landscape of his world had changed, and yet she had not done anything. Except seen through him, to every weakness he had. She knew what he was and she had said so. She had told him what everyone else was too afraid to say. She was able to say it because they were enemies. Utterly and inescapably. His past and hers forced that. And yet sometimes it seemed possible to believe it was not so. She was so beautiful, his reluctant prize for ransom. She fired his senses. Even when she argued with him. Even when, oh, sometimes they did not argue, even when they should. They were enemies and yet sometimes that truth had no meaning for them. They forgot, inside the four walls of that stranger’s bower, who they were. Just as he had said they should that first morning, without understanding what it might mean.

That was how it had started tonight. She had had no fear of him and no enmity. She had made him laugh, which he had not done for two years. She had offered comfort. And she had sought comfort from him. Which only went to show that she knew nothing at all. He shifted his weight against the wall. “Liefwin.” “Yes?” “That Danish girl…” The ale cup spun out of the tenseness of his hand and he spent a considerable time trying to pick it up off the floor. Perhaps he really had broken his ribs. “She is a piece of skirt that would heat any man’s blood is she not? We can all see why you would have taken her to warm your bed.” He straightened up. You did not smash your fist into the face of your sick cousin. It was not done. He put the ale cup down on the bench. He did not use any force at all, but something had already put the alarm into Alfwin’s eyes. He tried to move slowly and make his voice quite even. “I will not have her spoken of in that way. I thought I had made that clear. She is under my protection until I take her to her kindred at Shealdford.” “I am sorry. I did not mean to offend you.” “You have offended her. She has no one. She has lost everything she ever had and she has met it bravely. You ought to respect that.” He was aware, even as he said it, that he could sound like nothing more than a hypocrite, but he could not have let it go. “I am sorry. I did not think. Are you really going to take her all the way to Shealdford?” “Yes.” It is on the way to Tamworth, did you not know? “But it would be dangerous, surely. Is there a big ransom?” “She says so.” It was always possible to end a conversation dead if you used a certain tone of voice. “Why do you not try sleeping?” he added. “All right.” Liefwin gritted his teeth and tried moving his arm off the bed so that he could lean back again, but there was something stuck in his ale-soaked sleeve. It was Alfwin’s fingers. He stopped.

He was not sure that Alfwin even knew. The taut face had taken on the flushed look of fever. “Liefwin, when the king gets here…” Never admit you are afraid, that you are terrified that you might die, that you might never see your home and your family again. Not if you are on the path to glory. “It will all work out. Nothing will stop Edward this time. He will win and you will go home and they will be making up songs in your honor. Now shut up and go to sleep.” He did not allow anything but firmness and reassurance to touch his voice. He could feel Alfwin begin to relax. “You do not have to stay. I know you must have things to do.” It was quite a creditable attempt at sounding offhand. “A dozen things probably. But I thought I might finish your ale first while you are too feeble to prevent me.” “Ha. I shall know how to take my revenge later.” “Try it.” “Just wait,” sneered Alfwin. It was the way they used to speak, a long time ago, before everyone began to be so careful of him. He had that strange consciousness again that the world had shifted. But the world of a long time ago was gone forever. He did not bother with the ale. He left his damp sleeve where it was and watched Alfwin fade into unquiet sleep. But Alfwin’s image kept vanishing under another, a small, white face with wide smoky eyes, eyes that spoke…all sorts of things to him. He was a hypocrite. He did want to get the captive girl into his bed. That was all his desire, in every muscle and every pulsing drop of blood in his body. And when she had seen that, even though for one moment he had thought otherwise, she had recoiled from him in horror.

Chapter Nine I t was the gleam of gold that caught her eye. Sigrid blinked. The unknown thing glittered in the cool morning light, half-smothered in the rumpled folds of Liefwin’s empty bed. She slid across the room, fingers outstretched. But her hand stopped just short as she reached where he had slept.

Her gaze ran over the bed. The rumpled covers still held the faint remembrance of the shape of her captor’s body. Her stomach clenched. She remembered touching him when he slept. She remembered the gentleness of his breathing. Her whole body ached with the memory of his warmth. How still and quiet, how strong and tender he felt when he slept. She clenched her fists. Stupid. She had been stupid over that and the Mercian had despised her for it. She leaned forward. The glittering object was lodged in the small space where the mattress met the wall, as though it had fallen there and been overlooked. An arm ring? Her breath quickened. The arm rings were impossible wealth. Even Ragnar at the height of his luck had only boasted silver. No. It was oblong. She lifted it out. It was made of such filigree work as she had never seen. She turned it over. Its front was covered in finely wrought patterns, and winding through the riotous intricacy was the sinuous shape of some fabulous beast, a dragon, perhaps. Its smooth lines, the mind-numbing complexity around it were utterly and unmistakably English. Its eyes were made of garnets. The oblong fell open in her hand. A book. A scattering of ink marks like the traces left by birds’ feet unraveled under her eyes. Latin script. She had not even known it existed before she came to this land. She turned one thick, creamy parchment leaf. It had pictures, colored, in the margins and at the top of the page. She looked further. There was an arm, green, muscular and detached: a monster’s arm. Small splashes of bright red cascaded down the margin. It ended not in a conventional hand, but in a dragon’s claw: the claw of Grendel. It could be nothing else. Her eyes were damp. She remembered leaning over this bed, just as she did now, and touching a warm, white shoulder. She remembered making jokes in her desperation about Beowulf the monster slayer who tore off Grendel’s arm. She remembered sitting on the very edge of the bed, shaking inside with terror, and then realizing there was no need to. Something wet dropped on the page. What did she think she was about? Suppose the ink smudged? She turned the book over and shook it, and the coldness of the gleaming metal was hard against her palm. You did not cry over things just because they were beautiful, or because they belonged to people who were. You calculated precisely how much they were worth and you took your chances. Chances did not come twice.

She crossed to the door, grabbing her cloak on the way. She had nothing ready. It would be raining and cold and impossible to walk because of the mud. But she would not need anything else with this kind of wealth. She opened the door. Sunlight and a crisp, drying wind touched her face. It was warmer. She stepped outside. She had no food, no coins, not even a knife for protection. The woods are full of the remains of a routed army. Could she really get away now, in broad daylight? Just like this? Her feet felt as heavy as quern stones. She could not think straight. There was no one in sight. Except…Ceolfrith, across the yard. She ducked into the shelter of the nearest doorway and held her breath. He would go past, surely. He was getting closer. She stepped back into the room, clutching the loot under her cloak. Thief. The word scorched in her mind. Ceolfrith vanished— “Hello.” She nearly fainted. “Sorry. Did I startle you?” The voice came from behind her. She turned and her gaze fell on bright hair, a pale boy’s face with eye-catching cheekbones, a tense body lost in the dimness of a bed. “Are you all right, lady? Were you looking for Ceolfrith?” asked the lord Liefwin’s wounded cousin. “No! No, it is all right. I am all right. I just…” “Oh.” The pleasant, confused face cleared. The blue gaze focused past her. “You came with Liefwin.” She spun round. The book shot out of her hands. He was standing in the doorway, the sun glinting on hair longer and richer than Alfwin’s, lighting a face stronger and finer and more challenging. The book slithered halfway across to his feet. It landed garnet-side up. She could no longer see his expression because her gaze had fixed itself on the book.

“Keen on reading?” “Oh, yes,” she said through a dry throat, and then as though it was nothing at all to be found wandering at will in possession of more than her ransom, “it is Beowulf.” “With the three arms. Of course. Your favorite.” She remembered the naked brutal shoulders rising out of the bedcovers. He would kill her. “Three arms?” piped up the invalid, somewhere in the dimness behind her. “I do not remember that bit. I thought Beowulf had only two arms but the handgrip of…twenty men was it? Anyway, if that is your copy of it, would you take pity on a man dying of boredom and read to him?” “Perhaps the lady might oblige.” “Oh, would you? Could I have the monster fight? The one where they are all asleep in the hall and Grendel the Swamp-monster comes stalking up from the marshes…you know the one—” “Oh, the lady knows exactly.” He was using his polite thane’s voice, but underneath, if you knew how to listen, it had the bite of a steel blade. She crouched down to pick up the book at his feet. Her gaze took in the mud-splashed shoes and the solid muscle of his legs in the tight, dark gray trousers. She looked up from the heavy folds of his cloak, the jeweled waist, the wide expanse of his chest. The stone face. Somehow she got to her feet. “Well?” The book fell open in her hand. The black claw marks danced beneath her eyes, sharp as knife cuts. “I do not think that is it,” said Alfwin helpfully. “It must be farther back, surely.” She looked from the golden book to the gold rings at Liefwin’s wrists and it was not just fear that gripped her, but shame, hot and clammy. Not so much because she had tried to steal. A captive was entitled to seize whatever means she could to escape, surely. But because she did not know how to read. And she had lied about it. The gold bracelets moved and a handgrip that had the strength of twenty men and could probably slay monsters snatched the book out of her grasp.

She looked up at his face and saw that he had realized. Not just that she was trying to steal his book. No doubt of that existed. But he knew that she was so ignorant and so low that her only possible use of a book lay in the richness of its cover. He turned away from her and looked at his cousin. He would say that— “I will read you the monster fight, you pathetic nuisance. Just because Sigrid speaks English so well, you cannot expect her to toil her way through the copying of some obscure monk from Mercia. But—” the handgrip caught her arm, above the elbow “—I am sure she would like to stay and listen. Do sit down,” said the perfect thane. She sat, out of necessity, jammed on the wall bench, far too close to Liefwin, in the inadequate space left between him and the bed. She could not look at him. Alfwin grinned at her, utterly oblivious to the possibility that there might be anything wrong. She moved her own lips into the same odd shape. She could feel the solid mass of Liefwin’s thigh pressed against hers. She could feel the desperation growing deep inside her. She wanted to pull away, but she could not move without falling over onto the bed. “This will be really good,” whispered Alfwin. Sigrid forced a smile at the face, so like and so unlike Liefwin’s. Liefwin. He was reading out loud from the incomprehensible marks. About Grendel, the shadow walker. She looked round. She could not help it. Because the words were like something out of the otherworld, like the music of the harp made out of speech. Hopelessness and painful envy stabbed through her. To read such words. To know how to do it. To do it as though it was nothing. With so much ease and unconscious assurance. Stories were rare pleasures that relied on people’s memories and on being able to weasel your way into the audience around somebody else’s hearth to listen. Yet this one had been captured, stuck onto a piece of parchment, so that it could be revived whenever you felt like it. The power of that made her head spin. He turned a page. She watched reflected firelight dance on the gold book and the gold arm ring and the thick gold hair that almost, but not quite, hid his face. She watched his firelit profile and the movement of his lips and the faint flutter of his lashes as his eyes scanned to the top of the new page. Effortless.

Beowulf, the hero strong in thought, sprang off the page, took shape through Liefwin’s voice, through Liefwin’s clever mind. She could not tear her gaze away from his face, even though he was angry with her and he might sense she was staring at him and look up. But he did not raise his head. He kept on reading. He might have been as oblivious as Alfwin. Yet he was not. She knew that he was just as aware of her every movement, her every breath, as she was of his. But he gave no sign. He did not need to. They both knew it. It was always like that. It held them like a bond of iron. Was that why she had rushed out so blindly with the book, in a panic? Because she was afraid that if she delayed, if she so much as saw him again she would lose her resolve? She could not bear the thought. She looked away. But she could still feel the warmth of his thigh against hers. She tried to fix her attention on Alfwin. The boy’s eyelids drooped. She could see how much the strained body had relaxed just from Liefwin’s presence and the sound of his voice. She knew what it was to have Liefwin’s full attention, what an irresistible spell that could weave. She thought Alfwin drifted into sleep, just the way she had yesterday. She could see the peace in his face. He was so young, and it seemed a criminal thing to squander a life like that on fighting. She was sick of the thought of it. It had been the background of her life for so long. She was sick of misery and loss and death. It never ended. Never. The voice stopped, jerking her out of her thoughts, back into what was real. Her head snapped round. There was no such thing as magic and no peace. She was trapped by a man she had tried to steal a fortune from. “He is asleep.” Her heart thundered. But she was hanged if she would let him see she was afraid. “So,” she said, just as she had on that first morning, “what now?” “Not here. Get up.” “You do not read at all, do you?” She was, for the moment, untouched and unpunished, but her feet paced the bower and her head pounded with all the helpless fury of the trapped. But Liefwin the Mercian thane just stood, leaning against the doorjamb, the golden book dangling from his jeweled fingers.

“No,” she snapped, “I do not read. I am incapable of it. I am sorry if I embarrassed you in front of your cousin.” “Do not be ridiculous.” Ridiculous? Perhaps it was. Why should she imagine that a rich lord would be embarrassed by the failings of something he happened to have picked up in the street? The book was twirled absentmindedly in his fingers, as though he did not really care whether he dropped it in the rushes. It was only worth more than she was, after all. “Lots of people do not read,” stated the thane. “It is nothing to be—” “—ashamed of ? Is that what you were going to say?” “I did not mean—” “No,” she yelled. “You probably did not. You do not have a clue, do you, with your fine wealth and your fine thane’s honor and your perfect life…” That last actually hurt. She knew how to read the small expressions in his eyes where before she had thought there was nothing. But it was suppressed without much apparent effort. Blank eyes watched her frantic steps. He did not move. “Do you realize,” she spat, “what I have come from? Do you have any idea how some people have to live? Like the animals stabled at the other end of the longhouse. There is not much difference.” She stopped beside the open window. “My father,” she said to the clear blue English sky, “had a small farm, on poor land, and too many children. We grew up, those of us who lived, with a will to survive. That is all I was ever taught, not reading, not what to do with fine things. Just all the ugly, despicable things you have to do to live when you have nothing.” She could not see the blue sky now. She was back in the smoke-filled dimness of the longhouse, choking on the winter stink of the cow and the pigs in the pen at the far end. Her younger sisters were clamoring at her skirts, howling. Her mother was screaming at them with all the fury of hopelessness. “Just surviving. That was all it was—endless meals out of next-to-nothing, grubbing out the kitchen garden, gutting stinking fish, spinning coarse wool until your eyes could not see, standing at the loom until you thought your back would break, and it was never enough. Someone always needed something else.” She swallowed furiously. She did not know whether the fine figure by the door was even listening to her. There was no reason why he should. She had attempted to steal something of unimaginable value from him and now she was railing at him with all the miserable, disgusting details of her life.

But she could not stop it. She had to make him know what she was. She swallowed tears and said, with all the force of twenty-two years of bitterness, “I wanted to get out of it. I knew there had to be something else to this life, somewhere. If I could just get to it. I thought if I tried hard enough, I would find it. That is how stupid I was. “In the evenings,” she said into the answering silence, “when I was supposed to be asleep I used to listen to them telling stories, about heroes and treasure and magic places and I knew there was another world somewhere.” She stopped. Because the next bit was the disaster. “And?” Just one word, impossible to gauge the slightest feeling from it. “I left. I left my home and went looking for my new world. “It was exactly this time of the year, with another winter coming on.” She could feel the shiver over her skin that had nothing to do with physical coldness, but she would not stop. He should know. She would make him know. “It was a day just like any other and then…strangers came. I saw them first. Nigh on twenty horsemen. Warriors, with spears of ashwood and mail coats and flying hair. “No one ever came to our village because there was nothing there. People thought they would kill us even for the little we had. But they were not interested in that. They were on their way home. They were already loaded up with—” her voice faltered “—with wealth.” “Do you not mean with English plunder?” His voice was as cold and as full of danger as it had been the first morning after her capture. Her hands gripped at the rough wood of the window frame. “Yes,” she said, and she heard him move. It was like dicing with death, but the need to face him with the truth was greater. “Yes, I do mean that and I did not care.” Not then. “Do you want to know what I did?” The faint rustle of his clothing again, then, “Not really.” You could be frozen alive under bitterness like that, strong as her own. Her breath seemed to be out of time with the thick pulsing of her heart. She wondered whether she would choke. “I married one of them. I was near sixteen and quite ready for it. I gave myself to him freely. No, not freely, for a silver bracelet and a bag of coins my father took. He was the strongest and the tallest and he wanted me. He was not exactly handsome, perhaps, but I did not care. I…I wanted somebody to love and he was a real prize.

“I thought he must be very brave because they were all afraid of him, even the stoutest of them.” How could she have been so stupid? How could she not have known why? “I escaped. Just as I wanted. He carried me away with him and we came here and we lived on the plunder until it ran out. But that was all right. Because there was always more to be had. From your people.” She would see his face. She would see his reaction to that. She spun round, fast. But she could never be as quick as a warrior. She was anticipated. The Mercian thane was no longer looking at her. She saw only his back, and the cloak still swirling from the force of his movement. But the position of his bent arms, surely…he had to shield his face from her with his hands. Never had he done such a thing before her. Always the control of his expression and his voice had been enough, more impenetrable than a mask. So there it was: a small piece of vengeance over her enemy. She had meant to taunt him with the devastation that had been wrought on his country, to remind him that the destruction of the town was only a small victory after all. She had meant to show him what she was, a Viking. She had wanted to fling that in his superior, cold, emotionless English face. To show him she hated him. To show him how much reason he had to hate her. This was to have been her triumph. This was to be vengeance. She felt sick.

Chapter Ten T he sickness in Sigrid’s tight throat choked her at last. The sound was raw, ugly. It made the Mercian look up, so that his face was uncovered, his eyes without any protection at all. She had not done that. She could not have done that with her pathetic story and her taunts. It was impossible. The naked eyes held an expression that was insupportable. The choking took all her breath. It burned her throat and clenched her stomach in agony, doubling her up over the window frame. Something dragged her away from the window and dropped her on the bed. She struggled up through a haze of nausea, but something had hold of her and she could not get away. She would be sick again. She thought she would faint. There were tears on her face. She could feel their cold wetness. Her teeth clashed against something metallic.

“Take a mouthful and then spit it out.” “No…” But that only let liquid spill into her mouth. “Spit it out into the bowl. Now. Spit, or you will choke yourself.” She spat. “Do not…” A cloth, dampened, scraped roughly against her mouth. She shut it. “Now swallow.” The edge of the cup again. Mead. Strong. Life-giving. “That will do. I do not want it all returned over my tunic.” She tried to stop her hand clawing after the silver-chased cup held tantalizingly just beyond her reach. “Slowly.” She nodded. She drank. The mead seeped through her veins like balm over a sword wound. There was none left. Her head dropped forward like a stone. There was smooth wool under the side of her face, blue, clean, the tunic she was not allowed to be sick over. His hand was on her head. It was not steady. She knew what she had done and there was no way out of this. There never would be. “Why do you not just kill me?” She felt the force of her words jolt through his body. “So I should take my vengeance? Is that what you wish?” His hand slid downward, knocking the headdress off her hair, coming to rest against the side of her neck, large, hardened with fighting, so unsteady. “Is that what you want of me? To dispatch you to join your husband, the hero?” The heavy hand curled with terrifying gentleness round the naked skin of her neck. “Such things are not always given to us, are they?” The voice was harsh and shot through with the same unsteadiness she felt in his body. It was more terrible than the thought of his physical strength. She had never seen that careful control broken. She did not know what lay beneath. “Is that what you are wishing for, Sigrid, when you are with me?” No. That was not what she wished when she was with him. It was the truth and she told it. Because there was nothing else left.

“No,” she whispered against the fine folds of the blue tunic. “That is not what I wish and neither is it what my husband would wish. He…he is with the gods of war, as he was in his life. He had no wish for a wife. It was just a mistake.” “How can you know that? A man can scarce choose when he must fight.” She thought there was some choice involved in making a career out of harrying, out of the perverse pleasure of feeding the monster that lived within. Her body trembled like the Mercian’s. The memories in her mind were too hideous to contemplate. Her hand moved to the scar at the corner of her eye and she felt it all again, the pain and the anger and the helplessness, and the hideous fear that she would not be able to see properly again. The heavy warrior’s hand against her neck moved, quite softly to cover hers. She stiffened, wanting to hide what was so obvious. There was no reason why something that someone else had done to her years ago should humiliate her. But it did. The muscles in her arm tensed in resistance against the Mercian’s hand, but it was no use against his kind of strength. He probably did not even notice. She would only humiliate herself further by resisting. Her hand was engulfed beyond hope of retrieval. “That was your husband?” There was no point in denying it, not with him. “Yes.” Then into the silence, “It was nothing. He was not even angry.” “Nothing? He could have blinded you.” She could feel every rigid muscle in his hand. She raised her head from against his shoulder. The final confession lay on her tongue. “My husband was a…” She looked up and the word berserker died against the raging fury in his eyes. She could not speak it. Not to those eyes. She could not explain any more and she could not expose Ragnar’s madness to the Mercian’s contempt. “You do not understand,” she said. Silence. Nothing but silence and the bitterness in her throat and the formless, pulsing beat of his anger. It was the end. She would not cringe from it. “There is nothing left that is worth saying about my life. I stole that book from you and I was going to sell it for the weight of the gold and for the gems. That is all your book was to me and all it could be. Nothing can change that…ahh—”

She had not even sensed that he would move. The same speed, the same irresistible power as Ragnar. It was men who had the final strength in this world and sooner or later, they would use it. “Sit up.” She thudded back against the pillows and her breath gathered into a scream. But he was gone, away from her and across the room in two strides. “Sit up.” He had turned even before she had realized what he was about. He had the book in his hand. She clawed herself upright. “Here. Hold that.” And it was in her hands, hard-edged gold and smooth gems. He balanced himself on the edge of the bed beside her, full-length, muscular legs stretched out, trapping her so that she could not move. “Well, go on. First page.” “But—” “Do it.” Her hand found the page. She looked at his eyes and they burned. He had not touched her but he was going to humiliate her with the book and the words and everything a peasant like her was incapable of. She had rather he had hit her like Ragnar. “Look at the page.” “What is the point?” Her voice was a crawling whisper. Her gaze lighted on the glossy page and the bright colors and the demented birds’ feet. “What is on that page is a means of recording someone’s thoughts, setting down ideas, making us think. It is that that will keep us out of cow byres, not my sword, not your husband’s battle-ax. That is the point.” She blinked. “But you know that already. You knew it when you listened to people telling stories. I do not care what you say or what you were going to do. It was in your face, just now in Alfwin’s bower.” “No. It is not for me. I am not…it is too late. Nothing can change now.” “I do not believe that.”

She was no longer looking at the page but at his eyes. He had such eyes, such strength of will. He could make you believe that anything was possible, anything at all. Her heart thudded. “I cannot.” He leaned across to grasp the book. Their bodies touched. His hands covered hers, so large that she could not even see her fingers. He smelled of the clean herb-scented soap. The gold arm rings were hard against her wrists. “I cannot,” she said again. “I do not know how. I do not know what to do.” “It is easy.” It was to him, everything was. But she was lost, out of her depth. Her gaze seemed to be fastened to the gold arm ring and the embroidered sleeve and she could not even look at the page. “What is the first word?” “I do not know.” “Yes, you do. Think in English. What is the first word any poet says to grab your attention? He strides down the length of the hall after the meal, through the people and the dogs and the spilled beer and the bones. He takes the harp, glares at the drunks sprawling at the far end of the mead bench, strikes the strings as hard as he can and bellows…” “Hwæt,” she said. “Yes.” He spelled it. “See? Each letter is a sound. Look at the second letter. That starts the next word and the next letter is e, we, and that is g-a-r, spear.” She made herself look at the page. It was true. It was odd but— “So what is the next word? I will double your ransom if you do not get that. That is d and n. You have already had e and a.” She stared at it. It was impossible. It…“Oh! It is d—” She choked. Her ransom and the plunder and…but he was smiling. She did not know how she knew that because she could not see his face. “You can say it. I am not going to strike your head off with my sword.” He really was smiling. It was in his voice. “Dena,” she said, “Danes,” and she was still alive for saying it.

“‘Lo, we have learned of the glory of the Spear-Danes in days gone by, of the kings of that people, how the princes performed deeds of bravery,”’ he said, and there was all the irony of the world in his voice. But the smile still ran through it like a silver thread. It was obvious to her ears. Her eyes followed the tantalizing marks on the page, no longer random scratchings, but forever transformed into ranks of separate sounds. Words. The parchment rustled, the very colors in the margins seemed brighter. It was like magic. She was suddenly aware of the warmth of his hands round hers. She looked up. The magic was not in the words. It was in him. It always had been. She had known it from the start. Heat surged through her body accompanied by an overwhelming awareness of him, of the touch of his hardened palm, the shape of his body, his face, the sharp line of his jaw dusted with dark gold stubble, the fierce gleam of his eyes. The remainder of the smile was still there, but there was so much else. His eyes held secrets, secrets she would never fathom. “Well? Is it still impossible?” “Yes,” she said. “No…” But she did not know what she said or what question she was replying to. Her heart beat and her breath caught and her eyes were fixed on his. He was all masculine force and he was dangerous. All men were. They…if only he would not look at her so. If only he was not so close. If he would let go of her hands. If only he would take the disastrous book away and leave her. Why did he have to make her think she could do things she could not, like read and have opinions that mattered? He leaned toward her and the book disappeared, but it did not help because he still had hold of her hands, as though he wanted to, as though it was something important. He drew one of the hands quite slowly toward him. They lay together on the bed. The heat in her body burned. The callused flesh of his palm slid softly across her skin, his fingers tangled with hers, moved round them in a caress, so light, so careful, as if she were fragile, as if she could draw back at any time. He placed her hand across his heart. She could feel its fast, harsh beat through the fine wool of his tunic and fear crashed through her, taking her breath. It was not fear, it was excitement. His hand tightened, imprisoning hers against that harsh tumult. No. It was fear. It twisted inside her so that she wanted to pull away, to tell him to stop. But then she would lose him. And she wanted him. Horribly. She did not move. She felt

his heart thunder, pulsing the blood through his strong body. The hot eyes, the face, fine skin, strong male bones, dark gold stubble, blurred her vision. It would happen. She knew what would happen now because she had not moved away from him. She wanted to stop it. She did not want such a thing from him. She did not want him to show her that he was just as vile as Ragnar. Her hand stiffened under his. She felt him move, shifting his weight in the confined space of the bed. She could pull away from him now, while he…she heard the faintest gasp as he came down too hard on his bent arm. She felt the sudden stillness in him. Gold hair hid his face. He did not make another sound. But she knew. She reached out and touched the disordered hair, smoothed it back from his face with all the gentleness that she had. She was such a fool. She saw his eyes. She saw the suppressed pain she had expected, but she was not prepared for the passion. He did not have passion. He was as cold as ice, like something blighted by hoarfrost. He did not have feelings like other people. He was not subject to the desperation and the formless longings that tortured her. “Sigrid.” His voice was rough, as harsh and uncontrolled as the breath in his chest. He was not as she expected. Nothing was as she expected. Her heart leaped as hard and as painfully, surely, as his. Her hands were still tangled in his hair. They touched his face, grazed the roughness of his chin, the smooth skin flushed with heat along the top of his cheekbone. She did not know who moved, how their bodies came to cleave together, full-length. The touching made her gasp and her breath was lost as his mouth came down on hers. But it was so smooth. His kiss was so smooth, smoothness and heat and…pleasure. Beneath the urgency and the desire in him and the frantic beat of his heart lay a molten core of pleasure. The pleasure grew. It surrounded her, like the magic that lived in the air when she had first seen him, like the closeness that she had felt when she had fallen into sleep touching his body, like the rare excitement of his smile. All that, all those things that she longed for, were still there in his kiss. You had only to believe in it. She closed her mind against the sick, terrifying memory of Ragnar and let him kiss her. And it was so different. Not something that was over in two minutes and left your mouth bleeding. He did not hurt her. But the kiss held its own force. There was no hesitation and it seemed to expect something from her that she did not know how to give.

Her hand slid down his neck, twisting in the folds of his tunic and his arms closed round her, imprisoning her, dragging her closer against him. Her arm was crushed against the hardness of his chest. She could feel the frightening force of his heart. It terrified her, the blind, grasping impulse that drove men in their lust. Yet despite her fear, the excitement was still there, as though there was something yet to be discovered that she did not know, as though this was a way to reach the secrets that lived inside him. She gave a choked gasp as his arms tightened against her ribs, taking her breath. It made her mouth open under his and she felt his tongue enter her, hot, demanding. But the pressure around her ribs relaxed. He was so warm. She craved that. She wanted his touch. She wanted to hold him as he held her. Her other arm inched its way around the heavy thickness of his body, trying to avoid where she thought the bruises were. Her hand caught in the leather belt at his waist. It was such an inept and tentative movement compared to his. But it made him shiver and some small sound caught in his throat. It was such a shock. Ragnar had never even noticed what she did, or cared that after the first time she had not even tried. It had made no difference to what he wanted. She had not expected to make the Mercian react so. Unexpectedness. That was what made her mouth cleave to his and her lips burn and her hands tighten on him with all the desperation that he had used on her. Except she had no force compared to him. Her hands were lost against the thick muscle of his shoulder, the hard turn of his waist. His body moved against her and her hand fell off the leather belt, sliding downward across the taut swell of his buttock. She had not meant…she felt the taut globe of male muscle tighten under the touch of her hand. His loins pressed against her so that she could feel his jutting hardness. His hand skimmed her breast, enclosing its shape, his fingers finding the tightened bead of her nipple though the fabric of her dress. Her body rolled in a response that was deep and uncontrolled. His fingers circled that sensitive peak, arousing shivers of sensation across her skin, even through the barrier of her clothes. It made her body arch toward him, wild, shaking, blind to all but the craving for his touch. The craving was so strong she could not stop it. But somewhere at the back of her mind she knew it would only end in horror.

His touch hardened, meeting the insane, betraying thrust of her body toward him. His hand closed over the vulnerable flesh of her breast and then slid down across her body, her waist, the curve of her hip, tangling in the long rumpled fall of her skirts, dragging the dress and the undergown out of the way, finding the naked skin of her thigh beneath. It was like a jolt of lightning through her flesh, sensing his touch like that. She tried to pull away from the feel of his hand. It was more intimate than she could bear. But she could not move. Her leg was trapped under the weight of his thigh. His body covered hers. He was so large, so heavy. So heavy like her husband, holding her down. With that casual strength that could overcome her without even trying. The strength that she had only ever made one attempt to resist. Cold fear clutched at her. It obliterated the Mercian’s warmth, the smooth power of his lips, the soft, teasing touch of his tangled hair. It left only the strength. She was trapped. The hard body over hers, the strong hands. She could not breathe. She could not bear what would happen next. Never again. Memories blacked out everything in her mind. Panic flooded her. She pulled herself away, with all the force that she had. But it was impossible in the confined space of the bed. She could not get away from him. Her body thrashed. She thought he tried to catch her hands. He spoke. But she evaded him, twisting free of his grip. She thought he shouted at her. But she would not stop, not if he killed her. She struck out and her flailing arm hit something and then nothing and then there was silence. Her first coherent thought was that he had gone. That disgust of her had somehow exceeded anger and he had left her. It was the only possible explanation of why she was still alive and still whole. She lowered her hands from around her head and opened her eyes. He was sitting on the end of the bed watching her. She saw first the spine-chilling expression in the bright blue eyes and then the blood. A thin trail at the corner of his mouth. She had hit him. Not all the new saints that now lived in heaven would preserve her. She had injured him and he would kill her. She shot backward, her spine jarring against the wall and something flickered in the overbright eyes. It was fathomless anger. He moved and she screamed. Except nothing came out of her mouth but some thin, formless sound that was lost under the sudden hammering on the door of the bower and the loud Saxon voices shouting his name.

“Liefwin.” “Lord.” “You are needed.” He glanced at the door. Leave, she thought, her spine pressed into the wall, her mind blank with shock. Go. Just go. But he looked back at her. Her breath caught. “Lord, you must,” shouted the voices, “It is Oslac. We cannot stop him.” He wiped the blood off his face. He got to his feet, in one fluid movement that belied wounds or the cloying fingers of emotion. His hand had already gathered up sword and cloak. “I am here.” Less than two long strides took him to the door, but there he turned. Blank, freezing eyes held hers. “You will wait for me. Here. Is that understood?” But it was not really a question so she did not reply. The door closed after him. “There is nothing wrong with me.” Sigrid sat on the chair by the freshly banked fire and glared at the English maid. The last thing she wanted was a witness to the wreckage. “Lady, the lord Liefwin sent me to you because you were not well. Indeed you do not look it.” The lord Liefwin. The words froze her. Why would the Mercian have done such a thing? He would be too angry and…had he told this preening wench what a fool Sigrid had made of herself ? Were they laughing, Liefwin and the buxom serving maid? Boasting of how he would punish her? She set her chin. She hoped the wench could not tell she had just been bawling her eyes out. “I do not require anything. You may go.” “Did you argue?” Sigrid glared. “I do not…” The woman’s gaze traveled from Sigrid to the disorder of Liefwin’s bed, plain to see in the midday sunlight. “Shall I straighten that?”

“Leave it! Leave me.” “Very well, lady. No need to look so. I am sure if you do not want him in your bed, there are others who would.” Sigrid would kill the saucy wench. She would…but there was something else in the woman’s English eyes that she could not fathom. The idea came to her that it was blame. But Liefwin was the one with the power, with everything, including, there could be no doubt, a supply of women who were willing and better at bed sports than she was. “I have no doubt there are plenty of others.” Sigrid smiled into the pretty face to show she did not care. The girl shrugged. “He is a…generous man.” Sigrid ignored the lewder meaning of the words. “He can be as generous as he likes. He has all the plunder of the town. It must dazzle you all.” She got a shrug. “It is not just that. He is kind. I thought you might be kind. You never told him it was me who said he was going to kill the prisoners.” Sigrid blinked. That seemed a lifetime ago. “So I thought you would see. Not many men are kind.” “Kind has nothing to do with—” “Does it not? Do not say he is not a generous bed friend to you because you are Danish. He has no thought for anyone or anything but you and—” a sweeping gesture around the luxuriously fitted room “—nothing was too much for you.” “He does not…none of it is for me. It is all his. He—” “He? He no longer cares for the treasures of this world. It was all for you and none of us dared to say a word that might offend you.” “But I am Danish. An enemy. A thing for ransom. What else could I be to him but that?” And I cannot please men. The woman shrugged. “As you wish, lady. Doubtless you are right. Such things cannot be changed.” “No,” said Sigrid. But she felt like a traitor. She sat quite alone in the middle of the Mercian’s looted treasures and buried her head in her hands. She wanted to weep for pain and confusion and loneliness, but the tears would no longer come. It was all for you….

It was impossible. The woman was mad. Or jealous. Because she thought that Sigrid had stolen the source of so much sought-after generosity. Memories of what had happened between Liefwin and her spiked though her mind like knife blades, painful and without mercy. But what stayed with her most clearly was his kiss and the smooth caress of his hands. She had wanted her generous bed friend and his hot, pliant mouth and his knowing touch then. She had actually wanted the pleasure of it. And she had wanted to…oh, she could not explain it. She had wanted to be close to him, to mean something to him. She had wanted him to want her. And he had. He had looked at her in such a way, as though she was as beautiful and desirable as Freya. Then he had touched her and the excitement had sprung between them, and she had been dazzled by him. No. By the fact that she had thought he needed her. She had wanted to give him what men so desired. More than that. She had wanted to know and understand what it was. And he had made magic of what was hideous. At the start. But then everything had changed. No. It had not. She had changed, not Liefwin. Liefwin had wanted what was the natural conclusion and she had not. She had. Until she remembered what it would be like. She did not know how anyone could bear what men did to women. She got up and her foot caught against something hard. The book. She snatched it up off the floor. It was covered in rushes. It might be damaged. She brushed them off, careful of the garnet eyes of the wyrm. It looked all right. She opened the first page. Hwæt we Gar-Dena… It sprang off the parchment at her. She could read it. Not the rest. Just the first four words he had taught her. But the rest was there, on the page, ready to be changed into meaning. Magic. Unspoiled and unspoilable by anything. He is kind. He was. She had never given him a chance. He had been nothing but kind to her since he had chosen to pull her out of the carnage of the town. Even though he was Mercian. Liefwin. Beloved Friend. He had been a better friend to her than anyone she had ever known. Though every death in the unwanted, ill-fated battle lay between them. He had believed in her in spite of that.

There was more worth in that than there was in vengeance. She had been blind. She had taken everything, his wealth, his protection and his kindness. She had taken his kiss and encouraged his hands and his body in its loving and then she had turned on him like a hell-fiend. He had not taken his revenge on her, even though it would have been so easy for him to do. Forbearance had been stronger and she had made no return for it. She put down the book. She would not cry again. She crossed the room and poured water for herself. Its coldness stung her swollen eyelids, fresh, cleansing. She buried her whole face in it, gasping. Her disordered hair fell over her shoulder. She wet the hair, tore her clothes off, covered herself in pure coldness until her skin tingled and shivered with it. She used the honey soap and rinsed her hair in elderflower water. She scrubbed her body dry, as hard as she could. Then, wrapped in her clothes and her cloak, she huddled beside the fire, fanning out the long, wet strands of her hair to dry. She would have the time to set the pleats in her new underdress. If she hurried… She did not admit what she was doing until she was standing in her new dress, dusting a thin line of finely powdered charcoal round her eyes. She looked at her reflection in the bronze mirror. Her hair shone and was softly scented. Her eyes were subtly shadowed. Her dress was beautiful, of the costliest materials anyone could have. A high born English lady could not have had better. Its style was still Danish, but that was only the more flattering. She began to tremble. He would never forgive her. Not for what she had done. It was not a thing a man would forgive a woman, not even if she really was as beautiful and seductive as Freya. Seduction. She was mad. As if he would let her begin that trick again. She had tried before over the prisoners and it had not worked. He had not even wanted her and then today, when he had, she had been first inept and then like a hellcat. She sat down. If she told him, if she explained… How could she possibly explain it? And why should he listen? She was foreign, part of an alien force in his country that he hated.

Yet even though he knew that, even after all she had said to him, he had given her the gift of the book. She cast dried lavender heads on the bright fire. The scent filled the warm room that held all she could want. He would come back and she would tell him. She sat on, long after it was plain he would not come. The fire died down and the cold came creeping in with the dark. If you do not want him in your bed, there are others who would. She did not go to her empty bed until dawn. He did not come but it made no difference. Because there was nothing, in truth, that she could have told him. She woke to the sound of someone else in the room. She scrambled up, dragging the bed curtains aside before the noise could stop. The morning light was bright. “Liefwin?” But it was not him. The maid, carrying a pitcher of water, stared at her. The other bed was empty, undisturbed. “I doubt you will see him before noon today, lady. There was a feast last night, in the town. You can imagine what that was like with Oslac’s army. Drinking and…wenching. “He stayed.”

Chapter Eleven “L iefwin. Wake up.” Ceolfrith’s voice, calling him out of the cloying, fetid darkness. It sounded as rough as a blacksmith’s file, which meant that Ceolfrith was anxious. So that Liefwin thought for a moment that he must have been caught up in the horror of the Dream. This time terrifyingly unremembered. But it was not so. He forced his eyes open. Every muscle in his body ached. He managed to get as far as his good elbow. “Hard night?” Ceolfrith’s gaze drifted across to the pale shape of a female leg somewhere beyond him in the murk. “Oh, very funny.”

He was frozen. He should have taken a place closer to the fire, but he had not wanted to get within spitting distance of Oslac. Ceolfrith’s interested gaze roamed farther across the hall and the prostrate bodies and the remains of the feast. “Had a busy evening, I see.” Liefwin fixed his eyes on the disingenuous face. “Chance would have been a fine thing. Even if I had wished it, I would never have got past the guard dog.” “Guard dog?” The bland expression slipped slightly. “The guard dog.” Liefwin glanced down from his uncomfortable bed on the mead bench. “It was on the floor somewhere. Unless you have sent it away. Your nephew Cerdic?” “Oh. Cerdic. Good keen lad. You have said so yourself in the past. Always eager to be useful.” “I did not know the half of it. I could not breathe without that idiotic freckled face looming out of the air and asking whether I was all right. Tell me, just why should your nephew Cerdic think I needed a nursemaid like some sick girl-child? And who else did you tell?” he snapped before Ceolfrith could recover. Ceolfrith’s hairy jaw jutted further into the gloom. “You mean who else knows that you are ill and will not do anything to help yourself ? No one except you, me, Alfwin and Cerdic. And the bedda…why are you looking like that? You are sick. It is the wound. I knew it. It is my fault—” “Do not be so stupid. It is just too much ale. Do not…” Liefwin tried to turn his mind from what he had done to the bedda. Tried to close his eyes against her terrified face. Tried to move. But Ceolfrith was already hauling on him. “Leave it.” That he did not yell was an achievement, but his voice came out like cracking ice and the convulsive movement away from the pain was beyond his control. He was dimly conscious of the large, clumsy hands releasing him and then Ceolfrith’s voice saying with lethal formality, “I am sorry, lord.” There was a deadly silence during which Liefwin tried to breathe through the stabbing pain and wipe out all memories of what had happened yesterday. He forced himself to fix his whole concentration on what was happening now, on what had to be got through before he could see the girl again. If she would see him.

Ceolfrith’s feet were shuffling in the nameless debris. Liefwin gripped the edge of the bench. No one should have to be that worried about you just because you do not happen to want to speak to them. The voice, in his mind, sounded real. The bedda, Sigrid, knew every weakness he had. They seemed to be as obvious to her as clouds in a February sky. Impossible to turn his thoughts from her. He tried to steady his breath enough to say something coherent. “I do not—” But Ceolfrith was already speaking. It was just as well. Because he had no words at all. “I came to tell you the patrol got back this morning.” Liefwin looked up. “And?” But Ceolfrith’s face told him. He swore. “They did their best. There is a lot of ground to cover and we do not have enough men. The village was alight when they got there. Our men gave chase, but it was too close to Colchester and they would have had the remains of the Danish army on them, not just a Danish raiding party.” “It was…like last time?” “Aye. They were in time to save some of the villagers, four of the women and a young lad and some children. But the rest were hacked to pieces so you could hardly tell what they were, and one man with his throat ripped out.” “Then it is the same raider is it not? The berserker. The one who terrified this town into fighting against us.” Liefwin’s jaw tightened. “This will not go on.” Ceolfrith shrugged. “There is not much more we can do until Colchester is taken. It… it has been a long campaign and it is hard for some of them to face something like this. If only we had more men.” “More men? We have a whole army. Just look at it.” Liefwin made one savage gesture toward the sprawled bodies in the murk. “But no one can do anything about that except the king.” “I will not wait for King Edward.” Liefwin surged to his feet, forcing movement through his stiffened muscles. It was so clear.

“I will go out with the patrol myself. Tomorrow. I will take only those who wish to come.” “You? You are mad. You are in no state. You cannot—” “What I cannot do is expect my men to do something I am not prepared to do myself.” That was unanswerable. He started walking toward the door as though there was nothing wrong, but Ceolfrith was suddenly standing in his way. He banged into a barrel chest which did not move. “Your men,” said Ceolfrith, “owe you their loyalty and their lives. They have a duty to you. You have been a better lord to them than any man has a right to expect.” Liefwin stepped back, from the unexpected words as much as from Ceolfrith attempting to bar his way. The emptiness of such words was unbearable. “I will go.” His voice had turned into ice again. “Then I will go with you.” “No. It is not necessary. I do not—” “You think I will let you down again, like last time—” “Do not say that! Do not ever say such a thing. Do you hear me?” “I think I…understand.” Liefwin had no recollection of shoving Ceolfrith into the wall. He let go. Ceolfrith sagged at the knees. There were small choking sounds which made Liefwin wince. “I am sorry,” he said with as much lethal formality as Ceolfrith had used before. “Ha! I taught you that hold. Left hand was a bit weak.” The choking sounds turned into a snort of derision. It was so typical of Ceolfrith that Liefwin laughed. But it came out as a strange sound, forced and out of place. Ceolfrith stared. “You are in a mess, are you not?” Liefwin had got to the point where the possibility of saying no did not exist anymore. Because it was no longer only himself who was involved. He cleared his mouth. “I need your help.” The words seemed strange and rusty from lack of use. He could not remember saying such a thing since he was five years old and fatherless. He could not think of an adequate reason why Ceolfrith should help him. He did not know whether friendship could survive.

“I need you to look after Sigrid,” he said, before Ceolfrith could even think of drawing back. “There is no one I can trust like you. I need to make sure that she is safe, and that she does not…run away from me.” “You think she might?” It was not a time for face-saving lies. “Yes. She nearly did yesterday. She…she has more reason now.” “Oh?” But some things were not possible to answer. “She has no idea,” he said rapidly. “Yesterday she tried to walk out with nothing but her cloak and the Beowulf book. Someone would have killed her for less than half the gold on that. She…I cannot have anything happen to her.” The words, which had been falling over themselves off his tongue, dried up. He could not say another thing. But surely Ceolfrith would understand. “All right.” It was done. If Ceolfrith gave his word to something, it was carried out. Only one thing left. Liefwin took a breath that shot pain through the cramped muscles of his chest. “I promised her I would get her back to her kin. She offered me a ransom. You will not take it. She is to have all of my share of the plunder from this campaign and the book.” “All of it?” “It is fitting,” said Liefwin in the voice that did not permit argument. “Will you see it is done?” “Aye, but—” “I am giving you that farm you have always wanted back home, the one with the oak wood—” “You are what?” “One of us has to be able to go home to something, otherwise all that we have done here has no purpose.” He stopped. He could not explain further, but Ceolfrith would know. Surely Ceolfrith would know what he could not say. He turned away. “Wait,” shouted Ceolfrith’s voice through the gloom. “You are talking as though you will not come back.” “Oh, I will come back,” said Liefwin. “You know my luck. I always win.” But even as he said it, his skin shivered and he wondered whether wyrd had turned at last. He could smell death in the reeking air of the hall.

It made no difference whether he was fæg, doomed to death, or not. He would not shirk what had to be done. “I shall find the berserker, and I shall kill him.” He was suddenly aware that she was there. Standing in the shadows beside the door of Alfwin’s bower. Right behind him. Liefwin hardly needed to turn his head to know it was her. He had come to see how Alfwin fared. He had not expected to land himself in a deadly argument with an invalid. Sigrid must have been just in time to hear the final damning words from Alfwin’s lips. “You do not care. You are as cold as frostbitten stone.” She could only have heard the end of the disastrous argument, but Alfwin’s hurt, furious, unsteady voice had hardly spared his Danish foes. Of course, Alfwin had every right. You had only to look at the tortured body, the shaking head resolutely turned toward the wall. Only a stone heart would be unmoved by that. When Alfwin’s voice had stopped for lack of breath, and the sleeping draught Liefwin had shoved down his throat had its effect, she came forward out of the shadows to help him rearrange the pathetic mess of his cousin on the pillows. She must have been too afraid, before, to make her presence known. Alfwin had not seen her. Yet she had chosen to stay, despite Alfwin’s bitter unrestrained curses on Danishness, and now she was helping him. She did not ask about what had caused the argument. She neither spoke nor looked at him. When everything was done that could be done, she followed him back, like an obedient servant who had no choice, to their bower. Her bower. He shut the door and faced her. The light from the open window showed that she had slept about as much as he had. Her face was ash pale. She was wearing her old, patched dress, the one she had worn the first time he had seen her, even though she had new ones, out of the goods he had given her. He saw her eyes clearly. They were as bitter and defiant as when she had first confronted him in this chamber.

He watched her across the full distance of the room and it was as though they were complete strangers. As though everything that had happened since he had found her in the town, every word they had said, every touch, every argument, every small step toward understanding had been wiped out by what he had done yesterday. Those eyes, every tense line of her body told him that she wanted him gone. But she was so beautiful to him that he knew he was quite capable of doing what he had done to her yesterday again. Even with that bitter look of accusation in her eyes. The knowledge of that was intolerable. If anything was needed to make his decision right, it was his reaction just to the sight of her. She raised one small hand to push the ice-blond hair out of her face. Her wrist was scarcely thicker than a child’s. He could not have used his own strength against that. The thought was not to be borne. He would not do so again. She had to know that. “I have arranged for my servant to collect my things. The room is yours, of course, and everything you need. I—” “You are moving out?” There was none of the relief he had expected. She finished the question on a sort of gasp and her face lost the last of its color, as though he had turned round and punched her in the stomach. He did not understand it and he could feel the guilt increasing by the second. “But you told me that…you said you would stay with me…” Her voice trailed off and just for an instant the defiance crumbled and the eyes held the haunted look that twisted something inside him. He could not bear knowing that he had put that look back into her eyes. “You gave me your word—” “My word? My word is worthless. It is already broken.” The shame of saying that made his gorge rise, but she just looked at him and shook her head. “No. It was not so.” Then before he could speak, “You should have let me go—” “No!” His voice cut across hers instantly. “That is one thing I will not permit.” Despite all his resolutions not to upset her further, the words came out with the deadly force he had used on Ceolfrith in the mead hall, with the coldness that had taken him in the

appalling and unexpected confrontation with Alfwin. He could not seem to escape it this day. At least Ceolfrith and Alfwin knew what was happening outside these four walls. Sigrid did not. He had not meant to speak in such a way to her above anyone, not after the way he had used her. He had to tell her before she did something else as stupid as yesterday morning’s attempted flight. He had the sensation it would mean stepping further into disaster, into something he could not control. But it was not possible to draw back. The stakes were too high. She had to know, even if it was not what she wished to hear, even if it only increased the gulf between them. He forced his voice into something like calmness. “Will you sit? I must speak with you.” She did not move. He took a chair at the table himself, largely because it was a matter of necessity. If only he had slept. Then his head might be clearer. Then he might find the right words to say, the words that might distress her less. There was no way to get through what must be said, what he wanted her to understand, without touching on the world outside. The world that she had deliberately shut out. It had not escaped him that the shutters across the window that faced the town were always barred. He had recognized why she had done that and he had respected it. He had made everyone else respect it. He had not allowed anyone to plague her with what was going on outside, to say anything to her that might add to either her fears or her grief. He had succeeded in that too well. She had very little idea of what was happening beyond these four walls. So little that yesterday she had been prepared to plunge herself, heedless, into a danger she did not understand. A danger that would have killed her. That much he now had to make her understand. For her own sake. Yet he felt incredibly reluctant. She never spoke, or asked of anything directly related to what happened outside. Except of the prisoners. That brought him right back to the start. “I have to talk to you about last night and what happened at the feast and what—” “No! No. It is not necessary.”

Her eyes held a kind of helpless fury, as though he was trying to humiliate her in some way. He would not willingly do such a thing. He did not want to speak of this, of any of it. But there were so few choices left. “Sigrid, I would not talk of such things to you if it were not necessary—” “It is not necessary. You do not have to say anything.” “I do—” “I know already.” “You know? About the prisoners?” He could not understand her anger. Yes, he could. In her eyes he would be as much to blame as Oslac. But she must listen. For her sake. “The prisoners are only part of the picture. You must—” “What have the prisoners got to do with anything?” She was looking at him as if his wits were begging. “I thought you went to the feast last night and…I thought…” “You thought what? What did you think I had gone there for? The whoring?” He stopped. “That was what you thought.” Her mouth opened and shut. But there was no point in her saying anything. Her eyes, her face, her stumbling words had told him exactly how he figured in her mind. She thought because he had not got his satisfaction with her he had taken it elsewhere. It was an obvious conclusion. The fact that she was more important to him than anything in the world was only something in his mind. The fact that yesterday’s disastrous attempt at closeness had meant so much to him, so much that he had fooled himself it could transcend all the differences between them…that had been nothing more than his own self-indulgence. He had wanted her so much that he had been able to make himself believe that she had wanted him. It was his own desperation that had made him blind. But she had not desired him. She had thought she had no choice but to humor his lust. So she had tried. But in the end she had not been able to. He had promised her she would be safe and he had— “I am sorry,” she said in a small voice that made him want to smash something. “No. What else should you think? That is how I behave, is it not? I regret what happened,” he added before she could say whatever else she was trying to get out. “I would not have it happen again and I will see that it does not. It was the last thing I wished.”

“Yes. Of course. I realize that. It does not matter.” Her voice was stiff and she was not looking at him but at something on the floor. “Sigrid,” he said, and just the sound of her name seemed to burn his throat, “there are some things I must say to you before I go.” “Must you?” There was a small light in her voice at that, surely? “About the prisoners. About what is happening.” “Oh.” He was mistaken. The voice was as blank and lifeless as the averted head. “Will you not at least sit down?” She sat, as though doing his bidding. “Lord,” she said, which was the one word from her that he had begun to hate. His hands clenched themselves into fists. He straightened them out in case she saw them. He tried again. “This does not have to go on much longer. Not for us. For you,” he corrected himself, but her eyes seemed to darken with every word, as if he took the life out of them. He tried desperately to explain it so that she might be reassured about some things, at least. “It can only be about three days, four at the most before King Edward arrives with the rest of the army and—” “And then you will go home, to Tamworth.” He paused, distracted by what seemed irrelevant. “I do not…live at Tamworth. I am not going—” he could not even pronounce the word home “—to where I live. Sigrid, I will see you get back to your family…” Her eyes slid away from his. She did not believe him. She no longer believed a word he said. “I will do it. I will keep my word on this. Ceolfrith knows it and if I am not here he will —” “If you are not here? Why would you not be here?” And he saw that everything he had said had only served to put the fear into her eyes again. More fear than would seem possible. It was not what he had expected. Every word he spoke seemed fated to make things worse. “Sigrid, you will not be in danger. But you must understand how things are for your own sake. When Edward gets here it will be like putting a torch to a hay barn. If he goes

about this the right way, the whole countryside is going to rise with him. There will be no stopping it. You must have guessed something of that. Your whole town knew it. They would have accepted Edward as overlord with no bloodshed if they had not been persuaded otherwise by the shipmen and the army from East Anglia.” He paused. Her pale face was turned away from him again and he felt a terrible pity for her. But it was no longer possible to hide things from her. “You know what happened, what persuaded the town to fight. The berserker and…” She gasped. She tried to stop it but the whole of her slight frame shuddered. He remembered how terrified she was of the very idea of a berserker. That must be forever linked in her mind with the cause of the battle that had made her lose everything. He should never have said the word. “It is all right,” he said. His hand reached out instinctively to touch her arm and then stopped. His touch would no longer be reassurance to her. If it ever had been. “What I am trying to say is that Edward’s advance is so certain it should give him enough assurance to forget what is past.” “Spare the prisoners, you mean?” He watched the bent head. “Yes. Oslac is a fool. Last night they were all…ale-glad and looking for amusement. Oslac-Witlack thought the prisoners in fetters might provide it. I dissuaded him.” She did look up then, but the eyes were strained and suddenly seemed full of secrets he could not fathom. “That was why you went to the hall? That was what you did? Saved the prisoners?” “Yes.” It was what she had wanted. What she had begged him for and what, some unimaginably long time ago, she had been prepared to humiliate herself for by seducing him. He had given her what she wished, but it seemed to bring them no closer. There was only distance between them, dark and unbridgable, and the strange secrets in her eyes. “Then,” she began, with the chilling formality Ceolfrith had used on him, “I owe you my grat—” “No,” he said, and the combined forces of the past and the present and the future seemed to force him back into that state of black ice. “It was something that had to be done, a matter of strategy.” “Yes, of course. Strategy. A…a magnanimous royal gesture, was that not what you called it?”

“Something like that.” He could remember in every detail how they had sat at this same table and she had tried to beguile him with her bare arms and her untied dress. He remembered the touch of her hands on his body and the burning reaction it brought in his loins. Even though her touch had been counterfeit, he had still wanted it. He wanted it now, despite everything. He could feel the heat in his body and the frustrated desire for her that would ignite like flame if he so much as touched her. So that he would be lost to everything except the need to take her. But that would kill him. Because his mind would be unable to bear the knowledge that he had forced himself on her when she did not want him. The only thing left that he could do for her was to make her safe and stop her from running headlong to her death. “Edward will spare the prisoners rather than take vengeance,” he began, as though every word was some carefully weighed piece of gold, “if he is assured of his position.” He could see the alarm gathering again in her eyes and he was almost glad of it if it would make her understand the danger she had so nearly put herself in yesterday. But he still pitched his voice with caution. “We have been plagued by a raiding party—” She flinched immediately at his words, making him pause. Her eyes were wide, fixed on his. They were full of the fear he expected, the fear he did not want to put there. But there was no surprise. It was as though she knew already. Of course, it was not impossible for her to know. People gossiped. It was the world’s way. Someone might have spoken despite what he had said. He plunged on. “They are shipmen it is thought, raiders and opportunists.” She did know. It was in her eyes, even though she tried to disguise the knowledge from him. She knew it and she had been quite prepared to risk the dangers of that with her stolen and lethally valuable hoard of gold, just to get away from him. She knew more than he had looked for, but she could not know the worst: that one of the war band was a berserker, the berserker. He hesitated about telling her, he who never hesitated over any decision. And then she made a small sound as though she wanted to say something but could not. Her thin hands bunched themselves into fists. “Sigrid?” If she would just say it, whatever it was. But the unknown words were suppressed into silence, and the gulf of separation was wide between them, beyond any power to bridge.

“It is something I must deal with.” The truth stabbed through the tautness of the air between them, bitter as iron-tipped arrows. “And it must be soon. You may think it an unbearably long wait until Edward gets here, but I am running out of time.” The irony in that that would not be lost on her mind. “I must—” She spoke. “You?” Her eyes were like twin black pools. “You keep talking as though it is you, yourself, who must do this now. As though you would fight this raiding party yourself. You cannot mean it.” She always picked out some aspect of what he said that left him in sudden quicksand, something unexpected and beside the point. But yet it was not. It was not beside the point for them at all. “It should be me. Sigrid, I cannot and I will not disguise from you what I am, what I do, what I have done most of my life since I was big enough to pick up a sword.” She was frowning, and then all of a sudden he knew she had made some decision. Her eyes met his quite calmly before she took the breath to speak. “What you are doing now must be right.” He could feel his aching muscles sag against the chair back. Only Sigrid. There was only Sigrid in the whole world who could floor him with no more effort than half a dozen words. “Right?” he said, like some deaf half-wit who could not understand the most basic of ideas. “Yes.” It did not seem possible after all that they had said. It did not seem possible that she could think he was right to go out and attempt to kill a party of her fellow Danes. But then loyalties could be more complicated than that. Perhaps it was because of what she felt for the prisoners, who seemed to mean more to her than people who faced the usual fate of defeated leaders. Perhaps the bare fact that the shipmen and the army were Danish might not be enough to make up for what they had done to her town. Loyalties were quite savagely and deeply personal. But even so…“I can scarcely believe you said that. Even Alfwin thinks I am wrong. That was what the argument was about.” “I see.” Her voice held all expression back, but it was quite firm. Liefwin hesitated. He had not intended to bring that into his dealings with her, but she had walked in on the whole insoluble mess.

“Tell me,” she said with the same firmness, and there no longer seemed any alternative. There was no hope and no point in concealing anything. Yet it was so hard to find the words. In truth he could not remember the last time he had tried to explain so much to anybody as he had to Sigrid. He did not speak of anything that was personal. Not now. But he just kept on talking, as though there could be some understanding in this where there was none anywhere else. “Alfwin,” he said, “believes I have betrayed our kinship by trying to save the prisoners. That our blood tie means nothing to me and is dishonored because I have not taken proper vengeance for his injuries. Or for my retainers and all of my men who are dead.” “The path of vengeance must always be followed? But…what do you think?” He shrugged one painful shoulder. Everything, the words he was forced to say to Sigrid, all that he had done, all that he would have to do in the future, was more than it was possible to bear. “I no longer know what is right. I only know that it would have been impossible for me to have done otherwise.” She nodded and her eyes held acknowledgment. Those eyes knew that he was no longer talking of the dictates of military strategy, even though that was still in his thoughts, but of the deepest motivations that ruled his life. He could no longer conceal anything. With a sense of leaping into fathomless water, he came to the point. “The reason I am telling you all this is because I want you to understand what you were doing yesterday when you nearly walked out of here with nothing except a deadweight of gold that somebody would have killed you for even in peacetime. You have to know what things are like beyond these four walls and how small are the chances that you would have survived.” He paused, watching her face. The dark, smoke-gray eyes regarded him with grave attention. Did she, would she, understand? Would she believe him? Would she realize the importance of what he was saying? “I tried to tell you that first night when we stopped by the walls and you were looking toward the gates. I said if you stayed with me you would be safe from all that. Despite… despite what happened between us, it is still so. I would not…such a thing will not happen again.” “No,” she said, her voice scarce more than a whisper. “It could not, could it?” Her gaze, locked on his, held all the pain he must have caused her. Her eyes were wide with it and yet he thought, from that look, that she believed him. But she just looked so hopeless and there was nothing he could do to redress that.

“Sigrid, you are as free in this place as it is possible to be. If you want to go into the town, you can go.” Perhaps if she could face that much it might help her. “It will be safe for you if you take Ceolfrith or someone with you. But you must not go beyond…” Her shoulders stiffened. “The town? What would there be for me there? Just ruins—” “Not ruins. Not now.” At least that much had been done. “It is rebuilt. If you could see —” “Rebuilt? Who would do that? No one would—you?” The stress on that word held every nuance the irony in his soul could have desired. “But why—oh, I see. Strategy. You want to keep your men busy, and you need the fortifications so you have rebuilt them and—” “Not just the fortifications. The town.” “The…the town.” “Sigrid, there must be people there whom you want to—” “No! There is no one I care for and no one I want to see. I have no reason to go there.” The heart-shaped face set. The eyes held bitterness that nothing could relieve, least of all, anything he could say. The only thing left to him was the will to save her from the endless bloodshed that reigned outside. “Then do not go, and certainly do not go beyond the walls. Not now. Not yet.” Don’t let your fate be… But he could not even think that. In case it happened. He tried to block out of his mind all that had been, tried to think of the future, her future. If he could keep that safe, if she could, if this was the one and only thing that they could achieve together… “Sigrid you have to listen to me in this.” But he was forced to pause because of the constriction in his chest. He did not know whether he could find the right words. He could feel the moment slip beyond him in the wideness of her eyes. He tried to hold her gaze to communicate to her how important this was. He tried to hold in his mind to whatever connection there was to the mysterious thoughts inside her head. He told himself she would listen. Sigrid was not a restless spirit always driven onward to seek something new. She would not endanger herself recklessly. She would understand. She always understood things even if she hated him. He would tell her. “Sigrid, it is just that…” I could not bear anything to happen to you. I could not bear a repetition of the horrors of the past… But the power of the past froze the words in his throat, like blocks of ice forming across a river in winter. “Outside these walls…”

She had stopped listening. The present brightness of her eyes had dulled into an impenetrable self-absorption. The sort that he had never known how to get through. “Sigrid. Do you understand a word I have said?” She started. “Of course.” But her eyes were wide and blank and the secrets seemed to fill them once more. “You have told me all you needed to say. All that…it was just that…” She stopped. She produced a dutiful smile. “Lord?” That was what defeat looked like. It hid amongst the trappings of success, like a viper in spring grass. So familiar. But suppose this time it was impossible to bear? “Lord?” He surged to his feet, wanting only to get out into the air. Somewhere where no one could see him making such a fool of himself, at the mercy of the shadows of his past. “I must go.” Then the sudden sick rush of dizziness hit him. The legacy of his night on the mead bench. It was only a momentary lapse, just enough to make him clutch at the chair back. She would not notice. But she did. He felt her hand on his arm and there was alarm in the dutifully smiling face. “It cannot go on like this,” she said. “I have told you, if there is a way to stop, I have not found it.” “There must be.” He heard the fear in her voice and he suddenly realized how he must appear to her, like some sort of savage. He had spent the night in his clothes, in a room that stank of ale and rank humanity. He could not remember shaving. Such thoughts had not occurred to him. He had just barged in when she was upset and had spoken of nothing but death and destruction. He stepped away from her, away from the hand that could have no desire to touch him. “Do not go yet. Please.” She sounded desperate. He could not understand it. All she must want was to see him gone. But then, however he had behaved, whatever he was, he was all she had in the hostile world he had just described to her in such detail. “Please sit down again.” He did not want to stay. But still less did he want her to have to plead with him over anything. In a moment she would be calling him lord again.

“Please. Stay for a while…lord. I have some of the new ale. It is good. I will get you some.” Perfect. Just what he needed after last night. “Fine.” She bustled about between him and the table. He did not want to disturb her. He got out of her way. The bed seemed nearest. He sat on it. “There is a fresh pitcher. I shall not be long.” He leaned his aching head back, since there was no help for it, and swung his feet off the floor. He just watched her as she moved about. He did not try to stop her. She seemed to find such ordinary tasks as this almost comforting. Setting things right to her own satisfaction. He watched her while he could. Before she was gone out of his life forever. It was so nearly over, the thing between them that did not have an existence, that had never had a chance to have an existence and never would. It was ending now. He closed his burning eyes because he could no longer bear the sight of her. The pain was waiting for him in the dark. Not just the pain of his abused body but something in his heart. He felt it so keenly that he would have welcomed the freezing touch of the coldness that had held him in its grip for so long. But the coldness, at once shield and destroyer, was no longer there. No weary spirit may stand against wyrd. The words that came into his head were not from her favorite Beowulf but some other story, some other fragment of a poem that had lodged in the recesses of his mind. Something about a man who was completely alone, bereft of all kinship. He could remember hearing it without enough understanding, thinking such words could never apply to him. He must go, as soon as she was finished, as soon as she was settled. There was tomorrow to see about. His hand gripped the side of the bed.

Chapter Twelve S igrid knew exactly what she must do. There was only one thing left. She took as long as it was possible to take over such a matter as preparing a single cup of ale. Her hands were quite steady, but her eyes kept glancing toward the decorated wooden chest in the corner. The one with the cross on the lid. She did not dare look behind her at Liefwin until it seemed impossible to avoid it. She let out her breath.

Then putting down the unnecessary ale cup she moved swiftly across the room. She dropped to her knees among the clean, sweet-smelling rushes beside the bed. He slept. She buried her face in the red-gold hair. She could not stay like this forever. She had to move. She untangled her hand from the neck of Liefwin’s tunic, but she could not raise her head. His hair felt soft against her skin. It was the only soft thing there was with him. She moved her face against its richness. Moments like these made you greedy. But they did not belong to her. Just as Liefwin did not. She untangled her hand again and made herself raise her head. She looked at his sleeping face, pale, unshaven, with a smudge of grime across one eyebrow. The eyes were shadowed with exhaustion. The soft hair was a tangled mess. The fine clothes on the solid body were crumpled and smelled of ale and wood smoke. He did not look like the perfect thane. She touched the face roughened by stubble very gently, hardly a touch at all. He did not wake. She did not want him to. If she could stay like this. If things had been different…but there was no place for such dreaming. She thought of everything he had said and the impossible gulf between them. She thought of Edward, the Saxon king, who would be here in two or three days. She thought of the horrors that had been lying all the time, unimagined by her, outside their door. She studied the strained face, the small lines round his eyes that should not have been there in one who was not much older than her, the particular set line of the mouth that seemed to have been formed to smile. She thought he slept deeply, in the dead and distant wastes of exhaustion. But if he were to wake before…she did not have much time. Her hands moved to the leather belt at his waist, touched the heavy, gilded buckle, released it. Still he slept. She picked up the gold strap end decorated with the backwardlooking beast with the enameled eyes and tongue, and threaded it through the loop of the buckle. He did not move. She grasped the tablet woven hem of his tunic, gently pulling the material upward, above his knees, across the solid expanse of his thighs. She stopped. There was something indecent about pushing aside the skirts of a man’s tunic, especially when the man was so…so very…she swallowed. She could feel the heat rising

in her face even though there was no one to see her and no one knew what she did. Least of all Liefwin. The heat was right through her. Fool that she was. She had burned her boats in that direction. She tried to get a better grip on the fine wool in her clumsy fingers, rolled it back as carefully as she could. She tried not to look at the outward swelling mass of his thighs in the tight, dark trousers, the powerful, compact hips, the shadowed shape of his sex. She could not stop looking. She was so hot and yet she shivered as though she had the ague. She was moon-mad. There must be no one and nothing in the world like him. To make her feel so. In spite of everything. She peeled away the smooth linen of his shirt, sliding the material across the warm, naked skin of his abdomen. Her gaze followed the smooth flatness of his belly, the strong curve of the rib cage; and then she saw it, the black disfigurement along his left side, stretching its ugly trail across his chest, up to his shoulder. She winced. She forced herself not to think about how much it hurt or what he suffered from it, but to look assessingly. As though she had the skills of a leech, which she did not. It looked…perhaps she had just forgotten how bad it was. It was not worse, surely? Her gaze sought the patch of broken skin in the center of the damage, dreading what she might find. Such wounds from chain mail piercing the skin almost always turned bad. But it was clean. It really was. She let out the pent-up sigh of relief held deep inside her. Her breath fanned across his mangled flesh. She did not know whether anything was broken under all that mess. She was so ignorant. Most people were when it came down to it. Wounds healed or not, as fate disposed. But you did need to give yourself a chance, as he would not. She knew instinctively it was not something that could be reasoned with. There was something else that she did not understand. Even if he had taken to his bed like Alfwin, she did not know whether things would have been much different. She straightened the shirt and the tunic, refastening the belt, even though it would be less comfortable for him. The last thing she wanted was for him to realize she had touched him. She could not cover him with the bedclothes, because he was lying on top of them and he was far too heavy to move. Besides, she would only wake him and that was not part of

her plan. She grabbed a rug off her own bed and spread it across him. She could do that much, surely. She allowed herself the indulgence of two more minutes just to look at him. Then she picked up her cloak. What burdened him was not something ordinary and it was not something that anyone, either herself, or Ceolfrith, or the most skilled of leeches, would know how to mend. It would take a miracle. She would find one. The man, Ceolfrith, was never where you wanted him. He was either under your feet at the most irritating of moments, or he was nowhere to be found. The cold wind stung her face and she pulled the warmth of the cloak tighter round her shoulders. Clouds scudded across the pale blue autumn sky. She did another circuit of the yard, trying to look as though she was just out in the fine, more or less fine, weather just to stretch her legs. She did not want to speak to any other of the Mercian soldiers. Not even to ask where Ceolfrith was. She was on the track of her miracle and miracles were not to be explained. “You…idiot.” That was an interesting Mercian word. “You never do think. That is your trouble,” roared Ceolfrith, who was never in the right place. She put her head round doorway of Alfwin’s bower and the afflicted saw her immediately. “Sigrid! Lady. Will you not come in? Please? Have you seen Liefwin?” Because Alfwin looked so hangdog and desperate, she nodded and decided to go in. “Was he…is he…I suppose he is angry.” No, she thought, along with Ceolfrith, you do not think, do you? “Not angry.” “Oh.” Alfwin’s face cleared with all the ingenuous quickness of one who had scarce seventeen winters. “Then—” “I think he just feels sad,” she said.

She was aware of two pairs of eyes watching her: Ceolfrith’s with assessment, Alfwin’s with discomfort. There was silence. Sadness was a much trickier thing for boastful, overgrown, flat-footed warriors to deal with. “It is my fault,” said Alfwin finally. “Did he tell you what I said?” Sigrid shrugged. “Only that you thought he had betrayed you by not letting Oslac kill six defenseless people.” Alfwin turned his head away and she did feel sorry for him then. He was so very young and he suffered much. “Liefwin did understand, though, why you said it. He is not angry with you. He—” “Lady, you are making it worse. I was selfish and I would not listen. I should never have said what I did to Liefwin. Not after what happened to him…” “It is all right, I know about that,” she said, thinking of the father murdered by Danes. “He told you? About his wife? About Elswyth? Then you know how he feels, why he is like he is. She was so beautiful and he was mad over her and when she died—” The hard earth-packed floor seemed to move under Sigrid’s feet. Beautiful. Then you know how he feels. Elswyth. Who was… “That will do, lackwit,” said Ceolfrith. His large bulk moved up beside her. “The lady does not want to hear any more of your ramblings. Just shut up and try what I recommended before.” “What?” “Thinking.” “Oh. Oh.” Ceolfrith took her outside. They sat on a bench against the wall beside a leafless hawthorn tree. It was blessedly cold. Sigrid caught her breath. “Not very bright, sometimes, Alfwin,” observed Ceolfrith. “Quite often, really.” She tried to smile, to show him that she was all right. She was, of course. Looked at logically, she knew next to nothing about Liefwin. She had known him such a stupidly short time, after all. Just because it had been under rather desperate circumstances made it seem longer, deeper, to have more meaning than it really had. There was no reason why she should be even mildly surprised when she found out something about his past that she did not know. She did not know anything about his past.

Not where he lived, what family he had, what had happened to him in twenty-four and a bit years. I do not have a wife. Elswyth. Beautiful. “Ceolfrith…” “Yes?” A ready answer. Prompt. But she could tell his discomfort. In case Liefwin’s bed warmer asked him about Liefwin’s wife. Well, she would not. There had been no reason for Liefwin to tell her. So there could be no reason for the uncomfortable Ceolfrith to do so either. She thrust it out of her mind. She either wanted to do this for Liefwin, or she did not. She had known all along he was not mad over her and the fact that such madness had been reserved for his wife could make no difference. “I want you to take me into the town. To the church.” The bulk beside her stiffened. “Do you now?” The question held more than its face value and her first instinct was to give the foreign oaf the set-down he deserved. But she was too desperate for that. Miracles did not wait around. They picked their time and then you had to seek them or not. She thought of Liefwin’s pale face and the mangled skin hidden by the fine tunic and the way he would not give in. “This is not finished yet,” she said, in answer to the question unspoken. “I shall not go until it is.” “Really? Where is Liefwin?” “Asleep. And I do not want him woken. Neither would you if you had seen him.” “I gather you know, then,” said Ceolfrith, “that it is my fault he got hurt?” “I did not mean—” “I thought at first that he must blame me. But it was not so.” Ceolfrith rubbed his nose absently. “He did not want to make me feel worse than I already did. Stupid lad.” Yes, thought Sigrid and her mind was filled with the memory of yelling accusations at Liefwin of being totally cold to one who loved him. “But why?” she burst out. “Why, if you practically brought him up and he still cares about you and he rescued you to his own peril, why can he not talk to you?” “If you know the answer to that,” said Ceolfrith, “you know the answer to everything. So. Are you ready?”

If it had not been for Liefwin, she would not have been able to do it. The first step down the main street was the worst and then…it was as Liefwin had said. Rebuilt. But in quite a different way, so that she did not recognize it. It was no longer her home at all… and she did not miss it. The church, standing alone in its patch of greenery, was untouched. It was the only stone building in the town. What she wanted lay outside the stone walls of the building itself, but still, she had never been inside and Ceolfrith would expect her to. She went in. It was part of another world. You could feel it. She gazed round at the plastered walls, the friezes with haloed figures under arches, the delicate birds and beasts peering out coyly from a riot of vine leaves. And such colors. Red and green and bright blue. It was beautiful. She wanted to stay. She wanted to…there was no time. She glanced at Ceolfrith. “I want to go to the holy spring, outside, to get some of the water. On my own.” Why could she just not say to Ceolfrith that she wanted the holy water for Liefwin? They had just been talking about Liefwin, for pity’s sake. Of course, Ceolfrith still might not believe her. But that was not the real reason. She was afraid. Not so much afraid of the massive bulk of her English escort, but afraid that if she said such a thing out loud, something might break, either the miracle or, perhaps, her. “I will come back. This is not over yet.” Ceolfrith grunted. “You know what? The older I get, the stupider I become. All right.” Maybe you could be stupid at her age, too, because for some reason she reached up to one meaty Mercian arm. She moved before her English guard could react. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw a shadow cross the open doorway behind him. But she did not wait to see. The ground was soft and muddy round the spring and she trod carefully, drawing out the leather flask from under her cloak, her whole concentration on what she was doing. She hesitated, feeling as though she should do something respectful first, like say a prayer to the saint of the spring. But she did not know how. It was something—if the world had been different, if there had been such a thing as a future—she could have asked Liefwin about. Liefwin. This was for him. It was something he understood and it belonged to his world. In that world the water from the spring could cure anything and it could not be wrong, surely, if she did this for someone else, for someone she loved. Love. Her hand shook.

Love. That was the source of her fear. She had never loved anyone before. She did not want to admit that she did now. That she had done for days. Possibly ever since the first moment she had seen Liefwin in the firelit street and he had chosen to save her. Just as she had known he would. She loved him, Liefwin the beautiful and cold, the kind heart, warm heart, full of equal measure of strength and sadness. She loved him, but she was no good at it. She was afraid she still did not understand what it meant. All she knew was that she would do whatever it took to help him. The water was ice pure. She could see her hand turn white under its coldness. She tried to keep the bottle steady. She thought she heard some disturbing rustle in the bushes behind her. Ceolfrith. The flask was nearly full. She tried to put the stopper in. Her hand had gone numb. She— “You! It is you. You treacherous little bitch.” The voice spoke in Danish. She spun round. A pile of filthy clothes behind her unraveled itself into the weasellike shape of Harek, her husband’s henchman. “Harek?” She had thought him dead. Dead with Ragnar. “What are you doing here?” she gasped, the Danish words stiff on her tongue. “Why are you—” “It is true, then. You are the Saxon’s whore. Any Saxon’s whore.” “What?” “Do not try and deny it. I saw you feeling that man in the church, sliding your hand up his arm. And that was not even him, was it? The one you are supposed to be bedding.” There was hate in Harek’s narrow eyes, but it did not disguise the jealousy, the familiar frightening greed with which he had used to watch her when he did not think Ragnar was looking. Not that he had ever dared to come near her. Not when Ragnar had been alive. She stood up. “Harek, this has nothing to do with you. I have nothing to do with you. Not anymore. The past is done with, over—” “Over? Oh, no, it is not. It is not that easy, you slut. You are coming back where you belong.” “No!” It was almost a scream and the inescapable fear, the sick dread that had clung like a miasma around Ragnar, the terror that had ruled her mind, were back. As though they still had the strength to defeat her, could still hold her captive.

“No. Harek, let me go.” She was on her feet, scrambling away for her life, but she could not get away from his hands clawing at her clothes. Her cloak came undone, Ragnar’s amulet spilled out from the neck of her dress. “You shameless bitch. You should not have that.” His hands loosened, fumbling for the leather strap. If she could get away…Ceolfrith… Ceolfrith was still in the church. He would…the strap broke, the knotted end stung her cheek. She lunged away. “What on earth is going on here? Seize them both. The man and the girl.” English. An English voice. But not Ceolfrith. The drawn-out sounds were Saxon. She felt Harek’s shock, used the moment to break his grip, twist away. She was free. She heard Harek scream something about vengeance. She tried to run. But there were other hands to catch her. English hands. “Bring the woman, at least.” She could not move. She looked up. Recognition was instant. The angry voice belonged to Oslac, the man who had allowed the town to be sacked. The man who would appreciate her charms if offered. Oslac the uncertain-tempered fool. He realized who she was. She saw his face change, saw the sudden dawning of uncertainty, and then she knew someone else was behind her. Ceolfrith. Liefwin’s second in command took her back to the church and draped his oversize blue cloak round her shoulders. It was not enough to keep out the cold. After some time, he said, “I think we had best get back. It might be better if Liefwin hears what’s happened from you.” But she was too late.

Chapter Thirteen S he had a mark on her face. It was enough to drive Liefwin insane, the thought that someone had hurt her. He wanted to murder whoever was responsible. But he could not. He could not do anything. Because the culprit had escaped. Because he did not know enough about what had happened. Because Sigrid’s halting explanations were beyond his understanding. She was terrified. She was sitting in a pathetic huddle beside the fire wrapped in Ceolfrith’s cloak, and his, as well, and she was shaking. He wanted to put his fist through the wall.

He began pacing up and down the floor before the murderous rage inside drove him mad. And the fear. It was the blackness of the worst nightmare he knew. The sort that would kill him. She made a small wordless sound. He spun round and stared at the white face with the small red mark across the cheekbone. What he really wanted was to take the fear away from her. What he really wanted was for her to trust him. “How could you have done it?” yelled Liefwin. “After everything I said to you this morning about going off on your own?” She jumped and the shadowed gray eyes just seemed to get larger. But their gaze was not fixed on him. She had hardly glanced at him. Her eyes kept going back to the battered, muddy bottle which stood on the table between them. It contained, she had said, spring water. That, she had said, was what the whole disaster had been about. She had wanted a bottle of spring water. Something that any one of his men, or he himself, could have got for her without the slightest effort. But no, she had had to go into the town herself, give Ceolfrith, who had behaved like some witless five-year-old, the slip and nearly get herself abducted. Even now, the bare thought of that made him feel physically sick and the sweat start on his palms, but she simply sat and stared at the bottle. “Sigrid!” He was still yelling. He could not yet control his voice. She did not look up. He grabbed the bottle, just to break that unnerving stare, but his hands were slippery and the bottle was caked in slime and mud. It slid out of his grip, spilling water over his hand and the table, and landed on the floor. She actually spoke. “You spilled it,” she said, and looked at him as though he had just murdered her firstborn with his bare hands, and the next thing he knew she had dropped to her knees among the rushes, shedding cloaks and seizing the nauseating leather flask with both hands. “It is empty.” He looked at the bent head. It was so important to her, this inexplicable fancy, more important than anything he had said to her. He tried not to let memories take hold, the memory of someone else whose fancies he had never fathomed. Who had died because of it. He would not think of that. He would think only of what was now, not what had

been. This was Sigrid, who was so completely herself, who thought about things in her own way. He picked up the cloaks and dropped them over her shoulders, kneeling down with her amongst the rushes, holding the warmth of the thick wool around her. He could feel her body tremble, smell the fresh scent of her hair, catch the quickness of her shallow breath. “You are so cold.” “It does not matter.” But he thought she leaned just slightly toward him and his arm tightened round her, whether she wanted it or not. He felt her slender body go rigid, every small muscle stiff with tension. But she did not actually pull away. “How could you have done such a thing?” This time his voice was so low and hoarse it could scarcely be heard. But she caught every word. There was a small shiver and then he felt it, the unobtrusive pull away from him. He resisted it without the slightest effort. It was not possible for him to let her go. He did not want to hurt her. He did not want to frighten her. He should not even care like this what she did or what happened to her, but he could not help himself. He wanted her to tell him the truth. “Why—” “I did take Ceolfrith. I was not—” “You left him. In a church of all places.” The pull against his arm increased. “It was only for a few minutes.” “What happened to you only took a few minutes.” He would not, could not, let her move. “Who was that man? The Dane?” “No one. Just a fugitive hiding out in the bushes who thought he could attack someone who was defenseless. It was just…nothing.” “Nothing? How could it be nothing? And you would not have been defenseless if you had taken Ceolfrith with you.” “I did not realize what would happen. I only wanted to go to the spring.” The spring. There they were, back at the ridiculous, improbable beginning of the whole story.

Liefwin had no way of knowing who the Danish man was. In the eyes of Oslac’s men, the unknown Viking had assumed the prowess of Thor, god of thunder. Just because he had escaped them. Ceolfrith had described Thor as a small weasel. It was impossible to learn more, even though he had gleaned every detail he could of what had happened, from Oslac, from the men who had given chase, from Ceolfrith. From Sigrid, who had wanted spring water: a desire without any reason that could make sense to him. She had put herself in danger, gone into a town that she had said held nothing she wanted, for just that: nothing. A whim. Straight after he had tried to tell her how dangerous things were. After he had tried at the expense of so much bitterness to make her see. He had thought she had understood. She had not. He was mad to think that what was so important to him could possibly mean anything to her. She had taken a blindly stupid risk for the sake of caprice, unless…Suppose she was lying to him? The thought was like a knife through the guts. Suppose she lied? Suppose she knew the Viking? No one knew what had been said. No one could. Oslac and his men from Wessex did not speak Danish. Yet she had struggled with the man, according to Ceolfrith. She had a mark on her face. He took a breath that required frightening care. “He made good his escape, your Dane. Did you know that?” The shudder that ran through her body at his words could have been his own. Her breath caught on a faint sound. Relief ? Fear? He had no way to tell, and she did not speak. If the catch in her breath had been the start of a word for him, it was not given voice, and whatever she felt, or did not feel, was withheld from him. He felt the coldness take his heart again. The coldness that stifled everything. Even his anger. He let her go and stood up. “Sit by the fire again or you will get chilled.” She moved without looking round and the nightmare that had begun so long ago staked its hold on the present. He did not even want to look at her, but his eyes watched her move, the delicate little hands and feet and the small bowed head the only things visible outside the folds of the

cloaks. He watched the slender fingers arrange the bulky wool more closely round her body. He could break down the wall of her resistance with one hand. But the thought was pointless. He turned away, crossing the room to get his spare cloak out of the chest. He forced his mind to work. There was tomorrow to be organized, and after tomorrow the King of Wessex would be here and it would all be over. What had happened today could make no difference to his future. His course was set. Nothing that Sigrid did could possibly affect it. Her life was hers, just as his was his. He grasped the lid of the chest and for some reason the familiar shape of the cross among the ornate carving on the lid caught his eye. His fingers, still damp with spring water, traced its outline. He was suddenly aware that the woman sitting across the room from him, the familiar unfathomed stranger, was staring at him. He could feel it without even having to see her. He looked round at the small figure and the heart-shaped face that belonged to Sigrid. He saw her eyes. And he knew that Dane or no Dane, whatever she had done, if she had wanted him, he would have cast everything to the winds, the whole world, duty or reputation or honor, to have her. Sigrid woke to the sound of murder. She lay rigid in the curtained bed, every sense stretched in the night blackness. The noise came again, low pitched, desperate, spine-chilling in its hopelessness, as though all the nameless horrors of the world were concentrated in that one wordless sound. She jammed her hand against her own mouth, as though that was where the sound came from and she could stop it. Or perhaps it was just an instinctive human reaction, that of a child confronted by adult terrors. But it was not she who had made the sound. Liefwin. She leaped up, tearing back the bed hangings and plunging out into the firelit dark, toward the other bed. She knew where the sword was kept, liyt ræsc, leaning against the wall by Liefwin’s bed, ready for use.

It was still there. Her hand grasped the gilded hilt, dragged it from the gold-chased scabbard. It was so awkward, too long, too unwieldy for her pathetic arm, and then it moved. Or that was how it seemed. She could feel the power of it flow up her arm, like fire, so fast, like its namesake. It was alive. You could do anything with a weapon like that, conquer the world. Except it was directionless. You had to hold it back. Liefwin, she told it, like an idiot. Save him. Must not harm… Her other hand was already hauling at the ghostly sea-green bed curtains. Nothing. Except…the noise. The noise came again. She dropped to her knees. “Liefwin.” The thin, terrified rasp of her voice was lost under the horrifying sound. He moved, like someone in the torments of hell. She stared at the thrashing body in terror. “Liefwin!” But he could not hear her. She could not bear it, seeing Liefwin, anyone, like this. She caught at a flailing arm. Its strength was more than she had imagined, more than she could hold. But she dared not let go. She threw all her weight against the arm, flattening it and herself against his body. He woke. She felt the shock of it run through him and he gasped. It was a ragged sound, but quite ordinary compared to the torment she had just seen. Only surprise, nothing more. She did not let go. He spoke. “Sigrid. What are you…” and then, “I was dreaming.” The next breath was quite normal. No, not normal, controlled. “Did I wake you? It was nothing. I was just dreaming.” The expressionless voice. Usual. Full of its habitual coldness. Dismissive. But she was touching him and his skin was like ice and she could feel the wild pounding of his heart. She held him, her own heart thudding like his. “Did I give you a fright?” said the voice calmly, as though making an effort to be polite. “I am sorry. It was only a dream. It just happens sometimes.” An almost imperceptible pause, skillfully glossed over. “It is just an annoyance. Nothing to worry you.”

The voice was perfect. Almost. The arm she was not crushing moved round to touch her shoulder in reassurance, but a light touch, hardly there at all. He moved underneath her small weight and she knew he wanted her gone. She tried to collect herself, to lever herself away, but her clumsy hand only brushed across naked flesh, everywhere. The bedclothes seemed nowhere at all. She was trembling. She did not know whether it was with the remains of her terror or what. Liyt ræsc, dangling forgotten out of her right hand, scraped against the side of the bed. “What is that?” He moved, straight through all her useless fumblings and she found she was sitting up but still hopelessly entangled with him and still clutching the gold-stamped hilt. A hand like a steel clamp descended on hers. “It is liyt ræsc,” she said. “I am sorry. I know I should not have taken it, but I did not know what else to do. It sounded like…I thought someone was trying to kill you.” She was babbling into the awful silence. She knew she was. “You must think I am foolish.” “Foolish?” The hard gold hilt was eased out of her fingers. She let it go. “What did you think you were going to do with it? Run my attacker through?” “Chop his head off,” she replied into the softer gold of the long, tangled hair under her cheek. “More effective.” Her fingers twisted in one heavy coiling thread. “It was so strange. I could hardly get the blade out of the scabbard but once the thing was in my hand, I felt as though I could have done murder, quite unaided. The sword would have done it. So that in the end I was afraid I would not be able to hold it back.” “You felt that?” “Yes,” she said. “It is a snake-blade and you have put runes on it.” “Not me. They were put there long before I had the sword. I would have had hægl, the sudden destroyer.” She shivered and her hands dug tighter into his flesh. “But hagall, hægl,” she corrected herself in Mercian, “is also a transformation. Good can sometimes follow the worst. That is how life is.” She paused and then said in a rush, “I wanted to help you with the sword. Truly. And…it knew. I think I even spoke to it in my head….” She stopped and then added, “I told you I was fool—” She heard the sword hit the floor and the rest of the word was lost, along with her breath, and all power of thought and every sense that was not of him. His arms closed round her, pulling her on top of him, crushing her against his naked body so that her

flesh pressed against his through the fine linen of her shift. Her breath matched the shallow quickness of his, her heart beat just as fast. The strength in his arms did not hurt her, but he held her so closely. That must be as close as it was possible to hold another human being, and yet she could feel the frustrated tension in every muscle of his arms and his body, as though he wanted to hold her closer still. Her hands reached round in response to that need for closeness, to touch him, to fasten on his naked flesh. Because the need was in her, too. She clung on to him and let her whole body rest where it would against his. There was only silence and darkness and the small combined sound of their breathing. He did not try to kiss her, though the consciousness of it and their awareness of each other seemed to penetrate everything, every last sinew of her body, her breath, the fireshadowed dark. It was everything to her, this closeness to him. She did not know how she would ever be able to let it go. The thought filled her with a terrible longing that made her breath outstrip his. The end would come so soon and she no longer knew how she would be able to bear it. But stronger than that was the longing to make him well, to solve whatever it was that could blight something as strong and vital as he was. “What were you dreaming about?” she asked. Liefwin froze. He felt every muscle in his body tighten in instinctive resistance. The answer to that particular question was nothing or I do not remember and if anyone persisted after that, he could always knock their head off their shoulders. But he could hardly do that with a woman and one who was pathetically small even by female standards. He said nothing. He tried moving away, but something pinched at his arm like a gnat that had grown unexpected teeth. It was her fingers. “Please tell me.” He looked at the fingers. She had earned the right to know. She had just tried to save his life with a sword she could hardly lift and would never have been able to control. He did not know why she should have done that, but she was braver than any of his men who had been trained to defend themselves since they could walk. And the sword had spoken to her. Perhaps because of the runes. Transformation. The awareness of wyrd in the darkness made the small hairs rise at the nape of his neck. Fate and transformation.

But he did not see that good could follow evil this time, even though that pattern was eternal. Nothing could change for him. But perhaps for her. If she knew, she would be free of him, and then in a matter of days when she left here, her life would start again. His hands moved her, very gently, and this time she did not resist. He sat up, placing her beside him, on the side of the bed that would allow her to move away unhindered when the time came for her to want to. He made sure they did not touch. Liefwin leaned back in the shadows and took a breath. But the words he had never spoken would not come out of his mouth, and the sense of loss that choked him seemed not of the past but of the future. He should say it. He must be able to. He had never been a coward in his life. He took another breath and the words that killed everything took shape. “I was dreaming of my wife—” “Elswyth?” she said. “I heard—” “You know?” The shock was like something physical. He could not imagine who would have— “No. No, I do not know. I only heard someone say her name and that she was very… beautiful. Was she?” He tried to get his thoughts into order. What a stupid, irrelevant question to start with. He could hardly believe Sigrid would have said it. “Yes,” he said, “she was.” And what of it? He nearly said the words aloud. What use was beauty? It might dazzle you for a start, and then what? It did not bring people any closer. It was an accident of birth, not a virtue. He had been born with it himself in some measure, and for him it was one of the stock tools of the trade if you were forced into being a leader. It attracted people at first if you could look impressive. Like wearing gold and fine clothes. It was what people expected. But an outward show like that was nothing compared to Sigrid’s attraction. That seemed to come from the inside out. It did not lie in the wide shape of the gray eyes, but in their expression. It was not the pretty blond hair that caught you, it was the way she held her head and the way she moved. That expressed what she was. “Did you love her very much?” said Sigrid, and perhaps it was the beginning after all. “She was part of my life.” He turned away from Sigrid’s kind of beauty and looked at the dark. “I killed her.”

He heard a small rustling noise as she moved. He had at least had the forethought to place her on the right side of the bed so she could escape unhindered. She would go and — Something touched his hand. It was all he could do not to jump out of his skin. “Tell me,” said Sigrid. But it seemed impossible, again, for Liefwin to force himself to speak. He cursed himself for weakness, for letting her touch him after he had said that. He should have known she would not just go. She was not a coward. She deserved better than him. He moved his hand from under her small, cold fingers. She was shivering. The fire was so low it was getting cold in the room. He should have thought of that. She needed to be looked after. He untangled some of the bedclothes to warm her. He watched the slender, naked arm reach out to take the cover from him. The dying glow of the fire caught her thin skin, the tiny gold hairs on her forearm. His gaze traveled down the arm, to the delicate curve of her shoulder, the shadowed softness of her breast scarcely concealed by the fine linen shift. Just to look at her like that was enough to heat his blood. Madness. Her huge gray eyes watched him. He had to tell her. Everything. And then it would be over and she would be free. He turned away from her and spoke into the blackness. “Elswyth and I had known each other since we were children. Her family’s lands bordered one of my family’s estates. We saw each other often. It was always intended that we should marry. It seemed the right and natural outcome and so it was done. She was sixteen and I was an idiot of Alfwin’s age.” “Were you happy?” said Sigrid, and there he was, at the edge of the abyss. “I do not know,” said Liefwin. “I thought so. At first. At least, I was. But…” How did he explain what he did not fully understand himself ? The secret had died with Elswyth. “It seems very young now, sixteen and seventeen. There is still a lot of growing up to do at that age and we did not grow together. We grew apart. They were not easy years… for anyone.”

Liefwin paused and risked a glance at the still figure beside him, wreathed in shadows. Always shadows between them. They were the shadows of death and destruction, stronger than anything. He spoke their shapes. “They were years of such terrible uncertainty. Peace was always so fleeting. We did not have the defenses we have now. Not so many fortresses, no long-term campaigns like this. The raids were—” “Ceolfrith told me about your father. You must have wanted to avenge his death.” Why had Ceolfrith said that? How could he deny it? And perhaps it was all part of the story. “Yes. What boy would not? It lived in my heart and then one day, when I was in my tenth winter, Ceolfrith and my uncles took me to the court and I saw the lady Ethelfleda, co-ruler of the Mercians as she then was, because her husband was still alive. I hardly noticed him. All I saw was her.” Liefwin tried to remember how it had been in the richly tapestried hall, with all the fighting men of Mercia gathered round and every eye drawn to the lady. “I thought she was the bravest and the fairest sight I had ever seen. I thought that when I grew up I would save her kingdom for her and free it from the Vikings. It seemed so easy. I could not understand why none of her thanes had done this for her before. I thought all you had to do was to be strong enough and brave enough. “I had no idea what such a thing meant.” There was no need to say more, not to Sigrid. He watched the slight figure pull the tangled bedclothes closer round itself and the sadness of that small gesture was unbearable. It seemed to reach right inside him until it was no longer alien, but part of his own pain, the pain of everyone who lived in this world. He tried to suppress it. The only things he needed to say to Sigrid were the things she could not know. “I married Elswyth and I wanted her to be happy. But she was not. It was not just that I was not with her as much as I should have been, because of the fighting. It was more than that. It must have been something in me. I do not think I was the husband that she wished.” Intent gray eyes regarded him out of the shadows. They frowned. Perhaps she knew. Perhaps Sigrid, who seemed to know so much about people without being told, knew what the mysterious thing was that he had not been able to provide for his dead wife. But she said nothing. Perhaps there were no words for it.

He looked away from the silent face and fixed his attention on some obscure fold in the bedcover, as though it was the most important thing in the cosmos, and ploughed on into the silence. “Perhaps if we had had children. But we did not. There was one, once, that she carried for three months and then…no more. I think that took something from her life. She had always been a restless soul, always seeking diversion and nothing I did was…I no longer knew what she wished.” He could see every individual thread of the fold in the bedcover in spite of the blackness of the shadows. “Our last parting was bitter. She thought I should not have gone. But there seemed no choice. There were so few choices then. I had left her with the lady, because the court seemed the only thing left that gave her any happiness. She said she would stay there until…” The fold in the bedcover vanished. There was nothing but the shadows, and the screaming in his ears. The screams he had heard and those he had not. Because he had been too far away. “We were chasing a raiding party. Just the crew from a single rogue ship. Nothing important. Unless you happened to be in their path. They were making from the river to the monastery at the edge of the forest. We cut across their path and they turned back. As good as gone.” The shadows were so thick, now, blotting out the present and where he was. “But I would not leave it at that. I had seen the village they had destroyed on the way. The corpses and the people left to die in their own blood. I had seen so many things like that before, but that day I was so angry and I…” He stopped himself. They were not fit things to say to Sigrid, such loathing and rage, such terrible feelings that had led on to his own personal disaster. “I am so sorry,” she said, and her voice trembled. She had a soft heart. He did not know how she had kept it so. She deserved a different life than this. “I wanted vengeance,” he said, and the words seemed to strike through the black air between them, the harshest words that existed. But he was helpless to say anything else. She had to know the truth and she had to be free of whatever mistaken impulse had made her come to help him. “I decided I would pursue the raiders. The men said we would never catch them, but I knew better. I knew I could do it.”

Liefwin paused. “I have such luck, you see. That is why people fall over themselves to fight for me. I always achieve what I set out to do. I did this time.” The shadows wrapped themselves round him like familiar sprites. “I had cut off their route to the river and I drove them inland. Their path crossed a road. Not a road, a local track. The sort that should be deserted except for a shepherd in the evening, or someone taking their horse to the smith.” The shadows were crushing him, taking his breath. “But it had not been deserted. As we crested the hill, we saw them, a group of travelers. The shipmen had crossed their path and had killed them, for fresh horses and whatever else they could carry.” The darkness and the shadows were absolute. “I think I knew, even from that distance. I do not remember getting there. Just walking though the bodies of my own men. All those sightless faces. All dead. And in the middle of the corpses was Elswyth.” The terrible words were said and there was no relief in the darkness. Liefwin could hear his voice still talking, as though it belonged to someone else. “She must have left the court to go to her family. She had kin who lived farther east. The shipmen would have come on them like the wind. It must have been so quick. That is what I tell myself and it must have been so because they had not even had the time to take all of her jewelry. She was still wearing the rose crystal necklace I gave her. She looked as though she was asleep, as though she would wake up at any minute and tell me what a fool I was. “But of course she could not. The back of her skull was crushed and her neck was broken.” His voice stopped. “What did you do?” “I had my vengeance on the raiding party,” he said into the dark. “Just as I wished. It was perfectly done. Not one of the men I had with me was killed.” “Yes.” Her voice was like a small thread of sound, near stifled in the blackness. “But what did you do when…when you first found Elswyth? Did you weep? Did you yell and rage and curse and hit someone?” “No,” he said through the frozen lump inside him. “No, I did not. I could not, then. There were nearly forty men standing, surrounded by corpses and looking at me to tell them what to do. And somewhere just ahead were between thirty-six and forty Vikings looking for a way back to the river before night fell.”

“Yes. But perhaps when you…when it was over and—” “But it was not over. There were the minor injuries to be dealt with, the captives we had freed, the dead bodies to be honored, the—” “They had taken captives?” “Yes. But if you think that puts my actions in a better light, I did not know. Not for sure. There had been no one left alive in the village to tell me. No. What I wanted was vengeance.” “Yes.” Her voice was back to a thread. He had said enough, surely, more than enough for her. “Sigrid, you know all you need to, now, how things are. What I have done. Why I…” But she did not seem to hear. “But later,” she said, “did you talk to Ceolfrith?” Of course I damned well spoke to Ceolfrith. He carried out my orders. He swallowed it and sought for something else to say, but Sigrid forestalled him. “I mean did you tell him how you felt?” she said, and the abyss opened up and swallowed him. “No,” he said, and his voice sounded no louder than hers. Sigrid knew what his answer would be. “I did not speak to Ceolfrith. I could not stand anyone’s pity after what I had done and…” It was not just that. It was worse than that. Far worse. “There was nothing to say. I could not say to Ceolfrith or anyone how I felt, because I did not feel anything. No, that is not true. It was there, underneath, like a pit of hellebroga. But I was somewhere else. Quite apart from it. Not feeling anything. Like being dead, only not so.” She would think he was mad. But she knew what he was. She had seen it and she had despised him for it. “I still go on. I do everything that needs to be done. I do not shirk anything and I am still crowned with success. But inside I am…I do not need to tell you, do I? You know. You knew from the start that the fault was with me. You said so that night in the hailstorm. Do you not remember?” “But I…I did not know when I said that what had—” “It is what I am. The faults, all of them, lie in me. If I had been a better husband, if I had stayed with my wife when she wished, she would not have felt so desperate that she had to set out on such a reckless journey, just to find a family to be with.

“I was no husband worth the name to her. I did not protect her from harm, which is the most basic thing any man should do. If I had not—” “Did you never think it was her fault? That she would not wait for you and decided to set off across dangerous country with what was presumably just a small escort? Did you never think it, in the middle of the night when you could not sleep, or when you woke up from one of your nightmares?” No. No, I did not. He wanted to scream it at the top of his voice, but it was not true. He had not thought it was possible to sink any lower. But it was. “Yes. Yes, I have been quite capable of thinking that. Sometimes. At first. But it is not fair. You cannot say it was someone’s fault for riding out on a summer’s day to see her kin. You cannot blame her for the actions of a group of people full of greed who set out to plunder and destroy what belongs to others.” “No,” said Sigrid, “you cannot move the blame from them to someone else.” She did not say anything else. No meaningless words about how he could not have known and he had not meant it to happen and all the other things people had tried to say to him before he had shut them up. Just that. No more. And then silence for it to sink into his thick head. But it only sank so far. He was beyond the reach of reason, even put like that. It only got as far as the top layers of his mind and then stuck there. It did nothing for the helletrega. “It…I do not know what the English word for it is,” she said. “Wyrd?” “No. Wyrd can be changed. Nearly everything we do and everything that happens can be changed. We are still responsible until the moment of our final doom, until we are fæg.” Liefwin shivered, although he was not cold. It was just the bleakness of the dark. “I do not know why such things happen. Not just to me, or to Elswyth. To so many people. To you. They go on happening and they always will. There can be no end to such things in this world.” His eyes sought the carved wooden chest against the far wall that held his possessions, the one with the cross on the lid. There were too many shadows in the room and he could not see it. But that did not matter. He could see it in his mind and he tried to hold it there. It was a sin to give up. He would not. No matter what was in his heart. At the very least, Sigrid should be saved out of this mess.

He turned back to the small shape huddled in the bedclothes. He could just catch the lightness of her ice-blond hair, the pale shape of her face, the fancied gleam of the smoky-gray eyes. “Go back to your bed, Sigrid. Go to sleep. I…I am grateful for what you did, but you know now how misplaced that was, what the truth is—” He thought she might have spoken again, but his voice drowned it out. “Sigrid, there are only two days left for us to get through. Then I will see that you get to your kindred. You will be safe. I will fulfil that promise—” She tried to speak again. But he could no longer bear to look at her or to hear her voice, because it hurt too much. And the pain, which had been like a coiled serpent waiting for him, was no longer a separate force, but had become part of him at last. He turned away. “Just go. Now. There is nothing left that either of us can say.” He heard her move.

Chapter Fourteen S he did not know how to do it. Sigrid sat scrunched up on the very edge of the bed and stared at the back and the brutal bare shoulders that had so terrified her that first morning she had woken up in the same room as Liefwin. They still terrified her. She did not know where to start. She did not know whether anything she had said had reached him. He had told her everything and he had spared nothing, least of all himself. He had said all it was possible for him to say, and then he had asked her to go. Perhaps she ought to respect that. She could not. She could not leave anyone who was in that much pain. She could not leave Liefwin. Not even if he wanted her to, and yet she did not know how she could possibly comfort such pain and such an unfair burden of guilt. If she had been kinder to him throughout. If she had recognized the trap of pain he was caught in and what his coldness hid. If she had not said it was his fault. If she had not been so obsessed with the fact that he was English instead of seeing that he was worth more than anyone she had ever known. If she had followed her heart from the start…

If she had followed her heart. It was the only guide in the wasteland that she had left. It would not let her abandon him. She touched the smooth white-cream skin that covered one huge shoulder. She felt him start in shock. He thought she had left him. He must have thought that he was alone again in the prison of isolation that had held him since Elswyth’s death. She was not Elswyth the Beautiful and she could never mean so much to him. But she would do anything in the world if it would comfort him. Her hand tightened against the naked flesh. “Liefwin…” But she only felt the thick muscles under her hand bunch in revolt. “Liefwin, I—” He moved. A lock of fire-gilded hair slid over her hand, then smooth flesh under her fingers as he turned. She tried to hold on to him, her hand sliding across his skin. “What do you think you are doing?” “Liefwin…” But all words now seemed to have deserted her. Whereas before she had been able to speak to him through the darkness, even if she did not know whether she used the right words, now she could say nothing. She was stuck repeating his name and trying to hold on to a body that wanted to pull free of her. “Sigrid, I asked you to go. Will you go? Will you leave me? Will you just—” “No.” At least it was a different word. But then her tongue clamped up on her. Probably because her mouth was so dry. He did not want her near him. But now that she touched the hard planes of his chest she could feel the savage beating of his heart. Just as hard and fast as when he had woken from the nightmare. She had to try. “Sigrid…” And she was close enough to hear the catch in his voice, under the gruffness. It was unmistakable to her and it gave her the courage she needed. “No,” she said, “I do not want to go.” She tried to catch that thread of courage and hold on to it. She raised herself on one elbow and leaned over him.

His eyes, those freezing blue eyes, were glaring at her out of the dark. She made herself ignore them. She did not look at his face. She kept her gaze on the terrible shoulders, the thickly muscled torso, on the compact hips caught in the rumpled bedclothes and the elegant legs half covered, half exposed in the tangle. The heart that was supposed to be guiding her thundered uselessly out of time. She did not know where to start. Seven years of marriage and she had no idea how to go about seducing someone. She started with the shoulders because they were so terrifying and if she touched them perhaps she could do more. She tried. Her fingers slid across his warm skin, far too fast because she was so nervous, skittered down across the shadowed dusting of hair that covered his chest. She did not know whether her touch was too light or not light enough or…she avoided a bruise at the last moment, clumsily, so that her fingers splayed out across the other side of his chest, brushing the dark ridge of one nipple. She felt the jerk of unexpected reaction go right through him and her heart leaped. “Liefwin,” she whispered, “let—” But he was not going to let her. He moved. Out from under her hand and she knew he was so furious that if he had been Ragnar he would have killed her stone dead. He would pulverize her. “Don’t!” she shrieked, throwing her arm in front of her face with the speed of practice. “Do not what?” She was left looking over the top of her upraised arm at Liefwin, not Ragnar. And for some reason that went beyond her experience, she suddenly knew that he would not harm her, and that it had always been so from the start. It had only been she who had been incapable of believing it. The knowledge made some last piece of resistance break. “Do not make me go,” she said. The words were barely discernible because her voice was shot through with incipient tears. Because she had ruined what she had set out to do and now there would be no hope at all. But the truth in her voice, or perhaps it was his pity for her tears, seemed to work where all her clumsy attempts at seduction had not. He reached out to her with all the skill at love craft that she did not have. She was lost, drawn into the strength of his arms, pressed close against the warmth of his body and her tearful breath expired against his lips.

She melted. There was no consciousness of anything else. Her arms closed round naked skin, felt it shiver, felt his kiss deepen, making her breath quicken and the tears slide out from beneath her closed eyelids. Her heart felt as though it would break just from his kiss. Because at the last moment he had not turned away but had given her her only chance with him. She held him fast and she thought her tenderness and the longing for him would choke her. There was nothing she would not do to comfort him. Her desire for his closeness overcame the restraint that lived inside her. The difference in her must have been obvious to one with his knowledge and it must have been that that deepened his kiss into a passion that roused its echo in her. She felt through his hot mouth and his tongue and his lips and through every muscle in his body how much he wanted her and she exulted in it. Because the consuming heat of that desire was what she had wanted to arouse in him, the white heat that would burn away everything for him, darkness and pain and misery. At least for this night. At least until tomorrow had to be faced. She closed her mind against tomorrow and separation. Her arms enclosed his body and he sought her touch. It made her blood race and her hands move over his skin with adoration, smoothing across its contours with a glorious freedom, touching it as it was meant to be touched. For its own sake. Because it was Liefwin. Her hands gloried in the denseness of his back, the muscular shape, the solid strength of it. It was right. It was just as it should be. She would not have changed so much as one tiny inch of it. Her hands slid upward across his beautiful shoulders. She felt him cleave close to her and that movement brought a delight she had never expected. It was so strong and so intoxicating that she was brave enough to kiss him. She made his mouth open and move against hers. She felt the dark warmth of his breath and the smooth, perfect touch of his lips and it was not just his touch, but hers. Because she kissed him. Not so well and so skillfully, she knew it. But still she kissed him and she felt his body thrill with it and that was what she wanted. To believe that he felt the same melting, sharp-edged pleasure that trembled inside her. She wanted him to feel her love. She could not speak it. She could not say what he would not want to hear. But if she could make him feel it…Just for this moment, this night. If she could make him feel how worthy he was to be loved. She was burningly aware of the tightness of his body as he dragged away the rough tangle of the bedcovers crushed between them. So that there was nothing between his naked body and hers except the thinness of her shift. His hand slid up inside the flimsy

material, lingering on the rounded curve of her thigh, touching the vulnerable softness of her abdomen, so that she shuddered in reaction and all her muscles tensed into a solid wall. The hand moved higher, touching her breast, molding round its shape, pressing against the pliant flesh, finding the swollen peak, touching it as she had touched him. Her body jerked in just the same way. But he was not clumsy as she was. The deft fingers touched her and kept on touching her with a lightness that drove her out of her senses. Little stabs of dizziness were shooting through her, deep inside her belly, penetrating even lower, down between her legs, making that part of her tingle until she thought she would die of it. Her body tensed and she did not know whether it was the dizziness or fear. She gasped against the heat of his mouth and the kiss broke and his hand slid down from her breast, across the clenched muscles of her abdomen, down between her legs…it was fear, such fear. Ugly and unstoppable. Growing. She must not let the fear take her. Not now. She felt his hand move across soft damp hair, find the opening to her body. She would not think of humiliating pain. There was nothing in his touch to hurt her. It was still so smooth and unforced. Liefwin’s touch. Liefwin who was kind. If only she could find the courage to do as she wished. She wanted no barrier between them. She wanted so much to be close to Liefwin. Because she loved him. She opened her eyes. She wanted to look at his face, but it was lost in shadow. The solid width of his body above her blotted out what was left of the firelight. She was frighteningly aware of the tenseness in him, the ripened hardness of his manhood pressing against her. Yet this was the man she loved. She would not make a fool of herself like last time. Men were men, even the best of them and…She shut her eyes. She felt the firmness of his fingers, slippery against her moist flesh. She would let him. She would not betray by the slightest sound that— The smooth fingers stopped. There was an instant’s stillness and then the cold air of the dark room, shocking against her overheated skin. “Liefwin…” She did not understand it. She had not made a sound before he stopped. She opened her eyes. He was looking at her. His hand still rested lightly on the top of her thigh. His brilliant face, in the last glow of the fire, held all the heat that had been his touch. His hair slid

forward in a wild tangle over his shoulders and the top of his chest. The shoulders moved with the force of his breath. But his eyes were wide and unreadable. She realized she had let go of him and she was lying flat on her back with her fists clenched, rigid as something long dead, and her teeth bit her lower lip. She had not known she had done that. She had not meant to. What must it look like to him? She was such a miserable coward. She could see it all happening again. The same misunderstanding. He would leave her. He would go. He would be so angry that…it would not just be anger. She knew quite suddenly and with conviction how much she would hurt him. She grabbed at him and her voice, no longer brave with passion, but childishly desperate, said, “It is all right. You can do it to me.” “I can…do it to you?” said Liefwin. He looked at the fragile, petrified figure of the woman and the huge eyes staring at him in desperation. “Sigrid, I am not going to do anything to you that you do not wish. Is that what you think of me? That I…” His voice choked somewhere in the tightness of his throat. He tried to control the unevenness of his breathing, the wild pounding of his heart, but it was impossible. He could not stop staring at the pale blur of her face and the huge eyes. “What were you thinking? What were you doing when you…you stayed with me when it was the last thing I expected and then…” The great shadowed eyes just watched him in silence. Cold fingers clawed at his pounding heart. “Did you just feel sorry for me, even in spite of all that I have just said? Was that it?” He could just see her doing it. She could feel sorry for an insect somebody had trodden on. “Did you think me such a pitiable thing that you felt you had to—” “No! No, not like that. I wanted…” But she stopped and then abruptly turned her head away and whatever she had wanted remained locked in her head, quite hidden from him. It hurt more than seemed possible. “I do not understand,” he said.

She did not even look at him and he did not think she would speak at all. But she did, so softly he had to strain to catch the words. “It is because I am no good.” “What?” She flinched. He took a steadying breath and tried to made his voice come out as gently as possible. “What do you mean?” She still did not turn her head. “I am no good at this. Not like you. I do not know how.” The soft voice shook. But he did not think it was fear. It was bitterness. It was…and then he saw it, in a stray reflection of light from the dying fire, the thin white scar on the side of her face, running down from her eye. Her husband. The brave Viking. He should have known. He should have seen what now seemed so obvious. If the nithing had been prepared to inflict that injury on her, how else might he not have mistreated her? Or at the very least destroyed her confidence, even though she had still seemed to feel some tie to him. Liefwin watched the small, averted face and felt his hands clench into fists. How could anyone, even some barbaric marauding Dane, have… She moved, turning farther away from him, the slender hands plucking at the tangled folds of her shift. “I am not beautiful,” she said quite clearly. “I know that.” The fingers dragged savagely at the flimsy material as though she had to hide herself from him. “But Sigrid, you are. You are more than that. You—” “Do not! Do not say things like that when they are not true. Not you. I could not bear it from you.” The growing coldness round his heart nearly choked him. “Sigrid—” “It is no good,” she said. “Nothing is any good.” He saw her face. It was set, with no expression at all but…he recognized instantly what was in her eyes. It was as familiar to him as his own skin. It was the look that a prisoner has. Not one trapped by iron fetters but one imprisoned by their own thoughts.

Whatever her dead husband had done to her, whatever had been in her past, still lived in her mind. He had tried to be so careful with her after what had happened last time. He had tried to restrain the wildness of the passion, the savage need for her that he felt and he had thought that she… He had utterly miscalculated the depth of what she felt. “I am sorry,” she said. “I will go.” “No!” He could not let her. Not like that. Not thinking what she did about herself. He caught at her arm and she stopped. But only because she had to. She still pulled against his hand with what strength she had so that he knew he would have to let go or he would hurt her. “Do not go,” he said, and into the split instant that remained to him to stop her, “I need you to stay.” They were not words he knew how to say. They seemed to leave some terrible gaping hole where his insides ought to have been, like a sword wound only worse because there was no defense for it. But she stopped. Really, this time, and lay quite still. There was silence. He let go of her arm carefully, in case his great thick hands had hurt her. She did not move and he was not entirely sure he could still breathe. “It is not true,” she said. “You could not need me. Not really. I just…” The woman wanted blood. He could not say any more. But her eyes fixed on him and he realized that the disbelief they held was not so much for him as for herself. His overloaded heart filled with such rage that it would kill him. Not just rage against the unknown husband who must have abused her but that terrible helpless rage against the world they lived in, where such pain and misery was normal and would never change. But set against that thought was the burning memory of the moment in this room when they had first confronted each other. And she had made him acknowledge the decision that had already been taken in his heart. That he had wanted her fate to be different. “It is hopeless,” she said. “No,” he said to the prisoner locked somewhere inside her. “It is not.” She turned her gaze from him and looked at the bed canopy. “I cannot—”

“Do you remember,” he said, interrupting her, cutting further back into the short span of their shared past, “that first night we were together in that filthy storage barn?” “I—” “We were just together, like this, in the dark. Nobody said anything because there was nothing that could be said. But we had each other.” “Yes. But—” “We had each other,” he said. “In spite of everything that parted us, neither of us was alone.” “No, but—” “And you knew full well, and do not try to deny it, that I needed you just then as much as you needed me.” “But—” “We helped each other,” he persisted, and this time she did not deny it. “I suppose so, but…” she said. Only four words, not even a complete sentence, and then she stopped again. But her voice had changed. He heard it. Because he understood, even if only in part, what she was struggling against. The small change in her voice gave him enough hope to go on. He slid down again, full-length beside her. But he did not dare to touch her. “We helped each other just by being together,” he said in the utterly confident voice that was the trick of his trade, “even though nobody did anything and nothing was expected. Was it?” “No,” she said, and this time there was no but attached at all. “Although,” he said, lightening his voice, risking the next step into the dark, “I seem to remember you did take my hand. Quite boldly, I thought.” He moved his own hand suggestively toward where he thought hers must be. There was a silence during which he kept his own gaze riveted on the bed canopy and nothing happened. He must have been too precipitate, too ill-timed. He had forgotten how to tease people. It was an art that had died in him long ago. He should not have tried…she touched him. He felt the small hesitant fingers take his. He wanted to grab hold of that slight, gentle hand and crush it so that it would never escape him again. He did not dare move. “Aye,” he sighed, “just like that. Or perhaps it was two hands. You were ever more forward than me.” “Me?”

“Aye.” His fingers closed furtively over hers so that she could not move them. “You wanted to take advantage of some defenseless fellow who had nothing but a cloak between him and the prospect of ruin.” “I did not…it was you who abducted me—” “Rescued.” “Rescued,” she acknowledged. But Liefwin thought it was harder to rescue her from this than from an entire army. The hand under his trembled. But it did not try to pull away from him. The small fingers clung to him with the force that had once dug into his flesh and now dug into his heart. “Rescued you at some peril to myself,” he said. “Oh. Yes. Three armed people who—” “Not them. I am talking about afterward. I still have the scars.” “Oh! But I—” “You have no mercy. If there was enough light in here, I could show you.” He leaned threateningly over her and produced his other hand, open so that he would not frighten her. But there was no fear in the eyes that met his. There really was not. “Idiot,” she said, and the word that he would have killed anyone else for was more welcome than his own life. “At least,” she said, “I did not try and kiss someone while they were asleep.” Somehow Liefwin managed to swallow the surprise and the sudden dryness in his throat. “You were awake? You were awake and you let me kiss you when we were strangers and…enemies?” But he was off balance and it was hard to keep his voice to the same lightness. “You shameless and unprincipled wench,” he tried by way of recovery. “Yes,” she said, and her voice was unsteadier than his. “I did not have any shame with you at all. Not even with the town being sacked outside the door. It did not make any difference. That is why I did not speak. I wanted you to kiss me.” “Like this?” said Liefwin through the tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with the damage to his ribs. He touched her lips. They were warm and soft and too surprised to resist when he took them with his own mouth. He did not let them. Not at first and then when she had no breath left, he softened his touch, teasing her at the very edge of sensation so that she had to lean toward him if she wanted to prolong the kiss.

She did. Her mouth followed his and her hands found his shoulders, tangling in his hair, sliding underneath it, settling on his neck and pulling his head toward her. She had actually done that of her own volition. She had wanted him. The knowledge burned inside him as though it would consume him, as though it would consume everything, all consciousness, all restraint. But he could not let it. It was like torture. He kissed her as gently, as tenderly, as deeply as he could. As long as she wanted it. As long as it was possible. Until he could feel her body move against his with an impatience she could no longer stop. He slid his mouth away from hers and down across the fragile line of her neck, easing his pulsing overheated body away from hers. She tried to hold on to him, but he could not let her. If his body touched hers, if she moved against him the way she had, he would be lost. “Liefwin…” She had hold of one of his hands. He let her keep it. He would use his mouth. He touched her breast, just gently. It was so delicate, like the rest of her. She was so fine and small he was always half afraid of hurting her. But she was not a child. She was all woman, so softly rounded and so subtly full. She invited passion, inflamed it, and yet she demanded such care. It was the most erotic combination he could imagine. He touched her with his tongue and, even through the barrier of the shift he had not dared to remove, he felt the soft peak of her breast harden in his mouth. He heard her moan and felt her move. He looked up, wanting to see her face. To his surprise, her head was raised, her shoulders braced against the bolster so she could watch him. Her eyes were wide and dark, her parted lips swollen from his kiss. “Liefwin,” she said, “kiss me. Just like that.” The hand that was not clutching his reached down. He bent his head under the touch of her hand, taking the small tight hardness of her with lips and tongue, without ceasing, so that the wetness of his mouth soaked the thin cloth and her body writhed with it. He touched her until she trembled and until all her muscles tightened in anticipation and then he moved downward, brushing the thin material of her shift aside, still kissing the slender contours of her body, until he found what he wished. The first taste of that dark moist flesh was almost enough to send him over the edge without her so much as touching him. He heard her gasp and felt the shock take her. “Liefwin…”

The shock was in her voice, too. He gentled his touch, the way he had with the first kiss. But he did not stop. Her hot flesh, blissfully, wonderfully swollen with the juices of her desire pushed against his mouth. He felt how she trembled. He could hear her ragged breathing. Every muscle in her body seemed tightened beyond endurance. She would not stop him now, surely. Let her not. Let her enjoy this of him if nothing else. Let her not be frightened. His hand, stretched out above him, still clasped hers. He tried to convey reassurance through that simple touching of hands which had never failed them before. Trust me, he said to her in his mind. Trust me. She did not move and he thought for moment that made his beating heart stop that she had frozen, just as before, locked in the prison of her misery and then the hand under his twisted, gripping his convulsively, the sharp little fingernails ripping his flesh, stinging. But he welcomed that. It was lost in a savage rush of joy and the pain was part of it, feeling her abandon herself at last to this moment. His mouth and his tongue moved across her exposed heated flesh until she screamed.

Chapter Fifteen S igrid gasped breath after breath. It was not human, the cry that came out of her throat. It belonged to some primitive animal rutting in the forest. It could not belong to her, and yet it was her own body that writhed under the dizzying waves of a pleasure that could not be borne. Her body turned molten and dissolved, and she was falling. She reached out blindly for Liefwin and he was there. She felt his arms enclose her. She had no strength left and yet she clung to him, crushing his flesh so hard she heard his breath catch. The bruises. She had forgotten. She let go instantly but he did not. He just held on to her as though he would never release her and she closed her mind to everything else and let him. He was stroking her hair and she could hear the thunderous beat of his heart. It was a long time before he spoke and it seemed from a long distance away, even though he held her. “So…was that well?” “Yes.” It was hard to force even that one word past her lips. Her head rested against swathes of soft red-gold hair and the smooth skin of his shoulder, warm, faintly damp and scented of man. “I did not know,” she whispered, and she could feel a different heat rising in her face. “I did not know that such things happened.”

The large hand moved lightly across her hair. “They should have happened for you. You should have known.” The awful sadness, the sadness that had twisted her heart in two, was back in his voice. She had forgotten that. She had forgotten everything in her own need for him when she had meant to give. She caught the other hand from where it rested against her arm. She stopped. There was something dark and sticky on the back of it. A small trail of… “That is blood.” Her gaze fixed on the sharp indentations that punctured his flesh. She swore. It came out in Danish. “That was me,” she said, “I—” Since he could not hide what she had seen, he sighed deeply and said, “You were ever without mercy on me. A harridan.” But she could not smile this time. Her eyes misted over with useless tears, which he would not want. It was because she loved him so much and she knew how much he was hurt inside and she did not know how to help that. “Or perhaps one of those Roman things,” he suggested. “Or were they Greek? A harpy.” He was kind and she was not used to it. She would not cry all over him again. But she could not get any words out. Could not reassure him. Could not say how much she felt. “No thanks for my endeavors,” he observed. “Seduced and thrown aside…” She took a huge breath. She would speak. She would requite the courage that was his. “No thanks, you said?” She sat up. She leered at him, fiendishly, she hoped. Possibly like a Roman or a Greek harpy. Whatever that was and whoever they were. “Seduced?” she inquired. She slid a hand down the length of him, from shoulder to hip. She let it pause there. She relished the surprise in his eyes and more so the light behind it. It was a dangerous light. Breathtaking. But she was not afraid now. Liefwin had banished it. She slid her hand round, just a little bit farther. She touched dark curling hair, rigid hardness, smooth skin. So smooth, so unbelievably smooth. Hot and— He swore in English. “Sigrid, I do not have nearly as much restraint as you think.” Somehow she kept her eyes on his.

“Good,” she said. His eyes glittered. She could sense the tension in every line of his strong warrior’s body. Her damp palm rested against his swollen hardness, but he did not move. “I made a promise to you that there would be nothing that you did not wish.” It was almost impossible then to hold his gaze. But she made herself do it. If there was one small corner of her where fear was not quite stamped out he would never know it. Never. She had to do something that— She took off her shift. It was the last small, pathetic defense she had. She threw it away and let him see her. The heat of his eyes was like a touch on her naked skin. “I know what you promised,” she said, “but I also know what I want.” It was the last thing she did say. The touch of his mouth on her swollen lips was like exquisite torture. But she wanted it. She wanted it as much as the touch of his hands, the feel of his body totally naked against hers. It was everything. Everything in her world. She would never feel such a thing again, never know anyone like him. He touched her and touched her so that her skin tingled with it and to her shock she felt again that tight, aching need between her legs. Just from the smooth caress of his hands on her body. Just because she wanted him so much. She would not have believed it could overwhelm her again. But it did. It was so strong —her need for him—that when she felt his hardness against the still-wet, newly aching flesh at the core of her she was already moving against him. Her legs widened to receive him, curling high round the solid mass of his thighs. She moved as though she was in a dream, just following him and what he did. Conscious only of how much he wanted her and the quickness of his breath and the tightness of him. So that when he entered her body there was no pain at all, only that smooth, other flesh sliding through the moist heat of her skin until it was complete. But she gasped with all her breath as she felt him thrust inside her. She could not help it and her muscles tightened. He filled her so completely he must feel her tenseness. She thought she sensed hesitation, but she could not bear that. She could not bear him to think she did not want him utterly. Her hands slid down across his hips, fastening on the thick muscle of his buttocks, pulling him hard against her. She heard the small sound he made, quite harsh and uncontrolled and it was the most deeply exciting sound in the world, and then she was lost in the powerful movement of his body and there was no restraint at all. And the release when it came was like setting free the bonds of hell.

She would never let him go and she did not have to. When it was done and his shoulders heaved with the unevenness of his breath and his heart still beat with too much force, she was allowed to hold him. It was the first time such a thing had been allowed. She could not have said what the difference was between their touch before and what happened now, but she knew it was there. He was so wholly hers. She could not see his face and he did not speak. But she was permitted to stroke his hair and caress his shoulders and the vulnerable skin of his neck just as she wanted. Whatever she wished to do, however she wanted to touch him was permitted, nay accepted. There were no questions and no barriers. They lay together for a long time in the silent dark. But at last her heart was so full that she had to speak his name. He looked up, eyes dark with shadows, but not cold, not cold at all. She smiled at the eyes. Just some of the shadows lifted and he spoke. “I thought…I thought I might have made you afraid again.” “No,” she said with all the passion she had just lived through. “Not so. You are all that I wanted. All anyone could want.” But she saw by his face that he was not ready to hear such things spoken. Not yet, and her heart bled for it. She made herself swallow the choking feeling in her throat and achieve a passable sneer. “I believe you flatter yourself, lord, as to your effect on me.” “I…oh, that is your opinion, is it?” “Yes—” But the rest of it was lost in something close to a shriek as she was caught in an embrace that crushed and his mouth fastened on the thin skin of her throat. She had expected a hard kiss and pressed herself back into the bed away from him. But it was not. It was light, tantalizing, rousing sensation and yet denying it. Leaving her wanting more, so that she twisted in the prison of his arms, no longer avoiding him but seeking his touch, rubbing her body shamelessly against his. But he drew back from such greedy advances, scarcely touching her, just enough to rouse in her a molten core of need that left her burning in desperation. Her hands grasped at his arms and his shoulders, hard, but she could not move him. “Not enough effect, did you say?” His breath across her skin, more imagined than felt, was enough to make her shiver. “Not…not yet perhaps.”

The double meaning of their words was enough to bring the heat to her face. Because she was not used to such play between men and women. “Then perhaps I could do something about it. If you wish.” And he let her feel the renewed hardness of him against her flesh. She lowered her gaze and the shivering in her body and the heat in her face got worse. Her hands tightened on the thickness of his shoulders, trying to draw him toward her. He did not move. She looked up, expecting more sport, but it was quite gone, leaving his eyes wide and dark. “Then say it is what you want. Say you want me. Even if you have to lie to me to do it.” Sigrid’s heart seemed to stop beating. “It would not be a lie. It is you I want. I want you more than anything in the world…” But there was no time to see whether he believed her or what he meant. Or to guess why he had said that. Out of the pain in his heart or…she could no longer see his eyes, only feel his touch, only touch him in return and try through that blinded poignant sense to tell him. Her body wrapped itself around his, opening as he thrust inside her, accepting that piercing hardness, matching her movements to his until she was obliterated in bliss. Afterward she fell asleep, sated and exhausted, still touching his warmth. His hand rested on her shoulder, and there were no dreams at all. She woke unable to move, her body heavy and torpid, aching with remembered pleasure. It was early. But outside her warm bed lay the cold light of morning. It was gone, her short night with Liefwin. The only night she had known as a woman who could be wanted. He had made her believe that in the end, completely. He could have no idea of what that meant to her. With the thin, clear light of morning came the knowledge that he had only needed her because of the depth of his heart’s grief. She could not fool herself otherwise. But just for that night she had been with him, not just in body but in spirit. It was her he had turned to and she had tried with all she had to help him. And he had not closed her out. She rolled over in the warm bed and reached out her hand toward where he would be, the memory of last night’s love and the tenderness of his touch still in some stubborn corner of her mind.

But even as she moved she realized what had woken her. The same thing that always woke her. The quiet sound of his movements in the room somewhere beyond the bed curtain as he made himself ready to go out. Just as he did every morning. Every morning they had shared this room. As strangers. As enemies. As people who were nothing to each other at all. What else had she expected? In the night, people sometimes had to face their demons. In the morning, they knew their own mind. She slid round. It was so cold. Perhaps the fire had gone out. Perhaps she ought to tend it. That would give her something to do. If only she was within reach of her cloak so she could hide herself. She yanked a layer of bedding free to cover her nakedness. She shivered. She did not have her shift because…well, that was last night. Last night was over. She put her hand to the bed curtains. Obvious thing to do. But it took some courage. “Liefwin?” He had lit candles. He turned and her eyes dazzled against a gleaming, moving net of light. “Sigrid—” “No!” She shrieked it. First word after the night. She watched the soft smile die out of his eyes. He finished fastening the last buckle that secured the glittering length of liyt ræsc against his hip. But he did walk toward her. He knelt beside the bed with that secret, spine-chilling rustle caused by thousands of tiny handcrafted links of hard metal. It was one of the most frightening sounds in the world. In her world. He held out one hand toward her. The chain mail on his arm, the chain mail on his shoulder sang their death song. Her terror, irrational and beyond her control, would not let her move, would not let her meet his hand. “No,” she whispered. The hand withdrew. The eyes watched her. They were no longer cold eyes, closed. You could see right down to their depths. Or perhaps they were now a mirror in which you saw your own despair.

“Sigrid, you knew. I told you about the raiding party and that I had to deal with it and why. That it had to be today. You know how things are. I tried to tell you.” “Yes, but…I did not realize. Not like this. Not when…” Her stumbling words dried up. The eyes just watched her. She could see the lines of exhaustion round them. She could see the paleness of the face that should be full of vivid color. In her mind she saw the ugliness of the wound spreading across his chest and down his side. That was one half of her terror and it was real. The other half was not real. It was made of shadows that only she could see. They clustered round him, extinguishing the brightness of his chain mail, the glow of the candles behind him. The black death shadows caused by draugar. “No. Not you. I do not want it to be you,” she said and saw the last of the light in his eyes die. “It is me. It is what I am. I cannot change that.” “No! Liefwin…I did not mean—” But she could not find the words under that gaze and everything she said seemed fated to go awry. “We could not change anything, could we? There is far too much between us.” He turned away in a fluid ripple of light. Gone. Gone and she would never—she lunged, grabbing at his arm. Her hand grasped chain mail, slid across hard, sharp metal, the links digging into her flesh so hard that she gasped. But she could not let go. He stopped. “Sigrid…” He caught her hand, pulling it away from his arm, holding on to it so that she could not hide it. There were dents in her palm, plain to see, and what would later be bruises. But it did not seem to bleed. “What did you think you were doing? You—” She dragged the hand out of his grasp and balled it into a fist. “The reason I do not want you to go is because I do not want to lose you.” “What?” She had not wanted to put an obligation on him that he did not wish. She had not said it for that reason. He just had to know that there was nothing he could do that she would blame him for. “I want you to come back,” she said helplessly. “I am afraid.”

He took the hand again. She would not open the palm. She could not read what was in his eyes. She thought he did not believe her. She thought he did. She thought— “Sigrid, there is nothing for you to be afraid of. I will be back. You know the strength of my luck. It is as good as a curse.” He had found his teasing voice and his hand was so strong around hers, so alive. But they were still there, the death shadows in the air, as though they listened. Perhaps they were only in her mind. Perhaps they were not for him. Perhaps he did not even feel them. “But even if I do not…” He did feel the foreboding she felt. He must. “All will be well for you. Ceolfrith knows what I promised you. You will be provided for and as for the ransom—” “The…Liefwin, there is no—” “No ransom? You have deceived me?” Do not laugh, she thought. Do not let us make a joke of this, and yet if they did not, there would be no speech. Nothing possible to say. “You knew I had no ransom?” “I…I did begin to suspect…quite soon—” “Oh! And you never said?” “I, at least, have perfect manners,” said Liefwin. And then, “It does not matter. I would not take it.” The words came faster now, perhaps because they were more serious. “Ceolfrith knows my mind on this. He will see you have the means to do whatever you want.” “The means to…but…I do not want your money. I never—” “You will when you know what it is. You will see it is apt. Besides, I know you have nothing. You never had anything besides that silver amulet you tried to impress me with on that first day. Now you are not even wearing that. You do still have it, do you not?” “I—” But he was still speaking, not pausing for a reply, as though the next words possessed all his thought to the exclusion of all else. “You must say yes. I must know that this is done. It…it would ease what is in my heart if I knew. Please do not refuse me in this.” That last was said so fast she had to pause and unscramble the words and then it was too late. He had released her hand and stood up.

He must have taken her silence as assent, because there was a small thread of relief through the tension in his eyes. But the black sense of foreboding in her only doubled. It pressed on her mind like some fell creature trying to burst out. If she could straighten her thoughts, fix her mind on anything but the thought of losing him… “I must go. They are waiting for me and it is light.” That was all he said, but she could see that the foreboding was in him, too. It was in the way he looked at her, as though he felt that the next step he took might separate them forever. She could not bear that. “Liefwin—” “It is all right. There is nothing we can say, is there?” No. Nothing. Everything. She scrambled out of the bed, careless of the covers, careless of everything except him. She caught him, like a glittering wraith of silver. Hard metal against her unprotected skin, cold and unyielding, except she found the warmth of his face, the soft mist of his hair. “Be careful. Sigrid, you will—” She found his mouth. “Come back,” she said against it. “Come back.” She took his lips. It was impossible to stay inside the bower. She tried it. But you could only pace the floor of a small room for so long. She went out. It was fine, fine and crisp and cold. Beautiful. If you were not waiting in agony for your lover to come back from a battle. A lover who did not even belong to you. Not properly. Who never could. She had never even said that she loved him. She wished now that she had, whatever his reaction might have been. Even if he did not want her. At least he would have known, known how much there was in him to love. She did not even know where he had gone. She looked round. She did not even know in which direction. She paused in the shadow of a doorway, feeling utterly lost. “Lady! Lady, is that you?” She started out of the pain of her thoughts. “Lady—”

“Sit still you…wantwit. You will rupture something…” She went inside. “…probably your brain if you had one.” “Lady!” Alfwin was sitting up, propped on an extraordinary number of pillows, but still sitting up. Ceolfrith hung over him like some gigantic fowl confronted by an egg that had hatched a day too soon. “I am glad it is you,” crowed Alfwin, “I wanted to tell you. Liefwin came to see me and…it was all right. I thought perhaps, you know…you might have spoken to him.” Sigrid smiled, the darkness of her mood suddenly shot through with a small streak of light. “Not really. I did not need to. You mean too much to him.” “Yes, well,” said Alfwin, suddenly fascinated by the wall somewhere to the right of her head. “You know it really was like you said. He was not angry, just sad. I wish he was not. I mean, I know because of Elswyth—” “You did rupture your brains, did you not, boy?” cut in Ceolfrith. “I do not imagine Sigrid wishes to hear—” “It is all right,” said Sigrid. “I know.” “Well, I am entitled to my opinion,” said Alfwin with feverish belligerence, “and I think Elswyth made him sad long before she died. I mean I know Liefwin was besotted with her and she looked like an angel, but she never did anything to make him happy.” Alfwin shot a challenging look at Ceolfrith. “You can call it sour grapes if you like because she thought a…a stripling like me was beneath her notice. I never wished her the awful harm that befell her, but I still think it is true—” “Hush,” said Sigrid, before Ceolfrith could start bellowing. But Ceolfrith did not bellow. To Sigrid’s surprise he suddenly looked straight at her and said, “He was the wrong man for her. She was…light-minded and not, perhaps, one much given to caring. Liefwin was different. I mean…I know he used to be light of heart, too. He could laugh and turn people round the palm of his hand. But some things were always serious with him and I do not think Elswyth ever understood that.” A pause. “Not the way I hope you do.” She could not have heard him correctly.

“I expect them back before sunset. If you were thinking of asking,” added Ceolfrith, as though they had been discussing some mildly interesting change in the weather. “Now,” said Ceolfrith, fixing his eye on Alfwin, “time you had a sleep, young lad.” “I just had one,” said Alfwin, but without much hope. “Well, now you are going to have another one, even if I have to knock out the last of your brains to achieve it.” Sigrid watched with a peculiar tightness in her chest as Ceolfrith disposed Liefwin’s cousin against the pillows. Alfwin flashed her a grin over one meaty shoulder. “Ceolfrith is just out of temper today. I could tell you why…ouch.” The grin in her direction became conspiratorial and Sigrid had a sudden absurd sense of belonging, the way people ought to in a family. “It is because Liefwin would not let him go with him to fight the wolfcoat. Ouch.” “A berserker?” The world seemed to go dark and the warm, firelit bower was suddenly freezing. “A berserker?” she said, again. “The berserker,” said Alfwin round a mouthful of bolster, “the one the shipmen sent to make the town fight against us. You know—” “I think she does know.” Sigrid looked up to find that Ceolfrith was watching her. She did not know what was in her shocked face, but it was enough to make the suspicion dawn in his eyes and with it a sudden, savage anger. “All set, then, lad?” he said to Alfwin. His voice held its usual heartiness, but his eyes held murder. “I think the lady and I will go outside.” She felt the cold autumn air on her face, but it was no colder than the shadows in Alfwin’s room. “It is not,” she said wildly, while Ceolfrith’s huge ham hands dug into her shoulders. “It is not him. It cannot be. He is dead. Do you not understand me? He is dead.” “Oh, is he? And how would you know this particular berserker is dead?” “They told me. That Ragnar was dead. Right from the start. Do you think I would not know if my own husband was dead? They gave me the amulet he always wore—” “Your husband. And you…with Liefwin. You bitch. You lying bitch. You have betrayed him…”

The amulet. The amulet she no longer had. “Harek…” The word was a blackness in her mind. She scarce knew whether she had given it breath. The huge hands dug deeper, numbing her shoulders. “That was Ragnar’s creature you met at the spring, was it not? You have just given me his name. And I thought it happened by chance. That is what I said when Liefwin asked me. I felt…sorry for you. I thought you were frightened out of your wits and trying to escape.” “I was. That is how it was. I had no idea. I went to the spring to get the holy water for Liefwin. I did not know.” “No. Just like you do not know Liefwin is going to be killed by your husband and you are both going to make your fortunes. Pity you could not keep your face straight just now —” “Our fortunes?” “Liefwin’s share from this campaign. It is due to you if he dies. As if you did not know.” “I did not. He never…” But he had. The means to do whatever you want…You will see it is apt… He had given her that. He had said it would ease his heart if she took it. “Oh, you knew all right, you—” “Vengeance,” she said. “Vengeance.” “What?” “That’s what he said, when he ran. Harek, Ragnar’s man. Vengeance. We have to do something. For Liefwin. We—” “For Liefwin! Do not give me that—” She stared up into Ceolfrith’s face only inches from hers. She had to make him understand her. There was no other way. No time. She could see the pent-up wrath coming. “He knows,” she said. “Ragnar the Wolfcoat, where I am and what I am. Another man’s mistress. He will kill Liefwin. And then he will come here and kill me. We have to go now, to Liefwin.” It was a toss-up whether he would release her or beat the last of her brains out. He did neither, but dragged her, running, toward where the horses were kept, shouting as he went. People moved, in answer to that bellow. People seemed to know, through the yelling confusion, exactly what to do. But it still took forever.

“I am coming,” she shouted at Ceolfrith. “I am coming with you.” “You? I would not let you do anything else. I hope you can ride,” he added, throwing her up onto the back of a chestnut horse that was far too big for her. She grabbed the reins, trying to keep the animal under some sort of control. “Can you manage it?” “Of course I can.” But she was no horsewoman. She had never had the chance to be. “It is just that I would not want to see a fine horse like that bolt in the opposite direction.” She swallowed any answer because she had no time to argue and no interest in it. All her mind, all her being was concentrated on Liefwin and how far it was until they caught up with him. And on the inhuman rage and the inhuman strength and the bestial savagery of her husband. “All I want,” she said, “is for us to be in time.”

Chapter Sixteen T hey were not in time. The journey was a nightmare. Sigrid would never have managed if it had not been for the members of Liefwin’s highly trained éored. They surrounded her, guiding the horse, steadying it amongst the others but never slackening their speed, and when the ground became too rough she was taken up with someone else, by the lightest, by those with the best mounts, passed around like some unnecessary sack of meal. No one spoke, but it was not from enmity of her. They did not know what Ceolfrith knew. It was simply that there was no time and no breath for speaking. She broke the silence only once, shouting at the broad back of her escort of the moment. “What is that?” The leather-clad shoulders shrugged. “The Viking raiders, lady. The shipmen. Yesterday.” That was all. Just those few words shouted through the wind and the blackened wreckage of the village, abandoned, still smoldering in parts flashed past and behind her. She could see the fresh earth of graves. They neared the forest. There was a stream up ahead. Too steep sided to cross? They would…her escort, a different escort, pulled the straining horse to a standstill. “Why have we—”

“Lady, this is it.” Her heart was so cold inside her, so cold she could not breathe. She would swoon. She must not. “Ceolfrith!” She saw him, just ahead of her. She thought he heard her but he did not stop. He had dismounted. He was walking. He walked faster. “Ceolfrith!” She slid down, somehow from the back of the horse, not waiting for her escort. There were figures on the banks of the stream. English. Mercian. You could tell even at this distance. They moved with that carefully ordered purpose that belonged only to Liefwin’s men. There were more bodies, on the ground, in the distance. She started to run but the man held her back. “Lady. Wait. The lord Liefwin will—” “Liefwin!” she shrieked. “Where…” “There by the riverbank, but wait.” She could see two figures, isolated, at the very edge of the river. One knelt, the other was stretched out, full-length on the ground. The one who knelt looked up, hair the color of molten gold, his face… Ceolfrith ran ahead. “No. Lady, not yet. Let Ceolfrith go…it is his nephew.” She looked at the figure on the ground. He must be dead, because they had covered his face. She thought he was, had been, young. A little of his hair spilled out from under the concealing cloth, bright red, vaguely familiar. She saw Liefwin stand up, slowly, as though he was hurt, as though he was old, twice as old as the dead man on the ground. She could not bear it. She pushed forward, dragging her protesting escort with her. But there she stopped of her own accord. She was close enough to see Liefwin’s expression. She could see what he felt, straight away. No mask of frozen coldness. It was as though the familiar face had been stripped bare and nothing was hidden because there was no longer any defense. Ceolfrith stopped. Liefwin spoke. She could not make out what he said, but she saw what she thought she would never see. Liefwin’s hand reached out to touch Ceolfrith’s shoulder, tentatively,

almost as though he expected it would be repulsed and when it was not he embraced Ceolfrith, quickly and hard. It was returned. She heard the low rumbling murmur of Ceolfrith’s voice and then they both turned, in accord, like people who had known each other forever, like one person, to look at the figure on the ground. But only Ceolfrith knelt. Liefwin began to walk toward her. She was suddenly alone, in the middle of the éored. Her escort melted. There was no one near her. Only Liefwin. She wanted to run to meet him. She wanted to shout and cry out her distress and the wild selfish joy of her relief. She wanted to throw herself into his arms. She wanted to speak. She wanted to talk to him and never stop talking, never stop holding him. She wanted to know and feel that he was truly alive and whole and safe. She just wanted to touch him, to have one word. But he stopped before he reached her. She could not move across the small space of ground that separated them. And he did not. “Liefwin.” He did not take the step that would join them. He was like a stranger and yet he looked as she had first seen him, the bright chain mail streaked with dirt and blood, the handsome high-colored face set. But the eyes. The eyes were forever altered. Where their freezing opaqueness once had terrified her, now their hot depths did the same. But the difference was that she was no longer frightened for herself but for him, and what he felt. “Liefwin.” “Get her away.” It was so much like a blow that she stepped backward. One of the éored dashed forward and caught her. “Lord.” “Find her somewhere to sit and another cloak. Make sure she is warm enough and has something to drink.” He glanced at her face, just once, and her heart leaped. “Just take her away. Now.” She could not say a word. “Yes, lord.”

Her shaking legs had failed her, but yet she must have moved. Because she was in a different place. At the very edge of the trees. There were people everywhere, bustling about her with their endless efficiency. Doing things. Mundane, practical things. Everything their lord might require in his kindness to his mistress. They did not know. They had no idea. She was sitting on a bed of bracken with her back against the smooth trunk of a beech tree. She was wrapped in three layers of wool and she was holding a flask of mead. They asked her to drink from it and it would have been churlish to refuse. They made English conversation, speaking slowly so that she would understand. They were pleased when she answered them at random. She waited. She only knew when he came by the way her companions suddenly vanished, just as they had before. He dropped down beside her on the bracken, wrapped in his cloak and free of the chain mail and, as far as she could tell, every trace of blood. “He is dead, your husband,” said Liefwin. He sat with his knees drawn up, one hand supporting his head. She saw nothing but shadows and the full sweep of his hair. But that did not matter. She had already seen what was in his face. “Yes.” She did not know what to say. How to reach him… “But then you know that. Because otherwise I would not still be alive.” Yes. It would not come out of her mouth this time. It did not need to. She looked at the shadowed profile. If he knew who Ragnar was, he knew everything. “Are you not surprised? Do you not want to know how it all happened? Why I am sitting here beside you and not Ragnar the Wolfcoat, your husband?” “Tell me…t-tell—” Her voice stuttered to a halt. “You wish me to tell you?” “Yes.” It was like the torture of the blood eagle that Ragnar used to boast to her about. Where they carved you up and took out your lungs while you were still alive. The lungs still breathed. Just like hers. “Please tell me.”

“It did start well. For him. I mean we did not have the advantage of surprise that we expected. So the first few minutes were quite desperate for us. No one could get near your husband. But then I had told the men to leave him to me, which was very farsighted of me, was it not?” “Liefwin—” “So they did leave him to me. All of them, that is, except Cerdic.” Cerdic. The vague memory stirred by the sight of copper-red hair spilling around the covered head of the corpse resolved itself. She could see the figure of a bright, gaptoothed young man standing in the doorway of Alfwin’s room, staring at her and then trying to apologize. “C-Cerdic? Not—” “Yes. He is, or was, Ceolfrith’s nephew. He is now the corpse you saw as you arrived. But not one to look too closely on unless you have a strong stomach…why do you not try drinking the rest of that mead? We always have our best conversations when you are drunk.” She put the leather flask to her mouth. She was shaking so much it hit her teeth. She swallowed, turning away from him so that he would not see how clumsy she was. “He knew, you see. Cerdic knew about my wound. Ceolfrith had told him. So I suppose Cerdic decided it would be better if he had a go at the wolfcoat himself and saved the day for all of us. What a wasted gesture that was. It was me your husband wanted. After all, he was entitled to his vengeance on me. Only I did not know that, then. And neither did Cerdic when he leaped to my defense.” “I am s-sorry.” Such stupid, inadequate words. “At least Cerdic has honor. That is more than we have, is it not? There is nothing more worthy of praise than to die in defense of your lord. Even one like me.” “You did not know.” “No. But it does not absolve me of much. All I did was the only thing left to me as Cerdic’s lord. I fought with your husband, just as he wished.” Her eyes were shut, painfully tight, so that they ached with it. But that did not shut out the horror, the savage mind-numbing brutality that was Ragnar in the grip of the wolf ’s rage. The rage that fed on destruction and grew stronger from it. “I killed him. You really are surprised at that, are you not?” She was. And yet not so. She remembered the impenetrable determination in Liefwin the first moment she had seen him. When he had outfaced three men.

“Yes, I won. Not even the wolf ’s fury could stand against liyt ræsc and the runes of protection on the blade, and I meant to kill him. I knew full well it had to be quick or because of the wound I would be lost. I went straight out for his death from the start. But more than that, it was what I wanted.” Her fingers bit into the hardened neck of the mead flask. “Yet you will know the last blow was his. To be able to explain to me exactly who he was and how his loyal wife had sent Harek to beg him for vengeance.” “No! That is not true. Liefwin…” “Why should your husband lie to me when he was dying?” “I do not know.” But she could feel the black shadow like one of the draugar creeping over her heart, and Ragnar’s body was lying somewhere close to them, exposed to the wide sky, unburied. “Perhaps if he could not have his vengeance on you with deeds he would have it with words. But they are not true words. I swear it.” She turned and looked at the unmoving figure of the man beside her. The golden head was tipped back, leaning against the side of the beech trunk. The hand at his neck shielded the lower part of his face and his eyes were in dark shadow. She could not see them. “You must believe that…” The desperation in her voice made it thin and high-pitched. False. He would never believe her. She had nothing with which to convince him, nothing but the sorry muddle of her own stupidity and her own private fears to set against the horrors that he had faced this day. She watched the small lights that filtered through the dying beech leaves play over the richness of his hair and his face wreathed in shadows. His wide hand, so still, flattened out against his face and the side of his neck held all the tension of a closed fist. “Liefwin, I believed he was dead, right from the start. Before I ever saw you. The townspeople told me. They were falling over themselves to tell me that the one who had forced them into battle with you was dead. It was news that spread as fast as the fire between the buildings. I believed it just as they did. I had no reason not to and they had every reason to want it to be true. You can have no idea how people hated Ragnar.” She took an unsteady breath. “I said it to you straight away, as soon as I spoke to you. I had no reason to lie.” “Unless you thought I was more likely to want a death payment than a ransom from Ragnar. You might have been right. Is that why you invented the ransom to fool me? What about your kindred at Shealdford? Were they a lie as well?”

Her hands twisted on the leather flask. “Yes. Yes, they are but…but I only said all that because I was afraid and…” She knew that was the wrong thing to say the instant the words left her mouth, just by the faint movement of his head. That was enough, quite enough to tell her she had hurt. That she had made things worse. “I did not know. I did not know what to do. Everything was such a muddle in my mind and I had drunk too much mead and my tongue ran away with me.” “You mean like now.” “No!” She flung the hardened leather flask away from her with all the force she had, so that it hit the trees with a crack and the mead splattered over the ground. “Can you not believe me?” “Yes,” he said calmly, “I think I do. In some things. I do not think you were really sure about your husband until you met Harek at the spring, were you? How you ever managed to arrange that—” “I did not. It was…” “Chance?” “No.” Her mouth went dry. There was a perfectly mannered silence. “I think he came looking for me,” she said, and her words dropped into that silence like stones down a bottomless well. “Ah.” The irony of that small syllable was so polite, so…Mercian. It cut more than screams of rage. “But it was not as you think. It was not of my choosing or my knowledge,” she said doggedly into the well of silence. “It was because…I think it was because he had heard… it must have been because Ragnar had heard that…” “That you were bedding a Saxon. How awkward. Is that why you decided to have a go at killing me?” “What?” “It was a pity I woke up at the wrong moment. It would have saved so much trouble. I suppose it was quite disconcerting to be found with a sword at your captor’s throat. Was

that why you thought you had to do something as desperate as bedding me in fact? Or were you hedging your bets in the unlikely event that the wrong person got killed today?” She could have turned, then, and run into the forest, as far away as it was possible to run, and she would not have cared if she had never seen the light of day again. There was nothing here that she could say. There was no way to help the man beside her and there was no way to help herself. The blackness, the black shadow of Ragnar had blighted everything. Vengeance really was his. “I am sorry,” she said. “You can never forgive me.” She did not expect him to speak. He had no need to and there was nothing left to say. She did not know whether he would let her leave unscathed. Perhaps he should not, out of duty to Cerdic. But she did not care if he killed her. She had turned her head and gathered together her skirts when he spoke. “I would have forgiven you anything but that last. Even the trick with the sword and meeting Harek.” Her heart leaped so that it would choke her and she could not breathe. She dropped back down onto the sliding bracken, tangling herself in her skirts and nearly pitching headlong. He caught her, deftly, with unthinking strength, just as always. Without thinking. But he had done that, off guard, and she would take the last opportunity she would ever have. She grabbed at the one hand that held her arm, covering it with her own hands. “Liefwin, that was true coin, what was between us, not false. I did not go to meet Harek and he did not even tell me that Ragnar was alive. He did not have time. I did not understand what little he did say and I did not realize what it meant. Not until today, when it was too late. Not until Alfwin let it slip that the man you were pursuing was a berserker.” The hand under both of hers moved. It turned over. She saw what was clasped inside his palm, the smooth silver shapes. Odin’s spear. Her gasp tore her throat. “Would you like it back?” “No! No, I never want to see it again.” “I thought you liked wearing it.” “No. No, I hated it. I never wanted it. They gave it to me to prove Ragnar was dead.” “But you gave it to Harek at the spring.”

“I did not give it. Harek saw it, in the struggle when I tried to get away from him and he took it. He tore the leather strap. That is what marked my face. You saw that.” The hand under hers jerked and the silver talisman fell out. She let it fall. It was nothing. It no longer had any power. All that mattered was Liefwin. All that mattered was holding on to his hand. “I did not go to the spring to meet Harek,” she said again, the words tripping over each other with desperate speed into that small moment that was already sliding away. “It was you. I went there for you. I wanted a miracle.” The hand stopped moving. “You wanted a what?” “I wanted a miracle,” she said, “for you.” “Perhaps you could explain that.” “It was…because of the wound.” “Because of—” “Yes,” she said, while she still had him. “I knew that it did not heal as it should. I did not understand why and I did not know what to do.” It sounded moon-mad, stupid. Her words came out anyhow. In a jumble. She did not know why he still listened. “So you thought you would take a trip out to the spring?” “Yes. Because of the miracle,” she said, and the air suddenly became charged the way it did before a storm. “The…” “The spring. It is magic. I mean holy,” she corrected herself guiltily. “Oh, I know I am not a proper Christian and I do not understand such things, but you are and you do. So I thought, if it was for you, it would be all right and it would work. So I got some spring water and I brought it back. Only you spilled it. “I know you did not mean to,” she added, frightened by the tension she could see and now feel in him. “And it was all right because some of it landed on your hand and then you touched the cross, the one on the lid of the casket and it did work, though not how I expected, because you told me what it was that was wrong and now…” She thought of how he had embraced Ceolfrith, of Alfwin’s grinning face. “Now you are no longer alone.” “That is mad,” he said. “That is absolutely stupid.” Which meant that he might believe her, and though she knew it was impossible for him to forgive her, that did not stop the painful stirrings in her heart.

“I am stupid,” she said. “I was stupid and cowardly not to tell you from the start who, what, Ragnar was. But I saw how much you despised him and what he had done. I suppose there never seemed the right moment to explain that the berserker who had killed and mutilated people, the one who had forced the town into battle with your men, had been my own husband.” Her gaze was fixed, even though there was no hope in it this time, on the hand trapped under hers. “You can have no idea how much I hated being married to Ragnar, how much, in the end, I hated him.” “I do not understand. I thought at first…I assumed you must care for him, more from what you did not say than what you did. I thought your silence meant that your feelings meant too much to you to be displayed in front of an enemy like me. Even when you said he had hit you there was still something…some bond I could not understand that seemed to fix you to him. You always wore that strange amulet and I always wondered if it was his.” “It was. It was given to me as proof he was dead. It was found where they saw him fall. No one got to his body. But then…he was not really dead. He must have escaped into the trees.” “Yes.” She shivered. “I loathed that amulet. I wanted to throw it away. But it was all that was left of Ragnar, all that was left of my life. Perhaps I felt guilty because I hated it, because I hated him, even after I thought he was dead. Or perhaps I was just afraid. Perhaps the amulet still had his power. It does not now.” Her gaze picked out the faint sheen of metal in the gloom, so small, half-covered again in leaves, just as it must have been found. “It must be buried. With him. If you will bury him.” People did not do that for an enemy. “Oh, I will bury him.” “Then he is gone.” The breath left her mouth. It shuddered. “The real truth is that if there was any bond between Ragnar and me it was shame, shame and horror. I nearly told you, when you asked me about the scar. I wish I had…” Her voice choked over what the consequences had been. She made herself say it. “I did not have the courage.” She took a breath. “You see, I did not want you to hate me,” she said with an irony that would not have disgraced a Mercian.

“So how…” “How did I come to be married to an abomination? It was as I said. I would have given anything to escape my home. And I was dazzled by Ragnar. I did not know what he was then and I was young enough and silly enough to be proud of the way everyone scuttled around and deferred to him, whereas I had the privilege of being his wife. I thought it was all because he was so heroic. That lasted until the wedding night when he terrified me so much he had to hit me.” She heard a sound that might have been a strangled curse and she remembered how much it had disgusted him last time when she had mentioned that, and how unaccountably angry he had been. Perhaps Mercian men did not hit people so often, or perhaps it was just Mercians like Liefwin, who had been cursed with a kind heart. “It was not one of his berserk rages,” she said. “Not then. He was just drunk after the feast. Really, it was no worse than being at home. He brought me here, to the town. He was going to buy some land nearby with the…the plunder, although he never did. Life was quite ordinary. That was the problem.” She paused. How did you explain something like Ragnar? It was like trying to explain the cruel force of the north wind. “I think he was mellow with success when he saw me and he thought he would have a try at settling down and…burying what he was. Being like other people. But he did not like it, being just like anyone else, being treated as though he was ordinary. Or perhaps it was just not possible for him to be like others. I cannot know.” She kept her gaze fixed on Liefwin’s hand and hoped he would listen, that he would not be so disgusted that…she had to say it now before she lost whatever chance she had. “But as time went on, he just became…angrier and then one day someone argued with him, just our neighbor, over nothing it seemed. That was the first time I saw it, his rage. The noise…like a wolf howling, and the spit flying from his mouth and the look in his eyes. Like one possessed. Possessed with the wolf ’s spirit. He had such strength when he was like that. He did not seem to feel any pain himself, whatever anyone did to him, and there was nothing he could not do and nothing he would flinch from doing to someone else…” Her voice failed, because of the memory of what Ragnar had done to their neighbor and then to the man who had tried to help him, and her hands shook over the one she held. “But I have no need to tell you, do I,” she said, and her voice shook as much as her hands. “You know.”

But he did not answer that at all, did not say one word of what had just happened to him. All she heard him say was, “How could you live with that? How could someone like you bear it?” “I did not, not really. He left after that and although he came back it was not often. I was occasionally convenient to him, more often a nuisance. So I scarce saw him and he roamed as he wished. With the army. Or harrying. Or seafaring. Or…I do not know all that he did. I did not want to know.” “Yet today he would have killed me for you.” “Would he? Can you really think so? No. He would have killed you because of the insult to his pride and because he cannot help it. He killed like that before he knew of me and he killed afterward. He would never have stopped killing. That is what he was.” She took a steadying breath and tried to still the shaking of her hands over Liefwin’s. “I did believe he was slain in the battle before I met you. I swear it. I never meant any of the harm that has happened today, to you or to Cerdic or…we rode past the remains of the village. I know he has killed others—” “A lot.” “Yes.” “And any connection there might have been between us.” “Yes.” Her grip round his hand was painful. “Except it was true, was it not? What happened between us. What we had for that short time. I loved you. Even though I did not really know how people went about loving each other. I loved you from the start. I tried to keep talking myself out of it. Only I could not. Like now. I still love you and nothing can stop it.” It was becoming so hard to speak. Her throat wanted to close up with pain. She tried to swallow. “I knew you could not love me…” She gave up. Her voice stopped. And then she heard the sharpness of his breath. “Did you? Is that what you thought? You do not know what my love was. My love really was the sort that would kill for you. I did not know, when I fought your husband, who he was. Not until it was too late. But if I had known, I would still have wanted to kill him. Not just for the sake of those poor people he has butchered. Not just for strategy. Not to placate Edward from taking his revenge on the wrong men. Not, heaven forgive me, for Cerdic alone. But for what he has done to you.”

The hand she had been clutching so hard was suddenly loosed. It touched her face, at the corner of her left eye, just where the scar was. “That is why I would have wanted to kill him. That is what my love is and that is the death of it, is it not? You cannot live with the man who has so willingly killed your husband.” But her heart beat fast and her breath was as sharp as his. “Liefwin…” Her hand reached out to touch him in a mirror image of his own gesture. It shook because she was so afraid. But she wanted to touch his face. She had to see it. To see what was in it now. To see if…she did not think miracles were really possible. Her fingers sought the hand at the side of his neck that shadowed his face, hiding it from her gaze. The hand was rigid, unmovable. “Liefwin.” Her fingers tightened, but the hand under hers was wet and slippery. She realized, just as he let the hand fall into her grasp, that it was slick with blood. He moved into the sunlight. “You could not live with that, could you?” She screamed.

Chapter Seventeen “V ile, would you say?” inquired Liefwin’s cool Mercian voice over the dying sound of her scream. Sigrid stared through a haze of sickness at the disfigured flesh and the sluggish blood on his neck. She tried to breathe. She knew what had happened. He did not need to tell her. Wolves tried to tear people’s throats out. It was what they did. Ragnar was, had been, the spirit of a wolf. She knew all about that. She had been made to learn it. She told herself it was not unexpected. Not to her. She closed her mind against the fact that this was Liefwin’s flesh and against the pain he must have felt and the sheer repulsive horror. If she kept breathing, she would not swoon. It would be impossible. She looked at Liefwin’s eyes.

“Yes,” she said, her voice every bit as cool, every bit as steady as his, “I would call that vile.” She saw the eyes flicker, just as she had hoped they would and something indefinable, just for an instant, transcended horror. That was Liefwin’s courage. She could not imagine having courage like his. She swallowed bile and lied. “I have seen such things before.” She had not. She had heard it described, but she had not seen it. Her neighbor and the other man had had quite different injuries, and on that occasion she actually had been sick. She swallowed again. “If you think to make me afraid,” she said, “you will not.” “You really cannot lie, after all, can you?” “No.” She trembled, not just because of the blood but because he had as good as admitted that he believed everything she had said to him. “Why did no one teach you to lie properly?” “Because no one bothered to give me a thane’s education. Can I get you another cloth?” She twitched the bloodied remains out of his hand, but he caught her before she could move. “Do not lie to me now, Sigrid. It is not worth it. I know when the end comes. I have always known. You do not have to pretend you can spend the rest of your life looking at the scars from this and thinking, That was done by my husband just before this man killed him.” “Then we will buy you a gold neck ring out of the plunder, like Beowulf ’s.” “Sigrid, for pity’s sake, will you stop doing this?” She looked at his face and saw that all of a sudden the defense of coolness and thanely irony was gone. His fast, warrior’s hands caught her by the shoulders and he shook her. Which was better. Providing he did not break her neck in the process. He stopped. She gasped and felt her neck with caution.

“What are you trying to do? Give me some matching scars?” The bloodied hands round her shoulders softened in apology, because he was Liefwin and he would already fiercely regret that he might have hurt her. “Sigrid, I—” “I do not care,” she said, while she knew she had him on the back foot. She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice and speak smoothly. “I do not care.” “What?” “Whatever you are going to say and whatever you look like, I do not care.” “No? Perhaps not, not now, in the middle of a disaster. But you will, later, when you come to think.” “Liefwin…” She felt his hands tighten again involuntarily on her shoulders. “Sigrid, I will not take your pity. Or your guilt for someone else’s deeds, because you were married to a man no one could control.” She tried to hold on to the intensity of his eyes. She tried to make him keep looking at her because he had to understand what she felt and she was no good with words. Not like him. “I cannot lie to you and say there is no guilt about Ragnar and the things I did not tell you. There is, but…Liefwin, you must listen to me. Please. There is nothing that can be done about the past. You know that. I do not have to explain it to you. But it is not guilt that is making me speak and it is not pity. I told you nothing could stop my love for you and that is how it is. I cannot help it. And it must be like your love because it does not stop for what is right or what is wrong. You cannot say you have stopped loving me.” “I can.” Her heart nearly died out of fear. It hurt like a great dark hole inside her, waiting to swallow her, waiting to drag her back into the hopelessness that had always been her life. She tried to speak past the fear. “You cannot even lie properly after you have had a thane’s education,” she sneered at Liefwin. But she was shaking. Because he had only ever spoken of his love as though it was in the past. “Thanes do not lie. That is the first point in our education.” He was a thane. He was not the sort of man for her. Never could be. She felt as though the dark hole that was her heart would choke her. She felt as though she would die of the

pain and drop to the ground on the spot. She could not breathe because of the choking, and the blackness was becoming real, taking her vision as though she would faint. Except she could not faint. She could not fall to the ground because he was still holding her shoulders. His bloodied hands dug into her flesh. He was still holding her. She dropped her gaze from the over-proud unreadable eyes to the mutilated flesh at his throat. For the only time in his life he was not quite quick enough to stop her. “No!” It was a cry that could have been heard across the forest, or across the breadth of middle earth. It would bring the whole of the éored running, surely. It would bring the heavens down on her head. But it was too late. Her lips touched the hideously distorted flesh. Her arms clung to him, defeating the convulsive movement of his body, moving with him so that he could not shake her off. She felt his back jar against the beech tree. Her arm was crushed against the rough wood. He could not move her. “Tell me,” she said against the ugliness at his throat. “Tell me again that you do not love me and I will tell you the same and we will both be damned to eternity for liars.” He did not speak. “No lies,” she said. “No lies, ever again.” She pressed against him with all the force she had and she would not let him go. But he must feel how she shook. He must hear the frightened tears in her voice. There was an awful silence that lasted longer than eternity. Her whole mind was concentrated on one silent plea. That he would not turn her away. That the shadows of blackness had not killed love. Please. She tried only to hold it in her mind. Not to say it aloud. But some hideous, distorted choking sound escaped her throat. She felt his arms close round her with the care she had only ever known from him. “Sigrid, you cannot—” “I can,” she said, through the choking in her throat. “I love you more than life or death or wrongs or vengeance.” She focused her mind on the feel of his arms round her. “Tell me you do not love me just the same way. Liefwin….”

“I cannot. You know I cannot,” his voice choked like hers. Not a trace of the Mercian thane. “You know that is how I love you and you know all the worst of me. Sigrid, if you could live with me, I would never want to be apart from you. But after what I have done, how could—” “All I know is that I could not live without you and if you tried to make me, the shadows would have me, and I would die.” His arms tightened and he moved with her, into the sunlight that was stronger than any shadows in the world or in the mind. “Sigrid, there are no shadows if you could love me. If you would stay with me…” “I do. I would. I would never run away from you again. I tried to tell you last night that you were all that I wanted. I did not dare to say that I loved you then, but I did. I could not bear to be without you.” The arms around her tightened to the point of pain but she did not try to stop him, because she held him the same way. “Then if you would come home with me as my wife…do you really think you could marry a foreign liar?” She tried to say yes, but it was lost under the power of his lips and the salt taste of blood and all the bitterness of the past was lost against the warmth of his mouth. ISBN: 978-1-4268-1749-6 Copyright © 2008 Harlequin Books S.A. The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows: Ice Maiden Copyright © 2001 Debra Lee Brown The Viking's Captive Copyright © 2003 Julia Byrne A Moment's Madness Copyright © 2003 Helen Kirkman All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries. www.eHarlequin.com