Читать книгу Rescued By The Viking - Meriel Fuller - Страница 11

‘Who is she?’ Eirik demanded as Ragnar laid the maid down carefully. Her face was grey, pallid. She was so still. Kneeling beside her, his big knees grinding into the shingle, he seized her wrist, pushing up the fraying cuff, searching for a pulse. Against his fingers her blood bumped reassuringly; relief flooded over him. He rose to his feet, his eyes assessing her calmly. Her over-gown was loose, a plaited belt gathering the shabby, patched material at her waist. Dark brown in colour, stained with white streaks of drying salt, clagged with mud at the hem. No decoration around the plain circular neck, the centre slit opening. Her garments denoted her status: a peasant, living hand to mouth on whatever coin she could earn. Foolish of him to be so concerned; the maid was quite clearly a nobody, nothing to him certainly. And yet her plight plucked at his soul. She seemed so alone, and vulnerable, with no one rushing to protect or claim her.

‘I’ve no idea.’ Reaching down, Ragnar yanked the rucked hem of her longer underdress over her shapely shins, woefully caked in layers of grey, cracking mud. He was not about to reveal the traitorous words the maid had spoken to him out on the marsh; he would keep that knowledge to himself until he found out her reasons for being in Bertune. Why here, of all places? In a part of the country where Normans were truly hated. A place where the Saxons had begged the Danes for their help in overthrowing them. But this solitary maid, whey-faced and slender? Whoever she was, she was no threat to him, or to anyone else. Had she any idea of the danger she was in?

The woman who had originally alerted them to the maid’s plight lurked by the cottage wall that backed on to the beach. Ragnar turned to her. ‘Who is she?’

‘She works out at the salt pans with us,’ the woman replied, a wary look half-closing her red-streaked eyes. ‘And a hard worker she is, too. But she’s only been with us a day or so. Needs coin for the ferry, I think. Doesn’t talk much.’

‘Where does she live, then?’ Eirik said, his tone faintly peevish. ‘We can’t leave her lying here.’

‘Eirik, why not go and join the rest of the men in the town?’ Ragnar suggested, hearing the growing frustration in his friend’s voice. ‘I’ll deal with this.’

‘Are you sure?’ Eirik’s boots crunched heavily across the shingle as he came towards Ragnar. ‘I could do with a drink.’ He touched his leather-bound toe to the maid’s right flank, lifting her body in a desultory manner, a sneering twist to his mouth. ‘Surprising that such a little thing should cause so much trouble, don’t you think?’ he said disparagingly, removing his foot so abruptly that the slim body rolled back on to the beach. The maid’s arm fell out to one side; her palm, delicate pink lines creasing the soft underside, scraped against the jagged stones. Ragnar’s fists curled tight; he resisted the urge to shove his friend away. Hell’s teeth, treat the woman like a human being, he thought, not an animal!

‘Go.’ Ragnar pinned a wide grin on his face that he hoped was convincing. He pushed at Eirik’s shoulder, a friendly gesture. ‘I can take her home.’

‘After one look at you, she’ll run anyway.’ Eirik laughed, starting to walk up the beach. ‘You’re enough to scare the hell out of any woman. Don’t waste too much time on her. I expect to see you in the inn before full dark!’ He lifted his arm in farewell, the strengthening breeze ruffling his dark hair. Then he disappeared down an alleyway between the gable ends of two cottages, the shadowed twilight swallowing up his tall figure.

The maid was shivering now; a blue caste tinged her face. Unpinning his cloak, Ragnar dropped to his knees, the shingle poking through his braies into his muscled shins. His sword hilt jabbed upwards as the tip of the leather scabbard hit the beach; he shoved it to one side so that the weapon rested against his hip. He frowned, drawing thick coppery brows together. Was Eirik right? Despite Ragnar’s vicious reputation on the battlefield, his skill with an axe and sword, he had no wish to scare any woman, let alone this delicate effigy lying on the stones. She lay so still, like one of those statues in the new church in Ribe, her cheek as smooth as marble, unblemished. Hulking over her slight figure, he felt like a cumbersome idiot, awkward and unwieldy, his body too big to tend to a woman so slight. He spread his cloak over her chest, then, sliding his hands beneath her, he raised her carefully so he could tuck the woollen cloth around her back.

The fragile knobs of her spine pushed against his fingers. As he laid her back down, the faintest smell of roses lifted from her skin; his solar plexus gripped, then released with the sensual onslaught. His senses jolted, quickening suddenly. When was the last time he had been this close to a woman? Close enough to smell her perfume? He couldn’t remember. His sister’s desperate situation had consumed his days and haunted his nights. Any desire had been crippled by guilt, his couplings with women rare, and, if they occurred, tended to be swift, joyless affairs in which he took little pleasure.

Impatient with his memories, Ragnar swept his gaze around the beach. He needed to rid himself of this girl and concentrate on finding the man who had bullied his sister into a ghostly shadow of her former self. But now the shingle was deserted, save for a lonesome gull, orange-beaked, stalking along the foaming edge of the incoming tide. Strange that no one wanted to help her. But then, these were troubled times—trust had to be earned. He wondered whether the townspeople had sensed the maid’s difference, her foreign ways, without actually putting a name to them.

A slight moan made Ragnar look down. A whimper of returning sensibility. The girl’s long eyelashes fluttered rapidly against her pallid cheeks, mouth parting fractionally. Her lips were full, plump, stained a luscious rose-pink. Inexplicably, he yearned to see the colour of her hair, fingers itching to pluck at the constricting headscarf, unfasten the silver brooch and cast the voluminous length of material aside. Sweat prickled on his palms; he rubbed his hands down his braies.

Her eyes sprung open. Huge pools of deep blue dominated her face, sparkling like sapphires. The inky depths of the ocean on a bright summer’s day. In the fading light, he drank in the magnificent colour, devoured it, nerves spiralling round and round in increasing excitement, pushing his heart to a faster beat. What was happening? Inconceivable that such a dull little maid should have such an effect on him, bundled up as she was like a nun in her drab, mud-stained garments, every inch of skin hidden from view apart from the white terrified circle of her face.

Wait. Nay, not terrified. Ragnar read the flare of anger in her eyes, the lips compressed in tight rebellion. The mutinous clenching of her fists by her side. ‘I’m here to help you,’ he said in English, trying to keep his voice gentle. He reached out to touch her shoulder.

‘Get your hands off me!’ the maid squawked at him. Knocking his arm sideways, she struggled to sit up. His cloak fell forward, pillowing in her lap as she brought herself upright. She threw his garment irritably to one side, digging her palms and heels into the shingle, rocking her hips, struggling to shift her body backwards, away from him.

‘Easy, maid,’ Ragnar said, sitting back on his heels. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ Despite her efforts, she hadn’t managed to move very far.

‘I know that, you blundering lump!’ The maid stopped, seemingly frustrated by her lack of movement. She touched a finger to the brooch at her neck, as if reassuring herself that the silver pin remained in place. ‘Why would you bother to pull me out of the mud, if you were going to kill me?’

Ragnar bit his lip to stop himself laughing out loud. Where on earth had she learned her English? From an army camp? Her cursing was on a level with any common knave. He grinned, rapidly adjusting his original opinion of her. Out there on the mudflats, she had been a forlorn, helpless figure, her diminutive frame and finely honed, angelic face denoting a benign, docile character. How wrong he had been. She was worse than feisty, a regular termagant. He folded his arms across his wide chest, almost as if he prepared to do battle with her. Curiously, he relished the thought.

* * *

What, in heaven’s name, was he smiling at? The man hulked over her, great shoulders blocking out the darkening sky, his green gaze intense, flaring over her with bold scrutiny. Her eyes ran rapidly across his leather-strapped torso, his calf-length boots stained with salt water. Was he a Saxon? Or worse...one of the men from the longships. A Viking? Despite her truculent bravado, anxiety gripped Gisela’s chest; she knew she had to stand up and walk away, but at the moment, the task seemed impossible. A horrible weakness engulfed her, sapping the strength in her legs, numbing her arms and hands.

‘Who are you?’ Her blunt question, hard-edged, accused him.

He tilted his head to one side. ‘I’m a Dane,’ he replied. ‘We have just landed here, on the shore.’

Oh Lord, he was a Viking, after all! They were even worse than the Saxons with their bloodthirsty reputation for merciless fighting, laying waste to whole villages without a hint of remorse. ‘But you...you can’t be.’ A wary light entered Gisela’s eyes. ‘You...you’re speaking English!’

He laughed. ‘English is very close to our Norse language. It’s easy for us to change from one to the other.’

Her thoughts tumbled, fuzzy and confused. What was happening to her? She felt caught, trapped in some nightmare for which she couldn’t find a way out, despite the way her mind twisted and turned. She had no memory of how she had arrived back at the beach. ‘Did you carry me?’ Her tone was brittle, sharp.

He lifted one shoulder, then let it drop, unconcerned. ‘Yes. You fainted. I’m not surprised. You probably thought you were going to die out there.’

Gisela stared rigidly at the shingle, the slick of green algae across white stone, remembering the slosh of water around her thighs. Her throat was raw from shouting. Yes, she had truly thought she would die. But why had he come out to rescue her, this man, this stranger, of all people? Beneath the intense scrutiny of his emerald-green eyes, she shuffled her hips uncomfortably, glowering at his hands, loose fists curled against his brawny thighs. Hands that had moved over her insensible body, hoisting her high. How could she not remember his touch? Her cheeks flushed suddenly, a livid stain dusting her high cheekbones. Lord, he could have done anything! She would have been at his mercy, him, a Dane! Her eyes flashed blue fire. She crossed her arms over her bosom, jutting her chin forward. ‘What did you do to me?’

Ragnar drew his dark-blond brows together in a deep frown. What on earth was the woman talking about? Her expression was stony, openly challenging him, as she waited for his answer. What was she expecting him to say? His eyes traced the curving top line of her lip, the fierce, determined set of her mouth. Tipping his head to one side, he recalled the soft weight against his chest, the sensual roll of her breast as she folded against him.

‘Er... I carried you from the mud to the beach. That’s it.’ His speech was a low burr, rumbling up from his ribcage.

‘What else?’ she fired back at him. Her hands dropped to her sides, balling into fists against the pebbles.

He followed their movement, wanting to laugh. What was she about to do? Clout him around the jaw? Beat him senseless? It was as if... His mouth parted slightly as the line of her questioning became clear. Of course, he was a Dane and she would judge him as such. ‘Nothing else, maid. What were you expecting? That I would rape you midway between the river and the beach? How low your judgement is of me.’

An angry flush tore across her pale cheeks. ‘It wouldn’t have surprised me. Your reputation is notorious.’

‘Not to the Saxons,’ he replied curtly. ‘We’ve come here to help, after all. The town is welcoming us with open arms.’

The maid’s head knocked back as if he had hit her; she bit her lip as if she had made a mistake. ‘Yes, of course, I forgot myself.’

He wondered whether she had forgotten speaking to him in French. He would keep her secret; it made no difference to him whether she was Norman or Saxon. She had been a maid who needed help and that was the end to it. Her agitated fingers played with the ragged filaments of her scarf fringe in her lap. The damp fabric of her gown moulded to her thighs, revealing their curving, slender contours. ‘Can I take you home?’ he offered.

She threw the fringe of her scarf aside, raised her huge blue eyes to his. ‘No. But...thank you for coming out to me,’ she said. ‘You can leave me now. Please, go.’

He nodded, acknowledging her grudging thanks, hearing the dismissal in her voice. She wanted to be rid of him, that much was obvious. He thought of Eirik, and the rest of the men, slugging ale down their throats in the nearest inn. The lusty singing would have started by now. He was reluctant to join them. ‘And what are you going to do?’ he asked. ‘Sit here on the beach all night?’

Her magnificent eyes gleamed up at him. ‘It’s no concern of yours,’ she said tightly, sliding her knees up to her chest, hugging them. ‘I told you to go.’ Her voice held a hard edge, disdainful.

She was ordering him about as if he were some common foot soldier! He raised his eyebrows at her rudeness, hips rocking back on his heels. Pins and needles started to prick the soles of his feet. ‘And I’m telling you that you should mind your manners. I’ve just saved your skin.’ A warning lilt entered his voice. ‘A little humility wouldn’t go amiss. You would have died if I hadn’t come along.’

She flinched at the sudden harshness in his tone. ‘Someone would have come eventually.’

‘No,’ Ragnar said. ‘No one was going to help you. Your master was prepared to leave you out there to drown. Care to tell me why?’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ Placing her palms flat on the stones, she levered herself upwards. As she rose, she tottered forward unsteadily. Rising with her, Ragnar grabbed her upper arm, fingers pincering her flesh, preventing her from falling.

‘C’est possible parce-que tu est Normande? Maybe because you’re a Norman,’ he murmured close to her ear.

She lurched away from him in shock, but he held her fast. ‘I don’t understand you,’ she replied in English. ‘What are you saying to me?’ She rolled her arm forward in a circular motion, tugging downwards, trying to release his fearsome grip.

But Ragnar had seen the terror strike her gaze. He tugged at her sharply, forcing her to stagger closer, the startled oval of her face mere inches from his own. Her skin was like pouring cream, a polished lustre of silk. ‘You do understand me,’ he continued in English. Her delicious rose scent curled around him. ‘You understand me very well. What are you doing here, a Norman maid, living in the middle of all these Saxons? Don’t you realise they would kill you if they had any idea?’

* * *

God in Heaven, what had she done out there on the mudflats? What had she said? She wanted to weep with the thought of her own stupidity. How had she managed to give herself away so easily, to this man of all people? This tall broad-shouldered Dane, with his flare of bright gold hair and eyes of green who had come to help the Saxons. Was he going to kill her now?

‘Let me go!’ Gisela cried, struggling in his grip. ‘Otherwise I’ll...’ Her voice faded away as she realised the futility of what she had been about to say. Her fiery anger leached away, her spirits exhausted.

‘What...otherwise you’ll scream?’ His tone was sarcastic, grating. ‘And that will do a lot of good, won’t it? For we both know that no one will come. And we both know why.’

Her shoulders caved forward, as if his words had delivered a physical blow. She stopped fighting his grip, her slight body drooping. ‘Let me go, will you, please?’ Gisela said quietly, the breeze whipping away the end of her sentence. His glittering gaze moved over her, stripping away her courage, leaving her exposed, as if her inner thoughts were stretched out on the ground for all to see. ‘I’m none of your concern.’

She was right. She was none of his concern...and yet, Christ, she intrigued him. He knew that if she had been anyone else, he would have walked away and left her on the beach. But some small part of him urged him to linger at her side. ‘I will take you back to where you live,’ he offered. ‘The town’s not safe.’

‘You said it,’ she said, her tone faintly mocking. ‘But do you really think anyone would bother with the likes of me?

‘I only have to go down that alley over there,’ she explained, pointing to a shadowed gap in the distance. ‘And my family will be waiting for me.’

Relinquishing his grip on the soft muscle of her upper arm, the Dane gave her a little push, sending her staggering off across the shingle. ‘Go then,’ he said bluntly. ‘Have it your way.’