Читать книгу To Tempt a Viking - Michelle Willingham - Страница 12

Chapter Three

Her arms were leaden, her body freezing from the icy water. But with Ragnar at her side, she took courage. He was speaking words of encouragement, though his pace had slowed.

When at last her feet touched the bottom, Elena breathed a sigh of relief. Her body was exhausted and trembling, but they were both on land.

Ragnar’s steps were heavy, his body leaning upon hers as she strode through the water. She couldn’t understand why he was struggling to walk, until the moonlight gleamed upon him, revealing the arrow protruding from his upper thigh.

‘You’re hurt,’ she breathed, offering him her support as they stumbled to the sand.

Ragnar didn’t answer and she felt the urge to panic. How badly was he wounded? A dark fear rose up that she couldn’t survive on her own.

A moment later, she pushed aside the errant thoughts. He wasn’t dead yet, and if she tended his wound, he might live.

Her mind sealed off all thoughts except those that would aid her. She needed to take out the arrow, bind his wound and get them a fire and shelter. There was enough wool in her gown to tear off for a bandage.

‘Ragnar,’ she said. ‘Look at me.’

He did, but there was so much pain in his gaze, she feared the worst. His hose and tunic were soaked with seawater, the chainmail armour gleaming against the moonlight. She needed to take off his armour to examine his wound.

‘I’m going to help you over to those rocks,’ she said. ‘Can you manage to walk that far?’

He gave a nod, as if it took too much energy to speak. Blood streamed down his leg from the arrow in his thigh, but at least it wasn’t pumping out. She eased him to sit down and helped him remove his armour and the padded tunic beneath. Then she used the knife at his waist to cut long strips from her skirts. The thought of pressing more salt water against his wounds was excruciating, so she looked around for an alternative. There were patches of moss and she dug at the stones, trying to find something to make a barrier against the wet wool.

‘We need a fire,’ Ragnar reminded her, reaching inside his tunic. ‘You might...build one.’

‘Soon,’ she promised. ‘I’m going to take out the arrow.’

‘I might bleed out if you do,’ he said quietly.

‘I can’t leave it, can I?’ She placed her hands on his shoulders, kneeling down before him. ‘You kept me protected. I’ll do everything I can to help you.’

For a single moment, she caught a glimpse of a fierce longing in his eyes, before he shielded it and looked away. She didn’t know how to respond, for fear that she’d misread him.

Elena took a deep breath and reached for the arrow. It would pain him more if she told him when she was planning to take it out. Though she’d never before removed an arrow from a man’s skin, it didn’t look too deep. She questioned whether to force it all the way through the skin or whether to jerk it out. Both would cause pain, but pushing it through would likely be easier.

‘I don’t want to cause you pain,’ she said steadily. ‘But this must be—’ with one huge push, she forced the arrow through the opposite side ‘—done,’ she finished, snapping off the tip and sliding the shaft free. He let out a gasp of pain, but she packed the wound with moss and bound it tight with the first strip of wool.

‘I thought you would give me more warning than that,’ he breathed, fighting against the pain.

‘Anticipated pain is worse than reality,’ she responded.

‘And you’ve had an arrow tear through your flesh before?’ His voice was harsh, but it was done now.

‘It wasn’t that deep,’ she offered. ‘The bleeding isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.’ Thank the gods for that. If it had gone any deeper, she doubted if she’d have had the strength to force the arrow through the other side. His rigid muscles would have made it impossible.

* * *

Once Ragnar was bandaged, she left him sitting against the rocks. There was a tremor in his body, as if he were unable to stop himself from shaking.

He was right; they did need a fire to warm them. But first, she had to find flint. It was too dark to see the stones, however.

Her mind stumbled with panic, the freezing air and the darkness starting to undermine what little courage she had left. They needed shelter and warmth to protect them this night. Their survival depended on it.

Elena forced herself to think of the smaller details, knowing that a fire would help them both more than anything. She still had Ragnar’s knife. ‘I’ll try to find flint among the stones,’ she told him.

‘Wait.’ He reached into his tunic and pulled out a stone that hung from a leather thong around his neck. ‘This is flint.’

She tried to loosen the knot while her hands rested against his throat.

‘You weren’t hurt, were you?’ he whispered. His voice resonated between them and a spiral of warmth rippled through her. She grew aware that her hands were around his neck, almost in an embrace.

‘No.’ To calm her beating heart, she murmured, ‘Don’t speak now. Just rest while I build a fire.’

When the knot wouldn’t untie, she lifted the leather thong over his head, taking the flint and his blade. The scent of his male skin was unlike her husband’s, but it held the familiarity of a close friend. How many times had she relied upon Ragnar over the years? They’d been friends all her life, and if she had to be stranded with anyone, she was grateful it was him.

She renewed her courage and slipped into the comfort of routine, gathering dried seaweed for tinder and driftwood along the beach. It was clear that in the morning they would have to move inland to get food. They couldn’t survive here without fresh water or shelter. Yet she didn’t know if Ragnar could manage to swim again.

Don’t think of that now, she ordered herself. Dawn was soon enough to worry about the rest of it.

When she’d arranged the wood and tinder, she struck the flint with his blade, until she caught a spark and blew it to life. Slowly, she fed the fire until the warmth blazed.

Her clothing was sodden, but it felt good to sit beside the flames. When she looked back at the water, there were no ships anywhere—only the cool lapping of waves against the shore of the island. ‘What do you think happened to the others? Do you suppose they’re alive?’

‘I overheard the Danes talk of selling them as slaves.’ He grimaced, adjusting his position against the rocks. ‘If they didn’t murder all of them.’

Elena rubbed her upper arms, trying not to imagine it. The idea of being the only survivors from their voyage was impossible to grasp. Even the thought made her fears well up inside, before she pushed them back.

‘You’re cold, aren’t you?’ she remarked, moving beside him. Though she’d bandaged his thigh wound, his clothing was as wet as hers. ‘Do you want me to help you get closer to the fire?’

Ragnar shook his head. ‘I’ll be all right.’ He closed his eyes, adding, ‘In the morning, we’ll go to the mainland.’

‘Do you think you can manage the crossing?’ She worried about whether he had the strength when he was struggling to walk. Her own swimming was barely strong enough to keep her above water. Though he was stronger than most men, the salt water against his wounds would make it brutally painful.

‘I don’t have a choice, do I?’ Though he kept his words neutral, she sensed his pain and wished there was something she could do to alleviate it.

She reached out to take his hand. ‘We’re going to live, Ragnar. And I owe you my thanks for saving me from the Danes.’

He squeezed her hand, but his gaze remained distant. Though he gave no answer, she understood that he’d sworn to protect her. Nothing would make him forsake that vow.

‘Will you come and sit beside me?’ he asked.

Something within her stirred at his request. It was dangerous to be so close to this man. Although he was a close friend, instinct held her back. Elena took a few steps away, needing the space.

‘I should gather more wood,’ she argued, fumbling for an excuse.

‘It’s going to be all right, Elena,’ he assured her.

She wanted to believe it. But they were miles from anywhere, and her husband was a prisoner. Their men were held captive, taken as slaves or killed. She felt herself hovering on the brink of tears. As she gathered up more twigs and small bits of driftwood, she glanced up at the crescent moon once again.

A ripple of uneasiness filled her, but she brushed the feeling aside. Right now, she had to concentrate on surviving the night ahead. Doggedly, she continued searching for wood, letting the mindless task blot out the horrifying fears. The night temperature had begun dropping and she returned to the fire, stacking the sticks and twigs she’d gathered.

‘Do you think my husband is alive?’ she asked Ragnar, thinking of Styr.

‘I’ve no doubt of it.’ He leaned against one of the stones, gritting his teeth when he moved his leg.

Though it should have made her feel better, the longer she sat by the fire, the more despondent she grew. In the space of a few hours, she’d lost everything—her husband, her people, their ship and even a shelter. Silent tears welled up and spilled over, against her will.

‘Come here, Elena.’

She ignored him, needing a good cry. She deserved it, after all that had happened.

‘Are you really going to make a wounded man drag himself across the sand to get to you?’ Although his voice held teasing, there was enough determination that made her aware that he’d do it.

‘I’ll be fine.’ But she obeyed, returning to sit beside him. When his arms came around her, she wept in earnest. His kindness was her undoing, for she didn’t know how to gather up the pieces of her life or how to begin anew from here. Her husband, as well as their kinsmen, could be dead. They had no ship and they were stranded in a foreign land, far away from home.

Ragnar said nothing at all, but held her tightly and his presence did bring her comfort. She wasn’t alone, despite all that had happened. That, at least, was a consolation.

His skin was warm from the fire and she rested her cheek against him, closing her eyes. ‘Sleep,’ he urged. ‘I’ll just lie here and count the hours until I stop hurting.’

Although he was trying to make light of the injury, she knew he was in a great deal of discomfort. ‘I wish I had something to take away your pain.’

An enigmatic smile crossed his face. ‘It would be worse if you were not here at all.’ With a heavy sigh, he added, ‘In the morning we’ll decide how to get to the mainland.’

She lay beside the fire, but sleep would not come. The heavy weight of her wet clothing was making it difficult to dry off. Elena unfastened the brooches at her shoulders and peeled off the wet outer apron, leaving on the cream-coloured gown. She set it upon the rocks to dry, though she doubted this was possible by morning. Still, she might sleep better without the heavy layers of wetness.

She huddled upon the sand, leaving the fire between them. Ragnar’s face was as exhausted as hers, his dark green eyes solemn. ‘You can sleep beside me without fear, Elena.’

She hesitated, for never had she slept beside any man except Styr. But then again, there was no shelter here. Sleeping alone would be uncomfortable for both of them.

But did she dare sleep beside Ragnar? Her reluctance must have been evident, for he shrugged and leaned up against one of the rocks as if it were no matter.

With a sigh, she realised that she was being foolish. Sleeping beside Ragnar would mean nothing at all. He would never threaten her marriage, not when her husband was his closest friend. Her apprehensions were groundless.

Silently, she rose from her place on the sand.

* * *

Dawn came far too soon. Ragnar had hardly slept at all, but the warmth of Elena’s body was pressed against his back. His wounds ached, but he didn’t move at all, not wanting to disturb her.

Her hair was still damp, in a tangled red-and-gold mass around her shoulders. The braids had come undone and the strands held the wildness of bent curls. Her pale gown outlined her slender body with curves and he forced the sinful thoughts away.

Not yours, he reminded himself.

Her eyes opened and she yawned, sitting up. ‘Did you sleep?’ Eyeing his wounds, she added, ‘Are you in much pain?’

He was, but he welcomed the dull ache. To lie beside Elena had been a dream he’d never imagined and his torn flesh had reminded him of the boundaries between them. If he had died last night, he could think of no better place to spend his last hours.

His leg burned, but he forced himself to answer, ‘I’ll be all right. We need to reach the mainland today.’

She knelt before him and unwrapped the bandages. At the sight of his wounded flesh, she blanched. ‘It doesn’t look good.’

He shrugged. ‘I’m alive.’ For now, he thought, but didn’t say so. If he developed a fever, that could slay him quicker than the arrow wound.

‘You need a better healer than me,’ she argued. Rising to her feet, she took a deep breath and glanced around her. ‘But it’s too far for both of us to swim to the mainland.’ She stared at the small copse of trees. ‘There may be some fallen wood we could use for a raft.’

‘You aren’t strong enough to pull a log into the water,’ he argued. Already Elena appeared exhausted, her green eyes clouded with unspoken fear.

‘No, but I can find smaller branches and tie them together. We could hold on and then try to swim.’

‘And what are you going to tie the wood with? Grass?’

In answer, she lifted her skirt, baring her legs to the knees. ‘I’ll cut off more of my dress.’

The image of her long bared legs was enough to send a sharp flare of heat coursing through him. ‘If you think it will work,’ he said. He’d never seen beyond her ankles, but now she’d revealed shapely calves. He could only imagine the rest of those long legs, for she was a tall woman.

And another man’s wife.

His best friend’s wife.

Ragnar leaned his weight against the stones, pushing his way up to a standing position. The sky was a hazy rose and gold, and mist frosted against the edge of the mainland. His stomach twisted at the thought of food and he hoped they would catch fish or other game.

But he wasn’t much use to Elena. Not like this. The barest pressure of weight upon his leg was agonising, and he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to limp towards the other side of the island. It was a small outcropping, hardly more than a copse of trees and large boulders. There was no food, no water and their only hope for survival was to make the crossing.

He glanced at the grey salt water, knowing that it would burn his wounds with unholy fire. Elena’s suggestion, that they bind fallen limbs together, was a sound one. The pain had been bad enough when the arrow was still inside him, but more flesh was exposed now that she’d taken it out.

* * *

When Elena emerged from the woods, she dragged four stout branches along the sand, each the thickness of his forearm. She had gathered up her hair, twisting it in a knot and securing it with a small stick while she worked. She used his knife to cut off more material from her skirts. As she bound the limbs together, his traitorous imagination conjured up the vision of her bared legs tangled with his own, his body lying atop hers.

Ragnar closed his eyes, furious with himself for even thinking such dishonourable thoughts about her.

‘Let me help you,’ he said to Elena. He needed the activity to distract him. Anything to keep his gaze away from her bared flesh.

Limping towards the pile of limbs, he sat down and wove the fabric under and over each branch, securing it tightly. Elena worked opposite him, mirroring his method, until at last it was ready.

The morning light reflected upon her skin and, though she appeared tired, there was determination in her eyes. She was staring at the arrangement of wood, frowning. ‘It won’t float with your weight.’

He shrugged. ‘There’s not enough wood for that. But if it gives us something to hold on to, that will be enough.’

She studied their raft, then glanced overhead at the sparse trees that shaded them. ‘I wish you had a battleaxe as your weapon. It would be more useful, cutting branches and trees.’

‘I prefer a sword.’ He liked the balance of the weapon and it suited fluid battle motions where he could slash at his enemy. ‘Styr’s weapon is the axe.’ The moment he spoke her husband’s name, a flash of sadness came over Elena.

‘I want to believe he’s alive,’ she murmured. ‘That somehow he’ll come for me.’ But she shook her head, rubbing her arms against the chill.

‘If he doesn’t, I’ll take you back myself.’ His words were little reassurance, for neither of them knew what had happened to Styr. He might still be a prisoner, or he could be dead.

‘You can’t make the journey with that leg. It’s too far.’ With a sigh, Elena began pulling the small makeshift raft across the sand.

Before she could go any further, Ragnar limped towards her and caught her arm. ‘I may be wounded, Elena, but I’m not dead. The wound will heal.’ He didn’t want her to think of him as helpless and he let his hand slide down her arm to grip her hand. A trail of gooseflesh rose over her skin at his touch. ‘You won’t be stranded here. I swear it by the blood of Thor.’

Her hand gripped his and, when she met his gaze, there was a flicker of hesitancy before colour spread over her cheeks. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

He wanted to pull her close, to taste the lips that had haunted him for so long. But she only turned back to her discarded apron, pulling it over her head and fastening the brooches at her shoulders. She had the innocent demeanour of a maiden, but the body of a woman who had known a man intimately.

Without a word, he began dragging the raft towards the water, suppressing a gasp when the salt water lapped against his bandaged wound. The vicious pain was the reminder he needed to stay away from Styr’s wife.

Elena joined him, holding on to the bound limbs while they made their way towards the mainland. Ragnar kicked with his good leg, grateful that the tide was coming in, aiding them in their journey. But by the gods, the salt against his open wound was shredding apart his control.

The bound wood did give them a means of staying together, without the risk of drowning. As she struggled to swim, he bit back the pain and fought to help her.

‘You look as if you’re hurting again,’ she commented, churning her left arm in the water while she held on with her right.

‘It’s like hot knives searing my skin,’ he admitted, keeping his voice light. ‘Not very comfortable.’

She sent him a sympathetic look. ‘When we reach land, it will be better, I promise.’

If he didn’t drown first. He bit his lip hard against the pain, forcing himself to continue.

The waves pushed them closer and Ragnar concentrated on the strand ahead of them. With every stroke, it seemed further away. The cold water numbed his skin and he felt his eyes beginning to close, his fingers slipping from the wood.

‘Ragnar!’ Elena shouted at him, pulling him back to the present moment. ‘Stay with me. You can’t let go now.’ She made her way to his side, holding his waist. ‘We’re not so very far.’

He knew it, but his body was rebelling against the sea water, his mind fighting to help her. The cold embedded within his veins, making it more difficult to move.

‘I need you,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’

It was her voice that forced him onward. She spoke words of encouragement, urging him not to give up. And although they had been in the water for what seemed like an hour, eventually he felt his feet sink into sand. He bit hard to keep his teeth from chattering, and Elena remained at his side, holding on to him. He stumbled through the waves, but she helped him to remain balanced.

They staggered through the sand, his vision blurred and his ears ringing. He damned himself for the weakness, fighting to remain conscious. Elena needed him and he would not fail her.

‘Listen to me,’ she insisted. ‘We’re here. We’re safe now, but you can’t stay on the sand. Just a little further.’

She held his waist, letting him lean on her as she tried to get him past the water’s edge. But when her leg accidentally bumped against his wound, he couldn’t suppress the hiss of pain.

She apologised and pleaded, ‘We’re almost there. Only a few steps more.’ The world tipped, but she held tight, keeping him on his feet.

‘I’m not going to die,’ he told her, but his words sounded thick and slurred.

‘I won’t let you.’ She eased him to sit down with his back against a hillside. Ragnar leaned back, resting his head upon the amber grass while he stared up at the clouded sky.

‘You’re too cold,’ she said. ‘I have to get you warm.’ She moved beside him wrapping both arms around his waist. Though her skin was cool, her presence slipped beneath the pain of his wounds, offering comfort.

* * *

He wanted to tell her what she meant to him, to spill out the words he’d kept buried for so long, but honour kept his lips silent. He would accept the warmth of her embrace, knowing that it could never be more than that.

He was angry with himself for leaving Styr behind, though he’d had no choice at the time. The Irish might kill his friend, for Styr had no value as a hostage and he would never be any man’s slave.

Ragnar glanced over at Elena, who was busy gathering tinder for a fire. Her skirts were cut short to her knees, while her red-gold hair was still bound in a knot at her nape. She moved with efficiency, but as she stacked the wood and arranged the seaweed, the earlier tremors became impossible to stop.

So cold. He couldn’t feel his fingertips or his toes and his muscles felt stiff and ungainly.

‘You’re so pale,’ Elena said, hurrying to strike a spark. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get you warm again, as soon as I can start the fire.’ But her own hands were shaking, as if she, too, were suffering from the intense cold of the sea. After several attempts, the spark kept dying out.

His eyelids were heavy and he closed them, surrendering to the temptation of unconsciousness. Sleep was what he needed now.

But a moment later, Elena’s arms were around him and she was supporting his shoulders. ‘Ragnar!’ She shook him lightly, demanding that he open his eyes.

His vision flickered, but he managed to look at her.

‘Don’t leave me,’ she demanded. Her eyes welled up with tears and she commanded again, ‘You can’t leave me here alone.’

‘Just...resting,’ he told her. Sleep would make it easier to bear the pain. The darkness was tempting him to let go, to fall into nothingness.

‘Your lips are blue,’ she told him. ‘If you go to sleep now, you might never awaken.’

He didn’t answer her, for his body had transformed into lead, the last bits of consciousness sliding away. Though a part of him understood what she meant, he lacked the strength to fight it.

‘Don’t you dare die on me,’ she wept, shaking him again. ‘I can’t survive out here alone. Do you hear me?’ she demanded. ‘If you die, I’ll die as well.’

He tried to form the word ‘no’, to tell her he wasn’t going to die at all. But before he could speak, her mouth came down on his in a searing kiss.