Читать книгу Forbidden Nights With A Viking - Michelle Willingham, Harper St. George - Страница 16

A blade grazed the back of his neck.

‘I find that I’m not so willing to lend you my hospitality, Hardrata.’ Ivar held his knife steady. ‘Especially when you’re threatening one of my guests.’

Styr said nothing, but lifted his hands up, allowing Caragh to escape. He made no denial of what he’d done, though it was meant to be a warning, not a threat. An innocent like Caragh had no idea what she’d done by kissing the Norseman.

Did she genuinely want the man? Or did she have another motive?

The blade left his neck, and he turned slowly. Caragh stood between them and explained, ‘He was not threatening me. Styr was warning me about putting myself in a position that could be harmful.’

Her voice remained calm, as if nothing at all had happened. As if they’d never argued.

Slowly, she took the knife from Ivar’s hands. ‘I know he was right. As a woman, I shouldn’t have gone off alone.’

‘No one in this house would harm you,’ Ivar said quietly. ‘Did he…bother you?’ From the grim tone of the man, it sounded as if Ivar wouldn’t have minded killing him.

The feeling was mutual. Seeing Caragh yield to the Norseman, softening beneath his lips, had evoked a feral sense of possession. Styr couldn’t fathom why it would irritate him.

‘I am fine.’ She placed her hand upon Ivar’s arm and sent a glance back at Styr as if warning him to stay away.

Throughout the next hour, he said nothing at all while Ivar told Caragh stories of their homeland. The man wove tales of adventure, showing her treasures of silver and gold. Her eyes were bright with interest, and a smile lingered upon her mouth.

Yet each time she glanced at Styr, he saw the unrest behind those violet eyes. She feared what he would do when they found her brother within the city. The truth was, he didn’t know. Instinct forced him towards a path of revenge, but when he thought of causing her anguish, his gut tightened.

The feelings of a woman shouldn’t matter. But he was acutely aware of every movement she made, every word she spoke.

And that was more dangerous than anything else.

When her brothers arrived later that night, Styr withdrew even further, until Ronan approached him.

‘What did you find?’ Styr asked.

‘Your ship was taken by the Danes,’ Ronan answered, confirming what he’d learned from Onund. ‘My brother and your men were sold into slavery.’ He nodded towards Ivar. ‘I understand you found some of them.’

Styr told him what he’d learned, ending with, ‘We are still looking for your brother.’

Ronan gave a nod, but his eyes were fixed upon Ivar and Caragh. ‘What of him? You seem to be allowing him to spend time with our sister.’

‘That is her choice to make.’ He turned back to the man, considering whether or not to tell him the truth about Elena. Already he’d allowed the man to draw false conclusions about Caragh and him. Though he’d wanted the use of their ship, it might be wiser to break the alliance.

Before he could say another word, Onund approached them. At his side were three more of Styr’s men.

‘There will be a ritual in the morning,’ Onund informed him. ‘There have been sightings of many ships approaching, and the men here intend to summon a volva to predict whether or not to attack the Danes.’

‘The women have begun grinding barley for the bread on the morrow,’ another said. ‘Ivar intends to host a feast and offer his own sacrifices.’

‘Does he intend to sacrifice any of the thralls?’ Though animals were most often sacrificed to the gods, there were sometimes human sacrifices, as well.

Onund glanced at his kinsmen, his face unreadable. ‘He has not spoken of it.’

Which meant it was possible.

Styr knew that in times of peril, greater sacrifices were demanded. But his men should not be among them. They’d lost their freedom because he’d been unable to guard Elena. He would not allow them to lose their lives, as well.

He rested his hand upon Onund’s shoulder and squeezed it lightly. ‘You will be freed in the morning. This I swear, upon the blood of Odin.’ He met his kinsman’s gaze steadily, though inwardly, he didn’t know how he would achieve it. He needed to negotiate with Ivar for their release. To each of them, he gave one of the silver coins he’d won.

Styr bade the men a good night, and when they’d gone, Ronan confronted him. ‘You’ve made plans, haven’t you?’

‘Plans to free them, yes.’ He said nothing more, knowing Ronan had not understood the Norse language.

‘And what about our sister? Or have you changed your mind about being her protector?’

Styr evaded the question. ‘There are dozens of men, Irish even, who would make a better protector.’ Unmarried men, who can give her the kind of life She deserves, he didn’t say.

Ronan’s blue eyes met his own. ‘I see the way she looks at you. She hasn’t looked at any man in that way, in over a year.’

He had no response to give. It would be far better if Caragh saw him for what he was—a man bent upon vengeance and nothing else.

‘You look at her in the same manner,’ Ronan commented. ‘And given all the invasions, I think it would be wise to ally our men. You can live at Gall Tír, and we’ll join our forces together.’

‘There can be no alliance between Caragh and myself.’ No longer would he give the man false hopes. Ronan deserved the truth. ‘I’ll help you find your brother, while I search for the rest of my men,’ Styr told him. ‘Then we’ll go.’

Ronan’s gaze turned cold. ‘You’re planning to break her heart, then.’

‘She’s always known that there would never be anything between us. I was her captive. I paid my debt when I saved her life. We’re even now.’

‘Then you’re nothing but a Lochlannach bastard,’ Ronan countered, reaching out towards his throat.

Styr caught the man’s hand and shoved him against the back wall. Already his temper was stretched taut, and he needed no man to tell him what to do.

‘Don’t,’ Caragh protested, moving between them. When she pushed him back, there was a slight shift in her posture, almost as if she were afraid.

And perhaps she should be. He let out a slow breath of air, not regretting what he’d said to Ronan. It was better to leave her be, so she could pursue her own future.

Her dark hair was gathered over one shoulder, baring a slight glimpse of pale skin. In the firelight, he saw the gooseflesh rise upon it. Whether she was cold or uncomfortable at his presence, he didn’t know. But he handed her his own cloak and returned to the back of the room. Caragh dared to glance at him, and when she did, she pulled the cloak tightly around her.

When he reached the far end of the longhouse, he made a sleeping place for himself. In his palm, he gripped his battleaxe, believing that it wasn’t at all safe in this house.

Caragh sat in the darkness with her knees drawn up. She’d been unable to sleep, her mind caught up in worry. From across the room, she heard the whisper of footsteps approaching.

‘My lord bids you come to him,’ came the low voice of a female thrall. She spoke Irish well, but the command made Caragh’s skin tighten.

‘Why?’

‘He knows your dreams are troubled. He wishes to speak with you and offer you a spiced wine to help you sleep.’

But Caragh held no trust towards Ivar. If he gave her a rich wine, it would only muddle her decisions more. From across the room, she spied him seated near a bronze oil lamp. Though he was shadowed, she sensed what he wanted from her.

Around her shoulders, she wore Styr’s cloak, fastened with a silver brooch. Upon the heavy wool, she scented his presence, and it lent her comfort. She tightened her grip, knowing she could not obey the summons.

She stood from her pallet, the fear creeping within her veins. Darkness enveloped the longhouse, but she did not follow the servant. The woman protested in a soft whisper, but Caragh ignored her. Instead, she tiptoed across the room, past her sleeping brothers, to the one man who did make her feel safe.

Styr slept in the corner of the far end of the house. A battleaxe rested in one hand, and the moment she knelt down beside him, his eyes flew open.

Caragh touched a finger to her lips, silently willing him not to speak. Without asking permission, she lay down beside him on the cold earth. She unpinned the brooch and loosened the cloak, reaching to place it over him.

He moved towards her, his hard body against her own. ‘Why are you here, Caragh?’

She turned her lips to his ear. ‘You were right about Ivar. He tried to summon me to him this night.’

Styr sat up, his hand closing over the battleaxe. ‘Did he harm you?’ He kept his voice just above a whisper, but his tone was fierce.

‘No. But I didn’t believe it was safe to stay on the other side.’

‘It’s not safe here, either,’ he reminded her. ‘You should have gone to your brothers.’

He was right. Being here wasn’t wise, but she couldn’t say what had drawn her to him. She didn’t understand the forbidden feelings he’d conjured or why she yearned to be at his side. But there had been no question in her mind that she would only find sleep if she lay beside him.

‘Do you want me to go?’ her hand rested upon the cool chainmail he hadn’t removed.

Styr said nothing at all, but guided her to lie back down. Her heartbeat trebled at his nearness and all the silent reasons why he hadn’t sent her away. Their bodies didn’t touch, but she felt the cold earth against her as she tried to sleep.

‘Keep the cloak,’ he said. ‘You’re cold.’

‘So are you,’ she whispered, ignoring the command.

But a moment later, he dragged her to rest beside him, her back resting against his chest. ‘Little fool.’ With one hand, he adjusted the cloak until it covered both of them.

But closing her eyes didn’t shut out the feelings he evoked inside her. Beneath the cloak, though his skin was cool, she sensed it warming against her. She was torn between moving away from him, and craving the heat of his body.

Go to sleep, she ordered herself. She’d come to him only for sanctuary. Not to awaken any dangerous, forbidden feelings.

As she lay against him, she relived the moment of Ivar’s kiss. It had been sensual, yes. But it had not taken possession of her, the way Styr’s had. With this man, she’d lost sight of herself. She’d been unable to think or breathe.

Rolling over to her side, she saw that he was not sleeping, either. His dark eyes were staring at her with an expression she didn’t understand. In the softest whisper, she murmured, ‘This was a mistake, wasn’t it?’

Styr didn’t answer. Time hung between them, the seconds passing into a minute. In the end, he sat up and tucked the cloak around her before rising to his feet. He stood against the wall, watching over her like a silent sentry.

The gathering was a blend of Norse and the Irish, led by a council of men. Caragh remained at the side of her brothers, though she felt the gaze of Styr upon her.

He had kept vigil over her for the rest of the night, though her dreams had been troubled. She’d woken up once in a silent scream, imagining her brother lying dead, blood spilling from his throat. Her heart had pounded, and Styr had laid a hand over her shoulder to reassure her that it was nothing. But she refused to tell him of the vision.

Her mind was torn apart, wanting desperately to find Brendan…and fearing what had become of him.

They moved closer, but as they walked, she caught the glint of mail armour from beneath a cloak. She frowned, for why would anyone hide his armour? Styr wore his openly, his weapons hanging from his belt. But when she turned away, the man was gone, hidden among the hundreds of others.

A merchant was selling loaves of barley, and Styr paid for one with a coin, handing it to her. Whether he recognised it or not, he seemed to be continually finding ways to give her food. It was nothing but a small gesture, and yet, her foolish heart warmed to it.

Caragh broke the loaf open, steam rising from the crust, and she handed him half. They ate in silence, before Ivar approached her from the opposite side. His face held no emotion, but he greeted her, saying, ‘Will you walk with me a moment, Caragh?’

She glanced over at her brothers, but they were busy speaking to a merchant, asking about Brendan. Styr said nothing at all, but his eyes followed her as she agreed.

‘What is it?’

Ivar led her towards a man selling lengths of delicate cloth. ‘I am a man of great wealth,’ he began. ‘If you wanted anything at all in this market, I could buy it for you.’

His emphasis on wealth did nothing to impress her. Though she nodded that she’d heard him, he reached out and brought her hand to touch the silken fabric.

‘Nor am I a man who will allow himself to be used,’ Ivar said. ‘And I can see that you’re using me to try and make Styr jealous.’

‘He has no interest in me,’ she responded, denying his claim.

‘But you want him,’ he contradicted. He threaded his fingers with hers, lifting her hand up. ‘I saw you sleeping beside him. You think to pit us against one another.’ His hand tightened, his gaze darkening. ‘I won’t play that game.’

She tried to pull back from his grasp, but he held her steady. ‘Hardrata’s men are my slaves now. Their lives belong to me.’

He let the threat hover, while his thumb caressed her skin. ‘Stay here, in Áth Cliath, and I will grant them their freedom. Let us get to know one another.’

‘I think I already know the sort of man you are,’ she responded, jerking her hand away.

But Styr was already at her side. From the look on his face, he’d overheard every word.

‘Leave her be, Nikolasson.’ His words were quiet, but the edge beneath them was undeniable. ‘I will pay you for the lives of my men.’

‘With what?’ he countered. ‘The only silver coins you have were won from me.’

Styr said nothing, but as he guided her back to her brothers, she felt the tension in the palm of his hand.

‘What will you do?’ she asked.

‘Find a way.’

The voices of the crowd dropped lower, and her brother Ronan interrupted them. ‘I need to speak with you.’

He led her towards the front of the crowd while Styr kept close behind them. ‘Brendan is here somewhere. Two of the merchants confirmed that they saw him among the slaves.’

Relief and fear rose up within her. She wanted her brother to be safe…but how would they ever help him escape slavery?

A middle-aged woman sat at the front, before the crowd. Her hair was so fair, it was nearly white, and ice-blue eyes stared straight ahead. She wore a cloak made of animal skins and in her left hand, she held a staff with a bronze bird-shaped figure upon it.

‘Who is that?’ she whispered to her brother.

‘It is the volva,’ Styr said, his voice resonant within her ear. ‘A prophetess who will answer questions from one she chooses.’

He brought her closer, and a chill crossed over Caragh’s spine. The woman was watching her, and one of the men offered her a platter of food. Her stomach churned, when she saw the platter contained the hearts of sacrificed animals. The prophetess dined upon them, but as she ate, she never took her eyes from Caragh. When she had finished, another young girl began to chant an incantation.

Though Caragh could not understand the words, the aura surrounding the crowd took on an otherworldly quality. Someone began to beat a drum, and the volva pointed to her.

‘She has chosen you,’ Styr said. ‘You must go to her.’

‘I don’t want to,’ she whispered. Everything about the prophetess unnerved her.

‘She will answer your questions,’ he said. ‘It is an honour.’ Without allowing her to refuse, Styr gave her a slight nudge forwards, and the crowd parted.

Caragh’s heartbeat quickened, but she moved towards the woman. She tried to keep from limping, though her feet were still sore from her blisters.

As she neared the prophetess, it was as if the woman could see through her. Caragh waited, and the woman held out her hand.

‘Ask,’ she said, in the Irish tongue.

Several of the men around her began voicing their own wishes, and Styr translated their demands to know if it was an opportune time to attack the Danes.

Caragh ignored them, her eyes fixated upon the prophetess. ‘Is Elena alive?’ she asked quietly.

The seer’s gaze moved over to Styr, and she nodded.

‘Where is she now?’

The woman closed her eyes a moment and spoke. ‘A green stone rises from the sea.’ When Caragh turned a questioning gaze towards Styr, his face was intent upon the prophetess.

‘I know the place,’ he admitted. ‘We passed it on our way north.’

But even more important, he seemed to believe the woman. Caragh was uncertain, but there was impatience on Styr’s face, as if he couldn’t wait to find his ship and return.

Her grip upon her feelings was weakening, but if Styr’s wife was still alive, there was no hope. Once he found Elena, she would never see Styr again.

Perhaps that was best.

The men were closing in impatiently, and Caragh realised the necessity of voicing a question on their behalf. Most were dressed for war, wearing chainmail corselets and steel helms with more chainmail that hung down the backs of their necks. Some carried double-edged swords, sheathed within a sealskin scabbard, while others preferred the battleaxe.

‘Ask her about the Danes,’ an Irishman demanded. ‘Our ships are prepared for a fight.’

‘Are the signs favourable?’ Caragh asked, as the warrior stood beside her.

The prophetess shook her head. ‘They are not.’ She pointed to the sky, where a flock of ravens flew above them. ‘Blood will be shed this day.’

‘Aye,’ the Irishman agreed. ‘There will be sacrifices held this day. Blood, in return for the blood of our enemies.’

At the mention of sacrifice, Caragh’s skin turned cold. Though she knew the ritual of animals dying, it was not something she wanted to witness.

The volva was staring at her, her piercing blue eyes intent. ‘You have one other question, do you not?’

‘My brother Brendan,’ Caragh ventured. ‘Where is he now?’

The seer pointed to a large wooden cage that men were bringing forth upon a wagon. Inside, Caragh saw a group of chained slaves, crowded together. They spoke in a blend of languages, of the Irish, the Picts, and those from Alba.

But she did not see her brother.

‘What is happening?’ she asked Styr, as the wagon stopped before a large pile of branches and peat. Men were pouring oil upon the firewood, while inside the cage, the prisoners continued to cry out.

‘They are part of the sacrifice. They will be burned to the gods, to protect us from the Danes.’

Her hands began to tremble, the fear icing through her veins. God above, no.

For among those about to be sacrificed was her younger brother.