Читать книгу Saved by the Viking Warrior - Michelle Styles, Michelle Styles - Страница 8
ОглавлениеSpring 876—near the border between
Viking-controlled Northumbria and
Anglo Saxon-controlled Bernicia
‘We’ve stopped again. How many times can the wheels get clogged with mud? Perhaps we should have waited until the spring rains stopped.’ Lady Cwenneth of Lingwold peered through the covered cart’s one small window. ‘This journey to Acumwick has taken twice as long as it should have with all the stops Hagal the Red’s men insist on making. Delay after delay. I want to prevent hostilities rather than be the excuse for them.’
Her new tire woman, Agatha, glanced up. ‘Are you that eager for marriage to Hagal the Red? You went on about his unsavoury reputation only a few nights ago. About how your brother threatened you into the marriage.’
Cwenneth pressed her lips together as the cloying scent from the herbs Agatha had spread to help with the stuffiness of the cart tickled her nostrils. In her loneliness, she had confided too much the other night.
‘I spoke out of turn, Agatha. It doesn’t do to remind me.’
‘I was just saying,’ the maid muttered, stirring the herbs and releasing more of their overpowering scent. ‘Some people...’
Cwenneth concentrated on smoothing the fur collar of her cloak rather than giving a sharp answer back. Squabbling created enemies. She needed friends and allies more than ever now that she was about to live in a foreign land amongst people with a reputation for barbarity and cruelty.
Her marriage to the new Norseman jaarl of Acumwick would ensure her brother and the inhabitants of Lingwold would finally achieve peace after years of war. As part of the marriage contract, Hagal the Red agreed to provide protection particularly against Thrand the Destroyer, the berserker who enjoyed killing for the sake of it and exacted more than his fair share of gold from Lingwold.
Hagal’s sworn oath to bring Thrand’s head to Lingwold had ensured her brother had put his signature on the marriage contract’s parchment.
‘You look solemn, my lady. Are you that unhappy?’
Cwenneth hastily composed her face into a more cheerful countenance. ‘I’m eager to begin my new life. A fresh start away from the unhappiness of the past few years.’
Cwenneth gave the only positive reason she could think of sharing with Agatha. Her brother had given her a stark choice when she had protested at the match—either marriage to Hagal the Red or a convent of his choosing with no dowry, nothing to look forward to except a barren cell and hard physical work for the remainder of her existence.
‘It will happen if you please your new lord and master, my lady. It’s easy if you know how.’ Agatha gave a superior smile and arched her back slightly so her ample breasts jutted out. ‘Men are such simple creatures. Easy to please, if you take my meaning.’
Cwenneth glanced down at her own slender curves. Positively boyish and flat in comparison. She had to hope Hagal the Red liked thin women.
‘The journey was supposed to last a week. Thanks to the incessant rain, it has been twice as long.’ Cwenneth frowned. Once the rain stopped and the mud dried, the raiding season would begin in earnest. If the marriage wasn’t formalised, would Hagal the Red actually provide the promised protection? Would he end the threat of Thrand the Destroyer? ‘What if Hagal takes the delay as an insult?’
‘I am sure it rained in Viken where they came from. He will understand.’ Agatha gave a throaty laugh and stirred the herbs another time. ‘They appreciate a woman up north, and Hagal the Red will be all the more impatient for the wait. They say he is very vigorous in bed.’
The dusty dry scent of the herbs invaded Cwenneth’s mouth, making her throat feel parched and her head ache.
‘I hate travelling in a cart. It makes me feel ill with its swaying and bumps.’ Cwenneth firmly changed the subject away from bed sport. She knew the rumours about Agatha’s prowess in that area and how her sister-in-law had caught her cavorting with Cwenneth’s brother.
She craned her neck, trying to see more, but there was nothing except for bare trees, raising their branches to the sky. ‘My brother would have allowed me to walk for a little, but Hagal’s man refuses even to discuss it. When I am officially his lady, things will have to change.’
‘I’m sure it will,’ Agatha said in that overly familiar way she’d recently adopted. Cwenneth gritted her teeth. She needed to assert her authority over the maid. ‘Change is in the air. For everyone. You never know, you might not be cursed any longer.’
Cursed—the word pierced her heart. What else could you call a woman who had failed to save her husband and child from a fever? Who had lost her home to a stepson who hated her and blamed her for the death of the woman he had considered his mother?
‘Repeating gossip is wrong,’ she said far too quickly.
‘Your husband died and then your child after that old crone died on your doorstep. What is that if not cursed?’
‘It is unlucky and has nothing to do with my forthcoming marriage. We will speak no more of it.’
Cwenneth hated the lingering sense of guilt that swamped her. Her stepson’s former nurse had been caught stealing gold from the local church. She had had to request her departure. The priest had threatened to withhold communion from the entire household if she continued to shelter her. The woman had gone muttering curses and predicting vile things including that Cwenneth should lose all she held dear and that her womb would remain barren for ever.
Although she had laughed off the words at the time, dismissing them as the ravings of a confused woman, less than three weeks later, the bad luck started. Aefirth had returned home wounded and died.
Six weeks after that, she had lost her young son and any hope she might be carrying another. She had returned to her childhood home unable to bear her stepson’s accusations any longer. The whispers about her being cursed began in earnest. Even now the memory caused cold sweat to run down her back. What else did she have to lose before the curse lost its power?
Agatha kept silent, so Cwenneth adopted an innocent face and added, ‘A wonder you want to serve under such a woman as me, then.’
Agatha fiddled with the dry herbs. ‘There was no prospect for advancement at Lingwold. That much was made very clear to me. I’ve no wish to be a beggar woman. I have plans.’
Cwenneth leant forward. No prizes for guessing who had made her that offer—the same person who had delivered the ultimatum about her marriage when she had tried to stall: her brother. ‘I expect my servants to be loyal, Agatha, and not to repeat old gossip. I expect them to speak with a civil tongue as well. Remember that or you will not remain my maid for long.’
Agatha’s cheeks flushed at the reprimand. ‘I beg your pardon. And I do hope for a bright future for you. Maybe you will find happiness...’
Happiness? Cwenneth hadn’t expected to fall in love with the much older Aefirth either, but she had. Their marriage had initially been one of duty and the joining of estates. She clearly remembered the instant she’d known—Aefirth had put his hand on her belly when she had said that she felt their baby stir. The delight in his eyes had taken her breath away, and she had known that she’d love him for ever. He said that she made him young again. All that had gone in the space of a few days. All because of the curse.
The interior of the cart with its overpowering stench of herbs seemed small and more confining than ever once she started to think about all she had lost and would never have again.
‘I’m going out to breathe fresh air. You may remain here. I’ll be back before you miss me.’
‘Surely, you should stay here. The last time you tried to leave the cart, things went badly.’
Cwenneth firmed her mouth. She knew precisely what had happened the last time. Narfi, Hagal’s steward with the shifty eyes, had shouted at her, calling her all sorts of filthy names. She had retreated rather than argue like a fishwife. But what was a name compared to a few final breaths of freedom now that the marriage truly loomed? What if they never allowed her out of the hall again? If she never saw the spring flowers in the woods?
‘Lend me your cloak. From a distance and if the hood covers my hair, we look about the same,’ Cwenneth said. ‘No one will see that I lack your curves.’
‘Yes but...’
‘Hagal’s man forbade me, but not you. I will take full responsibility if anyone questions me. You won’t be beaten. I won’t allow it.’ Cwenneth touched her maid’s cold hand. ‘When we reach Acumwick, I’ll speak with Hagal and quietly explain that I dislike rough treatment and being shouted at. If that man, Narfi, can’t learn to keep a civil tongue in his head, he’ll have to go. Hagal the Red wants this marriage. He will have to respect my wishes.’
Agatha tapped her finger against her mouth, but did not meet Cwenneth’s eyes. ‘No one has shouted at me. Tell me what you want and I can fetch it.’
Cwenneth frowned. Agatha’s bold manner grew the nearer they got to Acumwick.
‘I need to go out and stretch my legs,’ Cwenneth said, adopting a superior attitude and pinning the maid with her gaze. Agatha was the first to look away.
‘It is on your head then.’ Agatha fumbled with her cloak. ‘Don’t go blaming me. I did try to warn you. Do what you have to do quickly.’
The exchange of cloaks was quickly accomplished. Agatha stroked the rabbit fur collar of Cwenneth’s cloak with an envious hand.
‘I appreciate it. I’ll return before anyone notices.’
‘Just so you are.’ The woman gave a great sigh and ceased stroking the cloak.
Cwenneth raised the coarse woollen hood over her golden blonde hair and quickly exited before Agatha found another reason to delay her.
The bright spring sun nearly blinded her after the dark shadows of the cart. Cwenneth stood, lifting her face to the warm sunlight while her eyes adjusted. All the worry and anxiety seemed to roll off her back as she stood breathing in the fresh, sweet-smelling air. The stuffy woollen-headed feeling from the herbs vanished and she could think clearly again.
Without pausing to see where anyone else might be, she walked briskly to a small hollow where the bluebells nodded. The rich perfume filled her nostrils, reminding her of the little wood behind the hall she’d shared with her late husband. Aefirth had loved bluebells because her eyes matched their colour. He’d even had her stitch bluebells on his undergarments, proclaiming that they brought him luck.
Always when she thought of Aefirth, her heart constricted. She had desperately wanted to save him when he returned home with his wounded leg, but the infection had taken hold and he’d died. Old warriors died all the time from wounds. No matter how many times she tried to remember that, her mind kept returning to the woman’s curse. Aefirth had recovered from worse before. Why had the infection taken hold that time?
Impulsively, Cwenneth picked a bluebell and held it in her hand. The scent made her feel stronger and more in control—what she needed in the cart rather than evil-smelling herbs which made her feel tired and stupid.
She picked a large handful of bluebells, stopped and breathed in their perfume one final time before returning to her duty.
‘I’ll be brave. I’ll be kind to Agatha and make her my ally instead of my enemy, but I will remember my position,’ she whispered. ‘I will make this marriage to Hagal the Red work because it is for the good of everyone. A new start for me and a chance to leave past mistakes far behind. I’m certain that is the advice Aefirth would have given me.’
A great inhuman scream rent the air before the dull clang of sword against sword resounded.
Cwenneth froze. A raid! And she was too far from the cart’s safety. Her men would rally around the cart, thinking they were protecting her. No one would be looking for her out here.
She should have stayed where she was supposed to be. Her brother’s men would defend the cart to their last breath. She wished Edward had allowed her a few more men, but he’d bowed to Hagal’s wishes and had sent only a token force of six. Agatha would be fine as long as she stayed put in the cart and did not come looking for her.
‘Stay put, Agatha,’ she whispered. ‘Think about yourself. I can look after myself. Honest.’
What to do now? She could hardly stand like some frozen rabbit in the middle of the bluebells, waiting to be run through or worse.
Hide! Keep still until you know all is safe. Aefirth’s advice about what to do if the Norsemen came calling resounded in her mind. Find a safe spot and stay put until the fighting has ended. She was far too fine to wield a sword or a knife. She tightened her grip on the flowers. The same had to hold true for bandits and outlaws.
Cwenneth pressed her back against a tree and slid into the shadows. Hugging the rapidly wilting bluebells to her chest, she tried to concentrate on her happy memories of her husband and their son. Before she had been cursed. She whispered a prayer for the attack to be short and easily repulsed.
An agonised female scream tore the air. Agatha!
Cold sweat trickled down Cwenneth’s back. The bandits had breached the cart’s defences.
How? Hagal’s men were supposed to be hardened warriors. He’d given her brother his solemn oath on that.
The pleas became agonised screams and then silence. Cwenneth bit the back of her knuckle and prayed harder. Agatha had to be alive. Surely they wouldn’t kill a defenceless woman. The outlaws couldn’t be that depraved.
The silence became all-encompassing. Before the attack, there had been little sounds in the woods and now there was nothing. Cwenneth twisted off her rings and hid them in the hem of her gown before gathering her skirts about her, sinking farther into the hollow beneath the tree and hoping.
* * *
Two Norseman warriors strode into the rapidly darkening glade. She started to stand, but some instinct kept her still. She’d wait and then reveal herself when she knew they had come to save her. They could belong to Thrand the Destroyer’s band of outlaws rather than Hagal. He had every reason not to want this marriage. It must have been his men who attacked them because they knew what it would mean. Her heart pounded so loudly she thought they must hear it.
‘The maid is dead. One simple task and she failed to do that—keep the pampered Lady Cwenneth in the cart. Refused to say where she’d gone. Claimed she didn’t know,’ the tall one said. ‘Now we have to find the oh so spoilt lady and dispose of her.’
‘Good riddance,’ Narfi said. ‘That woman was trouble. She knew too much. She asked for too much gold and then got cold feet. Couldn’t bring herself to be associated with murder. No spine.’
He put his boot down not three inches from Cwenneth’s nose. She pressed her back closer to the hollow and fervently prayed that she would go unnoticed. Her brain reeled from the shock that Agatha was dead! And that she had been willing to betray and murder her!
‘We spread the rumour it was Thrand the Destroyer who did this? Clever!’
‘No, Thrand Ammundson is in Jorvik, attending the king. Halfdan keeps him close now that he fears death. More is the pity.’ Narfi chuckled. ‘The Northumbrians fear him more than any. Can’t see why. He isn’t that good. Sticks in my craw and Hagal’s. Ammundson gets gold thrown at his feet without lifting his sword simply because of his legendary prowess on the battlefield. I could take him in a fight with one hand tied behind my back.’
‘Why did Hagal want the Lady of Lingwold dead? Did he hold with the curse?’
‘Revenge for her husband killing his favourite cousin three years ago. He swore it on the battlefield. Hagal is a man who settles scores. Always.’
A great numbness filled Cwenneth. Not an ambush because of the gold they carried for her dowry or a random act of banditry, but a deliberate act of revenge by Hagal the Red. She was supposed to die today. There was never going to have been a wedding to unite two peoples, but a funeral. The entire marriage contract had been a ghastly trick.
Her stomach revolted, and she started to gag, but Cwenneth forced her mouth to stay shut. Her only hope of survival was in staying completely silent.
Cwenneth tightened her grip about the flowers and tried to breathe steadily. Why hadn’t Edward questioned him closer? Or had the opportunity to get rid of the menace that was Thrand Ammundson tempted her brother so much that he never thought to ask?
All the while, her brain kept hammering that it was far too late for such recriminations. She had to remain absolutely still and hope for a miracle.
She had to get back to Lingwold alive and warn her brother. Why go to all this trouble if Hagal had only wanted to murder her? She had to expose Hagal the Red for the monster he was before something much worse happened.
‘Gods, I wish that maid had done what she promised and slit the widow’s throat at the signal. I was looking forward to getting back to the hall early like. Now we have to trample through these woods, find her and do it ourselves.’
The second man sent a stream of spittle which landed inches from her skirt. Cwenneth forced all of her muscles to remain still, rather than recoiling in revulsion.
‘She won’t survive out here. Soft as muck that woman. Pampered. Unable to walk far. Everything had to be done for her.’
‘You only have that maid’s word that the Lady Cwenneth had no weapons.’
‘It doesn’t matter if she does. Imagine that useless creature coming up against any wild beast! How would she fight? Boring it to death with her complaints about food or the slowness of our progress? The woman doesn’t know one end of a sword from another. She wouldn’t last more than a few heartbeats even if she does have a knife.’
They both laughed and started to search the undergrowth off to her right. Quietly, Cwenneth searched the ground for something sharp, something so she could defend herself if they did find her. She did know how to use a knife. The pointy bit went into the flesh and she should go for the throat. Her fingers closed around a sharp rock.
A solitary howl resounded in the clearing. Cwenneth’s blood went ice-cold. Wolves. She didn’t know which sort were worse—the four-legged variety who lurked in the woods or the two-legged variety standing not ten feet from her who had just slaughtered people for no good reason.
Narfi clapped his hand on the other man’s back. ‘Don’t worry. Dead women tell no tales. By the time we reach Acumwick, the wolf will have done our work for us. We’ll come back and find the body in a day or two. Hagal will never know. Now let’s get to the hall. I want my food. Killing always makes me hungry.’
Making jokes about what she’d do when she met the wolf and speculating on how she’d die, the pair sauntered off.
Cwenneth hugged her knees to her chest, hardly daring to breathe. She was alive, but there were many miles of inhospitable country between here and Lingwold.
She screwed up her eyes tight. She’d do it. She’d prove them wrong. She wasn’t minded to die yet and particularly not to suit thieves’ and murderers’ schemes. She would defeat Hagal and prove to everyone that she wasn’t cursed.
* * *
The air after a slaughter takes on a special sort of stillness, different from the silence after a battle when the Valkyries gather the honourable dead. Then the birds pause, but the air continues to flow. After a slaughter, even the air respects the dead.
The instant Thrand Ammundson came around the bend in the road, he knew what had happened—a slaughter of the innocents.
‘Gods! What a mess.’ Thrand surveyed the carnage spread out before him. An overturned, smouldering wreckage of a travelling cart with six butchered and dismembered bodies lying about it dominated the scene. The sickly-sweet tang of fresh blood intermingling with smoke and ash hung in the air.
‘You would think after ten years of war, people would know better than to travel so lightly armed,’ one of his men remarked. ‘Halfdan maintains the peace, but there are Northumbrian bandits. Desperate men do desperate things.’
‘Surprised. They thought they were safe,’ Thrand answered absently as he bent to examine the first body. ‘Always a mistake.’
He gently closed the old man’s eyes and forced his mind to concentrate on the scene. The bodies were cold, but not picked clean. And the fire had failed to completely consume the cart. It had merely smouldered rather than burning to the ground. Not a robbery gone wrong, but cold-blooded murder. And he knew whose lands they crossed—Hagal the Red’s. Hagal would be involved, but behind the scenes. A great spider waiting for the fly to blunder in.
Thrand pressed his lips together. Everything proclaimed Hagal the Red’s handiwork, but he needed more proof if he wanted to bring him to justice, finally and for ever. Something solid and concrete. Hagal had had a hand in the slaughter of Thrand’s family back in Norway. Thrand knew it in his bones, but no one had listened to his proof and Hagal had slithered away like the snake he was.
‘How do you know they were surprised?’ Helgi, one of his oldest companions-in-arms, asked, kneeling beside him.
‘Look at their throats. Cut.’ Thrand gestured towards the two closest bodies. ‘And this lad and that man still have their swords in their belts. Whoever did this got in and got out quickly.’
‘A dirty business, this. Who would dare? Northumbrian outlaws?’
‘I have a good idea who our enemy is. He won’t bother us. More’s the pity.’ Thrand knelt beside the second body, little more than a youth. No arrows and impossible to determine the type of blade used from a clean cut. Thrand frowned, considering the options. The intense savagery of the attack sickened him, but, knowing Hagal’s methods, it failed to surprise him.
There was never any need to mutilate bodies. A dead man will not put a knife in your back.
He had only discovered Hagal was in Halfdan’s employ after he swore his oath of allegiance to Halfdan and had agreed not to attack a fellow member of the felag on pain of death.
Hagal’s time would come. Once his oath was complete, Thrand would ensure it. He refused to add the shame of being an oath-breaker to his titles.
Without his code, a man was nothing—one of the lessons his father had taught him. And he had to respect his father’s memory. It was all that remained of him. Thrand had shown little respect for him and his strict rules the last few months of his life, much to his bitter regret.
‘If they attacked this party of travellers, they could attack us,’ someone said.
‘Do you think they’d dare attack us?’ Helgi shouted. ‘You have never been on the losing side, Thrand. Your reputation sweeps all before it. They pour gold at your feet rather than stand and fight.’
‘Only a dead man believes in his invincibility,’ Thrand said, fixing Helgi with a glare. ‘I aim to keep living for a while.’
At his command, his men began to methodically search the blood-soaked area for clues, anything that could prove Hagal was here and had done this. He didn’t hold out much hope. Hagal was known to be an expert at covering his tracks.
‘A woman,’ one of them called out from beside the cart. ‘No longer has a face. What sort of animal would do that to a woman?’
‘Any clues to her identity?’
‘High born from her fur cloak. Her hands appear soft. Probably Northumbrian, but then there are very few of our women here.’
Thrand pressed his hands to his eyes. A senseless murder. Such a woman would be worth her weight in gold if held for ransom. Or if sold in one of the slave markets in Norway or even in the new colony of Iceland, she would command a high price. Why kill her? Why was she worth more dead than alive to Hagal who valued gold more than life itself?
‘See if anyone survived and can explain what happened here and why. Dig a pit for the bodies. It is the least we can do. Then we go forward to the Tyne! We need to return to Jorvik before Halfdan convenes the next Storting.’ he proclaimed in ringing tones.
‘And if the bandits return...they will know someone has been here.’
‘Good. I want them to know,’ Thrand said, regarding each of his men, hardened warriors all, and he could tell they too were shaken by this savagery. But he knew better than to trust any of them with his suspicions about Hagal. Thrand was well aware Hagal had used his spy network to escape in the past.
‘This is Hagal the Red’s land. Surely he will want to know about bandits operating in this area. He has sworn to uphold the king’s peace,’ Knui, his late helmsman’s cousin, called out. ‘Will we make a detour?’
‘Leave Hagal the Red to me.’ Thrand inwardly rolled his eyes at the naive suggestion. Hagal’s way of dealing with this outrage would be to hang the first unlucky Northumbrian who dared look at him and be done with it. No one would dare question him.
‘But you are going to tell him?’ Knui persisted.
‘We’ve not actually encountered any outlaws, merely seen the aftermath of an unfortunate occurrence.’ He gave Knui a hard look. Knui was only on this expedition because it had been his late helmsman’s dying request. Sven had sworn that Knui wasn’t in Hagal’s employ, but his words made Thrand wonder. ‘Speculation serves no one. Our first duty is fulfilling our oath to my late helmsman, Sven, and ensuring his child will want for nothing. We gave our oaths on his deathbed. First the child and then...perhaps...once we have returned to Jorvik and the Storting is finished.’
‘What do we do with her? Leave her for the eagles? Or put her in the pit with the rest?’ one of his men called. ‘They were far from kind to this one.’
Thrand stared at the woman’s mutilated body with distaste. It reminded him of Ingrid, the woman who had caused him to betray his family and who had ended up murdered. One more crime to make sure Hagal was punished for. A senseless, wasteful crime. ‘Lay out the dead before burial while I check to see if any more bodies are about. There may be some clue I missed. And we want to make sure we don’t have to dig two pits.’
He left his men to their task. With a drawn sword, he went into the woods, circling about the site. He forced his mind to concentrate on the task rather than revisiting long-ago crimes. Any little signs which might give him a clue to where the attackers went, or if any of the party had survived.
He pressed his hands to his eyes. ‘Come on, Thrand Ammundson. What are you missing? Concentrate instead of remembering the long dead.’
When he approached the end of his circuit, he noticed scattered bluebells rapidly wilting in the warm afternoon. Someone else had been there. The dead woman? Or...?
He frowned, annoyed with himself for not immediately considering it. Details mattered. High-born Northumbrian ladies always travelled with at least one female companion.
Someone had survived. Someone who could bear witness to what happened here. Someone who could speak in the king’s court and condemn Hagal. He gave a nod. The gods had finally given him his chance if he could get the creature to Jorvik alive.
Moving slowly and paying attention to little clues on the ground—a broken twig here, a scattered flower there—Thrand followed the woman’s trail. He discovered a hollow where she must have hidden for a while. There was evidence of other feet as well. Kneeling down, he felt the soil. Cold. The attack had been this morning, so she could not be far...if she had survived.
He spied a single wilting bluebell on the far edge of the glade.
‘Where are you? Come out! I’m here to help!’
The only sound was the wind in the trees.
He frowned, drew his sword and slowly picked his way through the undergrowth, looking for more signs. The trail was easier as if the woman had ceased to care about being followed. The far-off howl of a wolf pierced the stillness. Wolf or Hagal’s men? He knew the sort of death he’d prefer. With a wolf, the woman stood a chance of a quick death.
He entered a clearing where gigantic oak and ash spread their bare branches upward. A shaft of sunlight cut through the gloom, highlighting the strands of golden hair which had escaped from the woman’s coarse dark-brown cloak as she tried to free the fabric from a thorn bush. Her fine gown was immediately obvious.
Thrand breathed easier. The woman remained alive. He sheathed his sword.
‘Are you hurt?’
She glanced up with frightened eyes, eyes which matched the few bluebells she still carried and pressed closer to the thorn bush. The cloak opened slightly, revealing a gold-embroidered burgundy gown. Her long blonde hair had come loose and tumbled about her shoulders like spun gold.
Thrand whistled under his breath. He found it hard to remember the last time he’d seen a woman that beautiful.
Had Hagal finally made a mistake after all this time?
He held out his hand and tried for a gentle approach rather than his usual brusque manner. ‘I come in peace. I’ve no wish to harm you. What happened back there? Back with the cart?’
She gave an inarticulate moan, redoubled her efforts to free herself from the bush. The cloak tore and she started to run. Thrand crossed the glade to her before she had gone three steps. He caught her shoulders and gave her a little shake.
‘If you run, you die. These woods are no place for a lone woman.’ He examined the fine bones and delicate features of her face. She came up to his chin. Most women barely reached his shoulder. ‘Particularly not one who is gently bred.’
He allowed his hands to drop to his side and waited. Had his words penetrated her shocked brain?
Her tongue wet her lips, turning them the colour of drops of blood on snow. ‘I’m already dead, Norseman. Here or elsewhere—what does it matter?’
‘Are you injured? Did they hurt you? How did you escape?’
She slowly shook her head and started to back away. In another heartbeat she’d run. Thrand silently swore. He did not have time to spend chasing this woman through the forest.
‘Do you want to live?’ he ground out. ‘Simple choice.’
She stopped, hesitating. ‘I...I...’
Forget gentleness. He had tried. The Northumbrian woman was stubborn beyond all reason. Action was required. He reached out and grabbed her wrist.
‘You come with me.’ He pinned her with his gaze. ‘Whatever happened to you before, know that you belong to me hereafter. I’m your master now.’
