Читать книгу To Sin with a Viking - Michelle Willingham - Страница 6

Styr awakened, feeling as if someone had crushed his head. When he tried to sit up, a rush of pain poured through him.

It was eerily quiet, and it took him a moment to reassemble what had happened. He smelled a peat fire, and when He tried to sit up, he realised that his wrists were chained behind his back, around a thick post. He was now a prisoner.

Where was Elena? Had they taken her, too? His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he struggled to stand. There was only a woman standing on the far end of the room, watching him with wariness. He listened hard for the sound of his language, for any evidence that his kinsmen were alive. But there was nothing.

He knew the Irish language, after his father had taught him many foreign tongues. As a voyager, Styr knew how valuable it was, and he’d mastered several languages as a boy. But he asked the woman no questions, not revealing his ability to understand her words. He might learn more about Elena and Ragnar, if he pretended he knew nothing.

‘Where have you taken the others?’ he barked out, using a Norse dialect he knew she wouldn’t understand.

She flinched at his tone and remained far away. Good. In the shadowed light, he couldn’t quite make out her features, but it surprised him that her family had left her here alone with him. Where were the other men? Why was there no one else to guard him?

He began examining his bonds more closely. They had chained his arms behind his back, around a thick beam on the opposite wall. He guessed the circumference of the beam was the width of his thigh, for when he leaned his weight against it, it did not budge.

‘Let me go,’ he demanded, still using the Norse language. To emphasise his words, he strained against the chains.

When the woman stepped into the light, he was shocked by what he saw. Her face was terribly thin, her eyes sunken from lack of food. The bones of her wrists were narrow, and though he recognised her as the one who had struck him down, he couldn’t imagine how she’d done it.

There was no possible way she’d had the strength to move him here and put him in chains. She looked as if a strong wind would knock her over.

Her eyes were a strange blue, so dark, they were almost violet. Her brown hair hung to her waist, unbound except for a small braided section at her temples.

She might have been beautiful, if she’d had enough to eat.

He found himself comparing her to Elena. His wife was nearly as tall as he was, with long reddish-blonde hair and eyes the colour of seawater. Their families had arranged the marriage in order to ally their two tribes together. Although she was a quiet woman, the first few years had been good between them.

A chill took hold within him as he wondered what they’d done with her. Was she alive?

But demanding questions of this waif would accomplish nothing. Better to bide his time and gain her trust. Perhaps then he could get her to unlock his chains, and he’d slip away into the night.

‘I can’t understand your language,’ she admitted, drawing nearer. She was far shorter than Elena, and the top of her head only reached his shoulders. ‘But I’m sorry for all of this. I just…wanted to protect my brother.’

He said nothing, staring at her. The young woman’s voice revealed her fear, but there was also a sweetness to it, as if she were trying to soothe a wounded beast.

‘My name is Caragh Ó Brannon,’ she informed him. Touching her chest, she repeated, ‘Caragh.’

Styr said nothing at all. If she wanted his name, then she’d have to set him free first. He sent her a hard look, willing her to release him.

‘If you’ll allow it, I can tend your wound,’ she offered. ‘I truly am sorry for hitting you. I was afraid I’d killed you for a moment.’ She lowered her gaze, wringing her hands together. ‘That’s not the sort of woman I am.’ Her mouth tightened, and she sighed. ‘I don’t know why I’m even speaking to you, for you can’t understand a single word.’

It didn’t seem to stop her, though. Caragh began talking in a stream of conversation, and Styr was so taken aback by her ceaseless speech, he had trouble following some of her words. She kept apologising while she found a basin of water and a bowl of soup. Then he came to understand that it was her way of hiding her fear. By talking her enemy to death.

When she stood an arm’s length from him, Caragh stopped mid-word. Her eyes stared at him with regret, and she set down the bowl of soup at his feet, along with another basin, presumably for his personal needs.

‘I’m sorry to keep you like this,’ she said quietly. ‘But if I let you go, you’ll kill my family.’ Her eyes drifted downward again. ‘Possibly me, as well.’ She dipped the linen cloth into the water and hesitated. Water dripped down into the bowl, and she admitted, ‘I probably shouldn’t have taken you prisoner. But if I hadn’t, you’d have gone after my brother again.’

It disconcerted him that he’d been captured at all. If he and his men had been at their full strength, it never would have happened. The lack of sleep had slowed their reflexes, making it difficult for them to respond to the surprise attack.

Caragh reached out and touched the cloth to his temple, washing away the dried blood. The gentle gesture was so unexpected, he gaped at her. She was intent upon her work, though from the slight tremor in her fingers, he sensed her fear of him. The cool water soothed the swelling, but he spoke no words.

Why would she bother tending his wound? He was her enemy, not her friend. No one had ever touched him in this manner, and he couldn’t understand why this waif would attempt it. Either she had a greater courage than he’d guessed, or she was too foolish to understand that a man like him didn’t deserve mercy.

‘I wish you could understand me,’ she murmured, while a water droplet slid down his cheek. She was staring at him intently, her blue eyes so dark, he found himself spellbound. When her fingers touched the drop of water, an unbidden response flared inside him. Styr moved forwards, stretching the chains taut.

Forcing her to be afraid.

She jerked back, stammering, ‘I—I’m sorry. I must have hurt you again.’ She pointed towards the bowl of soup on the ground. ‘I haven’t much I can feed you, but it’s all there is.’ She shrugged and retreated again, nodding for him to eat.

Styr eyed the bowl of watery soup and then sent her a questioning look. Exactly how did she expect him to eat with his hands bound behind his back?

She waited for a moment, ladling a bowl for herself. With a spoon, she began to eat slowly, as if savouring the broth. ‘Don’t you want—?’ Her words broke off as it dawned on her that she would have to feed him if he was going to eat at all.

A slow breath released from her. ‘I should have thought about this.’ She stood and reached for another wooden spoon. For a moment, she studied him. Her mouth twisted with worry, but she picked up the bowl again.

Styr could hardly believe any of this. Not only had she treated his wounds, she’d offered food and was about to feed it to him.

For a captor, she was entirely too merciful. And it enraged him that he was trapped here with a soft-hearted woman attempting to make the best of the situation while Elena was out there somewhere. He had to escape these chains and find his wife.

Regret stung his conscience, for he’d failed to protect Elena. He didn’t know if she was alive or dead, and guilt weighed upon him. What if another man had violated her? What if she was suffering, her body ravaged with pain?

Styr ignored the soup and called out in a hoarse voice, ‘Elena!’ There was no reply. Again and again, he shouted her name, hoping she would hear him if she was within the ringfort. Then he called out to Ragnar and each of his kinsmen as he tried to determine if he was the only hostage. Or the only one left alive.

‘They’re gone,’ Caragh interrupted when he took another breath. ‘I don’t know where, but the ship isn’t there any more.’ Her face flushed and she admitted, ‘Brendan took the woman hostage. I saw your men lay down their weapons, but I don’t know what happened after that.’

Her gaze dropped to the ground, and he suspected she was withholding more information. He turned his gaze from her, so she would not know that he’d understood her words.

Turbulent thoughts roiled within him, igniting another surge of rage. Where was his wife? Was she still alive? And what of his men?

When Caragh dared to touch a spoonful of broth to his lips, he used his head like a battering ram, sending the bowl flying. She paled and retrieved the bowl, wiping up the spilled soup.

In fury, he kicked at the wall, smashing the wattle and daub frame until he’d created a hole in the wicker frame. He roared out his frustration, straining against the manacles in a desperate need to escape. Over and over, he pulled at the chains, trying to break them.

And when he’d failed to free himself, he cast another look at Caragh. She’d picked up the remains of his soup and added it to her own bowl. When he stared at her, she showed no fear at all. Only a defiant look of her own, as if he ought to be ashamed of himself.

Caragh slept fitfully, awakening several times during the night. Dear God in Heaven, what had she done? Imprisoning the Viking had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now, she regretted it. She shouldn’t have saved his life. He was planning to kill Brendan and had already killed two others. He didn’t deserve to live.

It was several hours before dawn, but she rose from her pallet and tiptoed over to the fire, adding another peat brick. A flicker of sparks rose up, and she stoked the flames to heat the cool interior. In the faint amber light, she studied the Lochlannach man who lay upon the earth.

She had removed his cloak and brooch, not wanting him to use the pin as a weapon. He wore a rough linen tunic beneath the mail corselet protecting his chest, while his fair hair was tied back in a cord. His face was strangely compelling, even in sleep. She sat upon a footstool and studied him.

Though he was harsh, his body strong from years of battle, she couldn’t deny that he was handsome, like a fallen angel. None of the men she’d met over the years even compared to this man’s features.

He was the sort of man to carry a woman off and claim her. Without warning, her mind conjured the image of kissing a man like this. He would not be gentle but would capture her mouth, consuming her. A hard shiver passed over her, for she’d never before imagined such a thing. It was madness to even consider it.

But she’d glimpsed the fury on his face when the woman was taken. He’d fought hard for her, striking down any man who threatened her.

Caragh studied his profile in the firelight, wondering what sort of man he was. Was he a fierce barbarian who would kill her as soon as she freed him? Or did he possess any honour at all?

In his sleep, he moved restlessly, and she realised he was exposed to cool air from the wall segment he’d broken. Though it was summer, the nights were often cold, and no doubt he was feeling the chill. The practical side of her decided that he ought to be uncomfortable for smashing the wall.

Wouldn’t you have done the same thing, if you were a captive? her conscience argued. Wouldn’t you have done anything to escape?

She might have. But he’d killed her kinsmen. He deserved to suffer for it.

They took his woman. He was trying to pro­ tect her.

He’d called out the woman’s name, Elena, for a long time. Likely she was his wife or possibly his sister.

That was what plagued her most. If their situations were reversed, and she had been captured, her brothers would have slaughtered anyone who dared to harm her. She couldn’t fault this man from trying to guard a family member.

But if she hadn’t intervened, he would have killed Brendan. And if she released this man now, he would hunt her brother down and exact his revenge.

Worry knotted her stomach, for she didn’t know where Brendan was. Her last fleeting vision of him was when he’d kept his blade at the woman’s throat, dragging her backwards towards the ship. Caragh had been so busy securing her own prisoner, she’d only caught glimpses of what was happening around her.

One of the older men had helped her to drag the prisoner away from the others, for she’d been too weak to do it herself. After she’d chained the Viking, she’d returned outside, only to find the man’s body cut down by a sword. Her stomach wrenched to think that he’d died because he’d tried to help her.

In her mind, she reconstructed bits and pieces of what she remembered. Brendan with his hostage…and the Lochlannach had dropped their weapons on the sand before they’d waded into the water.

Though a few of Brendan’s friends had joined him, they were outnumbered. Even weaponless, Caragh didn’t doubt that their enemy intended to ambush her brother, reclaiming the ship and the woman. They needed no blades to kill Brendan.

It had been impossible to help him, without drawing the Lochlannach back on herself and the others.

Why had he lured them away from Gall Tír? It was reckless and dangerous.

Unless Brendan was trying to lead the enemy away in a desperate act of bravery.

She closed her eyes, steeling herself against the possibility that her brother was already dead. Hours had passed, but he hadn’t returned at all. She could only pray that he was still alive.

Disbelief and fear welled up inside her. All of her brothers had abandoned her. She hadn’t argued when Terence and Ronan had gone, confident that they would return with the promised supplies. But now, it had been nearly a fortnight, and there was no sign of them.

What if none of her brothers returned? What if all of them were dead?

The idea of being alone, with no one to protect her, was terrifying.

With a heavy heart, she searched inside for the right decision about what to do now. She couldn’t release her prisoner. If she did, she had no doubt he would strike her down. His dark, callous eyes bespoke a ruthless nature. There was nothing tame about him, and she saw no alternative except to keep him chained until her older brothers returned.

If they returned.

She closed her eyes, forcing away the thoughts of doubt. No, Terence and Ronan would come back. They had to.

Caragh picked up a woollen brat that she used as a winter wrap and tiptoed over to the section of the wall that the man had destroyed. She reached up to secure it over the hole, using it to block the wind.

When she turned around, she saw him staring at her. She pressed her back against the broken wall, just as he rose to his feet. His eyes were a dark brown, and she couldn’t read the expression on his face. But she wouldn’t make the mistake of trusting him. She inched further away until he spoke a word she didn’t understand.

‘What do you want?’ she asked.

His gaze followed her, and he paused a moment. ‘Water.’

It startled her to hear her language spoken by this man. ‘You know Irish?’

But he only repeated, ‘Water.’

Caragh went to fill a wooden cup with water, and she felt his eyes watching every move. When she drew close, she hesitated, not wanting to be so close to him after he’d already spurned the bowl of soup. But with his hands chained behind his back, there was no other alternative.

She swallowed back her apprehension and raised the cup to his lips, tilting it slightly. He drank, and in the shadowed light, she saw the rough stubble of facial hair. It was the same light blond colour as his hair, and when she lowered the cup, her eyes were drawn to his mouth. His lips were firm, a slash of a mouth that she doubted had ever smiled. In his dark eyes, she saw a worry that mirrored her own.

‘Where is she?’ he demanded in her language.

Caragh stepped back from him. ‘So you do know Irish.’ It meant he’d understood every word she’d spoken.

‘Where?’ he repeated. The ice in his voice held the promise of vengeance, and she retreated further. Though he could not harm her while he was in chains, she didn’t doubt that he’d kill anyone who threatened the woman called Elena.

Her face paled, but she repeated what she’d said before, ‘I told you already. I don’t know.’ She tried to calm the roiling fear in her stomach, admitting, ‘Brendan took her as a hostage and set sail.’

Frustration drew his face taut with silent rage. ‘I have to find her. Let me go.’ His command was spoken in a steel voice, one meant to be obeyed.

Though she understood his need, she couldn’t possibly free him from the chains. ‘I can’t release you,’ she protested. ‘You’ll kill me if I do.’ In her mind, she envisioned him taking his chains and wrapping them around her throat.

‘I don’t usually kill women. Even the ones who try to crack my skull.’ He tested the post, straining against his bonds.

‘I’m sorry for your wound, but I had to protect Brendan,’ she argued.

‘And I had to protect my wife.’ He half-snarled the word, his rage erupting. ‘She’s an innocent. She did nothing to you.’

‘The men were wrong to attack,’ she admitted, crossing her arms. ‘I tried to stop my brother, but he wouldn’t listen.’ Though it wouldn’t make any difference, she offered, ‘We were starving and needed supplies.’

‘And you thought you’d take them.’ Bitterness clung to his tone, and he let out a cynical breath of air. ‘We would have shared what we had, if you’d asked.’

‘Attacking you was never my idea,’ she insisted. It shamed her that this man thought of her as nothing but a thief, when she wasn’t.

‘Let me go, Caragh.’

‘Not yet, Lochlannach,’ she countered. Frowning, she added, ‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘I am Styr Hardrata. My wife is Elena.’

‘I saw her with the others. She’s beautiful.’ Caragh returned to the cold pot of soup and moved it closer to the hearth to warm. ‘Be assured, my brother doesn’t plan to hurt her. He’s only seventeen…and thoughtless, I’m afraid.’

‘He plans to ransom them or sell them as slaves, doesn’t he?’

She hadn’t thought of that, but it was doubtful. ‘I don’t know what he plans to do.’ Truthfully, she doubted if he’d considered any of his actions, it had all happened so fast. ‘All I know is that I can’t free you until my older brothers are here. Once they are, then you can go as it pleases you.’

‘And I’m supposed to stay here and ignore what’s happening to the rest of my family? You expect me to wait and do nothing?’

She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. ‘I won’t let you hurt my brother.’

His dark eyes gleamed in the stillness. ‘If she’s harmed because of what he did, I’ll kill him. Be assured of it.’

She believed him. There was a darkness in this man, a soulless being who wouldn’t falter when it came to retribution. It didn’t matter that Brendan was young and foolish. In the Viking’s eyes, she saw the promise of vengeance.

Her hands were trembling as she ladled more soup into a bowl. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’

‘What I want is to be released.’ He glared at her, and she tightened the hold upon her fear.

Ignoring his demand, she said, ‘I have very little food. If you want to eat, I will share what there is. But if you’re going to push it away, tell me now, and I’ll keep it for myself.’

He said nothing for a time, staring towards the fire. ‘I suppose I’ll have to keep up my strength for the day when you set me free.’

‘I regret hurting you. But I had no choice.’ She picked up the bowl with both hands, steam rising from the soup. It felt as if she were nearing a dragon as she approached the warrior.

He waited, and when she stood before him, he said, ‘You look as if you haven’t eaten well in weeks.’

She hadn’t but didn’t say so. ‘There was a drought, and we lost a good deal of our harvest last summer. Many died during the winter, and it’s too early to harvest this year’s crops.’

Caragh raised the bowl to his lips, and this time, he drank. The soup wasn’t good, watery with only a bit of seaweed. But there was nothing else.

‘What of your animals?’ he asked. ‘Sheep or cattle?’

She shook her head. ‘They’re gone. My brothers went to trade for more food.’ To him, it might seem that they’d done little, but she knew the truth. They’d given up most of their possessions for food. ‘Believe me when I say there is nothing to eat,’ she continued. ‘I’ve looked everywhere.’

‘You live near the sea,’ he pointed out. ‘There’s no reason for you to starve.’

But it wasn’t that easy. ‘The fishermen left, months ago, and took their boats with them,’ she explained. ‘We can only get the smaller fish near the shore. It’s not enough.’ She didn’t mention her father’s boat, for they had not touched it in months. The others, too, had left it alone.

Styr’s hard gaze fastened upon her. ‘There is no reason to starve if you know the ways of the sea.’

When she took the bowl away, she noticed that the side of his face was swollen red and would likely be bruised black and blue by morning. Seeing his wound bothered her, for it was her fault he’d been hurt.

Caragh went to fetch a linen cloth, soaking it in more cool water. Without asking his leave, she went and touched the sore spot, bathing it to prevent the swelling from growing worse.

He stared at her in disbelief. ‘Do you always strike your enemy and then tend his wounds?’ His eyes held suspicion, as if he weren’t accustomed to anyone taking care of him. It made her feel foolish, and she pulled the cloth away.

‘I’ve never taken a man prisoner before.’ Her cheeks burned, and she retreated, wishing she’d never dared to touch him. Everything about this man threatened her, from his fiercely handsome face, to his raw strength. It was like chaining a predator, and she needed to remember that he was not to be trusted.

‘How long before your brothers return?’ he asked.

She shrugged. ‘They’ve been gone a fortnight. I have no way of knowing when they’ll be back.’

‘And if they don’t return?’

Caragh shook her head, not wanting to imagine it. Inwardly, she tightened the invisible bands around her fear and frustration. Ronan and Terence had sworn to return, and she believed they would.

But it was Brendan who gave her the greatest cause to fear. Her younger brother hadn’t considered the consequences of his actions, and he might pay the price with his life.

Returning to the far side of the hut, she washed out the bowl and set it to dry. Her voice was quiet, but she admitted, ‘If they don’t return, I’ll let you go. It would be more merciful for you to kill me than to starve to death.’

He sat down, leaning back against the post. and though she was desperately tired, Caragh sat beside the fire. Absently, She picked up a comb and began to run it through the long dark strands, hoping to calm herself. She was aware of him watching her, but she tried to ignore his gaze.

‘Why did they leave you here?’ he asked. ‘Don’t your brothers believe in protecting their women?’

She pulled at the comb, not looking at him. Aye, she did feel uncertainty at her future and a sense of hurt that they’d gone off without her. But she wouldn’t reveal it to him. ‘I can care for myself.’

‘Can you?’ He eyed her, and beneath his gaze, she felt embarrassment at her thinness.

‘I haven’t given up hope. My brothers will return, and—’

‘—and you’ll starve in the meantime.’ His scorn irritated her, for he behaved as if she weren’t lifting a finger. ‘The women of my country would be out hunting for food, scouring the land instead of waiting at home.’ He gave a shrug, and his diffidence infuriated her. ‘But then, you’re Irish.’

How did he dare to mock her, when she’d given up her own share of food on his behalf?

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ she demanded.

He only sent her a sardonic look, as if she could guess which insult he’d implied. Aye, she might not be a sword-wielding warrior, but she wasn’t weak. Not by half.

She glared hard at his unsympathetic face, wondering how he dared to criticise her. ‘What would you have me do, were you in my place?’

‘Leave. Find a man to protect you and care for you if your brothers won’t take the responsibility.’

‘Sell myself, you mean.’ Though he might be right, she hated the thought of giving her body in exchange for survival. She’d rather die.

‘You wouldn’t have to sell yourself,’ he said. His dark eyes fastened upon hers, his voice deepening. ‘Most men are weak when it comes to women in need. And you’ve a fair enough face.’

Though his words were spoken with no innuendo, she felt herself blushing. It wasn’t at all true. The men in her tribe wanted a demure, modest woman who rarely talked. Not one who spoke her mind and questioned everything.

‘I’d rather survive using my wits,’ she admitted. She stepped backwards, adding, ‘And if I’m to find any more food for us in the morning, we should both get some sleep.’

‘If you set me free tonight, you won’t have to feed me at all,’ he pointed out.

She ignored the suggestion. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Because you’re too afraid?’

‘I captured you, didn’t I?’ she shot back. ‘I doubt if any of your women could say the same.’

‘Only because I was unconscious,’ he admitted. ‘In my homeland, many wanted to capture me, but only one other succeeded.’

His wife, he meant. Caragh crossed her arms and stared at him. ‘She must have the patience of a saint, then.’ Putting up with a man of such arrogance would be a true test of any woman.

‘She likes me well enough,’ was his answer. But she caught a sense of brooding in his tone. Almost a reluctance to speak of Elena.

‘I hope you find her,’ Caragh said quietly, ‘and that she’s unharmed when you do.’ It was the truth. She’d seen the agony on the woman’s face when Caragh had struck down her husband. She didn’t want to be the cause of any suffering between them.

Styr stood up again and stepped forwards, testing the length of his chains. ‘Oh, I will find her,’ he warned.

His brown eyes turned foreboding with a violent edge. ‘But I’m not going to wait around to be murdered by your brothers. One morning, you’ll awaken, and I’ll be gone.’