Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (24 page)

Chapter Two

E
lena watched in disbelief as Ragnar laid down his weapon and shield upon the sand. What was he doing? He was stronger than any of these men and she didn't doubt he could kill them all. Why would he surrender?

Unless he had another plan she didn't know about.

Ragnar moved in closer, the water pooling against his leather boots. He wore chainmail armour and an iron helm while his rough brown hair hung down past his shoulders. Dark green eyes gleamed with purpose, his face holding the merciless cast of a warrior who intended to slaughter his enemies.

And so he would. Elena had seen him training alongside her husband and had witnessed his skills firsthand. There was no fighter stronger than Ragnar Olafsson, and he moved with a speed no man could match.

‘Let her go,' Ragnar called out to her captor. ‘We'll return to our ship.'

He spoke to the Irishman as if he believed the man could understand the Norse language. His words were calm, his hands raised up in surrender. But beneath the gesture lay an unspoken threat.

For Ragnar would never bargain with an enemy. Her heart pounded faster as the other Irishmen began to close in.

What was he planning to do? Sacrifice himself? No. He wasn't the sort of man to play the martyr.

Onund stared at Ragnar with fury. ‘You might intend to surrender, Ragnar, but we won't. We outnumber them!' the man snapped, refusing to lay down his weapons.

A flare of irritation slid over Ragnar's face and it was then that Elena understood his deception.

The Irish might have taken them by surprise, but the same could be wrought upon them, if they believed in the surrender. Ragnar was granting their kinsmen time to gather together. Couldn't Onund see that?

‘If we attack, he'll slit her throat. And they'll kill Styr as well.' Ragnar lowered his voice, and Elena could no longer hear his plan while her captor dragged her into deeper water. They had almost reached the ship and she didn't know what Ragnar intended to do.

He had never once taken his gaze from her. The hard look in his eyes spoke of a man determined to get her back. Her mind flashed to the strange way he'd stared at her earlier. It had shaken her senses, for his look had held desire. As if he wanted her...intimately.

The memory of it made her heart pound faster, for she'd never seen him look at her that way before. His green eyes permeated her defences, reaching deep within. She didn't understand her own reaction to him and her skin prickled from more than the frigid water.

A horrifying thought occurred to her. Ragnar didn't want Styr to die, did he? Her husband was now a prisoner of the Irish and somehow they had to rescue him.

But what if Ragnar wasn't intending to save him? What if he turned his back on Styr?

Never could she imagine Ragnar as a traitor, but she couldn't let go of the unbidden fear.

At last, the others followed his lead, setting down their shields and returning to the water. One by one, they followed, while the Irish closed in behind them.

‘Some of you should stay behind for Styr,' she called out in warning.

But the instant she spoke, the Irishman plunged her head beneath the icy water. In shock, she lost her breath, her hands clawing at the surface. He jerked her from the water, her hair sodden and blinding her. Harsh words were spoken, his voice issuing warnings she didn't understand. And before she realised what was happening, he'd hauled her back on to their ship. She never had the chance to fight back, for the cold had penetrated her body, seizing her with shock.

Her consciousness grew hazy and she was only dimly aware of the blade at her throat while he gripped her wrists and found a length of rope to bind her. At last, he secured her to the front of the boat.

Before long, her kinsmen emerged from the water, four Irishmen behind them. They didn't try to fight, but allowed themselves to be taken. She strongly suspected they would wait for the right element of surprise.

And yet there was no one to help Styr. With a sinking heart, she stared back at the shoreline. Her husband was already gone and there was no way to know if she'd see him again. Although they'd grown distant over the past few months, she knew it was her own fault for turning him away. He was a good man, a warrior who deserved better than a barren wife like herself.

The knife of self-pity slid into her and she forced it back. It would do her no good now. She needed to gather her courage and do what was necessary to survive. It was their only hope.

When Ragnar climbed aboard, he kept his eyes upon her as they bound him. She couldn't guess his plans, but the message was clear. He had every intention of freeing them from captivity.

The Irish had taken the oars, but with only four of them, the ship didn't move very fast. Her captor, whose name she learned was Brendan, took command of the sails, letting the wind pull them far away from land.

Only when Ragnar was shoved a few feet away from her did she dare to whisper at him, ‘What will become of Styr? You left him behind with no one. He could already be dead.' A chill crossed her at the thought and hot tears rose to her eyes.

‘If they'd wanted him dead, they wouldn't have taken him prisoner,' Ragnar pointed out. ‘They'll try to use him as a hostage. But we'll return before any harm can come to him.'

She didn't know what to believe. For all she knew, they might torture Styr or kill him as an act of vengeance. ‘What if you're wrong?' she murmured.

‘I'm not. Trust me.'

She locked her eyes with his, silently pleading with him to strike sooner. ‘You can't abandon him.'

His demeanour shifted into a man who resented her accusations. There was no softness, no mercy upon his face at all. ‘I swore to him that I would guard you with my life. And so I have.' He leaned in, his dark green eyes demanding her attention. ‘We're going to take back the ship, this night.'

‘Your hands are bound,' she argued.

‘Are they?' His voice held such indifference, she began to wonder if she was wrong to doubt him. Upon her face, she felt the warmth of his breath. His long brown hair held hints of gold, his face rigid like a conqueror's. The look had returned to his eyes, one that made her falter. It reached beneath her desperate fear, sliding through her veins until he held her captive.

Trust me
, he'd demanded. She wanted to believe in him, for he was their best hope of returning to the ringfort. But once again, he was watching her in a way that made her pulse quicken. It only deepened her discomfort.

A moment later, one of the Irishmen grasped him and shoved him back. Though his words were incomprehensible, she couldn't tear her gaze from Ragnar. If he had somehow freed himself, he'd done a good job of disguising it.

The winds had swelled again, the skies growing darker. She was growing hungry, but no one offered food or water. When the Irishmen explored the ship, they quickly found Styr's store of supplies below deck. They devoured the food savagely, eating every bite of dried meat and preserved fish without offering them a single morsel. Only the bag of grain remained. Glancing at the Irish, Elena suddenly noticed how thin they were. It was as if they had been starving, their faces were so gaunt.

For the second time, she wondered if it had been wise to surrender. These men had not the strength of the Norsemen. But in their eyes, she saw that they were bent upon survival now, as if all traces of humanity were gone. Like animals, they fought amongst themselves for the choicest pieces of food.

Her earlier frustration with Ragnar diminished. Men who cared for nothing but their own lives would do anything. They would kill with no remorse.

Their leader, Brendan, was hardly more than an adolescent. But in his eyes, she saw determination. Whatever he planned to do with them, he would not be swayed from his course.

Though it had been hours since she'd been dragged back to the ship, she'd been unable to get warm. Her body was freezing, while her wet hair was clammy against her skin. Fear magnified the discomfort and her mouth grew dry with thirst.

‘Could I have some water?' she asked Brendan, even knowing he did not understand her words. She glanced over at the men, who were drinking wine, nodding to them to convey the meaning.

His mouth closed in a grim line and he ignored her question, adjusting the mainsail instead. When she studied her friends and kinsmen, she watched to see if Ragnar was right. Had they managed to free themselves? They sat motionless, their arms behind their backs. None would look at her.

Perhaps...

Ragnar spoke to the men, his voice a calm echo against the sea. ‘At moonrise.'

She took a breath, glancing at the Irish to see if they'd understood him. They were too busy gorging on food, but Brendan's brow furrowed. Without a word, he unsheathed his blade and crossed the boat until he sat behind her. She felt the kiss of the blade upon her throat, and the young man stared back at Ragnar in a silent challenge.

* * *

Ragnar intended to gut the Irishman, before the night was over, for daring to touch Elena. He'd sliced through his bonds, using a hidden blade that he'd passed to his kinsmen, one by one. Now, the blade was his again and he was waiting for the right moment to strike.

They had been sailing for hours and several of the Irish had fallen asleep—all, save the man holding Elena captive. Brendan seemed to sense that the moment he let her go, his life would be the forfeit.

The sun had descended below the horizon, and the moon was beginning to rise. Ragnar eyed the other men, silently warning them to be ready. He kept his gaze fixed upon Elena, watching for the moment to seize her. She appeared tense and, upon her throat, he saw the barest trace of blood.

His fist clenched upon the dagger, while he vowed his own vengeance upon the man who kept her captive. Elena's shoulders were held back, her body stiff as if she didn't dare move.

Ragnar needed a distraction, a way of diverting Brendan's attention away. Taking a hostage or possibly attacking without warning. His brain went through a dozen possibilities, all of which were feasible, but held an inherent risk.

Gods above, why couldn't this be any other hostage but Elena? If it were, he'd simply drag her away, slicing her attacker's throat. But the threat was too strong. Elena meant everything to him and he would do nothing to endanger her life.

He saw her glance up at the crescent moon, which had slid out from behind a cloud. At the sight of it, her face went white. Ragnar wanted to say something, to reassure her that all would be well.

‘Elena.' He couldn't stop himself from speaking her name, despite the risk.
Don't be afraid. I'll free you.

The Irishman spoke words that sounded like another warning, but his voice cracked at the end, undermining the threat. Reminding him that he was hardly more than a boy.

‘The ship is moving closer to the shore,' Ragnar told her.

‘I—I can't swim very well.' Her fear was tangible, but she cast a look at the dark water. The wind was strong now, pulling the vessel east. Ahead, he spied a large outcropping of rock, a tiny island not far away. She could reach it, if she tried.

‘I won't let you drown,' he swore.

She seemed to consider it, seeking reassurance from him. Though he knew she belonged to Styr, he wished in that moment that he could hold her. Give her the comfort she needed.

And then, as if the gods had willed it to be so, he spied the perfect diversion.

* * *

Brendan Ó Brannon had never been so terrified in all his life. He held the knife to the
Lochlannach
woman's throat, all the while wishing he'd never left the shores of his homeland. At the time, he'd believed he was protecting his sister Caragh. He'd thought he could force the invaders to leave, bringing their ship miles away from home before he and his friends could abandon the ship at night, swimming to shore.

But these men hadn't slept. They'd never taken their eyes off him or the woman he held hostage. With every minute that passed, his impending death came closer.

A hollow sorrow filled him up, with the knowledge that he'd never see his sister or brothers again. All because he'd tried to be a hero. What did he know of defending them against fierce
Lochlannach
invaders? Nothing at all. He was only seven and ten, barely a man. He'd acted without thinking and worse, he'd left his sister Caragh alone. She had no one to take care of her and he doubted if he would make it out alive.

One man, in particular, made him nervous. He stared hard at him, as if he intended to murder Brendan the moment an opportunity presented itself.

Silently, Brendan prayed that he could somehow get out of this. He considered letting the woman go, throwing himself overboard, no matter how far from shore they were. His chances of survival were better.

But he held on to her, for she was the only person keeping him and his friends alive. Soon enough, they would reach the southernmost tip of the eastern coast of éireann.

The moon was clouded this night, making it difficult to see. His body was exhausted and he fought to keep his hands from shaking.

A shout came from one of his men, alerting them to another ship. Brendan kept his blade at the woman's throat as he turned to look. Just as his friend had warned, a large merchant ship was bearing down on them.

But the men weren't Irish.

His mouth went dry, his palms sweating. It was the
Gallaibh
,
the Danes who were as fearless as the Norse. His grandsire had spun tales of the bloodthirsty invaders who would kill anyone who breathed.

God help them all. If they survived this night, it would be a miracle.

‘Turn the ship!' Brendan commanded. If they could get closer to shore, they might have a chance of escaping. But he wasn't accustomed to the
Lochlannach
vessel and he didn't know how to steer it. Instead of moving in the direction of the shore, it seemed that an invisible force was turning them towards the path of the Danes.