Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (30 page)

He shrugged, for there was little to say. ‘I suppose I should return to training. I need someone to spar with.' His hand moved to the short sword he carried at his side.

‘You've gone weak, have you?' Styr teased.

‘I can still best you,' he shot back.

His friend flexed a muscle. ‘You can try, Olafsson.'

Elena cleared her throat to get their attention again. ‘I thought we could go to my father's house and join them for a meal.'

Styr reached out and tugged her braid lightly. ‘That's kind of you.' But his gesture was that of a teasing brother and he seemed not to notice Elena's disappointment.

The three of them continued to walk and Ragnar realised that Styr was effectively shutting Elena out of the conversation by discussing weaponry and fighting. She looked as if she wanted to speak again but kept silent. When they reached her father's house, she excused herself to go and speak to her mother, leaving the pair of them alone.

‘Why would you talk about sharpening battleaxes around her?' Ragnar said. ‘Are you blind to the way she looks at you?' Though it bothered him to speak of it, he wanted to know if his friend held a prior claim.

Styr sobered. ‘She's just a girl.'

‘She's also the daughter of a powerful warrior,' Ragnar pointed out. ‘She'd make a good match with you.'

His friend let out a sigh. ‘I know it. My father and her father have already discussed a betrothal. I suppose it will happen when she comes of age.' He didn't sound at all enthused about the idea.

‘But you don't want her?' A flare of hope kindled inside Ragnar, although he knew it was unlikely the outcome would change.

Styr's expression remained neutral. ‘There's nothing wrong with her. And there are years yet, before I'll wed.'

Before he could speak again, Elena returned. Her face was flushed and she appeared upset. ‘Styr, my father wants you to come and dine with him.' She nodded towards the open door and his friend waited a moment.

‘We'll walk together, then.'

‘Go on without me,' Elena asked. ‘I need to speak to Ragnar for a moment.'

After he'd gone, Elena's face revealed her disappointment. ‘I—I was wrong. I wanted you to come with us, but—'

‘Your father refused, didn't he?' Ragnar kept his expression shielded, making it seem as if it didn't matter.

‘He said I could bring you food. Outside,' she said quietly. Shaking her head, she added, ‘This isn't right. You should be a welcomed guest, the same as any other man.'

‘It doesn't matter.' He knew his place, even if she'd wanted him to rise above it. ‘Go and join Styr. I'll return home.'

He started to walk back, but Elena hurried forwards and blocked his path. ‘No. It
does
matter.' Her green eyes held anger and she put her hands up to stop him. ‘You're going to be a strong fighter one day. One of the best men we have.' Her hand reached up to touch his arm and the touch of her fingers was a gentle warmth. ‘My father will welcome you at his table, soon enough.'

Her faith in him strengthened his resolve to make it so. He wasn't the man her father would ever choose. But perhaps, if he fought hard and made himself into a man of worth, he could change the opinion of others.

‘I'll come to his table, one day,' Ragnar promised. ‘But only if you're there.' He reached out and squeezed her hand, before turning away. The startled look in her eyes turned to embarrassment.

One day, he swore, everything would change.

Chapter Seven

Present day

E
lena walked down to the shoreline, her
mind feeling uneasy. Despite the terrible storm, the sun glittered upon the
sea.

She shielded her eyes, watching from her place on the sand,
when she caught sight of a ship in the distance. It was a small fishing vessel,
carrying only a few people. Her heart pounded at the sight of it, though she
could not say why. It was not Styr's ship—the Danes had taken command of
that.

But there were few ships in this region. In the four days since
she'd arrived, she hadn't seen any.

Until now.

She strained her eyes, trying to see who it was, but the
sunlight blinded her. One of the men was wearing chainmail and his hair was the
same colour as Styr's.

Was it her husband? Had he come in search of her? Her heart was
pounding and she grasped her skirts, running towards the shore.

The winds had picked up, and before she could get a closer
look, they had sailed past the small green island where she'd first landed with
Ragnar. It was too late to signal to them.

She should have called out to them. Though it might not have
been Styr, she'd done nothing except run.

Perhaps you don't want him to find
you
, came an insidious voice inside her.
Perhaps
you'd rather leave him.

No. Not now, when she was finally going to have a child.
His
child. She owed it to Styr, to tell him. It would
change everything.

And what if it doesn't?
the voice
asked.
What if he still finds you cold?

She didn't mean to be. Truly, she wanted to be an affectionate
wife, one who brought him comfort. But Styr hadn't wanted to wed her. He'd
obeyed his father and agreed to the arrangement. And in spite of the years
between them, he'd never claimed to love her. No matter how she tried to keep
his home clean or prepare his favourite foods, it wasn't enough.

A splinter of anger irritated her mood. She'd tried to change
herself, to be the woman she thought Styr wanted. The thought made her weary,
for she didn't want to go back to being that wife.

When she glanced behind, she saw Ragnar leaning against a large
boulder, his leg wrapped in bandages. His expression was unreadable, but she
grew aware of the way his muscles tightened against the tunic he wore. He'd
always been a strong warrior, stronger even than Styr. Though he lacked high-born blood, he'd been one of the greatest fighters in their tribe.

A cold chill caught her as she remembered the terrible price
he'd paid for that honour.

‘What is it,
søtnos
?' Ragnar asked. ‘You look as if you've seen an evil
spirit.'

Elena pushed away the memories,
blurting out, ‘I saw a ship just now.' She pointed out towards the waves,
and even as she stared out at the grey water, she questioned what she'd
seen. Yet, after all these years, she knew her husband's profile. There was
a strong chance that it had been him.

‘Was it our ship?' Ragnar asked. He
leaned in, his interest suddenly piqued. ‘Did our men escape from the
Danes?'

She shook her head. ‘It was a
fishing boat.' Taking a deep breath, she added,
‘But o
ne of the men looked like Styr.'

Ragnar started to rise to his feet, but she shook her head.
‘It's too late. They've already sailed east.'

‘Do you want to search for him?'

‘No.' She closed her eyes and went to sit beside him on the
rock. ‘I should have shouted. I should have run into the water and made noise to
get their attention. But instead, I just watched them leave. I don't know
why.'

That wasn't the truth. She knew why she'd stood there—because
she'd been too startled to respond in time. It had seemed impossible that it
could be her husband...and yet, she couldn't let go of the thought. Styr wasn't
the sort of man who would turn his back on her. He would find her, no matter how
long it took.

What she didn't understand was the sense of foreboding that had
caught her. Dread mingled with anticipation, and those were the wrong things she
should be feeling. If it
had
been her husband,
shouldn't she be overjoyed?

Her hand moved down to her middle and the old fears rose up to
taunt her. ‘Do you think I'm a cold woman? The way Styr does?'

‘He doesn't think you're cold,' Ragnar responded. ‘He knew you
were upset about not having children and he didn't know how to make you feel
better.'

She took a deep breath, willing back the feelings of insecurity
and doubt. ‘I want to believe that this child will improve our marriage.'

Ragnar eased himself to stand, putting little weight upon his
leg. ‘It's a lot to ask of an infant.'

‘Maybe. But if it doesn't help...' She rubbed her arms, so
afraid of the alternative. For so long, she'd rested her hopes upon a baby. And
now that it had come to pass, she ought to feel happier than she did.

Sometimes it didn't feel real. It was as if she'd only imagined
the pregnancy, but she couldn't deny that she'd missed her monthly and would
likely miss it again in another fortnight.

Ragnar's gaze passed over her body once more, but she couldn't
read the thoughts within him. It was as if he knew something she didn't.

‘Let's go back and eat,' he suggested. ‘You can think about
what you want to do.'

But she had already made her decision. ‘We won't leave yet. Not
until you've healed.' The Irish had no horses to make the journey easier and it
was unfair to ask him to walk such a distance.

‘The wound will be fine in a few days,' he told her. ‘It's
already closing up, if you want to see it.' A hint of amusement crossed over
him. ‘And the healer took out all the garlic, so it isn't so bad any more.'

She started towards him, but then a sudden shyness overtook her
at being so close.
You're being foolish
, she told
herself.
It's a wound, nothing more.

But when she knelt down before him, she was intensely aware of
Ragnar's body. His muscles were visible beneath the tunic he wore and his thigh
was strong and powerful. A few days ago, she'd cut away his leggings near the
wound. And when she touched his thigh, Ragnar gave a slight intake of breath.
Though her hand was not upon his bare skin, her imagination suddenly conjured
the image of touching him. And the forbidden nature of her thoughts sent a
sudden tingle of arousal through her.

Her breasts rose up against her gown and between her legs, she
began to ache. As she began to unwrap the bandage, she was deeply aware of his
masculine scent. It was leather mingled with salt and a hint of pine. It made
her want to rest her cheek against his heart, burrowing against him.

Stop this
, her mind commanded her.
But her breathing was unsteady, in spite of her willpower.

As she pulled back the bandage, she saw that Ragnar was right.
His skin had grown together and, despite it being raw, she imagined within a few
more days he would be able to put his full weight upon it.

‘It is better,' she admitted. ‘And if we wait here a little
longer, you'll be able to walk on it.'

‘Do you think that's wise?' he said, his eyes narrowing upon
her. Her face burned as she wondered if he'd read her thoughts. No, it wasn't
wise to be alone with him for that long. Not even if he'd once been her best
friend. She could sense things shifting between them, the barrier weakening.

‘The Irish would be able to guide us back to the settlement,'
he continued.

Oh. Her embarrassment deepened at the realisation that he
wasn't at all speaking about the wisdom of being alone together.

Elena took a breath. ‘I believe it was Styr sailing past us.
And it's possible that he'll start searching along the coast. It will make it
easier for him to find us if we remain in one place.'

‘And what if he doesn't return?'

She shook her head, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. ‘We can
decide what to do later. But if we stay, you'll heal. And then we'll know.'

She drew his arm around her shoulders, helping him to stand up
as they returned to the others. But even as Ragnar leaned against her, she felt
sensitive to his touch. His arm around her was only for balance, but her mind
was conjuring more vivid details. Worse, she remembered lying with him this
morning. He'd been aroused by her and, though she knew it was a reaction any man
might have in the morning, it made her uneasy.

Because of the way she'd responded: in kind. She'd softened
against him, aching for a man's touch.

His
touch.

She told herself that it was only a natural reaction, that if
it had been Styr, he'd have turned her on to her back and made love to her.
Perhaps, now that she'd had so many weeks of distance from her husband, she was
beginning to crave a joining. She'd been so caught up in her desire to have a
child, it had taken away the pleasure of being with a man. That was what she
needed—her husband to fulfil her needs.

But Ragnar wasn't her husband. And she would have to spend a
few more days alone with him. She would have to find a way to occupy herself, to
drag her mind away from the forbidden thoughts.

When they reached the others, Ragnar stopped walking but didn't
take his hand from her shoulders. His dark green eyes moved over her as if he
were drinking in the sight. Elena grew flustered, wondering if it was just her
imagination.

‘The Irish have given us some of their supplies,' he said.
‘Including one of their tents to take with us. We should be comfortable
enough.'

Though he spoke in a nonchalant air, the idea of sleeping
beside him another night was intimidating. She couldn't say why, but perhaps it
was because she'd slept in his arms last night. Her mind was conjuring up all
sorts of strange imaginings.

Even though there was nothing wrong with sharing a tent with
this man, she began to think that it wasn't wise at all. He was a temptation and
the thoughts within her were a betrayal of her husband.

‘I'm going to get the tent and work on our shelter again,' she
told him. ‘Why don't you rest here?' She needed to take her mind off the stormy
thoughts brewing. Hard work was what she needed to stop thinking of this
man.

* * *

Something had made her nervous. Ragnar couldn't say what it
was, but from the moment the Irish departed, Elena had begun finding ways to
stay away from him. She'd gathered enough wood to build twelve bonfires, sticks
of varying sizes, along with larger logs.

‘How many fires do you think we'll need?' he asked, when she
returned with her sixth load of firewood.

‘This isn't for a fire,' she said. ‘It's to improve our
shelter.'

She set the load down and began sorting the wood according to
size and length. Her hair had spilled free of the tight braids she usually wore
and several locks hung against her face. Irritated, she shoved them out of the
way, struggling to lift the heavier logs.

‘We're only staying here a few days longer,' Ragnar reminded
her. ‘We'll watch for Styr's ship and if we see it, we'll signal them.' But she
was behaving as if they were going to live here permanently.

She was focused upon measuring the wood and he saw her unwrap a
small axe. Soon, she began the work of chopping notches from the larger logs.
‘I'd rather not sleep in the rain again,' was all she told him. ‘The ground is
still wet after the storm.'

But there was an undercurrent of tension within her. She was
filling her hours with this task, behaving as if she was desperate for a
distraction.

‘Where did you get the axe?' he asked her.

‘It was a gift from the Irish, after I helped you get rid of
the other Norsemen.' She set it down a moment and regarded him. ‘You don't think
the invaders will come back, do you?'

‘No. You had them convinced that they would be cursed if they
did.' But it might be wise to investigate the surrounding area. Ragnar rose to
his feet and hobbled towards Elena.

‘I don't need your help,' she protested, but that wasn't why he
was there. He reached down for two long poles and took them from her pile, then
chose some smaller pieces that he could use to form crutches. Once she realised
what he was doing, Elena gave him the use of her tools and said, ‘Wait here. I
have something that will help.'

Ragnar began shaping the crutches, using notches to fit the top
piece into the bottom poles. He tied them together with some strips of leather.
After a short time, Elena returned with more leather and the leftover fur of a
rabbit she'd skinned a day ago. ‘You can use this for padding,' she offered,
arranging the fur and leather on top of the crutches.

While she helped him, he ventured, ‘How are you feeling? Any
sickness?'

She finished tying down the fur and shrugged. ‘The same,
really. Sometimes I forget about the baby, because it's still too early to feel
movement.' Her hand moved down to her womb and her face grew wistful. ‘I can't
wait to hold him for the first time in my arms. Or her.'

The joy on Elena's face took away all of the tension in her and
she smiled openly. By the blood of Freya, she stole his breath. Her sea-green
eyes held him spellbound, while her fiery golden hair tangled around her face.
He wished again that it was
his
unborn child, and
not Styr's, growing within her. But the child was a fervent reminder that she
did not, and would not, ever belong to him.