His Captive Bride (12 page)

“I will try.”

“Good. I know you can do it, Josette.” Avril felt her spirits lift for the first time all day. “Now, I think I will go and try to find some of the other captives. You stay here with your carpenter and seek information. Try to be subtle.”

“That should be easy, since we each hardly understand a word the other is saying.”

“Just be careful, Josette.” Avril waved farewell to Keldan and headed for the door, leaving her friend to consort with the enemy.

Hoping Josette would not forget that he was, in fact, the enemy.

R
ain pattered against the shutters of Hauk’s keep, a steady downpour that had started before daybreak and only strengthened as the hours slipped past. Sighing in frustration, Avril stood at an open window, gazing up at the gray clouds that blotted out the afternoon sun. Thunder rumbled overhead. Another slash of lightning stabbed at the roiling sea. The storm showed no sign of abating.

She drummed her fingers against the wooden sill of the window. Her successful, stealthy meetings with the other captives yesterday made her impatient to put her plan of escape into action—but tromping about in the rain would only earn her a good soaking and make her ill.

If she intended to lead a half-dozen women on a dangerous sea voyage, she would need all her health and strength.

Only the Moorish girl had been too fearful to even consider trying to escape. And Avril had not yet been able to speak to the English girl alone, for she had been under the escort and watchful eye of the chief elder, the one who looked like he was Hauk’s relative.

And then there was the worrisome matter of the Italian girl.

Closing her eyes, Avril offered another prayer that the sharp-tongued
signorina
was all right. The Italian would no doubt prove to be the most daring and strong-hearted sister-in-arms... but she had not been seen since her captor carried her away from the
althing
ceremony kicking and screaming.

The two of them had disappeared somewhere.

Avril shivered as cold raindrops spattered against her face, not wanting to imagine what the woman might be enduring even now.

Her stomach in knots, she turned away from the window, closing the shutters against the gathering wind. She would have to wait until the morrow to venture out and look for a suitable, secret place to begin building their boat. Mayhap by then the
signorina
would be found safe and well.

Holding fast to that hope, she tiptoed around the piles of goods bestowed upon her by the people in town, and reclaimed her place on the floor, amid a stack of dusty books. She lit another candle to ward off the gloom and huddled over the text she had been studying since midday.

To her surprise, she had discovered scores of ancient volumes while searching through the trunks and chests that cluttered Hauk’s chamber. While the Norse runes were little more than tangled squiggles to her eyes, some of the cracked, yellowed pages contained drawings—a night sky, trees, the island’s rocky shoreline. If she could make sense of the writing, find a description of this place or a map of some kind, it might help in the escape.

She kept turning pages, listening to the rain pounding on the tree-bark roof, trying not to feel guilty for having rifled through Hauk’s belongings.

Belongings that were clearly personal. And most unexpected.

The things on display in his keep—or
vaningshus
, or whatever they called these odd, long houses—suited a Viking warrior, from the weapons and hunting trophies on the walls, to the dark paneling with its runic carving, to the massive bed topped by those ferocious, dragon-headed posts.

But in the trunks, she had found possessions that bespoke a much softer side to the man: a delicate length of Damascus silk, carefully folded around an ivory hair comb. A pair of ice skates made of bone. Board games. A wooden statue of what might have been a Christian saint, its paint chipped away by time. A small velvet bag filled with seashells.

And most unexpected of all, the large number of books. Aristotle’s philosophies in Greek, painstakingly copied and illuminated by some long-dead monk. Texts on hunting and astronomy in Latin. An entertaining rendition of the Arthurian legends in French.

If given only the contents of the trunks to judge by, she might have guessed Hauk to be a man of gentle, even scholarly inclinations.

For some reason, that brought a lump to her throat. She swallowed hard and tried to ignore the troubling feeling. Turning another page, she kept her mind on returning to Giselle as quickly as possible.

A soft, solid object bumped against her back, interrupting her concentration—and almost knocking her over.

“Not again,” she complained lightly, glancing over her shoulder. “Do you wish to find yourself outside in the rain?”

The reindeer calf bleated at her, its voice somewhere between the honking of a goose and the bawl of a sheep.

“Oh, by all the saints.” She gave in reluctantly and scratched behind the animal’s oversized ears, undone by the forlorn look in its large, liquid brown eyes. “You should not be in here at all, you know.”

The gangly newborn made happy, snuffling sounds. All legs and downy gray fur, it was too small to be away from its mother—which was how it had come to be in her care.

Since her appearance in the village yesterday, a steady stream of townspeople had arrived at the door, offering her greetings and gifts. Every table and trunk in Hauk’s
vaningshus
now groaned under piles of foodstuffs and furs, blankets and baskets, clothes and cookpots, goods of every description.

This morn, in the rain, a girl of about ten had shown up with the baby reindeer in her arms, a drooping red bow around the animal’s neck. Her elder brother had accompanied her, a lad of about sixteen who spoke just enough French to make the gift understood: Apparently, the calf had been born a sickly runt, its mother had rejected it, and the girl’s father planned to put the animal out of its misery.

But if Avril would accept the little reindeer as a gift, the girl promised to visit often enough to take care of him. She had already named him: Floyel. Which meant “velvet,” the boy said.

Looking down into the girl’s hopeful face and teary eyes, Avril had not been able to refuse. And when the child had hugged her with gratitude and joy, she had felt her own heart breaking.

Sweet Mary, how she longed to feel Giselle’s arms around her so tight.

Blinking hard, she reached out now and stroked Floyel’s velvety nose. “Do not grow accustomed to being in my care,” she advised him, her voice wavering. “I will not be here for long. My little girl needs me, and no ocean, no Viking warrior, and no helpless reindeer will keep me from her.”

The animal nibbled at the wide sleeve of Avril’s garnet-colored gown—another pretty gift—before clopping off to the corner. Avril had used straw from Ildfast’s stall and a few of her new blankets to make a bed for him near the hearth.

“Hauk would certainly not like having you in his keep,” she said as she returned to her reading. “Which is why I am allowing you to stay,” she added, a mischievous curve tugging at her mouth. “Imagine the havoc you will wreak when you grow large enough to have horns. I wonder how long that might take.”

For another hour, she sat poring over the Norse books, until she was forced to admit that they would be of no help, though the drawings were lovely. Apparently, some Vikings were of more poetic than warlike spirit. Whoever had written these volumes long ago possessed an artist’s eye and a deft touch with pen and ink. In addition to the drawings of the island, there were sketches of European cities, castles and cathedrals, the ruins of Roman aqueducts, sailing ships, a snowy mountainside.

And one sketch that was particularly striking: a beautiful young woman caught in a moment of laughter, her black hair blowing in the wind.

Avril closed the book with care, for some of the pages were so old and fragile, they crumbled at her touch.

She stood and returned the texts to the trunks where she had found them, hoping Josette and the others were having better luck in discovering the island’s location. They had all agreed to share word of their progress tomorrow night. The townspeople were planning some sort of grand celebration to welcome the new brides formally to Asgard.

A knock sounded at the door. Startled, Avril turned. Who would venture out in this drenching downpour to pay a visit, other than a child with a homeless reindeer?

Whoever it was knocked again. Sharply. Impatiently.

“Saints’ breath.” Avril crossed toward the entrance. “Have I not been greeted by the entire town yet?” She glanced at Floyel sleeping in the corner. Mayhap little Marta could not wait to see him again.

She lifted the latch, opened the door, and stepped back, letting in gray afternoon light and a chilly breeze wet with rain.

And a tall, cloaked figure who was definitely not Marta.

Her visitor hurried in out of the storm, reaching up with slender hands to lower the cloak’s hood—revealing an elegant, feminine face framed by a wealth of auburn tresses. The lady’s movements were so graceful, her bearing so regal, that Avril almost felt as if she should drop in a curtsy.

Was this the wife of one of the elders, or one of the prosperous merchants, come to offer even more presents?

“No more gifts,” Avril pleaded, pointing to the overflowing tables. “Too many now. No need.”

“My, what a charming way of speaking you have,” the woman replied in fluent French, shaking out her damp hair and running her fingers through it. Her voice was as cool as the gray eyes that skimmed Avril from head to slippers in a quick, assessing glance. “And you are even lovelier than everyone said. But I am afraid I brought no gift.” She smiled.

It was not one of the warm, welcoming smiles that Avril had become accustomed to.

The woman made a disapproving
tch, tch
sound with her tongue. “Well, do not simply stand there staring at me like a sheep.” She swept off her cloak and tossed the sodden garment toward Avril, scattering water all over her. “Show a bit of hospitality.”

Avril could not catch the cloak, recover from her confusion, and summon a reply all at the same time.

“Imagine my surprise upon hearing that Hauk Valbrand had returned from the voyage with a new bride.” The woman brushed past her, looking around the chamber. “I simply had to come and see for my—by all the gods, is that a
reindeer?
” she asked with distaste.

Floyel bleated at her, then buried his head in his blankets.

“Indeed it is,” Avril said at last, dropping the cloak over a chair, brushing raindrops from her face and gown. “If you are looking for Hauk, he is not here. And I have had—”

“Oh, I know he is not here, my dear,” her visitor replied with cool amusement, glancing at the gifts piled everywhere, pausing to run her hand over a white fur. Ruby and sapphire rings glittered on her long, tapered fingers. “I heard that he left on sentry duty. You poor, poor child, to be deserted already. So soon after the wedding. The man is so accursedly devoted to duty.”

“Is he indeed?” Avril frowned, watching as the woman moved from one heap of presents to the next, unable to guess her purpose. Had she come all this way in the rain in hopes of procuring a few unwanted wedding gifts? “If you will pardon me, I have had rather a large number of visitors since—”

“You must not let it hurt you, you know. The way Hauk abandons you in favor of his work. You must not take it personally.” The lady glanced at Avril over her shoulder, her white teeth gleaming in the candlelight, her voice low. “I never do.”

Avril inhaled sharply, feeling foolish for not having guessed sooner that this stunning, coolly regal woman was his... his... “How interesting,” she said woodenly, her cheeks burning. “But it matters not to me what he—”

“Nay, my dear, do not protest to
me
that you do not care that he has abandoned you. And so
soon
after the wedding night,” the woman repeated, her smile widening as if that fact pleased her immeasurably. “Once a woman has had a taste of Hauk Valbrand, she is never quite the same. Of all the men of Asgard, he is the most...” She paused, stroking a tasseled pillow someone had brought, sighing dreamily. “Gifted.”

Avril felt a strange, cold sensation lance through her, as if she had been stabbed with an icicle. “How kind of you to come and keep me company,” she choked out. “But I am truly not interested in hearing any more of this. Now if you would—”

“Nina.” Pushing gifts off a large, carved oak chair, the lady helped herself to a seat, curling up comfortably and tossing her russet tresses. “You may call me Nina. And I have not come here to keep you company, or to pay court as everyone else has. I came here to reclaim something that belongs to me.”

She pierced Avril with a chilly glare, and for a moment, the noise of rain drumming on the roof made the only sound.

“My white silk kirtle,” Nina continued lightly, her lips curving upward. “I left it here some time ago, but I suppose I must retrieve it now. Mayhap you have seen it? It is cut low here”—she trailed a fingertip between her breasts—”and high here.” She traced a line up her thigh.

Avril gritted her teeth, not certain for a moment which of them vexed her more: Hauk, who had dressed her in a garment that belonged to his paramour, or the wench who sat here waiting for her to erupt in outrage or crumple in tears.

“If I happen across it,” she said smoothly, “I will have it returned to you.”

“You are so kind,” Nina drawled. “I cannot understand why Hauk left you so soon. I would think someone as young and charming as you would hold his interest.” She arched one slim, red-gold brow. “How old
are
you, my dear? Eighteen? Nineteen?”