His Captive Bride (19 page)

From somewhere deep inside her, a panicked, desperate plea filled her mind and heart and soul.
Hauk, help me!

~ ~ ~

Hauk jerked Ildfast to a halt so suddenly that the startled destrier reared and danced sideways.

By Thor’s hammer,
what was that?
It had sounded like Avril’s voice.

As clear as if she were riding beside him. Breathing hard, he looked around in the darkness, saw only the silent cliffs, the sea far below. Heard only the wind and the distant sounds of the celebration in the night air.

But he
swore
he had heard Avril calling him.

Calling for help.

The fury and annoyance that had gripped him from the moment he found her missing abruptly shifted. To a far more disturbing, unfamiliar feeling.

Fear.

He dug his heels into the stallion’s flanks, set off at a gallop along the cliff’s edge, back toward town. He had checked his
vaningshus
, thinking she had simply gone home without him. Josette had suggested that as the most likely possibility when he questioned her.

But Hauk had not found his troublesome bride there. Or on the beach below.

And now another possibility lanced through him: Thorolf.

Hauk had not seen the knave at the celebration. Could not imagine him walking up and snatching Avril from the middle of the crowd. She would have screamed. Someone would have noticed. Everyone would have noticed.
He
would have noticed. He had been keeping close watch over her until he had been drawn into arguing with his uncle.

Avril would never have gone with Thorolf willingly. But if the whoreson had gotten his hands on her somehow, if he had hurt—

Hauk, help me.

Choking out a curse, Hauk yanked Ildfast to a halt again, his heart beating violently, his pulse thundering in his ears.

That was no trick of the wind! He had heard her clearly.

Not only heard her but...
felt
her. Felt a crashing wave of pain and icy terror and helplessness that washed over him—and vanished just as suddenly.

Shaken, trembling in the grip of those feelings, he could not pause to question where in the name of all the gods the unnerving sensation had come from. Or how it was possible.

Because in that moment, he felt—
knew
—where she was.

His gaze was drawn to the fog-cloaked sea, to a distant point off the coast, north of town.

She was not with Thorolf.

She was out
there
. Alone. Helpless. Hurt.

He swore viciously and struck his boots against Ildfast’s sides, sending the destrier leaping forward into a headlong, rock-spewing gallop. Hauk did not follow the road back to town, did not veer from the cliffs. Did not take his eyes from that spot offshore.

And did not hear her again.

He felt an icy numbness fill his veins and could not tell if the feeling was hers or his own. Racing along the cliffs at a lethally fast speed, he found an ancient footpath. He pulled hard on Ildfast’s reins, threw himself from the saddle, and ran down the steep trail in the darkness until he reached the shore.

In the moonlight, he could see fresh footprints—two pairs. They led him to a jumble of underbrush, tree branches. And an abandoned anchor stone. A boat of some kind had been scraped across the sand.

What boat? How had she—

It did not matter now. She was out there, in trouble.

She might already be dead.

He kicked off his boots, looking out at the distant, fog-enshrouded rocks. It was too far. Too far to swim in the icy water. Especially at night. If fatigue did not finish him, the cold would. If he did not become confused in the darkness and drown first.

He threw his belt and weapons to the sand, ran for the water, and dove in.

With all his strength, he stroked through the waves, heading straight out from the place where the boat had been launched. Ignoring the cold that seeped into his bones, ignoring the powerful pull of the tide, he aimed himself at the rocks like an arrow.

Halfway to the wreath of fog, several hundred yards from shore, he began encountering wreckage. Chunks of shattered oak planking. A broken oar. The curving top of the prow.

“Avril!” he shouted, talons of fear sinking into him. “Avril! Where are you?”

There was no answer from the darkness. No way to know where the ship had foundered.

Or if she had survived.

He forced that possibility to the back of his mind. Kept swimming. Slashing through the cold depths. Faster. Farther out, where the wind picked up, the surf became brutal. Waves pushed him back until he was exhausted from fighting them and cold air stole every breath he gasped. By the time he reached the fog, his lungs burned and his strength was nearly spent.

“Avril!”

He did not hear—or feel—any response. Could not see her anywhere. Could not see at all as he kept going, swimming deeper into the fog that choked all light from the moon and stars. The savage winds here gave him as much trouble as the treacherous current.

And when he paused to call her name again, a black wave surged over him from out of the darkness. Plucked him up like a leaf. And carried him backward, slamming him into a rock. Sharp pain exploded through his side.

He slid below the surface, awash in agony. But even as the sea closed over his head, he furiously clung to life, reaching out to the very rock that had injured him, using it to drag himself back to the surface.

Lifting his head above water, he gasped for air. Every breath was torture. Broken ribs. He had felt the pain before. But identifying the source of the agony did not ease it. He tried forcing it to a distant corner of his mind but could not even breathe deeply enough to call out again.

Frustration and fear surged through him, colder and sharper than the wind and waves.

Avril!
He did not know if it would work,
how
it could work, but he tried reaching out to her with his thoughts, with the riot of feelings inside him.
In the name of whatever god you hold dear, where are—

Hauk...

Her voice this time was a scant, feeble whisper through his mind, like a tendril of mist. But he struck out in the direction it came from, swimming as well as he could across the water, his muscles and broken ribs objecting to every stroke and kick.

Finally he saw her—a small, dark form clinging to one of the rocks, barely visible above the waves.

Relief flooded through him. Relief and another emotion he did not have time to think about.

She was barely conscious, her dress ripped, her skin bloodied and bruised. She had found an outcropping to hold onto, clinging to it in a death grip, her other arm wrapped around a piece of the ship’s thick mast. When he touched her, tried to ease her into his arms, she moaned in pain, would not release her grasp on the rock.

“Let go, Avril,” he choked out. “I am with you. Let go.”

A terrified, helpless sob wracked her—but the wind and the fog swallowed even that sharp, broken sound. She let him pull her toward him.

Treading water, Hauk grabbed the piece of mast, grateful for any help he could get. Avril was shuddering with cold, as was he. Swimming out this far had been difficult enough. He did not know how they could survive the journey back.

Did not know if he had enough strength left to battle the waves for both of them.

~ ~ ~

Avril choked on a mouthful of water, gasped and coughed and thought she felt sand beneath her cheek.

Finally she opened her eyes. It was indeed sand. Grainy. Rough. She was on dry land. Dry, solid, blessed land! For a soaring, dizzying moment, all she knew was that she was alive.

And freezing.

It was still dark out. She tried to push herself up, but pain lanced through her body. Her every muscle hurt, her limbs stabbed by agony that wrenched a groan from her lips. She was shaking with bone-deep cold, her gown and hair soaked and dripping.

And somehow she had gotten all tangled up in rigging attached to a large section of the ship’s planking. How had she...

She did not remember finding the makeshift raft. Or tying herself to it.

Slowly, dizzy with the pain, she managed to sit up and untangle herself from the knotted lines. Turning her head to look behind her, at the moonlit waves lapping the shore, she realized all at once that her escape had failed.

But before she could feel more than a single, piercing jolt of defeat and sorrow, she saw Hauk—sprawled in the sand a few yards up the beach.

He lay on his back, one arm flung out to the side.

God’s breath. Had he saved her? Stumbling to her feet, she staggered over to him. Had he
swum
all that distance in the icy water? Risked his life to save hers?

“Hauk?”

 He did not stir, did not respond. Dropping to her knees in the sand beside him, she touched his face.

And realized he did not seem to be breathing. “Sweet holy Mary.” She gasped, shifting her hand to his throat. “Hauk?
Hauk!
”

She could not find a pulse. Her own heart racing, she pressed her ear to his chest. Struggled to listen over the pounding of the surf. She thought she heard a single, faint beat.

But then she could hear naught more.

He was dead.

Shouting a wordless sound of horror, she straightened with a jerk, grasped his shoulders. “Hauk, wake up!” His skin was cold. She tried shaking him. “Damn you, Norseman, wake up! Wake up!” She slapped him. Could not rouse him.

He remained limp.

He had not risked his life saving her—he had
lost
his life saving her.

“Dear God!” she cried, lurching to her feet, shaking her head wildly. “Help! Someone—”

It was no use.

It was too late.

A sob rose from deep in her chest, full of a pain sharper than the physical hurt that wrenched her body. Dazed, mad with confusion and denial and disbelief, she looked up and saw his horse on the cliff. Heart pumping, she ran toward the footpath, stumbling, her vision blurred by inexplicable tears. She had to get help. This could not be happening! He could not be dead. If she could get help—

“Avril!”

She staggered to a halt, stunned by the sound of that familiar voice behind her. Icy fingers skidded up her spine, lifting the fine hairs on the back of her neck.

Unable to speak, unable to breathe, she slowly turned around.

And saw Hauk sitting up. Slowly, struggling, he got to his feet.

Her mouth opened, but no sound would come out. She felt naught in that moment but the tears running down her face—tears she had shed for him.

Because he had
died
.

His features etched with pain, he walked toward her. “Avril? Are you all right?” He moved slowly, kept one hand pressed to his side—but he was very much alive.

“I-I...” She felt dizzy. She felt faint. “I-I am dreaming!” When she started to back away from him, he took her arm.

His grip was as strong as ever. His skin warm against hers. His eyes the same sky blue. His voice deep and steady. “You are not dreaming. You have been through a confusing ordeal—”

“But y-you were—”

“Avril—”

“Nay!” Terrified by what she had seen and heard and felt, she tried to pull away from him. “You were not breathing! I could not hear your heartbeat. You were—”

“Calm yourself—”

“
You were dead!
” Too many impossible facts crashed together all at once and sent the world spinning around her.

Suddenly she was no longer aware of the pain in her limbs or the weakness in her muscles or aught but a sensation of falling into darkness.

And Hauk catching her in his strong arms.

H
auk kicked the door shut behind him and carried Avril across his darkened
vaningshus
, pain stabbing his side in sharp bursts that made spots dance before his eyes. Every breath he gulped burned his lungs like fire, and a savage headache pounded between his temples with the force of Odin throwing angry thunderbolts. But he managed to reach the bed, lay her down gently before he sank onto the mattress beside her, gripping one of the bedposts to keep himself from lying down.

Grimacing, he gingerly probed his ribs, could not understand why or how he had awakened from the
langvarig sovn
trance before his injuries were fully healed.

But there was no time to question it. His heart pounding, he rose unsteadily to start a fire on the hearth. He had to care for Avril’s wounds before seeing to his own. He would recover.

She might not.

When the flames glowed bright enough for him to see in the night-blackened chamber, he returned to her side.

He could not tell how badly she was hurt, did not know if she had fainted from her injuries—or from shock. Quickly he worked the soaked, bloodied gown downward from her shoulders, tugging at the sodden laces. In truth, he felt grateful that she was unconscious at the moment. Not only because she would object to his disrobing her.

But because he did not look forward to persuading her that she had not witnessed what she had witnessed.

Anger crowded in on the pain that ravaged his senses. Anger at her—and at himself. He had had no choice, out in that freezing water, had not possessed strength enough to save her
and
himself. But the shock of seeing his miraculous recovery had been too much for her.

It was too soon to entrust her with the truth about Asgard and its people. She had been here only a few days. Had not yet had time to adjust. She was still determined to escape the island. To escape him.

So determined that she had taken an insane risk and almost gotten herself killed.

For that, he could only blame himself, he thought blackly, pulling her ruined garment down her body and tossing it to the floor. He never should have allowed her to leave his side. Not for a moment.

Seeing her flawless, pale skin in the firelight—now bruised and cut and bloodied—brought a sharp pain to his chest, far worse than the throbbing in his side and his head. It hit him like a battering ram, this brutal reminder of how fragile, how tenuous her life was.

How inevitable it was that he would lose her.

He turned away, his throat burning. Not only from the seawater he had swallowed, but from unwelcome emotions that choked him. Feelings he did not want to name.

Damn
her for putting her life in danger.

He moved to a nearby trunk, dug out a thick linen towel, then sat beside her once more. Careful not to wake her, he gently brushed the soft fabric over her skin, trying to dry and warm her while he checked for broken bones.

To his relief, he found none. Some of the scrapes and cuts were deep, and he found several large, angry bruises, but her injuries did not appear life-threatening. She had been fortunate. This time.

Cold fear slid through him at the thought of what
could
have happened when the ship went down.

Forcing aside the gut-churning image, he pulled the bedcovers over her to keep her warm and then stood up—too fast.

Stabs of agony stole his breath. He grabbed the nearest bedpost, swaying on his feet. He pressed one hand to his rib cage and crossed to the far side of the chamber, to a chest near the corner where he kept his foodstuffs. Shoving aside the wedding gifts piled on top, he hunted inside until he found a bag of dried herbs and an earthen jar of salve.

As he made his way back through the darkness, he heard her stir, heard her moan in pain.

The sound went through him like a blade. His own injuries forgotten, he returned to the bed quickly.

“Lie still,” he ordered as he sat next to her, his voice rough. “You are hurt. Lie still and let me help you.”

Still asleep, she kept moving her head restlessly, her wet hair almost black against the pillow. Then her lashes fluttered open.

When she looked up and saw him, her pupils constricted to black pinpricks in the firelight. She started to sit up, only to gasp in pain—then she abruptly seemed to realize she was naked beneath the blankets.

He resisted the urge to hold her still, knowing his touch might upset her further. “Avril, calm yourself. You are all right—”

“W-what happened?” She lay back down, staring at him. “You were—”

“What?” he asked innocently. “Will you please cease looking at me as if I were a ghost?”

“I-I thought you were
dead
.”

Hauk uttered a scoffing sound, and at the same time he felt relief. Her voice was clear and steady, which helped reassure him that her injuries were not serious—and she seemed more worried for him than afraid of him.

“Obviously I was not,” he said dryly, setting the bandages and herbs on the bedside table and opening the jar of salve, “or I would not be sitting here beside you, would I?”

Her brow furrowed.

For once, he felt grateful that Avril was a woman of keen intelligence. She could not argue with simple logic.

He only wished he knew what she was thinking—and he wondered what in the name of Loki had happened to the connection he had felt between them earlier. When her life had been in danger, he had experienced her thoughts, her emotions.

Now he could not tell what she was feeling.

“I could not find your pulse,” she said a bit uncertainly. “I listened for your heartbeat—”

“And you were distraught from your ordeal. And in pain. Mayhap you had seawater in your ears.” He shrugged as if it were all nonsense, took her hand, and gently started applying the salve to her cuts and scrapes. “With the surf so loud, I am surprised you could hear at all. Avril, you need to sleep now.”

He met her gaze, silently willing her to stop asking questions and get the rest she urgently needed.

Blinking up at him with those keen emerald eyes, she was the picture of abject confusion.

And stubbornness. She kept trying to sort out the conflicting evidence. “I tried shaking you,” she said slowly. “I even slapped you.”

He glanced away. So
that
was why he had roused too soon. “We both blacked out. You awoke first.” He took her other hand, applying the salve lightly, gently to her palm, her arm, her shoulder. “And your manhandling succeeded in waking me.”

Setting the salve down, he wove his fingers through hers, entwining their hands. “Could a dead man touch you like this?” he asked in a deep, soft voice.

Spots of bright pink colored her pale cheeks, and a more familiar wariness replaced the bewilderment in her eyes.

She pulled her hand from his, turning her face away, toward the closed shutters.

“I am... grateful that you are all right,” she said haltingly. “Thank you for saving my life, Hauk.” She gathered the covers to her chin. “How did you find me? How did you know where I was, out there in the fog?”

“I heard you calling for help.” His heart thudded at the memory, and he quickly changed the subject before either of them could further examine
that
strange facet of their ordeal. “It is not important now. I need you to tell me if this hurts.” He lifted the blanket, lightly touched a particularly angry bruise on her stomach.

She flinched away and squeezed her eyes shut.

Her pain at the gentle brush of his fingertips made his gut wrench tight. “You will be all right, Avril, I promise. All you need is to sleep and let yourself heal.” He picked up the jar of salve. “I will take care of you.”

Her lashes fluttered open, but she kept her face turned away. Her lower lip quivered. “I do not want you to take care of me. I can—”

“Take care of yourself?” he asked tightly. “So you have said. But I believe your ill-advised adventure tonight proves you wrong.” His anger simmered again. “What were you
thinking
, woman? What made you believe you could sail through that maze of rocks and fog by yourself? You could have—”

“Escaped,” she whispered, her voice wavering.

He swallowed the rest of his rebuke, equally maddened and impressed by her courage. Her determination.

Her unwavering devotion to her plan to leave him.

“You cannot do everything alone,” he said gruffly. Looking down at his headstrong bride, snuggled safely in his bed, he felt a wave of protectiveness. She needed someone to take care of her, this tempestuous, vulnerable, reckless lady.

She needed him.

Whether she wanted to admit it or not.

Gently, being careful of her modesty, he pulled the blankets aside a bit further, so he could continue applying the healing salve. She flinched, then remained absolutely still. And silent.

He touched her without speaking, not even allowing himself to think as he treated her cuts and scrapes. Working briskly, he finished in a matter of moments.

And felt as if every beautiful inch of her had been branded onto his hands.

After drawing the covers back over her, he set the jar down on the table—a bit too sharply—and stood up, fighting another wave of dizziness. Biting back a pained curse, he stepped toward the hearth and reached for a small copper cookpot.

He filled it with fresh rainwater from the barrel and then suspended it from a hook over the fire.

“Tell me, Avril,” he said when he trusted himself to speak evenly, “how did you come to be in possession of a boat?”

For a moment, he did not think she would answer.

“I found it,” she said evasively.

Hauk picked up the bag of herbs and took a cup from its place on the shelf. “And how did you happen to
find
a boat?”

She remained silent.

“Avril, I saw two sets of footprints. Who helped you?” He glanced over his shoulder at her.

She regarded him with a familiar, mutinous spark in her eyes. “I am not going to tell you. I do not think the person who helped me deserves to be punished for it.”

“I beg to differ,” he said with a growl. “Whoever was trying to help the
vokter’s
bride leave Asgard needs to have a few of our laws explained to him. By the
vokter
.”

Her gaze shifted to the weapons displayed behind him on the wall. “Now I am definitely not going to tell you.”

He muttered an oath but decided not to press her further until she was well. Turning back to the hearth, he used an iron poker to tip the steaming cookpot and pour hot water into the cup. Then he scooped a spoonful of herbs into it and sat on the edge of the bed.

He slid a hand beneath Avril’s pillow to support her head, holding the cup to her lips. “Drink this.”

Sniffing at it, she made a face and hesitated.

“I hardly intend to poison you,” he said dryly, “after spending half this night in freezing water trying to save your life and earning a few broken ribs for my trouble. Drink.”

Eyes narrowing at his scolding, she took a sip. She wrinkled her nose at the taste but drained the cup without protest.

He let her head down gently, then moved back to the hearth, where he made a second cup of the brew for himself, sighing. “Avril, you are my wife—”

“Your captive,” she corrected quietly.

“On second thought, poisoning you does possess a certain appeal.” He gulped a mouthful of the tea, felt it burn down his throat. “You are the most stubborn, most troublesome female I have ever—”

“If you find me disagreeable,” she suggested lightly, “you could let me go.”

“Nay. That I can never do.” He scowled at her. “Do you understand what that word means?
Never
.” He set the cup on the table with a crack that echoed through the dark chamber.

Stalking away from her, into a far corner, he peeled off his still-damp leggings, toweled dry, and changed into a fresh pair.

Then he returned to the bed.

And lay down on the other side.

It was mayhap a measure of how tired she was or how much pain she was in that she did not object.

Even if she had, he thought in annoyance, he was not going to spend the night on the floor. Not when he had broken ribs. He remained atop the covers. And it was a large bed. There was ample distance between them.

“I have been too lenient with you,” he said, half to himself. “It is time to cease this foolishness about escape, once and for all. You are my wife, you will not be leaving, and you must accept that.”

“I will never stop trying to get home,” she whispered fiercely. “I cannot stay here. And I do not
want
to be your wife.”

“Indeed, milady?” he asked mockingly, turning his head to stare at her across the pillows. “Were those not tears I saw in your eyes, tonight on the beach, when you thought I was dead?”

She looked away, toward the hearth. “
Nei
.”

He grimaced up at the rafters. “I should have known that would be the first word of Norse you learned to use.”

“If you thought you saw tears,” she said stiffly, “it must have been seawater. Mayhap it affected my
eyes
as well as my hearing.”