His Captive Bride (5 page)

Finished with his task, her abductor glanced toward her, mouth open as if he meant to issue another command. But then his gaze fastened on the revealing silk kirtle and skimmed down her body, taking in every inch of skin illuminated by the light.

Those pale azure eyes suddenly darkened in a blaze of heat. Avril inhaled sharply, filled with feminine alarm at the obvious direction of his thoughts. Every instinct urged her to flee, yet she could not move. And could not understand the tingle that coursed through her limbs, holding her fast.

“I left a tunic for you.” His voice sounded even deeper than before. A muscle flexed in his lean jaw. “Did you not see it?” He nodded toward the foot of the bed, where a garment of black velvet lay draped over a trunk.

“I-I was more interested in finding a way out!” She tried to keep her voice from wavering, looked at the distant door. Wondered if she dared try to run past him. “Where am I?” she demanded, deciding boldness was her only choice at the moment. “Who the devil are you and what do you—”

“Put down the blade,” he repeated with measured patience, “and we will discuss this”—he seemed to search for the appropriate word—”situation calmly.”

“Calmly?” She sputtered. “I have been attacked by brigands, kidnapped, carried off to sweet Mary knows where, locked in a room, and now—”

“Milady,” he said in soft warning. Without another word, he advanced toward her, his patience apparently at an end. She retreated only a step.

Then she retreated three more.

As he kept coming, she decided that discretion might be better than valor at the moment. She dashed toward the bed, snatching up the black velvet tunic on the way and clutching it in front of her. She tossed the weapon into the center of the rumpled sheets.

“There. There, are you satisfied?” She kept moving, maneuvering around until the huge bed was between them. The sword was still within reach if she chose to lunge for it.

But he seemed placated for now. He kept his distance, reaching out to close his fingers around one of the dragon-headed posts.

“If I had meant you any harm,” he grated out, pronouncing each word distinctly, as if she were a slow-witted child, “if I had intended to kill you, or do aught else”—his gaze flicked over her body again—”I already had ample opportunity. You will have to trust me.”

Trust him? Trust him!
Avril choked back a biting retort and quickly pulled the tunic over her head. It was obviously one of his, the sleeves much too long, the hem falling to her ankles. But at least she no longer felt as exposed as she did wearing only the ridiculous scrap of silk.

“Where am I?” she repeated more calmly once she was dressed, trying not to provoke him again. “How far are we from Antwerp? How long was I asleep?”

“You were asleep...” He paused, clearly choosing his words carefully. “A short time. I brought you here early this morn. That gown was the only female garment I had at the time. I have brought you some others, along with some additional female trappings you might require.” He nodded toward a pair of sacks he had left on the far side of the room. “As for where you are, this is Asgard Island. I bid you...” He paused again, sighing tiredly. “Welcome.”

Despite the greeting, his attitude was hardly hospitable. Naught that he was saying made any sense. This man had kidnapped her, yet he did not seem to want her here.

In fact, from the way his fingers gripped the bedpost, she had the distinct impression he wanted to throttle something. Or someone.

“Asgard Island?” she echoed, searching her memory for all the names of places she had read about, all the places Gerard used to describe when he spoke of his travels. “I have never heard of it.”

Those blue eyes met hers again. “I know.”

Somehow that simple comment was more terrifying than aught else he could have said. “Who are you?” she whispered. “And what do you want with me?”

“My name is Hauk Valbrand.” He inclined his head politely. “And in truth, I do not want you at all.”

Before she could ask him to explain that baffling comment, he continued.

“My only intention in the marketplace was to keep Thorolf from—”

“Who?”

“The man who was about to kill you. Thorolf. You angered him, and he is not a forgiving sort. If I had not stepped in to rescue you, you would have been drawn and quartered.”

“Rescue?” She clung to that word, her heart pounding with hope. “If your only intention was to rescue me, does that mean you intend to let me go?”

He stepped away from the bed, turning his back and staring down at the fire, “Nay,” he said, his tone one of regret. “That I cannot do.”

Avril was becoming more puzzled by the moment. “I-is it ransom you are seeking, then?” she guessed. Taking hostages was a common enough tactic used by men of a certain ilk, to gain riches or power from noble families.

He choked out a laugh, a humorless sound. “Does it look as if I am lacking in wealth, milady?”

She glanced around the room, seeing everything clearly in the wavering light. The long, single chamber was not only the size of a great hall—it was filled with fine goods, tapestries, costly artifacts, furnishings of every description. One nearby trunk, its top wide open, held an overflowing pile of silver and gold coins in many sizes, including some that looked ancient.

Her stomach started churning. Clearly her abductor was not in need of more riches. “Then why have you kidnapped me?”

“Because once I claimed you, I had no choice,” he bit out. “Neither of us has a choice any longer, milady.”

She shook her head, unable to breathe. “You are not making sense. Naught you have said makes any sense! What do you want with me? What happened to my friend—”

“Your friend is safe and well, as you are,” he assured her. “Neither of you has come to any harm, and neither of you will. You have my word.”

“What good is the word of a knave and a brigand who kidnaps defenseless women?”

“You are hardly defenseless,” he said dryly, turning to regard her once again. “And though you may believe me a brigand, I am in fact honor-bound to protect and care for you now. I know this is difficult for you to accept, milady.” He raked a hand through his tangled blond hair, looking frustrated. “You will understand eventually. But there is no time now to explain further. We are late for the
althing
—”

“The all-what?”

“
Althing
. There is a meeting of our council of elders tonight, and your presence is required.” He gestured toward the sacks he had brought in for her. “Change your garments. Let us be on our way.”

Avril gaped at him. Simple as that, he expected her to obey him? “Listen, you... you... overgrown oaf, I do not know who you are—”

“I have told you my name.” He frowned. “I suppose I should ask yours.”

“Lady Avril de Varennes,” she supplied hotly. “Of the family of the Duc Gaston de Varennes of the Artois.” She emphasized the word
duc
. “Mayhap you have heard of him. Mayhap you realize now what a mistake you have made. The Varennes family holds favor with King Philippe himself. They will be looking for me—”

“They will not find you.”

The confident way he stated that made Avril’s breath catch in her throat. “You are wrong! They will not rest until they find me. And when the
duc’s
men get their hands on you—”

“They will not.”

Again he said it as a simple matter of fact. Avril started to tremble. Her mind was spinning. She felt as if she were caught in a nightmare from which she could not awaken.

“Now, milady, we must go to the
althing
. You may leave the weapon.” Her abductor gestured at the sword in the middle of the bed, one corner of his mouth curved in a humorless grin. “You will not need it.”

Avril remained rooted in place, blinking at him. She did not know what to make of this mysterious, powerfully muscled,
maddening
man. Thus far, he had not tried to hurt or abuse her. He had spoken the truth about that. And his claim that he was honor-bound to protect and care for her sounded almost chivalrous. For a brigand.

Yet she dared not trust a word he said.

Lowering her gaze to the floor, she slowly moved around the bed, trying to appear docile and chastened and obedient. She walked past him, toward the sacks on the opposite side of the room, holding her breath. Judging the distance.

When she was a few steps from the door, she broke into a run, tore the door open, and rushed headlong outside into the night.

A frightened cry escaped her as she heard him giving chase, cursing with every step. Her heart pumping, she hiked up the silk kirtle and long tunic and raced into the darkness.

But though she was fast, she was not fast enough.

He caught her only a few yards beyond the keep, grabbing her arm. Panic made her strike out with her fists as he spun her around and pulled her against his chest.

“Let me go!” she screamed. “Let me—”

His arms tightened around her until she could not break free, could barely even wriggle.

“There is nowhere to run, milady,” he said with a growl, threading one hand through her hair, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Do you not understand? You are on an
island
. If you try that again, you will fling yourself over a cliff in the darkness and fall to your death!”

Unable to struggle, Avril was all too vividly aware of the way his hard body engulfed her, the strength of his arm around her waist, the way her breasts flattened against the solid muscle of his chest. Feeling trapped and helpless and terrified, she spat in his face.

He released her but kept one hand around her wrist like a manacle. “Heed me well, milady,” he grated out, wiping the back of his other hand across his cheek. “Whoever and whatever you were before, it no longer matters.” His eyes seemed to glitter unnaturally in the moonlight. “Now come back inside and garb yourself. We are late. The council awaits us.”

A
vril had already learned three valuable lessons about this formidable rogue who called himself Hauk Valbrand: he answered her every question with a riddle, he brooked no disobedience to his orders—and he was every bit as powerful and unyielding as he looked.

It had been foolish to continue fighting him after he caught her on the cliff and led her back into his keep, ordering her to change clothes.

He had some fresh scratches near his eyes, courtesy of her fingernails.

She had her hands bound before her, courtesy of his superior physical strength.

And she was now wearing a simple linen gown in a lovely shade of violet with purple embroidery along the bodice and hem.

“Milady, I have given you my word that you will not be harmed in any way. If you would cease causing trouble, you would make this unfortunate situation less difficult for us both.”

Avril did not reply, her breathing fast and shallow, her captor’s spicy, male scent invading her senses with every gulp of air. None of his many reassurances eased her fear in the least—not with his brawny arm encircling her waist as he carried her into the darkness astride a swift, dun-colored stallion. The horse’s dark brown mane and tail fanned out on the wind as they rode through the moonlit night, following a path that led down the hillside away from Valbrand’s home.

She would not make the mistake of arguing or fighting with her captor further. After taking her inside his keep, he had turned his back and given her to the count of twenty to don one of the gowns he had brought for her. She had obeyed quickly, calling him a few choice names under her breath, refusing his help in tying the laces up the back of the garment.

That
she now regretted... because she could feel his bare skin pressed against hers, smooth and warm. He was holding her so tight, she half expected the pattern of the gown’s open laces to be branded into her shoulders by the hard, flat muscles of his chest. Clearly he was determined not to let her out of his sight or out of his grasp again.

She forced herself to ignore the uncomfortable sensation—and the equally disturbing heat that shimmered between them, growing more intense with each moment she remained in his company.

Mayhap it was only the island’s humid, sultry air that caused the strange feeling. It could be simply the hot weather making her light-headed, making perspiration trickle down her skin until the fabric of her gown clung to her body.

Or it could be the way her captor held her so close, her every curve fitted to the hard planes of his body.

She banished that thought furiously. Her stomach knotting with anxiety, she fastened her attention on her surroundings, thinking of what he had said on the cliff.
Whoever and whatever you were before, it no longer matters
. Arrogant oaf! He could take his threats and be damned. Whatever Valbrand’s intentions, she did not intend to be here long enough for him to make good on them. Gaston and his men would soon find her. Or she would find some way to escape. A way home to her little Giselle.

She remembered the last words she had said as they parted.
I love you, ma petite papillon
.
I will be back soon.

Soon!
Giselle had replied.
I love you, Maman
.

Avril blinked hard against a sudden rush of tears in her eyes. If it took every last bit of strength and breath and will she possessed, she
would
return home to her daughter.
Soon
.

Peering into the darkness ahead, she tried to make out the path her abductor followed, but could barely even see it. Both Valbrand and his destrier, however, seemed familiar with it. They galloped along the cliffs that soared at such dizzying height above the sea, until the trail widened into a road that veered inland. Off to the north, she glimpsed what looked like flickering lights in the distance, near the ocean.

A
town
, she thought, a spark of hope flaring inside her. If she managed to escape from her captor, mayhap she would find help there.

She kept that hope burning inside her as the road forked and they left the coast far behind, riding toward distant hills that rose like dark sentinels along the horizon. A short time later, Valbrand reined his horse to a canter as they entered a forest.

The air was cooler here, rich with the pungent scent of pine needles. Bushes laden with ripe berries sprawled across the path. Crushed under the stallion’s hooves, the fruit gave off a tangy, pungent aroma. Avril heard owls hooting and animals scurrying through the underbrush.

She tried to keep her thoughts on escape, and home. And Giselle’s sweet, smiling face. And the hope of finding Josette safe and well.

But as evergreen branches blotted out most of the moonlight, renewed fear closed in on her, like a hand tightening around her neck, squeezing off her air.

“Wh-where
are
we going?” she choked out.

“To the
althing-vellir
,” he said tightly. “The place of the
althing
.”

A few moments later the trees thinned and the forest gave way to an open meadow where a throng of men awaited—at least two score, gathered at the base of a rocky outcropping so tall that its upper reaches could not be seen in the darkness. A waterfall spilled over one edge, splashing down from the night sky in a glistening cascade, ending at the bottom in a clear pool and a moonlit cloud of mist.

Avril’s mouth went dry with shock and fear as she stared at the brawny warriors, most clad only in leggings, as Valbrand was. The crowd was a veritable sea of sun-bronzed muscle.

And at the foot of the wall of stone, apart from the others, stood a line of men—each holding a sobbing, hysterical woman by his side.

She had not realized that there were
more
captives here. “God’s breath, what is this?” Icy dread seized her and she struggled against her abductor’s steely hold. “What do you intend to—”

“Do not be afraid,” Valbrand said in a low tone. “No one is going to hurt you.”

She was no doubt supposed to find that soothing. But she could feel his voice rumbling through his broad chest, and it only sharpened her panic. “Nay, I do not believe you! I—”

“Avril, cease,” he commanded, holding her still as he reined his destrier to a halt, at a place just beyond the trees where dozens of other horses were picketed. “Your questions will be answered and all will be well. And I will stay by your side—”

“That is not reassuring!”

Muttering an oath, he swung his leg over the stallion’s back and leaped to the ground in one smooth motion. “We are late, milady. Hurry.”

He reached up to help her down, but just then she spotted a familiar figure in the middle of the line of men and women. “
Josette!
” Avril slipped from the horse’s back without help, despite her bound hands.

Before she could take one step, Valbrand caught her by the shoulder and pulled her back.

She tried to twist free, could not tell if Josette had heard her over the noise of the crowd and the waterfall. “Please, let me go to her—”

“You cannot stand before the men of Asgard with your gown falling off,” he said impatiently. His fingers working quickly, he tied the laces, brooking no protest this time. Avril did her best to endure in silence without flinching away.

But the feathery brushes of his fingertips along her bare spine made something inside her clench tight and sent a ticklish heat dancing along her limbs, the feeling almost like—

Nay
. She stiffened in shock and cut off the thought before she could complete it. Nay, she was confused! This tension that had been burning between herself and Valbrand all night came from fear. Nervousness. Outrage. The island’s warm weather. The sensation had naught to do with any kind of... of...

She had not known feelings of that sort since Gerard’s death. Had not experienced so much as one flicker of awareness of another man in more than three years. How could she
possibly
be feeling that now, for a stranger who held her hostage?

“Are you finished?” she asked, the tension making her tone sharp.

“Aye,” Valbrand replied, a similar edge in his voice as he knotted the laces securely at the top.

The rogue seemed most familiar with the way of lacing a lady’s gown.

“Move.” He kept one hand firmly on her shoulder and escorted her into the crowd. The men parted to let him pass, offering what sounded like warm welcomes. He returned their greetings with curt nods, clearly not in the best humor at the moment.

“Take a place there, at the far end,” he said gruffly, guiding her toward the line of couples. “And speak only if you are spoken—”

“Josette!” Avril cried, trying to break free of his hold as they came within sight of her friend.

Josette whirled with a look of relief. “Avril!” Her face was pale and tearstained, but otherwise she appeared unharmed. The dark-haired young man next to her—the one who had carried her off in Antwerp—would not let her leave his side.

And Valbrand took a firm grasp on Avril’s arm. “Milady, we have kept everyone waiting long enough.” He tugged her away, heading for their place at the end of the line. “The elders are assembling.”

Avril kept fighting—until Valbrand tightened his grip enough to make her blood-starved arm tingle. She decided it would be wiser to obey, for now.

At least Josette seemed to be faring better than the other captives. A petite Moorish girl sobbed uncontrollably. A voluptuous Italian with curly blond hair cursed in her native tongue at her captor—who had to struggle to keep his hold on her. Next to her stood a tall, red-haired maiden who for some reason had no warrior by her side; she kept her eyes squeezed shut and recited prayers in English.

The five other women were all babbling or wailing or wide-eyed in numb shock. Avril noticed she was not the only one who had her hands tied. 

Her gaze darted to the brawny men gathered around, their straight, white teeth gleaming in the moonlight as they smiled. All the air seemed to vanish from her lungs.

Were the captives meant to be shared with this horde? Raped here in the forest in the dead of night—far from the eyes of those in the town?

Or sacrificed in some kind of midnight, pagan religious ceremony?

All the blood drained from her face. For a moment, only Valbrand’s firm grip on her arm kept her standing. Her mind reeling, she clung madly to the promise he had made earlier.
No one is going to hurt you
, he had said.
No one is going to hurt you
.

Even the Italian girl fell silent as the elders arrayed themselves in an impressive, solemn line at the base of the wall of rock. There were fourteen of them. All garbed in richly embroidered, silk-lined mantles fastened by huge gold brooches. Oddly enough, none looked particularly old.

In fact, most appeared to be as young as Valbrand, whom she guessed was no more than thirty.

When the last of the fourteen took his place, every man present bowed to them, almost as one. Silence reigned, broken only by the splashing of the waterfall a few yards away.

Then one of the elders stepped forward and addressed the gathering. From his tone, it sounded like a most serious, solemn speech. Avril’s pulse slowed a bit. She even managed to take a deep breath.

All of this formality and ceremony seemed a bit excessive—not to mention unnecessary—if it was truly rape they intended. And none of the elders carried weapons of any kind.

She struggled to make sense of his words, frustrated that she could not understand what was being said and what it had to do with her and the other captives. This language was so foreign to her ear, she could not begin to even guess its roots. It was rough, guttural, yet it had a regular, almost musical cadence. Was it Germanic? Slavic?

The first man finished his address and stepped back, and another came forward, this one holding a sparkling silver chalice. Lifting his arms, he spoke in an impassioned tone, his voice booming up to the night sky. He used the cup to gesture to the waterfall, to the moon, then to each woman in turn. Reaching into his cloak with his free hand, he withdrew a handful of grain that he sprinkled across the ground.

Avril’s heart kept skipping beats. “What is—”

“
Silence
,” Valbrand whispered harshly.

The man with the chalice returned to his place and a third elder came forward, from the center of the fourteen. This one had cropped blond hair and a full beard, and carried himself with the assured, dignified air of a lord, mayhap even a king. A chain of gold encircled his neck, its massive links supporting a huge jewel of midnight blue.

Not saying a word, he strode to the far end of the line of captors and women, studying each pair in turn, his face set in harsh lines. The men in the clearing fell so silent that Avril could hear the beating wings of a bird taking flight in the forest.

He paused only briefly, before the English girl, then continued down the row—until he reached her and Valbrand. His gaze fastened on her for a moment, his eyes a clear, pale blue that made Avril gasp. With his sky-colored eyes, chiseled features, and golden hair, this man bore a striking resemblance to her captor.