To Tempt A Viking (5 page)

‘We will find a way to return,’ he said to her. ‘I’ll bring you back to Styr, once my wounds heal.’

She nodded and as the rain poured faster, she moved across to him. ‘I’m afraid for him. Even though we had our differences, I don’t want him to die.’

When she leaned against him, he brought his arms around her. She was quiet, but he could feel the dampness of her cheeks as she silently wept.

‘We’ll find him,’ he said to her. ‘I promise you that.’

She sniffled again, and then admitted, ‘There’s another reason why I’m afraid. It—it’s the moon.’

He didn’t understand what she meant and waited for her to elaborate.

‘When we left Norway, it was a full moon. It’s gone through all of its phases and almost a second phase.’

She sat up, then, though he could not see her face as the night grew darker. ‘I—I haven’t had my woman’s flow since we left Norway, Ragnar.’ There was tremulous hope in her voice as she admitted, ‘I think I may be pregnant at last.’

* * *

The night had been brutal. Visions and dark dreams haunted him, his body burning with fever. He was hardly aware of anything, except Elena offering him drinks of cool water.

He didn’t want to admit the possibility of death, but he would not lie here and yield quietly. He’d vowed to bring Elena back to Styr.

‘Elena,’ he muttered, his voice sounding like a growl, ‘we can’t stay here.’

‘We don’t have a choice.’ She moved beside him, as if to lend the physical comfort of her presence. ‘You have to rest to heal.’

He sensed the fear in her voice, but he refused to dwell on the chance of death.

‘To return to Styr, you must go southwest along the coast. Keep the morning sun to your left side and—’

‘I’m not leaving you,’ she interrupted.

‘If I don’t heal, you must go.’ The last thing he wanted was for her to suffer beside him, starving in the middle of nowhere. Already, his stomach was roaring with hunger.

‘You aren’t going to die,’ she insisted. ‘Your wounds are much better. Though I imagine you’re half starving, since you’ve been asleep for so long.’ She drew back the door of the shelter she’d made. The sun blinded him, and he glanced down at his wound.

Although it was still painful, it wasn’t nearly as swollen as he’d expected. Elena had made a poultice of garlic bulbs and he wondered how many times she’d changed it during the night. His entire body reeked of garlic. It was a wonder she could stand to be near him.

She brought him a bowl of stew and Ragnar questioned when she’d had time to make it. Within the hot liquid, he tasted rabbit and other vegetables. ‘Has it only been one day since we arrived on this shore?’ he asked.

Elena shook her head. ‘We’ve been here for three days. Your fever was terrible and I didn’t know if you’d awaken. I tried to feed you as best I could, but...it was difficult.’

Three days? It seemed impossible that the time had passed so swiftly. And yet he could not deny the truth of what he saw. The edges of the wound had begun to close and it wasn’t nearly as hot to the touch.

‘I was glad to find the garlic,’ Elena continued. ‘My mother told me it was good for healing wounds and she was right. I crushed up some of it.’

‘I smell terrible,’ he admitted wryly. But if it had kept him alive, it was well worth it. The question now was whether he was capable of walking again.

Slowly, Ragnar eased himself out of their shelter and used her help to rise to his feet. With only a little weight on the wounded leg, it wasn’t too bad.

Elena looked weary from the past few days but was no less beautiful. Her red-gold hair was braided back into a single tail and it brought into sharp relief her pale skin and heart-shaped face. Her green eyes studied him with relief.

‘In another few days, you’ll be fighting other battles,’ she predicted. ‘Though the scars will remain.’

‘All warriors bear scars.’ It was a physical reminder that they had conquered death, defeating their enemies. ‘But I owe you thanks for my life.’

She shook her head. ‘You saved mine on board the ship. You owe me nothing.’

‘No. I swore a vow to Styr,’ he reminded her. A vow he’d made to protect her. Although they were alive, he needed to bring her back to the ringfort settlement.

‘I know you’ll heal and we’ll find him, as you said,’ she promised.

His gaze moved down to her flat stomach, remembering what she’d told him about her pregnancy. Elena saw the direction of his attention and flushed slightly, moving her hand over her womb. ‘I’m surprised I haven’t felt sick so far.’

‘Not every woman suffers during the early months,’ he remarked. ‘My sisters never did.’

Her mood lightened and he saw the hope in her eyes. She had wanted a child for so many years.

God help him, he was jealous of Styr. He wished that Elena were
his
wife, that she were pregnant with
his
child. He wanted to awaken beside her, reaching over to feel the babe move within her skin.

He forced himself to walk, ignoring the dull pain in his thigh. The worst of the danger was over; he’d live. But with every day that passed, he wanted Elena more than ever. She was an obsession he couldn’t abandon and all women paled beside her.

Why, by the gods, did she have to belong to his best friend? If she were with any other man, he’d damn the consequences, claiming her as his own. She was a desperate craving he needed to satisfy. When he glanced back, he saw the peaceful expression on her face, for she believed she would finally have the child she wanted.

An honourable man would be glad for her. She would return to Styr and this babe would heal the breach between them. No longer would she suffer in silence; she had achieved her greatest desire.

Ragnar stopped walking, staring down at the water below them. The grass was damp from earlier rainstorms, but now the sun warmed the earth. He didn’t know how they were going to make it back, but likely their best course of action was to travel along the coast. If they happened to see ships, they could try to hire one to take them back.

‘You shouldn’t push yourself too hard,’ Elena warned. ‘You need to regain your strength.’

No, what he needed was space away from her. A chance to clear his head so he wouldn’t give in to the instinctive urges taunting him.

Ragnar reached down for a fallen branch, using it to help support his weight as he moved across the field. A faint noise caught his attention and he stopped, listening hard.

Elena frowned. ‘Did you hear something?’

He nodded, pointing further inland. ‘It was coming from over there.’ Leaning against the staff, he continued his pace, moving towards the sound. It was as if a large group of people was approaching.

Her face broke into a smile. ‘Thank the gods. They’ll have food and supplies. I think we’re saved.’

But as the sounds grew louder, he realised what he was hearing. These people were fleeing, not travelling. Dozens of men, women and children were running across the plains, while behind them, he spied men pursuing them on horseback.

Warriors with weapons drawn, ready to strike them down.

Chapter Five

E
lena’s heart was racing and Ragnar pushed her towards the fleeing women. ‘Run!’ he commanded.

She started to obey, but then saw that he was holding his ground, staring at the riders. Though he had only a sword, he held it steady, waiting for the men to approach.

The calm in his eyes belied the storm that was to come. She’d seen Ragnar fight before and he became a different man when the battle rage swept over him. His sword became part of him, cutting down any enemy who threatened those under his protection.

Few survived and he granted no mercy.

But this time, he stood as a wounded man. Upon his face she saw the grim determination of a man who would sacrifice himself before he’d allow any man to harm her. But even with his strength and fighting prowess, he could not hope to bring down all the men on horseback. He was outnumbered and likely he was shielding her, granting all of them time to get away.

She froze in place, stopping one of the Irishmen. ‘He needs help,’ she pleaded. ‘He can’t stop them alone.’

The man stared at her before she realised he could not understand her words. But he cast a glance at Ragnar, his expression holding surprise that a wounded man would stand against their enemy.

One of the riders lifted his sword, prepared to strike him down. Instead of raising his own weapon, Ragnar stood calmly, waiting for the killing blow.

Freya, protect him.

She knew what would happen—she’d witnessed it a thousand times. He would hold steady and the act of suicidal madness twisted his enemy into questioning their actions. No sensible man would stand and face charging horses.

Even as she trusted him, Elena couldn’t bear to think of anything happening to Ragnar. He’d been her friend for so long, always there when she’d needed him. She bit her lip hard to prevent herself from interfering and when she stepped back, the rider’s attention flickered for a moment.

It was enough for Ragnar to twist his sword, slicing the rider from his horse. The animal whinnied, rearing up, and Ragnar seized the reins, barely dodging another blow before he swung up on the left side, protecting his wounded leg.

It took all of Elena’s courage to remain among the Irish instead of running towards him. She knew she was a distraction and a danger if she dared to intervene.

He guided the horse forwards, keeping his sword poised.

‘You’re Norse,’ one of the riders said in their tongue.

‘I am,’ Ragnar countered. ‘My name is Ragnar Olafsson from Hordafylke. We came to éire a few days ago.’ He kept his voice calm, but Elena heard the trace of steel beneath it. He was not about to stand down and let these raiders continue their attack.

‘I am Alfarr Gelinsson,’ their leader replied. His gaze narrowed upon Ragnar. ‘Why would you defend these men and women? They’re not your people.’

‘No, but we need supplies. They can offer that to us.’

‘Join us,’ Alfarr offered. ‘We’ll take from them and share what is left.’

From behind her, Elena sensed the Irish growing uncertain about the continuing conversation in a foreign tongue. She raised her hands in reassurance, hoping they would not interfere with the negotiation.

‘Why do you not trade with them?’ Ragnar asked calmly, drawing his horse closer until he was within reach of their leader.

Alfarr stared over at the Irish and then spit on the ground. ‘They are weak. Taking their supplies would be an easy victory.’

‘You look like a man who enjoys fighting,’ Ragnar challenged. ‘Would you rather make a wager?’

What was he doing? Elena took a step forwards, wondering what his intentions were. Ragnar wasn’t strong enough to fight these men, not with his wound. She’d bandaged it heavily, but no doubt the other Norsemen were well aware of the injury. It would affect his speed, no matter how strong he was.

She wanted so badly to interrupt, but she held her tongue, afraid it would weaken his position before the men.

‘I wouldn’t mind a wager,’ Alfarr agreed. His gaze passed over Elena with interest and she felt a prickle of uneasiness pass over her skin. ‘Especially if a woman is involved.’ Despite the short distance, she could feel his stare upon her and it made her skin crawl.

Ragnar didn’t bother to look back. ‘She is not a part of this.’

‘When you’re dead, she will be,’ Alfarr answered.

‘But if I win,’ Ragnar warned softly, ‘your man will be dead and you’ll go raid another tribe. Not this one.’

‘You’re wounded, Ragnar Olafsson. You are no match for us.’

‘Then I’ll meet Odin in Valhalla, if my sword does not prevail,’ he said.

So much rested upon this fight. Not only their fate, but the fate of the Irish as well. It angered Elena that the people kept a distance instead of joining him. Why had no one offered to help?

Fear quickened in her veins as the men faced off. Even if Ragnar prevailed, she suspected the men would not keep their word. Raiders who lived and died by their swords were not men of honour. The moment Ragnar’s back was turned, they would cut him down.

She closed her eyes, trying to bring clarity to her clouded mind. If he were not wounded, she didn’t doubt that he would strike down every last man.

But with only one good leg to stand on, he might not live through the rest of this day. She would become their prize of war unless she did something to stop them.

Elena turned back to the Irish, her mind spinning with ideas, most of which wouldn’t work. But when she saw a woman carrying a basket of green apples, an idea began to take root. The apples were a symbol of the gods. Men like these might not honour the afterworld...but they would understand the effects of a curse. It was something to be feared.

There was one way to put an end to the fighting and drive the invaders away.

Freya, be with me
, she prayed.

* * *

They chose their tallest man to fight him. The
hersir
weighed more than Ragnar, but Ragnar wasn’t afraid to face the man. The larger the warrior, the slower he tended to move.

His thigh wound was aching, but Ragnar blotted all of the pain from his mind. If he failed in this fight, they would take Elena and use her. He had no doubt of it. In times like these, he had to use his wits, rather than his strength.

The man had chosen a battleaxe as his weapon and after dismounting from the horse, Ragnar took a round shield from the warrior he’d already killed.

Thor, guide my blade
, he prayed.
Let me strike true.

He waited for the man to make the first move, for in that motion he could determine his enemy’s weaknesses.

‘Your wound will slow you down, Olafsson,’ the man remarked, eyeing the reddish stain on Ragnar’s thigh. His enemy tossed his battleaxe and caught it again, the silvery gleam of steel revealing a sharp blade. The man was fair-haired with a reddish beard and wore a hauberk made of whalebone.

‘Wounded or not, the gods favour me.’ He nodded towards the sky, which was transforming from sunshine into a darker hue. Large clouds drifted into a grey mass, forming storms. ‘In a little while, Thor will show his lightning and you will be in Valhalla to greet him.’

‘Or you will,’ the man countered.

Ragnar glanced back towards Elena, but was startled to see that she’d disappeared. It was for the best, he supposed. At least if she’d gone, he would not have to worry over her fate.

But he’d known her too long. She wasn’t one to run from a fight. It was more likely she’d gone to fetch a weapon herself.

Better to end this quickly, then.

Instinct took over and he let the blood course through his heart, pushing back any trace of mercy. This man would die and soon.

Ragnar raised his shield to defect a blow from the battleaxe, biting back a gasp when the man kicked his thigh. Pain shot through him, but he slipped into the blur of fighting, no longer feeling anything. He was aware only of the weapon in his hands and the movement of his enemy. Blood seeped against his wound, but he dulled his mind against distractions.

‘You’re stronger than you look. But not for long,’ the man said. He renewed his attack, using his own shield to press hard against Ragnar.

Ragnar’s muscles tensed as he refused to surrender ground. He was a warrior, a man sworn to live and die by the sword. Wounds and pain were a part of the fighting and as he pivoted to dodge another blow, his father’s words came back to taunt him.

You’re weak and soft, boy.

He tasted blood in his mouth when his enemy’s fist ploughed into his jaw, but he willed himself to feel nothing, just as he’d endured years of his father’s beatings.

Pain was a part of him. He knew how to isolate himself from feeling anything at all, letting the hollowness claim his spirit.

You’re worthless.

Every blow, every bruise brought out a ruthless side to him where there were no emotions to make him human again. He became predatory, slashing hard with his sword. He was blinded in this moment of battle, fully immersed in the kill. Anyone who dared to come near would suffer the consequences.

Metal bit through flesh and he was rewarded with his enemy’s gasp.

They stood back, circling each other. Ragnar tasted blood and sweat, and he saw the moment of uncertainty in the Norseman’s expression.

He gritted his teeth, feigning weakness. Waiting for the moment when his enemy would strike hard. Abruptly, the man shoved his shield against Ragnar’s wound, lifting his axe high for a killing blow.

Ragnar threw himself to the ground, lifting up his sword at the last second. With all his strength, he forced the blade upwards, impaling his enemy.

Blood spilled from the man’s lips as Ragnar’s blade remained in his gut. It was not a clean death and he forced the man over, rising to his feet before he struck hard and ended the fight.

He kept his sword in hand, anticipating a second attack. The haze of fighting was still upon him, like a veil of red. Dimly, he grew aware that no one was going to approach him now.

‘Take your men and go,’ Ragnar ordered, his gaze fixed upon the leader.

‘I never agreed to leave,’ Alfarr countered. ‘And now the rest of my men will fight. You cannot kill all of us—’

‘No,’ a woman’s voice interrupted. ‘But I can place a curse upon you, making you wish you were dead.’

The hair on the back of his neck seemed to stand on end, but Ragnar forced himself not to turn around. From the way the men were staring at Elena, something had caught their attention.

They’d gone white with fear.

‘Leave us,’ Ragnar ordered once again. Alfarr stared at him as if wanting to refuse, but he left the fallen body of his kinsman and drew his horse back.

‘Honour your word,’ Elena said. ‘The gods command it of you.’ Her voice held a low pitch and one of the men raised his hand as if to ward her off. Her command was underscored when lightning flashed in the sky, followed by a low rumble of thunder.

One by one, they turned to leave.

When Ragnar turned at last to see her, there was a black serpent coiled around Elena’s throat. In each hand she held an apple. The creatures were symbols of the gods, in animal form, while the apples were sacred.

No wonder the men had fled. With her reddish-gold hair unbound, spilling over her shoulders, and the serpent twining upon her flesh, she looked otherworldly.

Slowly, she lifted the snake from her throat and set it upon the ground, watching as it slithered away. Only when it was gone did she begin to tremble. Her footsteps came closer until she threw herself into his arms and buried her face against his chest. She gripped him hard. ‘Thank the gods, they’re gone. We’re safe.’

Instinct warned him to stand in place and do nothing. But he couldn’t stop himself from holding her close, inhaling the scent of her skin. Her act of bravery had saved them, though he’d been ready to fight.

He wished that she belonged to him. If she had, he’d have tilted her head back, claiming her mouth in a kiss. Fighting always kindled another flare within him, the desire to take a woman.

And he’d wanted this one for years.

Ragnar held her in his arms, feeling the soft press of her breasts against him. His body ached from the fight and he was weary. But this moment was a reward of its own. He savoured the forbidden embrace, knowing it had to end.

The Irish were staring at them and finally, he broke away from Elena. She took his hand and one of the maidens approached. In broken Norse, she said, ‘You...safe...saved us.’

Ragnar looked past her to the leader, who sent him an approving nod. Though he knew no Irish, he opened both of his hands to show that he meant no harm to them.

‘You...eat now?’ the maiden asked.

‘I am hungry,’ Elena admitted. ‘I think we should join them.’ Her gaze passed over him and she asked, ‘What about you?’

Oh, he was hungry indeed. He wanted to take her back to their tiny shelter and claim her mouth, sating himself upon her sweet flesh. But he would never admit it; not in this lifetime.

‘We should go with them,
ja
.’ He limped slightly as she clasped his hand and moved forwards. The women smiled at Elena, as if they recognised what she’d done to save them.

‘I hate snakes,’ she admitted. ‘I still feel as if my skin is crawling.’

‘I don’t know how you found one. I thought there were no serpents here.’

She squeezed his hand. ‘I saw it after I voiced a prayer. I don’t know how, but it was here when I needed it. Perhaps the gods
did
favour us.’

* * *

The sky was growing darker and rain was inevitable. The Irish had set up several fires, the women hurrying to cook a meal before the downpour. ‘For you and your mate,’ the Irish maiden said, offering Elena the choicest piece of venison. She didn’t know where the roast had come from, but after an hour of warming themselves by the fire, the scent of meat was wonderful. She lacked the words to correct the woman, that Ragnar was not her husband, but what did it matter? In a few days, she’d never see these people again.

There was an air of rejoicing, in spite of the impending weather. While she and Ragnar ate, the children ran around with the dogs, laughing. One of the older men began to tell stories and though she could not understand him, Elena was caught by the deep tone of his voice. He used his hands to weave the tale and Ragnar’s palm came over to her spine. The heat of his hand warmed her skin and he leaned in close. ‘Could I ask you to tend my leg, if you’ve a moment?’