Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (23 page)

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.

She returned his probing stare in full measure, not glancing away or even blinking. She did not care who he was; she would not bow down to him or any man here. Lifting her chin, she steeled herself to face whatever might come.

But to her surprise, one corner of his mouth curved upward—so slightly that if she had not been standing only inches away, she would not have noticed—and the look in his eyes softened almost imperceptibly.

For an instant, his mien could only be described as... approving.

Almost kindly.

The impression lasted but a heartbeat, for he glanced at Hauk and the two regarded each other with cool expressions, the air between them all but freezing with iciness. Then Hauk lowered his gaze and bowed his head. A muscle flexed in his tanned cheek. His entire body seemed rigid, with some emotion Avril could not puzzle out.

If the two men were indeed related, she thought, it seemed there was little love lost between them.

Turning on his heel, the blue-eyed elder motioned for one of the other fourteen to join him. The man he had summoned came forth carrying a small, ancient-looking chest, and the two walked to the far end of the line of couples.

Standing before the first pair—a flaxen-haired young warrior and the frightened Moorish girl, who was still crying—the leader intoned what sounded like yet another serious, solemn speech. Someone from the crowd stepped up behind the pair, bending to speak to the girl in low tones.

After a moment, she stopped crying.

Avril’s brow furrowed. Was he translating for her? What had been said that could stop the girl’s tears? From her place midway down the line, Josette leaned over and glanced back at Avril with a bewildered look. Avril could only shrug and shake her head.

As the speech continued, the Moorish girl’s face brightened considerably—and Avril’s confusion deepened. With everyone’s attention focused on the pair, she seized the opportunity to look at the men gathered around, studying the inhabitants of this island in detail for the first time, struggling to discern who and what—and, more important,
where
—they were.

Their spare, simple garments offered few clues. And though many were fair-haired, others looked as dark as Spaniards. Most left their hair long and unbound, and several had beards, some so full they wore them forked or braided. They also seemed fond of jewelry, though it was simple as well. Arm rings. Brooches. Neck rings. Dangling pendants.

Those caught her eye, for many of the men wore the same device: a pendant in the shape of an upside-down ax or hammer.

Her heart started to pound. By all the saints, it looked almost like... but nay, that could not be. Not Thor’s hammer. That symbol had not been seen in the world for centuries.

With a gasp of disbelief, she returned her gaze to her captor, studying his profile. Suddenly it all started to make sense, as she remembered the frightening tales passed down from the time before her grandmother’s grandmother.

Tales of fierce raiders who came by sea.

Blond, bearded warriors who attacked with speed and daring, pillaging towns large and small. Ransacking churches. Burning homes. By the thousands, they had swept across the continent. They had even conquered Paris by sailing up the Seine.

In their dragon-headed longships
.

An image of the dragon-headed posts on Hauk’s bed seared Avril’s memory. All at once the forest and night sky whirled in her vision. The words the elder was speaking struck her like icy rain. Little wonder she had not recognized their strange language.

The tongue they were speaking was Norse. Old Norse
. This band must have been hiding here for centuries. Since the time when their kind had been driven from the continent. An uncharted island would make the perfect place of concealment for a hated, hunted people. They built their longhouses in the old way. Wore the sort of clothing favored by their ancestors. Worshipped the old gods.

And lived as pirates of the seas, raiding along the coasts.

Stealing women to warm their beds.

“By sweet, Holy Mary. You are Vikings,” she choked out, trying to wrest her arm from Valbrand’s grasp. “You are Vikings!”

“You have discovered our secret,” Hauk said in a hushed whisper.

He tried to sound convincing.

“Did you think I would not?” The surprisingly strong little
demoiselle
tried unsuccessfully to wrench free of his grasp. “I will not be made some kind of bond slave to warm your bed, Norseman—”

“Indeed you will not,” he agreed readily. “That is not our purpose here.” He wondered again whether he should have taken the time to explain the truth earlier, regardless of the fact that they were late. But she had been convinced her stay on Asgard would be short. Telling her she would spend the rest of her life here—as his bride—would have made her utterly impossible to manage.

At the moment, all he wanted was for her to be silent. They stood last in line. Once the ceremony was finished, he could scoop her up and make a swift retreat before she caused too much trouble.

She continued to struggle, cursing him. His uncle—Erik Valbrand, highest of all the
eldrer
—shot him a disapproving look from where he stood addressing young Svein and his Moorish captive.

Hauk tugged Avril closer, pressing his lips to her ear. “Mayhap I should have gagged and blindfolded you as well as tying your hands. I will remedy the oversight at once, if you wish.”

He had no patience left to deal with the
demoiselle’s
unruly temper. Not after the day he had endured. But the threat and a slight shifting of his grip on her arm were sufficient to quiet her for the moment—though she looked furious enough to murder him and every man here, even unarmed and with her hands tied.

By great Thor’s bearded goats, he thought with a rueful glance up at the night sky, what had he done to merit such a female in his life? Never had he met a woman so headstrong and spirited and reckless... and bewitching.

Whoever had named her had chosen well.
Avril
. French for April. Springtime. She was every bit as fair and tempestuous as that most unpredictable of all seasons.

Unfortunately for him, she was also intelligent. It usually took newly arrived captives days or even weeks to guess that their abductors were Norsemen. Avril had unraveled the mystery in less than two hours.

Odin help him if she proved equally quick at discovering the true nature of Asgard Island and its people. If he thought she was difficult to control now, he did not wish to imagine...

His uncle’s deep growl of a voice reclaimed his attention. The elders and their translator had finished their explanations to the Moorish girl.

Svein took his bride’s hand while Erik intoned the traditional closing words of the ritual.