Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (5 page)

It was midday by the time she returned to the cottage. She’d found no bodies or evidence of survivors, just a few splintered planks from his longship. A lot of driftwood, however, had washed ashore from the tempest, enough to keep their hearth burning all winter. It would take more than one trip to bring it all home.

To her surprise, when she dropped her first burden at the threshold and pushed open the door to check on Kimbery, the little girl was still sitting dutifully at her post, churning butter. But then Avril glanced over at the snoring Northman. Kimbery’s stuffed cloth doll was tucked into the crook of his arm.

“Kimbery,” she chided.

“He was lonely,” the little girl explained.

Avril shook her head. Kimbery was probably right. The man had lost his shipmates, his wife, and his children. She couldn’t imagine how awful that must be. If she lost Kimbery…

It was too awful to contemplate. Her daughter was all she had now.

She took the lid off the churn to show Kimbery how all her hard work had magically separated the cream. She poured the buttermilk off into a small cask and wrapped the lump of butter into a piece of dried kelp.

But then she needed to think up a new task to keep Kimbery occupied while she collected the rest of her scavenge. She plucked a small piece of cool charcoal from the fire and gave it to the little girl, along with the pale, flat slate they used for writing.

“Why don’t you practice your letters?” she suggested. Avril’s father had insisted Avril learn to read so she’d be better able to manage Rivenloch. Avril was determined to pass the skill on to her daughter.

Kimbery picked up the charcoal and, pressing her lips together in concentration, drew a straight vertical line.

“I’m going out again,” Avril told her. “I’ll see what you’ve written when I come back.”

It took three more treks to collect the store of driftwood. Satisfied with her haul, which she stacked beside the cottage, she dusted off her skirts and opened the door.

“Look, Mama!” Kimbery squealed, hopping down from her stool. “Look what I made!”

Avril studied the slate. Kimbery had printed the letters D and A, and beneath was a primitive sketch of their prisoner, bound with rope, with her doll nestled in one arm.

Avril wanted to be perturbed, but it was admittedly a decent drawing for a four-year-old. “That’s very good, Kimmie. Now why don’t you draw a picture of a starfish?”

“Nay!” she said, covering the slate with her arms to keep Avril from wiping it clean. “I want to show him.”

“But he’s sleeping.”

“He’ll wake up.”

Avril wondered. She hadn’t put that much powder in his drink—certainly not much more than she did on occasions when her monthly courses became unbearable—but opium could be risky.

His arm looked awful. It was still swollen, and the skin of his forearm had a bluish cast. If he’d been someone she cared about, she would have set it and made him a splint so it would heal straight. But it seemed like a waste of time and effort when she wasn’t even sure she was going to let him live, let alone recover from his injuries.

As it turned out, he slept through Kimbery’s afternoon nap and their abalone supper. When Kimbery crept into bed with a huge yawn, he was still sleeping. And he hadn’t awakened when Avril blew out the candles and made her way to bed.

But in the middle of the night, she was roused by the sound of scuffling in the next room, and she crept out to investigate, a dagger in her hand.

By the dim light of the banked fire, she saw the Northman beginning to wake. His movements were sluggish, and his eyelids flagged as he struggled to sit upright.

She moved forward to get a closer look, hunkering down beside him.

When his gaze alit on her, a look of wonder came over his face. His eyes lit up with pleasure and relief. “Inga,” he breathed.

She frowned and opened her mouth, intending to correct him. But when she saw the affection in his eyes, she found she didn’t have the heart.

“Inga.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling.

She gulped, reluctant to break the fragile thread of his happy delusion.

He reached up with his bound hands and took her chin in gentle fingers. Before she realized what he was doing, he tilted his head and captured her lips with his.

For an instant she froze, stunned. Swiftly, the softness of his mouth, the warmth of his touch, the sweetness of his kiss enthralled her, and she melted into his welcoming embrace. He tasted of the sea and adventure and passion. And for one sliver of a moment in time, it was possible to believe he had feelings for her.

Then she remembered who he was and that he’d called her by another woman’s name.

With a soft cry of resistance, she tore free, covering her mutinous mouth with the back of one trembling hand and holding her dagger out before her.

Oblivious to her blade, he mumbled something in his own tongue then and, with a peaceful sigh, slumped back into slumber.

Avril scrambled back, scrubbing at her lips. God’s eyes! How could she have let him kiss her? He was a Northman—a savage, a barbarian, a dog. His kind were rapists and plunderers. Shite, she should have killed him while she had the chance.

Yet even though she steeled her heart against him, his taste lingered on her lips, taunting her. Returning to bed, she found it impossible to get back to sleep as unsavory memories rose to the surface of her thoughts.

It had been a long time since she’d been kissed by a man. And she’d never been kissed so tenderly.

Though she’d tried to deny it, rape had left her damaged. The loss of power, the helplessness had cut her deeply. For a long while afterwards, she hadn’t been able to endure a man’s glance, much less his touch. She’d wanted to crawl away in defeat, to hide in shame and lick her wounds.

But she knew that would have meant her rapist had won and that she’d bear those scars the rest of her life. So instead, she’d decided to deal with the trauma the same way she handled falling off a horse or being knocked down in a swordfight.

She’d faced her fears, diving headfirst back into the fray. Though she wasn’t particularly proud of her rash behavior now, she’d begun bedding men indiscriminately, forcing them to submit to her will, enjoying a heady triumph when they surrendered beneath her. Eventually, she’d overcome her feelings of powerlessness and vulnerability.

It appalled her now to think of the men she’d seduced and cast away. On the other hand, when she’d finally realized that she was pregnant, not one of them had come forward to claim the babe and salvage her honor.

Of course, after she gave birth to a fair-haired girl who was obviously the offspring of a Viking, she was shunned by all. She’d had to face the hard truth—she’d never find a man willing to play father to a Viking’s child and husband to a woman stripped of her title, her land, and her wealth.

She’d shut off that part of her that longed for family, friends, and love, hidden it away behind the locked door to her heart.

But that kiss…that kiss had turned the key in the door and stirred feelings in her she’d forgotten—feelings of tenderness, affection, and hope. And it was a long while before her restless emotions let her drift off to sleep.

Brandr wandered all night in the land between waking and sleeping. He wasn’t sure what was real and what he dreamed. But now morning had arrived, and his body couldn’t have felt more substantial to him. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. His eyes were gummed shut. His hands were numb.

She’d drugged him. He remembered that much. The mead she’d given him had been laced with something that had sent him into a hallucination-riddled oblivion.

If only it had left him there…

Sensing someone near, he cracked open one eyelid. In the dim light, he could see the little blonde girl crouched beside him with an empty chamberpot, studying his face.

“Kimmie!” her mother shouted, startling the child. “Get away from him!”

The little girl did as she was told, dropping the chamberpot beside him with a loud clank. Then she crossed her arms importantly over her chest and said something she’d probably heard before from her mother. “If you can’t take good care of your pets, you can’t keep them.”

“He’s not a—,” she said, snagging the little girl’s hand to drag her back. “I told you, Kimmie, he’s a bad man.”

Brandr opened both eyes now. Even mussed from slumber, the woman was lovely. Tendrils of hair had pulled loose from her braid and framed her face like seaweed draped artfully on a sandy shore. Beneath her kirtle, her rumpled white underdress was untied at the throat, revealing the subtle curve of her bosom. And her sleep-swollen lips…

He frowned. A strange memory tugged at his brain. Had he…kissed the woman?

Her fleeting glance and the guilt in her eyes confirmed his suspicion. He
had
kissed her. But when? And why?

Her gaze drifted and settled upon his lap, and suddenly he wondered if he’d done more than just kiss her. Had he taken liberties with her that he couldn’t recall?

“Kimbery,” she said, continuing to stare with discomfiting boldness, “bring Mama her dagger.”

His breath caught. Her dagger? What did she mean to do? Surely she wouldn’t...cut anything off of him in front of her daughter. Would she? He tried to ask her what she intended, but his mouth was too dry to speak.

Once she had the dagger in her hand, she approached him, and he drew his legs back defensively.

“Listen,” she confided softly so her daughter wouldn’t hear. “I’m going to cut your wrists free. But if you try anything, I swear I’ll plunge this dagger into your throat.”

He looked down at his hands, resting on his lap. No wonder he couldn’t feel them. The ropes were cutting into his swollen wrists, and the fingers of his left hand were blue.

“Do you understand?” she said, narrowing flinty eyes at him.

He nodded.

She sliced him free, and he bit back a groan of pain as sensation suddenly stabbed into his fingers like a thousand agonizing needles. He felt the blood drain from his face as he fought to stay conscious.

“Kimmie, bring me a cup of water, please.”

The little girl hurried to comply. Why the woman was showing him mercy, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was only that she didn’t want his death on her conscience. But he gladly accepted the water as she tipped the cup back for him, coughing as he drank too swiftly.

Whether she would have actually slit his throat in front of the little girl, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t about to put her to the test.

“Kimbery,” she called over her shoulder, her blade resting against his neck. “I need you to wait in bed until I call you.”

“But, Mama, I want to help, too.”

“Not yet. In a moment.”

Brandr didn’t like the sound of that. What did the woman want to do that she didn’t want her daughter to see?

“Promise?” the little girl asked.

“I promise. Now wait there till I call you.”

The lass skipped off, and Brandr was left alone with the woman.

She stared at her blade where it contacted his throat, muttering irritably to herself. “I should just let you go on suffering. God knows you would have shown me no mercy.” She glanced down at his misshapen arm. “If I do this for you,” she said, sighing, “if I put you out of your misery—“

By Odin, she meant to kill him! His warrior instincts took over, and despite her menacing blade, despite the wrenching pain in his arms, with the last of his strength, he reached up with his good hand and roughly seized her wrist, giving it a sharp flick and sending the dagger clattering across the floor.

For an instant, their eyes met, and he saw true panic there as he gained the upper hand. But his advantage was short-lived. In the next breath, she drove her free fist forward and punched him hard in the nose.