To Tempt a Viking

The Irish had taken the oars, but with only four of them, the ship didn’t move very fast. Her captor, whose name she learned was Brendan, took command of the sails, letting the wind pull them far away from land.

Only when Ragnar was shoved a few feet away from her did she dare to whisper at him, ‘What will become of Styr? You left him behind with no one. He could already be dead.’ A chill crossed her at the thought and hot tears rose to her eyes.

‘If they’d wanted him dead, they wouldn’t have taken him prisoner,’ Ragnar pointed out. ‘They’ll try to use him as a hostage. But we’ll return before any harm can come to him.’

She didn’t know what to believe. For all she knew, they might torture Styr or kill him as an act of vengeance. ‘What if you’re wrong?’ she murmured.

‘I’m not. Trust me.’

She locked her eyes with his, silently pleading with him to strike sooner. ‘You can’t abandon him.’

His demeanour shifted into a man who resented her accusations. There was no softness, no mercy upon his face at all. ‘I swore to him that I would guard you with my life. And so I have.’ He leaned in, his dark green eyes demanding her attention. ‘We’re going to take back the ship, this night.’

‘Your hands are bound,’ she argued.

‘Are they?’ His voice held such indifference, she began to wonder if she was wrong to doubt him. Upon her face, she felt the warmth of his breath. His long brown hair held hints of gold, his face rigid like a conqueror’s. The look had returned to his eyes, one that made her falter. It reached beneath her desperate fear, sliding through her veins until he held her captive.

Trust me, he’d demanded. She wanted to believe in him, for he was their best hope of returning to the ringfort. But once again, he was watching her in a way that made her pulse quicken. It only deepened her discomfort.

A moment later, one of the Irishmen grasped him and shoved him back. Though his words were incomprehensible, she couldn’t tear her gaze from Ragnar. If he had somehow freed himself, he’d done a good job of disguising it.

The winds had swelled again, the skies growing darker. She was growing hungry, but no one offered food or water. When the Irishmen explored the ship, they quickly found Styr’s store of supplies below deck. They devoured the food savagely, eating every bite of dried meat and preserved fish without offering them a single morsel. Only the bag of grain remained. Glancing at the Irish, Elena suddenly noticed how thin they were. It was as if they had been starving, their faces were so gaunt.

For the second time, she wondered if it had been wise to surrender. These men had not the strength of the Norsemen. But in their eyes, she saw that they were bent upon survival now, as if all traces of humanity were gone. Like animals, they fought amongst themselves for the choicest pieces of food.

Her earlier frustration with Ragnar diminished. Men who cared for nothing but their own lives would do anything. They would kill with no remorse.

Their leader, Brendan, was hardly more than an adolescent. But in his eyes, she saw determination. Whatever he planned to do with them, he would not be swayed from his course.

Though it had been hours since she’d been dragged back to the ship, she’d been unable to get warm. Her body was freezing, while her wet hair was clammy against her skin. Fear magnified the discomfort and her mouth grew dry with thirst.

‘Could I have some water?’ she asked Brendan, even knowing he did not understand her words. She glanced over at the men, who were drinking wine, nodding to them to convey the meaning.

His mouth closed in a grim line and he ignored her question, adjusting the mainsail instead. When she studied her friends and kinsmen, she watched to see if Ragnar was right. Had they managed to free themselves? They sat motionless, their arms behind their backs. None would look at her.

Perhaps...

Ragnar spoke to the men, his voice a calm echo against the sea. ‘At moonrise.’

She took a breath, glancing at the Irish to see if they’d understood him. They were too busy gorging on food, but Brendan’s brow furrowed. Without a word, he unsheathed his blade and crossed the boat until he sat behind her. She felt the kiss of the blade upon her throat, and the young man stared back at Ragnar in a silent challenge.

* * *

Ragnar intended to gut the Irishman, before the night was over, for daring to touch Elena. He’d sliced through his bonds, using a hidden blade that he’d passed to his kinsmen, one by one. Now, the blade was his again and he was waiting for the right moment to strike.

They had been sailing for hours and several of the Irish had fallen asleep—all, save the man holding Elena captive. Brendan seemed to sense that the moment he let her go, his life would be the forfeit.

The sun had descended below the horizon, and the moon was beginning to rise. Ragnar eyed the other men, silently warning them to be ready. He kept his gaze fixed upon Elena, watching for the moment to seize her. She appeared tense and, upon her throat, he saw the barest trace of blood.

His fist clenched upon the dagger, while he vowed his own vengeance upon the man who kept her captive. Elena’s shoulders were held back, her body stiff as if she didn’t dare move.

Ragnar needed a distraction, a way of diverting Brendan’s attention away. Taking a hostage or possibly attacking without warning. His brain went through a dozen possibilities, all of which were feasible, but held an inherent risk.

Gods above, why couldn’t this be any other hostage but Elena? If it were, he’d simply drag her away, slicing her attacker’s throat. But the threat was too strong. Elena meant everything to him and he would do nothing to endanger her life.

He saw her glance up at the crescent moon, which had slid out from behind a cloud. At the sight of it, her face went white. Ragnar wanted to say something, to reassure her that all would be well.

‘Elena.’ He couldn’t stop himself from speaking her name, despite the risk. Don’t be afraid. I’ll free you.

The Irishman spoke words that sounded like another warning, but his voice cracked at the end, undermining the threat. Reminding him that he was hardly more than a boy.

‘The ship is moving closer to the shore,’ Ragnar told her.

‘I—I can’t swim very well.’ Her fear was tangible, but she cast a look at the dark water. The wind was strong now, pulling the vessel east. Ahead, he spied a large outcropping of rock, a tiny island not far away. She could reach it, if she tried.

‘I won’t let you drown,’ he swore.

She seemed to consider it, seeking reassurance from him. Though he knew she belonged to Styr, he wished in that moment that he could hold her. Give her the comfort she needed.

And then, as if the gods had willed it to be so, he spied the perfect diversion.

* * *

Brendan Ó Brannon had never been so terrified in all his life. He held the knife to the Lochlannach woman’s throat, all the while wishing he’d never left the shores of his homeland. At the time, he’d believed he was protecting his sister Caragh. He’d thought he could force the invaders to leave, bringing their ship miles away from home before he and his friends could abandon the ship at night, swimming to shore.

But these men hadn’t slept. They’d never taken their eyes off him or the woman he held hostage. With every minute that passed, his impending death came closer.

A hollow sorrow filled him up, with the knowledge that he’d never see his sister or brothers again. All because he’d tried to be a hero. What did he know of defending them against fierce Lochlannach invaders? Nothing at all. He was only seven and ten, barely a man. He’d acted without thinking and worse, he’d left his sister Caragh alone. She had no one to take care of her and he doubted if he would make it out alive.

One man, in particular, made him nervous. He stared hard at him, as if he intended to murder Brendan the moment an opportunity presented itself.

Silently, Brendan prayed that he could somehow get out of this. He considered letting the woman go, throwing himself overboard, no matter how far from shore they were. His chances of survival were better.

But he held on to her, for she was the only person keeping him and his friends alive. Soon enough, they would reach the southernmost tip of the eastern coast of éireann.

The moon was clouded this night, making it difficult to see. His body was exhausted and he fought to keep his hands from shaking.

A shout came from one of his men, alerting them to another ship. Brendan kept his blade at the woman’s throat as he turned to look. Just as his friend had warned, a large merchant ship was bearing down on them.

But the men weren’t Irish.

His mouth went dry, his palms sweating. It was the Gallaibh, the Danes who were as fearless as the Norse. His grandsire had spun tales of the bloodthirsty invaders who would kill anyone who breathed.

God help them all. If they survived this night, it would be a miracle.

‘Turn the ship!’ Brendan commanded. If they could get closer to shore, they might have a chance of escaping. But he wasn’t accustomed to the Lochlannach vessel and he didn’t know how to steer it. Instead of moving in the direction of the shore, it seemed that an invisible force was turning them towards the path of the Danes.

Fear ripped through him and he caught a glimpse of archers taking aim. His stomach twisted and he stared back at the water, wondering if he had the courage to seize his escape. Drowning was better than facing a dozen arrows.

His gaze fixed upon his hostage. The woman was hardly older than his sister Caragh. He took a breath, wishing he’d never taken her. She didn’t deserve to fall into the hands of the Danes, who would rape her before they killed her. He’d made countless mistakes this day, but there were precious seconds left.

With his knife, he cut the ropes securing her to the front of the boat, then sliced through her bonds. She stared at him in surprise, rubbing her wrists. Without asking why, she stumbled back towards her kinsmen.

To his friends, Brendan ordered, ‘We’ll have to jump. If they get too close, we won’t survive.’

‘If we abandon the ship, we’ll drown,’ a friend countered.

Brendan’s heart beat faster, a thin line of sweat sliding down his neck. ‘Once we make it to shore, we’ll journey back to Gall Tír on foot.’

If they made it to shore. The Danes were even closer now and he heard them shouting words in an unfamiliar tongue.

‘It’s too far,’ his friend argued.

‘We don’t have a choice. If we stay here, we’ll die tonight.’ After they abandoned the ship, he could only hope that the Lochlannach would remain on board and let them be. But from the mercenary look in the Viking leader’s eyes, Brendan wasn’t at all convinced that the man would let them go. His stomach lurched at the thought of their impending fate.

Without warning, the Lochlannach rose from their places, closing in on him. It was clear that they’d freed themselves from the ropes some time ago and had been waiting for the right moment to attack.

The archers drew back and the first storm of arrows struck the ship. Brendan threw himself to the deck and heard the dull thud of an arrow piercing flesh. When he saw the face of his dying kinsman, he cringed, keeping low on the ship.

The Norsemen were shouting, and all around him, he heard the sounds of men jumping overboard. He heard the screams of those who were shot by the archers before their bodies landed in the water.

The woman lay against the bottom of the boat, while her kinsmen defended her. He saw the Lochlannach leader stiffen when an arrow pierced his leg. The woman cried out, and a moment later, she emerged from her hiding place, jumping off the ship. The man followed, though Brendan doubted he would make it to shore with his injuries.

Fear rose in his throat and he closed his eyes, prepared to face his death. All around him, he heard the sound of the Danes closing in.

Let my death be swift and painless, he prayed. And let my sister be safe.

* * *

Elena’s heart slammed into her chest, her pulse beating so fast, she was dizzy from fear. The icy water struck her like a fist, her gown weighing down upon her. Though she moved her arms and legs, it was not enough to swim—more like treading water.

Now that she was free of the ship, it seemed that the outcropping of rock was impossibly far away. Her breathing quickened and she fought with her arms and legs, struggling to keep her head above water. Behind her, she heard the shouts of men and the clash of swords.

Her face dipped beneath the wave and she choked upon the salt water, coughing as she struggled again to reach land. In the darkness, she could barely see anything around her and she doubted if she could make it to the small island.

Fear penetrated her to the bone. You’re not strong enough to reach land. You’re going to drown.

Her resolve was weakening, but she continued churning her arms, until there was a sudden splash. A strong arm grasped her around the waist, pulling her to him. When she looked up, she saw Ragnar holding her. He propelled them through the water with immeasurable strength, like a ship cutting through the waves. She gripped him around the neck, thankful that he, too, had escaped.

‘Swim!’ she heard Ragnar say. ‘Don’t look back.’

She was desperately afraid, her mind seizing with shock. Her face dipped below the water again, but a strong arm dragged her up. Ragnar urged her to keep moving, holding his arm at her waist. They swam together while behind them, they heard the shouts of the Danes taking command of the ship.

Freya, protect me, she prayed, as they fought to reach land. The crescent moon slid from behind a cloud, reflecting its light upon the surface of the water. She stared at the light, her fear closing in again.

She had to live. Despite her terror, she would fight to survive. Even if they were the only two left alive.

Chapter Three

Her arms were leaden, her body freezing from the icy water. But with Ragnar at her side, she took courage. He was speaking words of encouragement, though his pace had slowed.

When at last her feet touched the bottom, Elena breathed a sigh of relief. Her body was exhausted and trembling, but they were both on land.

Ragnar’s steps were heavy, his body leaning upon hers as she strode through the water. She couldn’t understand why he was struggling to walk, until the moonlight gleamed upon him, revealing the arrow protruding from his upper thigh.

‘You’re hurt,’ she breathed, offering him her support as they stumbled to the sand.

Ragnar didn’t answer and she felt the urge to panic. How badly was he wounded? A dark fear rose up that she couldn’t survive on her own.

A moment later, she pushed aside the errant thoughts. He wasn’t dead yet, and if she tended his wound, he might live.

Her mind sealed off all thoughts except those that would aid her. She needed to take out the arrow, bind his wound and get them a fire and shelter. There was enough wool in her gown to tear off for a bandage.

‘Ragnar,’ she said. ‘Look at me.’

He did, but there was so much pain in his gaze, she feared the worst. His hose and tunic were soaked with seawater, the chainmail armour gleaming against the moonlight. She needed to take off his armour to examine his wound.

‘I’m going to help you over to those rocks,’ she said. ‘Can you manage to walk that far?’

He gave a nod, as if it took too much energy to speak. Blood streamed down his leg from the arrow in his thigh, but at least it wasn’t pumping out. She eased him to sit down and helped him remove his armour and the padded tunic beneath. Then she used the knife at his waist to cut long strips from her skirts. The thought of pressing more salt water against his wounds was excruciating, so she looked around for an alternative. There were patches of moss and she dug at the stones, trying to find something to make a barrier against the wet wool.

‘We need a fire,’ Ragnar reminded her, reaching inside his tunic. ‘You might...build one.’

‘Soon,’ she promised. ‘I’m going to take out the arrow.’

‘I might bleed out if you do,’ he said quietly.

‘I can’t leave it, can I?’ She placed her hands on his shoulders, kneeling down before him. ‘You kept me protected. I’ll do everything I can to help you.’

For a single moment, she caught a glimpse of a fierce longing in his eyes, before he shielded it and looked away. She didn’t know how to respond, for fear that she’d misread him.

Elena took a deep breath and reached for the arrow. It would pain him more if she told him when she was planning to take it out. Though she’d never before removed an arrow from a man’s skin, it didn’t look too deep. She questioned whether to force it all the way through the skin or whether to jerk it out. Both would cause pain, but pushing it through would likely be easier.

‘I don’t want to cause you pain,’ she said steadily. ‘But this must be—’ with one huge push, she forced the arrow through the opposite side ‘—done,’ she finished, snapping off the tip and sliding the shaft free. He let out a gasp of pain, but she packed the wound with moss and bound it tight with the first strip of wool.

‘I thought you would give me more warning than that,’ he breathed, fighting against the pain.

‘Anticipated pain is worse than reality,’ she responded.

‘And you’ve had an arrow tear through your flesh before?’ His voice was harsh, but it was done now.

‘It wasn’t that deep,’ she offered. ‘The bleeding isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.’ Thank the gods for that. If it had gone any deeper, she doubted if she’d have had the strength to force the arrow through the other side. His rigid muscles would have made it impossible.

* * *

Once Ragnar was bandaged, she left him sitting against the rocks. There was a tremor in his body, as if he were unable to stop himself from shaking.

He was right; they did need a fire to warm them. But first, she had to find flint. It was too dark to see the stones, however.

Her mind stumbled with panic, the freezing air and the darkness starting to undermine what little courage she had left. They needed shelter and warmth to protect them this night. Their survival depended on it.

Elena forced herself to think of the smaller details, knowing that a fire would help them both more than anything. She still had Ragnar’s knife. ‘I’ll try to find flint among the stones,’ she told him.

‘Wait.’ He reached into his tunic and pulled out a stone that hung from a leather thong around his neck. ‘This is flint.’

She tried to loosen the knot while her hands rested against his throat.

‘You weren’t hurt, were you?’ he whispered. His voice resonated between them and a spiral of warmth rippled through her. She grew aware that her hands were around his neck, almost in an embrace.

‘No.’ To calm her beating heart, she murmured, ‘Don’t speak now. Just rest while I build a fire.’

When the knot wouldn’t untie, she lifted the leather thong over his head, taking the flint and his blade. The scent of his male skin was unlike her husband’s, but it held the familiarity of a close friend. How many times had she relied upon Ragnar over the years? They’d been friends all her life, and if she had to be stranded with anyone, she was grateful it was him.

She renewed her courage and slipped into the comfort of routine, gathering dried seaweed for tinder and driftwood along the beach. It was clear that in the morning they would have to move inland to get food. They couldn’t survive here without fresh water or shelter. Yet she didn’t know if Ragnar could manage to swim again.

Don’t think of that now, she ordered herself. Dawn was soon enough to worry about the rest of it.

When she’d arranged the wood and tinder, she struck the flint with his blade, until she caught a spark and blew it to life. Slowly, she fed the fire until the warmth blazed.

Her clothing was sodden, but it felt good to sit beside the flames. When she looked back at the water, there were no ships anywhere—only the cool lapping of waves against the shore of the island. ‘What do you think happened to the others? Do you suppose they’re alive?’

‘I overheard the Danes talk of selling them as slaves.’ He grimaced, adjusting his position against the rocks. ‘If they didn’t murder all of them.’

Elena rubbed her upper arms, trying not to imagine it. The idea of being the only survivors from their voyage was impossible to grasp. Even the thought made her fears well up inside, before she pushed them back.

‘You’re cold, aren’t you?’ she remarked, moving beside him. Though she’d bandaged his thigh wound, his clothing was as wet as hers. ‘Do you want me to help you get closer to the fire?’

Ragnar shook his head. ‘I’ll be all right.’ He closed his eyes, adding, ‘In the morning, we’ll go to the mainland.’

‘Do you think you can manage the crossing?’ She worried about whether he had the strength when he was struggling to walk. Her own swimming was barely strong enough to keep her above water. Though he was stronger than most men, the salt water against his wounds would make it brutally painful.

‘I don’t have a choice, do I?’ Though he kept his words neutral, she sensed his pain and wished there was something she could do to alleviate it.

She reached out to take his hand. ‘We’re going to live, Ragnar. And I owe you my thanks for saving me from the Danes.’

He squeezed her hand, but his gaze remained distant. Though he gave no answer, she understood that he’d sworn to protect her. Nothing would make him forsake that vow.

‘Will you come and sit beside me?’ he asked.

Something within her stirred at his request. It was dangerous to be so close to this man. Although he was a close friend, instinct held her back. Elena took a few steps away, needing the space.

‘I should gather more wood,’ she argued, fumbling for an excuse.

‘It’s going to be all right, Elena,’ he assured her.

She wanted to believe it. But they were miles from anywhere, and her husband was a prisoner. Their men were held captive, taken as slaves or killed. She felt herself hovering on the brink of tears. As she gathered up more twigs and small bits of driftwood, she glanced up at the crescent moon once again.

A ripple of uneasiness filled her, but she brushed the feeling aside. Right now, she had to concentrate on surviving the night ahead. Doggedly, she continued searching for wood, letting the mindless task blot out the horrifying fears. The night temperature had begun dropping and she returned to the fire, stacking the sticks and twigs she’d gathered.

‘Do you think my husband is alive?’ she asked Ragnar, thinking of Styr.

‘I’ve no doubt of it.’ He leaned against one of the stones, gritting his teeth when he moved his leg.

Though it should have made her feel better, the longer she sat by the fire, the more despondent she grew. In the space of a few hours, she’d lost everything—her husband, her people, their ship and even a shelter. Silent tears welled up and spilled over, against her will.

‘Come here, Elena.’

She ignored him, needing a good cry. She deserved it, after all that had happened.

‘Are you really going to make a wounded man drag himself across the sand to get to you?’ Although his voice held teasing, there was enough determination that made her aware that he’d do it.

‘I’ll be fine.’ But she obeyed, returning to sit beside him. When his arms came around her, she wept in earnest. His kindness was her undoing, for she didn’t know how to gather up the pieces of her life or how to begin anew from here. Her husband, as well as their kinsmen, could be dead. They had no ship and they were stranded in a foreign land, far away from home.

Ragnar said nothing at all, but held her tightly and his presence did bring her comfort. She wasn’t alone, despite all that had happened. That, at least, was a consolation.