Forbidden Nights With A Viking

Ronan’s gaze turned cold. ‘You’re planning to break her heart, then.’

‘She’s always known that there would never be anything between us. I was her captive. I paid my debt when I saved her life. We’re even now.’

‘Then you’re nothing but a Lochlannach bastard,’ Ronan countered, reaching out towards his throat.

Styr caught the man’s hand and shoved him against the back wall. Already his temper was stretched taut, and he needed no man to tell him what to do.

‘Don’t,’ Caragh protested, moving between them. When she pushed him back, there was a slight shift in her posture, almost as if she were afraid.

And perhaps she should be. He let out a slow breath of air, not regretting what he’d said to Ronan. It was better to leave her be, so she could pursue her own future.

Her dark hair was gathered over one shoulder, baring a slight glimpse of pale skin. In the firelight, he saw the gooseflesh rise upon it. Whether she was cold or uncomfortable at his presence, he didn’t know. But he handed her his own cloak and returned to the back of the room. Caragh dared to glance at him, and when she did, she pulled the cloak tightly around her.

When he reached the far end of the longhouse, he made a sleeping place for himself. In his palm, he gripped his battleaxe, believing that it wasn’t at all safe in this house.

Caragh sat in the darkness with her knees drawn up. She’d been unable to sleep, her mind caught up in worry. From across the room, she heard the whisper of footsteps approaching.

‘My lord bids you come to him,’ came the low voice of a female thrall. She spoke Irish well, but the command made Caragh’s skin tighten.

‘Why?’

‘He knows your dreams are troubled. He wishes to speak with you and offer you a spiced wine to help you sleep.’

But Caragh held no trust towards Ivar. If he gave her a rich wine, it would only muddle her decisions more. From across the room, she spied him seated near a bronze oil lamp. Though he was shadowed, she sensed what he wanted from her.

Around her shoulders, she wore Styr’s cloak, fastened with a silver brooch. Upon the heavy wool, she scented his presence, and it lent her comfort. She tightened her grip, knowing she could not obey the summons.

She stood from her pallet, the fear creeping within her veins. Darkness enveloped the longhouse, but she did not follow the servant. The woman protested in a soft whisper, but Caragh ignored her. Instead, she tiptoed across the room, past her sleeping brothers, to the one man who did make her feel safe.

Styr slept in the corner of the far end of the house. A battleaxe rested in one hand, and the moment she knelt down beside him, his eyes flew open.

Caragh touched a finger to her lips, silently willing him not to speak. Without asking permission, she lay down beside him on the cold earth. She unpinned the brooch and loosened the cloak, reaching to place it over him.

He moved towards her, his hard body against her own. ‘Why are you here, Caragh?’

She turned her lips to his ear. ‘You were right about Ivar. He tried to summon me to him this night.’

Styr sat up, his hand closing over the battleaxe. ‘Did he harm you?’ He kept his voice just above a whisper, but his tone was fierce.

‘No. But I didn’t believe it was safe to stay on the other side.’

‘It’s not safe here, either,’ he reminded her. ‘You should have gone to your brothers.’

He was right. Being here wasn’t wise, but she couldn’t say what had drawn her to him. She didn’t understand the forbidden feelings he’d conjured or why she yearned to be at his side. But there had been no question in her mind that she would only find sleep if she lay beside him.

‘Do you want me to go?’ her hand rested upon the cool chainmail he hadn’t removed.

Styr said nothing at all, but guided her to lie back down. Her heartbeat trebled at his nearness and all the silent reasons why he hadn’t sent her away. Their bodies didn’t touch, but she felt the cold earth against her as she tried to sleep.

‘Keep the cloak,’ he said. ‘You’re cold.’

‘So are you,’ she whispered, ignoring the command.

But a moment later, he dragged her to rest beside him, her back resting against his chest. ‘Little fool.’ With one hand, he adjusted the cloak until it covered both of them.

But closing her eyes didn’t shut out the feelings he evoked inside her. Beneath the cloak, though his skin was cool, she sensed it warming against her. She was torn between moving away from him, and craving the heat of his body.

Go to sleep, she ordered herself. She’d come to him only for sanctuary. Not to awaken any dangerous, forbidden feelings.

As she lay against him, she relived the moment of Ivar’s kiss. It had been sensual, yes. But it had not taken possession of her, the way Styr’s had. With this man, she’d lost sight of herself. She’d been unable to think or breathe.

Rolling over to her side, she saw that he was not sleeping, either. His dark eyes were staring at her with an expression she didn’t understand. In the softest whisper, she murmured, ‘This was a mistake, wasn’t it?’

Styr didn’t answer. Time hung between them, the seconds passing into a minute. In the end, he sat up and tucked the cloak around her before rising to his feet. He stood against the wall, watching over her like a silent sentry.

The gathering was a blend of Norse and the Irish, led by a council of men. Caragh remained at the side of her brothers, though she felt the gaze of Styr upon her.

He had kept vigil over her for the rest of the night, though her dreams had been troubled. She’d woken up once in a silent scream, imagining her brother lying dead, blood spilling from his throat. Her heart had pounded, and Styr had laid a hand over her shoulder to reassure her that it was nothing. But she refused to tell him of the vision.

Her mind was torn apart, wanting desperately to find Brendan…and fearing what had become of him.

They moved closer, but as they walked, she caught the glint of mail armour from beneath a cloak. She frowned, for why would anyone hide his armour? Styr wore his openly, his weapons hanging from his belt. But when she turned away, the man was gone, hidden among the hundreds of others.

A merchant was selling loaves of barley, and Styr paid for one with a coin, handing it to her. Whether he recognised it or not, he seemed to be continually finding ways to give her food. It was nothing but a small gesture, and yet, her foolish heart warmed to it.

Caragh broke the loaf open, steam rising from the crust, and she handed him half. They ate in silence, before Ivar approached her from the opposite side. His face held no emotion, but he greeted her, saying, ‘Will you walk with me a moment, Caragh?’

She glanced over at her brothers, but they were busy speaking to a merchant, asking about Brendan. Styr said nothing at all, but his eyes followed her as she agreed.

‘What is it?’

Ivar led her towards a man selling lengths of delicate cloth. ‘I am a man of great wealth,’ he began. ‘If you wanted anything at all in this market, I could buy it for you.’

His emphasis on wealth did nothing to impress her. Though she nodded that she’d heard him, he reached out and brought her hand to touch the silken fabric.

‘Nor am I a man who will allow himself to be used,’ Ivar said. ‘And I can see that you’re using me to try and make Styr jealous.’

‘He has no interest in me,’ she responded, denying his claim.

‘But you want him,’ he contradicted. He threaded his fingers with hers, lifting her hand up. ‘I saw you sleeping beside him. You think to pit us against one another.’ His hand tightened, his gaze darkening. ‘I won’t play that game.’

She tried to pull back from his grasp, but he held her steady. ‘Hardrata’s men are my slaves now. Their lives belong to me.’

He let the threat hover, while his thumb caressed her skin. ‘Stay here, in Áth Cliath, and I will grant them their freedom. Let us get to know one another.’

‘I think I already know the sort of man you are,’ she responded, jerking her hand away.

But Styr was already at her side. From the look on his face, he’d overheard every word.

‘Leave her be, Nikolasson.’ His words were quiet, but the edge beneath them was undeniable. ‘I will pay you for the lives of my men.’

‘With what?’ he countered. ‘The only silver coins you have were won from me.’

Styr said nothing, but as he guided her back to her brothers, she felt the tension in the palm of his hand.

‘What will you do?’ she asked.

‘Find a way.’

The voices of the crowd dropped lower, and her brother Ronan interrupted them. ‘I need to speak with you.’

He led her towards the front of the crowd while Styr kept close behind them. ‘Brendan is here somewhere. Two of the merchants confirmed that they saw him among the slaves.’

Relief and fear rose up within her. She wanted her brother to be safe…but how would they ever help him escape slavery?

A middle-aged woman sat at the front, before the crowd. Her hair was so fair, it was nearly white, and ice-blue eyes stared straight ahead. She wore a cloak made of animal skins and in her left hand, she held a staff with a bronze bird-shaped figure upon it.

‘Who is that?’ she whispered to her brother.

‘It is the volva,’ Styr said, his voice resonant within her ear. ‘A prophetess who will answer questions from one she chooses.’

He brought her closer, and a chill crossed over Caragh’s spine. The woman was watching her, and one of the men offered her a platter of food. Her stomach churned, when she saw the platter contained the hearts of sacrificed animals. The prophetess dined upon them, but as she ate, she never took her eyes from Caragh. When she had finished, another young girl began to chant an incantation.

Though Caragh could not understand the words, the aura surrounding the crowd took on an otherworldly quality. Someone began to beat a drum, and the volva pointed to her.

‘She has chosen you,’ Styr said. ‘You must go to her.’

‘I don’t want to,’ she whispered. Everything about the prophetess unnerved her.

‘She will answer your questions,’ he said. ‘It is an honour.’ Without allowing her to refuse, Styr gave her a slight nudge forwards, and the crowd parted.

Caragh’s heartbeat quickened, but she moved towards the woman. She tried to keep from limping, though her feet were still sore from her blisters.

As she neared the prophetess, it was as if the woman could see through her. Caragh waited, and the woman held out her hand.

‘Ask,’ she said, in the Irish tongue.

Several of the men around her began voicing their own wishes, and Styr translated their demands to know if it was an opportune time to attack the Danes.

Caragh ignored them, her eyes fixated upon the prophetess. ‘Is Elena alive?’ she asked quietly.

The seer’s gaze moved over to Styr, and she nodded.

‘Where is she now?’

The woman closed her eyes a moment and spoke. ‘A green stone rises from the sea.’ When Caragh turned a questioning gaze towards Styr, his face was intent upon the prophetess.

‘I know the place,’ he admitted. ‘We passed it on our way north.’

But even more important, he seemed to believe the woman. Caragh was uncertain, but there was impatience on Styr’s face, as if he couldn’t wait to find his ship and return.

Her grip upon her feelings was weakening, but if Styr’s wife was still alive, there was no hope. Once he found Elena, she would never see Styr again.

Perhaps that was best.

The men were closing in impatiently, and Caragh realised the necessity of voicing a question on their behalf. Most were dressed for war, wearing chainmail corselets and steel helms with more chainmail that hung down the backs of their necks. Some carried double-edged swords, sheathed within a sealskin scabbard, while others preferred the battleaxe.

‘Ask her about the Danes,’ an Irishman demanded. ‘Our ships are prepared for a fight.’

‘Are the signs favourable?’ Caragh asked, as the warrior stood beside her.

The prophetess shook her head. ‘They are not.’ She pointed to the sky, where a flock of ravens flew above them. ‘Blood will be shed this day.’

‘Aye,’ the Irishman agreed. ‘There will be sacrifices held this day. Blood, in return for the blood of our enemies.’

At the mention of sacrifice, Caragh’s skin turned cold. Though she knew the ritual of animals dying, it was not something she wanted to witness.

The volva was staring at her, her piercing blue eyes intent. ‘You have one other question, do you not?’

‘My brother Brendan,’ Caragh ventured. ‘Where is he now?’

The seer pointed to a large wooden cage that men were bringing forth upon a wagon. Inside, Caragh saw a group of chained slaves, crowded together. They spoke in a blend of languages, of the Irish, the Picts, and those from Alba.

But she did not see her brother.

‘What is happening?’ she asked Styr, as the wagon stopped before a large pile of branches and peat. Men were pouring oil upon the firewood, while inside the cage, the prisoners continued to cry out.

‘They are part of the sacrifice. They will be burned to the gods, to protect us from the Danes.’

Her hands began to tremble, the fear icing through her veins. God above, no.

For among those about to be sacrificed was her younger brother.

Chapter Ten

‘Don’t move,’ Styr commanded, seizing Caragh before she could run towards the cage. Already her brothers had seen Brendan and had gone to plead with the council for his life.

But Caragh refused to yield, struggling against Styr’s tight grasp. ‘Let me go.’

‘Your brothers will bring him back,’ he said. ‘Let them handle this.’ He refused to let her anywhere near the sacrifice, and he used his height to block her view.

‘He’s so young,’ she whispered. ‘He can’t die. Not like this.’ Tears flooded her eyes, as if she couldn’t stop the rush of emotion. ‘You have to save him.’

He remained silent, weighing the possibilities over. The volva had predicted that Elena was alive, and the green stone she’d described was an island outcropping south of here, near the coast. Though he wasn’t certain whether or not to believe the prophetess, she’d given him a possibility.

He risked a glance at the slaves, before meeting Caragh’s pleading gaze. She laid her head upon his chest, closing her eyes. ‘Please. For my sake, I beg of you—save his life.’ Her hands dug into his tunic, her mouth tight with fear. ‘I know you still hate him for what he did. But he is my brother.’

‘Elena jumped into the sea because of him.’ Styr made no effort to conceal his anger and frustration. The boy had brought harm upon his loved ones. He deserved nothing at all.

‘She escaped,’ Caragh argued. ‘We don’t know what happened that day. Brendan might have tried to help her.’

She reached up, her palms on either side of his face. ‘He doesn’t deserve a death like this one.’ Her hands were cool against his cheeks, and her blue-violet eyes were wet with tears. ‘If I mean anything to you at all…if we have become friends, I ask you to save him.’

Her plea for mercy slipped past his stony resolution for vengeance. His gaze lingered upon her mouth, remembering all that never should have happened.

‘For me,’ she whispered.

He didn’t say anything at all, his mind turning over the quandary. A woman’s desires shouldn’t matter. But Caragh had suffered more than most women. She’d had no one to take care of her, and she’d been strong through the worst of circumstances. After all that she’d endured, he didn’t want to see her look upon him with eyes of hatred.

Her brothers were arguing with the council, but he could see they were making little progress. Every minute that passed was a minute that brought Brendan closer to death.

He took Caragh’s hand in his, leading her to stand before Ivar. The man’s dark eyes assessed both of them, and clearly he’d overheard their conversation. ‘Do you want me to intervene on her behalf?’ he asked.

‘I want you to guard her while I speak with them,’ Styr corrected.

Ivar gave his vow, but before Styr could leave, Caragh threw herself into his arms. ‘Thank you,’ she wept, gripping his waist. ‘I won’t forget this.’

He stared back at her, knowing that it was not at all a gesture of mercy. And he couldn’t stop himself from caressing her hair.

The blinding smile she sent him was enough to stop his heart cold.

‘Will they release my brother?’ Caragh asked Ivar.

The Norseman’s arm moved over her shoulders in protection, as he held her hand. ‘It’s unlikely. They require nine slaves for the sacrifice. I would offer one of mine in their place, except—’

‘Except the newer slaves are Styr’s men,’ Caragh finished. She understood now, that Styr was not only negotiating for her brother; he was also fighting to save the lives of his own kin.

‘I want to move closer,’ she said to Ivar.

‘It isn’t safe. You should remain here, far away from the sacrifice.’

She pressed her hands upon his chest, pleading, ‘This is my brother. Don’t ask me to stand back and watch him die. If Styr cannot save him…’

‘We will do what we can,’ Ivar said, ‘but it may be too late.’

Already, the first thrall had been set on fire, his screams agonising among the throng of people who silently watched. Prayers rose to her lips, for mercy.

‘They will slit the throats of the others,’ Ivar said. ‘That slave attempted to run away, to avoid his fate. Those who agree to die as a sacrifice will have the death of honour. It will be quick, and this night, they will dine with the gods in Valhalla for their bravery.’

Panic caught up in her throat, as she saw the terror in Brendan’s eyes when he was brought to stand beside the rest of the men. He’d made many foolish mistakes, but he didn’t deserve to die for them.

A tear broke free as she saw the second slave die. Styr was speaking to the men, along with her brothers. She could not hear their words, but when she saw him strip away his armour, handing it to Ronan, her pulse quickened.

He wasn’t planning to take Brendan’s place, was he? Bile rose in her throat at the thought of Styr falling beneath the blade, or worse, his body turning black in the flames.

She closed her eyes against the image, wanting to believe it would not happen. He had a wife to save, along with his men. He wouldn’t sacrifice himself, would he?

‘Take me closer,’ Caragh demanded. Before Ivar could protest, she faced him squarely. ‘Unless you believe yourself incapable of protecting me?’

His gaze hardened. ‘Of course you will be safe.’

Caragh took his hand in hers. ‘Then bring me to where I may watch what is happening.’

Ivar clasped her palm and guided her through the throng of people. In the distance, she heard the hollow beating of a round drum. Styr was stripped down to his hose and nothing else. In one hand, he gripped a battleaxe, while in the other, he held a round shield with a metal boss. Across from him stood another Norseman.

‘What is he doing?’

‘He has offered to fight,’ Ivar answered. ‘If he defeats his opponent, that man will take his place as the sacrifice.’

‘And if he loses?’

Ivar met her eyes with a steady resolution. ‘You know the answer to this already, Caragh.’

She squeezed his hand, her heart beating so fast, she could hardly breathe.

‘What is this man to you, Caragh?’ Ivar asked. ‘Does he have a prior claim?’

Inwardly, her mind was crying out with fear. No, there was no claim. She should feel nothing at all for this man. Especially when he was one she would never have. He loved his wife and honoured her. Every touch between them had been of her own doing.

But she found herself nodding. ‘I do care for him.’

Ivar’s hand came up to cup her chin. ‘He is not worthy of you, kjære. You should have a man who worships you.’

‘There is no man who feels that way for me.’ At Ivar’s piercing gaze, she predicted, ‘Not even you.’

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. ‘Have you thought about my offer?’ He reached out for her hand, holding her fingers gently. ‘You hold the power to free his men.’

‘I can only think of my brother now,’ she answered honestly. But Ivar’s suggestion made her aware that she would owe Styr a debt which could never be repaid. He was risking his life for a boy he despised.

From across the space, his eyes met hers for the barest flicker of a second. As if to remind her that this was not his choice. Not his battle to face.

He was doing this for her, because she’d asked it of him. And in his eyes, she saw the strength and determination to win.

In that moment, her heart was impossibly lost. She could no longer deny that she was in love with a man who could never belong to her. Tears heated her eyes, but she willed them not to fall. Instead, she drank in the sight of him, trying to remember every line of his face, every feature.

She gripped her hands together, willing herself to meet his last look.

‘He is a fool, kjære, if he does not see the woman before him.’ With a dark smile, Ivar bent down and brushed his lips against hers. ‘You will soon learn, that I can give you far more than Hardrata ever could. Perhaps that might one day be enough to win a smile.’

She said nothing, turning all of her attention to the fight. In the morning sun, Styr’s hard body revealed his battle skills. Upon his torso were carved the deep lines of muscle. Not only in his strong arms, but also in his abdomen.

He moved like a predator, attacking his opponent with a skill she’d never imagined. His long blond hair hung over his shoulders, and upon one upper arm, she saw the gleam of a golden armband.

The enemy Norseman slashed his blade towards Styr, and he blocked it with his shield, his battleaxe arcing towards the man’s head.

Ronan and Terence stood by her brother Brendan, who was still chained. His dark hair was matted with blood, his bones showing against his pale skin. Before Caragh could take another step forwards, Ivar held her back. He kept one arm around her waist, the other just above her breasts. ‘No closer,’ he warned.

In his arms, she watched as Styr dived to the ground, narrowly avoiding the sword. The tip of the blade caught his arm, drawing blood. At the sight of it, the people began to shout, calling out for more blood.

A cry caught in her mouth, though she pushed it back. She couldn’t understand what terrible Fate had led her to love this man. But the thought of Styr dying sent a phantom pain into her own body.

The drumbeat intensified, mirroring her heart. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, and when his enemy let out a roar, plunging his sword, she gripped Ivar’s arm, her nails digging into his skin.

Styr raised his shield, and his enemy’s blade embedded within the wood. He ripped back the shield, disarming the man, and within seconds, his enemy lay upon the ground.

Her knees went weak, and when Ivar let her go, she couldn’t stop herself from running. Not to her brother, who was already unchained and guarded by Ronan.

But to Styr.

Blood ran freely down one arm, and perspiration gleamed upon his skin. But Caragh ignored all of that and embraced him hard, not bothering to hide her tears.

‘Thank you for saving him,’ she whispered.

His arms came around her in a tight embrace, a shocking response. She’d expected him to push her away, or to turn cold. Instead, she rested her cheek against his chest, shutting out the world for a moment in his arms. She blocked out the sounds of death and sacrifice, finding sanctuary in him.

Let go, her mind commanded. He is not yours.

Dimly, she was aware of him taking her away, of her brother speaking. And of Ivar’s silent reproach.