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Falling For Her Viking Captive
Falling For Her Viking Captive

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Falling For Her Viking Captive

Язык: Английский
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‘You are too kind, but I prefer my seats to have more brawn.’ She turned her back on the table as the men broke out into a roar of inebriated laughter.

The Norseman’s lips twitched as he brought his ale up for a drink. She found herself relaxing the tiniest bit at his approval. Giving him an amused look, she said, ‘You can understand why I chose a place at your side.’ To be fair, at his side was the only place she could have gone had she truly been a traveller passing through. He gave off such a feeling of danger that the crowd naturally gave him a wider berth, leaving the space next to him free.

‘Are you travelling alone?’ he asked. His voice was pleasantly low and smooth for someone who was supposed to be her enemy.

She pretended to take a drink of her ale, letting a little of the bitterness touch her tongue. The ale had been laced with poppy and valerian, as had his ale which he had nearly finished. Her plan had been to press him to drink hers after he had finished his own. To her chagrin, he didn’t seem to be particularly affected by the combination of herbs, yet.

‘If you mean to ask if I am with a man, I am a widow.’ She had decided she would do better with lying if she could stay as close to the truth as possible. ‘I do have servants with me.’

He glanced at the door, then back at her. ‘Perhaps you should have sent one in here in your stead.’

Her natural indignation made her bristle. ‘I can take care of myself.’

It was the wrong thing to say. She had come in here expecting to play a ruse, to pretend to be a seductress to lure him outside into an assignation. Barring that, she would play the helpless widow in need of his help. Antagonising him would not get her far. She smiled at him to soften the words.

‘That is obvious.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the man she had offended. The sailor had made a move to rise, but one of his friends had pulled him back into his seat. Whether he meant to come over and make her sorry for embarrassing him in front of his friends, or if he was simply attempting to totter off into the night, she did not know.

Turning his attention back to her, the Norseman asked, ‘Do you often travel alone, taking care of yourself?’

‘You ask many questions for a man whose name I do not know. Do you travel alone?’

His gaze touched her face, stroking over her brow and then down to her mouth before settling on her eyes again. It was reminiscent of the seductive way she had looked at him just moments before and it made something exciting flicker to life in her belly.

‘Sometimes,’ he said and it was a moment more before she realised he was answering her question.

How was she so terrible at this? Before she could gather her thoughts, he threw back the last of his ale and said, ‘Be careful who you allow to purchase your ale. He might expect some sort of repayment.’ The tankard echoed with a hollow thump when he set it down.

She tensed, certain that he was about to walk away and she would miss her opportunity. They had failed in their attempt to find out where he had secured lodgings. It was entirely possible he would go upstairs or bed down in the common room and she would not get him alone. Her mind swirling with the possibility of failure, she placed her hand on his arm again. ‘Were my answers repayment enough or were you expecting more?’

Annis had never played the seductress in her life, not even with her husband, but she had to do it. Her thumb stroked against the inside of his wrist. She allowed her gaze to trace lazily across his features, as if she were anticipating him asking for more.

Leaning down to be closer to her, the Norseman spoke and his breath brushed across her cheek. ‘Finish your ale, woman, before you take on more than you can handle.’

‘You never answered my question.’ When he raised a brow, she asked again. ‘Are you alone?’ It was a valid question. She needed to know if anyone would miss him. Cedric and his men hadn’t yet been able to figure out if he was travelling with companions.

‘Am I with a woman?’ He tossed her response back at her with a teasing gleam in his eyes. ‘There is no woman.’

‘Not even at home?’

The glimmer of dark humour flickered out. ‘I have no home.’

‘Then you’ve come to Glannoventa to stay?’

He shook his head and glanced to the table where the men’s voices had grown louder. ‘Passing through.’

Before she could respond to that, someone dragged the hood down off her head. She turned to face a man she did not recognise. He was likely a fisherman. The stench of fish rose off him and a few scales clung to his shirt sleeve. Instead of letting her go, he twisted the fabric of the hood in his fist. Her palm itched to grab the dagger at her hip, but she didn’t want to reveal its presence.

Towering over her while giving her a lascivious grin, he asked, ‘You alone, wench?’

‘Release my cloak.’ Her words came out with the full authority she had accumulated over her years as the Lady of Mulcasterhas.

Both the fisherman and the Norseman paused in obvious shock. Her assailant recovered quickly and gave her a crude grin as he realised she must be alone since no one had stood up to challenge him. He opened his mouth to speak, but that was as far as he got before the Norseman stepped forward and grabbed him by his throat. A choking sound was the only thing she heard. She gasped at how quickly the Norseman had moved and she jumped back, dropping her ale on to the straw-covered floor.

Across the room, Alder, her most trusted warrior, stood, but she quickly shook her head to warn him away. The Norseman had things under control. The fisherman had released her and was now grabbing the Norseman’s arm with both hands to loosen his grip. The tips of his toes worked for purchase on the floor, but it was clearly a fight he was losing.

‘Leave here.’ The Norseman spoke with a calmness that belied the fact that he was in the process of strangling a man.

The man gave a jerky nod as well as he was able and found himself immediately released. He sank to the floor, gasping for breath, before finding his feet and disappearing through the crowd.

‘We need to go, too.’ The Norseman’s gaze took in the room, as if expecting the man’s friends to make themselves known.

She nodded and stepped over her fallen tankard as he took her arm to lead her outside. This was not how she had planned to get him to leave with her, but she would not argue if it got him out the door.

‘Where are you staying the night?’ he asked once they were outside. The tavern’s door closed behind them with a hearty thud, muffling the voices inside. He showed no intention of releasing her and she didn’t care. This was playing right into her plans of getting him alone.

The cold air caressing her face was a welcome change from the almost stifling heat inside. Her breath made a cloud of mist as she said, ‘I am not certain I should tell you.’

Tilting his head down, he asked, ‘Do you think I would save you inside the tavern only to ravish you now?’

‘Perhaps you simply do not like to share.’ Despite her words, she started walking down the cobblestone path that led through the village and past the docks and shops. A few of her men were waiting there where it was darker and no one could see them overtake him. A twinge of guilt pulled at the edge of her mind. It didn’t help that she was starting to like him a little.

‘Besides,’ she added with a smirk when he fell into step beside her, ‘you did not save me. I told you I was perfectly capable of handling myself.’

‘Yes, I heard your strongly worded request. It was terrifying.’

Despite herself, she laughed out loud at his dry tone. He spoke as if he was in on their game and more than happy to spar with her. ‘It was an order and a warning. Had he not listened, I would have followed up with a well-placed knee to his groin.’

‘He would have blocked you,’ he said as his gaze moved from one shadow to the next, alert to the possibility of an attacker. This man was a seasoned warrior and she would do well to not underestimate him.

To keep him talking and hopefully distract him from the fact that Alder almost certainly followed them, she asked, ‘Why do you think so?’

His hand tightened gently on her arm, careful not to hurt her, and he gestured to her clothing with his other one. ‘The wool of your skirts. They’re too heavy. He would have likely brought his own knee up faster than yours and, on the chance he could not due to his inebriated state, the blow would have been far less effective than you intended.’

Annis had lived in the household of her father-in-law since the age of eight. Having no surviving daughters of his own and a wife who had died soon after Annis’s arrival, Wilfrid had been at a loss as to how to raise a girl. But he was not a man given to defeat or neglect, so he had more or less raised her as one of his own sons. She had been allowed lessons in combat which had included blade skills and fighting. She had grown up confident in her ability to protect herself. Perhaps too confident, because she had never once considered that her heavier winter wool might be a hindrance.

‘I really do not think—’ Her words broke off as he grabbed her about the waist and whirled. She ended up with her back against the plaster wall of a shop that had long been closed for the night with him towering over her.

‘Try it.’ One corner of his mouth tilted in a dare.

She was suddenly very glad for the full moon above him. Though there was some cloud cover, the light that did break through was enough to allow her to see him. Her stomach gave a little flip of excitement at the way he looked at her. His gaze was hot and alive with excitement. Whether it was from his game or his interest in her, she didn’t know. ‘I cannot.’

‘Do it.’

‘I could hurt you.’

He gave a quick shake of his head and said with an infuriating grin, ‘You could never hurt me.’

It was a taunt, plain and simple, said to spur her into action. Part of her despised how easily she rose to the bait, while the other part of her simply wanted to prove him wrong. That turned out to be the stronger part, because she reared back and brought her knee up. He blocked her and twisted her so that her back was against his front, her hands pressed against the wall.

‘Do you see?’ he said against her ear.

A pleasant shiver ran down her neck. ‘I see.’ She gave a jerky nod as much to dislodge the unfamiliar feeling as to acknowledge him.

‘You would do much better to use your weapon straight away in situations like those.’

‘What if I don’t carry a weapon?’

She swallowed a gasp when his hand moved over her hip and to her waist. ‘But you do,’ he said, his fingers touching the hilt of the dagger.

Despite her misstep tonight, she was still confident that she could have levelled that man had she been pressed to do so. Instead of saying that, she turned in his arms to face him. A little surprised when he didn’t immediately release her, her words came out slightly breathlessly. ‘Why do you care?’

He stared down at her. ‘I don’t.’

She smiled as he was obviously lying. ‘I think you do.’

Her smile faded when his gaze slipped down to her mouth. The air between them changed immediately, as if even it was aware of what was happening between them and had slowed down to take notice, thickening and pressing in close. His grip had somehow softened at her waist even though he still held her quite firmly. And while his eyes were alert, there was a slumberous quality about them now as if he were thinking of what it would be like to kiss her.

Her lips parted as his head tilted the tiniest bit. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware of the echo of boots on cobblestone, but it hardly signified. Her mind went dim as he leaned closer, easily consuming her attention, unexpectedly wanting his kiss more than she had wanted anything in a very long time. Except at that moment, the clatter of swords and boots became too loud to ignore.

The Norseman whirled, keeping her at his back to face the men. A small part of her sighed in relief when she saw Alder and his men spread out before them in a half circle. A larger part of her bemoaned the fact that they had come at precisely the wrong time. A moment sooner and that almost kiss would not have happened. A moment later and she would at least know the pressure of his lips on hers.

‘Draw your dagger,’ the Norseman commanded without looking back at her. The whisper of his own twin blades being pulled from their leather sheaths accompanied his words.

She drew it slowly, as guilt once more made itself known. He didn’t know. He was bent on protecting her still, not even realising that she was about to betray him.

‘These men are not friends of that man at the tavern,’ she said.

He turned his head partially towards her while keeping them in his sight. ‘Thieves, then?’

She slipped away before he could react, moving towards the group. ‘Not thieves,’ she said, turning to face him.

He understood then. For one moment before the fury took over, the hurt of betrayal flashed in his eyes.

Alder took advantage of his distraction and cracked him across the back of his skull with the hilt of his blade. The Norseman crumbled to a heap on the stones.

Despite the fact that she told herself she did this to protect them all from him, watching him fall very nearly broke her heart.

Chapter Two

Rurik opened his eyes to blackness. The complete absence of light was like waking up in the dark, rank depths of the earth. He blinked, wondering briefly if he had gone blind, but it did not help. The air was heavy and still, the silence so complete that it gave rise to a roaring in his ears. Had he died and been condemned to this fate of nothing? The idea brought with it a swell of panic that tightened his lungs and made the air too heavy to breathe.

He tightened his fists and the tips of his short fingernails bit into the heel of his hand, the pain bringing back rational thought. No, he was not dead. Captured, but not dead. He had awakened several times in the back of a wagon, but had almost immediately fallen back into unconsciousness. Anger at the turn of events threatened to overtake him, but he managed to keep a hold on it. Fear and rash impulses would not help him. His father’s blood ran strong in his veins and it often urged him to act on his fury. He’d had years to practise keeping it contained and he would continue to control it in death if need be.

Taking several deep breaths, he dared not move until he knew exactly what he was up against. Subtle shapes and shadows incrementally revealed themselves to him as he lay still. The sweet scent of fresh straw met his nose while he became aware of a few pieces poking him in his back. The pleasing smell could not, however, cover up the rank and stagnant air of the mysterious place. There was no way to be certain of how long he had lain there, but already a chill had settled deep into his bones. Now that the panic and roaring had subsided somewhat, he could hear that there was a constant dripping of water in the near distance. He must be underground.

Had the Saxons buried him alive in the depths of a crypt?

As his eyes slowly adjusted to the near absence of light, the craggy nooks and jagged points of the stone wall at his side came into focus and he knew that he was right. This was not one of the wattle-and-daub buildings he had seen in the village. He was underground.

He sat up and lifted a hand to the pounding at the back of his head. The clanging of the chain registered almost as quickly as the weight of the cuff pulling at his wrist. Letting out a low curse that seemed overly loud in the deathly silence of the chamber, he switched to his other hand. The place where he had been struck on his head was tender, but thank the gods his fingers did not come back sticky with blood. There was no open wound to contend with.

Reasonably certain that he would live, though for how long he had no idea, Rurik rose. His bare feet encountered the cold floor as a wave of dizziness overcame him, so he put a hand out to the slimy wall to keep himself upright. His stomach churned and his mouth tasted bitter. In the moments before he had been attacked, he had felt off balance and nearly giddy. Some part of him had worried that those reactions had been because of the woman. Now he understood that he had been poisoned. The sweet and bitter taste of the ale had included an elixir meant to unsettle him.

It had made him lower his guard so well that he had nearly kissed the wench against the wall where anyone could have overtaken him—and had. It was a relief to know that it wasn’t she who had made him forget himself, but the potion. The knowledge still rankled, but it was better than the alternative. Rurik was not Danr, who had a habit of forgetting himself where women were concerned.

There came a scraping sound, like iron being dragged over stone, followed by the brisk scrape of a boot. He immediately reached for his knife, habit overcoming the knowledge that it had been taken from him. He cursed inwardly at its absence. The bone-handled knife had been handed down to him from his mother, the only remnant of his Irish heritage he had. Drawing himself up, Rurik waited for his jailer to approach, even his toes tensed in anticipation against the cold floor. Though the large clasps holding his fur to his tunic at the shoulders were missing, his fur had been left for him. He soundlessly dropped it to the ground, wanting his arms and hands free should he need to defend himself.

The flickering glow from an oil lamp revealed the vertical bars keeping him inside moments before the woman appeared. He recognised the wench from the tavern immediately. She wore the same violet cloak as before, only the hood was pushed down so it lay on her back. The tavern’s light had been dim at best, revealing what he had thought to be highlights of russet in her hair, but with the full light of the lamp upon it, he could see that she was auburn haired. The tresses were nearly as bright as the flame.

The moments before he had been hit were a blur and he hadn’t been certain if the memory of her walking to join the men had been a true one. He had a particular dislike of liars. He had been surrounded by liars his entire life. His own father was one of the best he had ever known, never telling his twin sons the truth of their birthright, that King Feann was indeed their uncle. He’d had to learn that bit of information from King Feann himself after confronting him about the massacre. In the years since the wedding, Rurik had added betrayers to his list of dislikes. To arrive as a friend only to wreak destruction was a cowardly act.

This woman was both a liar and a betrayer. She had pretended to be a seductress to lure him outside all while she had been plotting his destruction. She had known his attackers. She had moved to join their ranks just before their leader had delivered the blow that had sent him hurtling into darkness.

‘I am glad to see you awake,’ the woman said, with no hint of her earlier friendliness.

‘You might have ordered your men not to bash my head if you wanted me awake.’ His voice was low and hardly able to contain his anger. She gave a slight wince at his words, but it might just as easily have been an effect of the flickering light.

‘It was necessary to get you here,’ she said.

A quick survey revealed that he was surrounded by stones on three sides. The width was barely enough to allow him to lie down. The iron bars made up the fourth side and they were placed close together so he had no hope of ever squeezing through them. The ceiling was so low that had he been any taller he would have had to stoop to stand upright. It was a cage for an animal and he was the animal trapped inside.

‘How long have I been here?’ Low-burning fury gave his voice a smoky rasp that fairly trembled with his effort to keep it under control.

‘Not very long. It’s not yet morning.’ Her voice was strong as her gaze held his. She seemed unaffected by the anger in his.

He hoped the fact that he was nearly recovered meant his head injury was not severe. ‘You would do well to let me go.’

‘If you answer my questions truthfully, then perhaps I will have no reason to keep you.’

He stalked closer to the bars, hoping to intimidate her by his larger size. ‘You don’t think I’ve come alone, do you? My men will know that you have taken me. They will come for me.’

It was not even remotely true. His misguided pride had sent him out on this quest alone and now he was paying the price for such a brash decision. King Feann had offered to send men with him in an effort to assuage his own guilt for his part in the massacre. Rurik had not been prepared to accept his help. The sting of Sigurd’s impulsiveness running in his blood had never been felt as strongly as it did now.

She shrugged, appearing unconcerned. ‘Your men are not a problem.’

Changing tactics, he asked, ‘Where am I?’

‘Mulcasterhas.’ Giving him a little smile, she added, ‘Isn’t that where you wanted to be? I’m told you were asking many questions about my home.’

Mulcasterhas was the home of Wilfrid, the Lord of Glannoventa. Rurik and Alarr had spent the past months in Éireann, getting close to King Feann of Killcobar to question him about leading the attack on their family. While the King had admitted his part—that he had gone to Maerr to avenge his sister who had been taken years ago by Sigurd—he had not been the one to deliver the death blow to their father. His confession had revealed that this man named Wilfrid had been involved. Alarr had stayed behind in Éireann with his new wife, Feann’s foster daughter, while Rurik had come alone to seek vengeance against Wilfrid, a man he did not know but already despised immensely.

‘You are Annis.’ Since arriving earlier that day, he had learned from the villagers that Wilfrid’s only son had long been dead, but that he had a daughter.

Lady Annis.’

It might have been unintentional, but her chin moved up a notch and her eyes flashed with indignation. Her eyes were dark and striking against her pale skin. With finely arched cheekbones and a delicate chin, she was as lovely as he had thought her to be at the tavern, but now she seemed to have a thread of iron running through her, where before she had been more yielding. A ruse, no doubt, to lure him in for her scheme. She was anything but yielding.

Anger simmered to the surface at the look she gave him. How dare she appear so arrogant when her own father had likely been the one to kill his father? ‘I have no trouble with you, Lady Annis. My trouble is with your father. Send him to me!’ It was impossible to keep his voice from rising on that last demand.

‘Wilfrid is my father-in-law and I will not simply turn him over to you. You are a prisoner and are in no position to make demands, Norseman.’ Her voice cracked like a whip through the heavy air.

The chain bound to his right arm stopped him from reaching the bars, but if he angled his body just right he could reach them with his left. So that was what he did. His fist curved around the cold bar and he pulled himself as close to her as he could get. To her credit, she didn’t back away. Whether she had done this standoff a number of times with other prisoners, or if she simply knew he had no hope of reaching her no matter how hard he tried, he didn’t know. But his grudging respect for her moved up a notch. There were many men who had crumpled beneath the withering heat of his anger. It was the one trick he had learned from his father that he found useful.

‘Any man who would send a woman to fight his battles for him is no man at all. I demand to see Wilfrid. Send him to me or kill me now, because I will not resort to using a woman as my messenger.’

If it was possible, the fire in her eyes turned into a full blaze. ‘Then you are free to rot down here as long as it takes for you to lower yourself to speak to a woman. There is a bucket of water and a bucket for your necessaries. Enjoy the rest of your day.’

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