Saved by the Viking Warrior. Michelle StylesЧитать онлайн книгу.
wonder. ‘Speculation serves no one. Our first duty is fulfilling our oath to my late helmsman, Sven, and ensuring his child will want for nothing. We gave our oaths on his deathbed. First the child and then...perhaps...once we have returned to Jorvik and the Storting is finished.’
‘What do we do with her? Leave her for the eagles? Or put her in the pit with the rest?’ one of his men called. ‘They were far from kind to this one.’
Thrand stared at the woman’s mutilated body with distaste. It reminded him of Ingrid, the woman who had caused him to betray his family and who had ended up murdered. One more crime to make sure Hagal was punished for. A senseless, wasteful crime. ‘Lay out the dead before burial while I check to see if any more bodies are about. There may be some clue I missed. And we want to make sure we don’t have to dig two pits.’
He left his men to their task. With a drawn sword, he went into the woods, circling about the site. He forced his mind to concentrate on the task rather than revisiting long-ago crimes. Any little signs which might give him a clue to where the attackers went, or if any of the party had survived.
He pressed his hands to his eyes. ‘Come on, Thrand Ammundson. What are you missing? Concentrate instead of remembering the long dead.’
When he approached the end of his circuit, he noticed scattered bluebells rapidly wilting in the warm afternoon. Someone else had been there. The dead woman? Or...?
He frowned, annoyed with himself for not immediately considering it. Details mattered. High-born Northumbrian ladies always travelled with at least one female companion.
Someone had survived. Someone who could bear witness to what happened here. Someone who could speak in the king’s court and condemn Hagal. He gave a nod. The gods had finally given him his chance if he could get the creature to Jorvik alive.
Moving slowly and paying attention to little clues on the ground—a broken twig here, a scattered flower there—Thrand followed the woman’s trail. He discovered a hollow where she must have hidden for a while. There was evidence of other feet as well. Kneeling down, he felt the soil. Cold. The attack had been this morning, so she could not be far...if she had survived.
He spied a single wilting bluebell on the far edge of the glade.
‘Where are you? Come out! I’m here to help!’
The only sound was the wind in the trees.
He frowned, drew his sword and slowly picked his way through the undergrowth, looking for more signs. The trail was easier as if the woman had ceased to care about being followed. The far-off howl of a wolf pierced the stillness. Wolf or Hagal’s men? He knew the sort of death he’d prefer. With a wolf, the woman stood a chance of a quick death.
He entered a clearing where gigantic oak and ash spread their bare branches upward. A shaft of sunlight cut through the gloom, highlighting the strands of golden hair which had escaped from the woman’s coarse dark-brown cloak as she tried to free the fabric from a thorn bush. Her fine gown was immediately obvious.
Thrand breathed easier. The woman remained alive. He sheathed his sword.
‘Are you hurt?’
She glanced up with frightened eyes, eyes which matched the few bluebells she still carried and pressed closer to the thorn bush. The cloak opened slightly, revealing a gold-embroidered burgundy gown. Her long blonde hair had come loose and tumbled about her shoulders like spun gold.
Thrand whistled under his breath. He found it hard to remember the last time he’d seen a woman that beautiful.
Had Hagal finally made a mistake after all this time?
He held out his hand and tried for a gentle approach rather than his usual brusque manner. ‘I come in peace. I’ve no wish to harm you. What happened back there? Back with the cart?’
She gave an inarticulate moan, redoubled her efforts to free herself from the bush. The cloak tore and she started to run. Thrand crossed the glade to her before she had gone three steps. He caught her shoulders and gave her a little shake.
‘If you run, you die. These woods are no place for a lone woman.’ He examined the fine bones and delicate features of her face. She came up to his chin. Most women barely reached his shoulder. ‘Particularly not one who is gently bred.’
He allowed his hands to drop to his side and waited. Had his words penetrated her shocked brain?
Her tongue wet her lips, turning them the colour of drops of blood on snow. ‘I’m already dead, Norseman. Here or elsewhere—what does it matter?’
‘Are you injured? Did they hurt you? How did you escape?’
She slowly shook her head and started to back away. In another heartbeat she’d run. Thrand silently swore. He did not have time to spend chasing this woman through the forest.
‘Do you want to live?’ he ground out. ‘Simple choice.’
She stopped, hesitating. ‘I...I...’
Forget gentleness. He had tried. The Northumbrian woman was stubborn beyond all reason. Action was required. He reached out and grabbed her wrist.
‘You come with me.’ He pinned her with his gaze. ‘Whatever happened to you before, know that you belong to me hereafter. I’m your master now.’
You belong to me. I’m your master. The words reverberated through her brain. Cwenneth stared at the large Norseman warrior who held her wrist captive, hating him. After all she’d survived today, she’d ended up a slave to an unknown Norseman. And she knew what they were capable of.
Surely it would have been better to die a quick death at Narfi’s hands than to suffer this...this torture!
She had been a fool to trust Hagal the Red and his promises in the marriage contract. She had been a fool to flee from her hiding place at the sound of this man’s voice. She had been a fool to try to undo the cloak when it became entangled on the thorn bush.
Time to start using her mind instead of panicking like a scared rabbit! Aefirth would have wanted her to.
‘I belong to no man, particularly not a Norseman.’ Cwenneth brought her hand down sharply and twisted. ‘I will never be a slave. Ever.’
He released her so abruptly that she stumbled backwards and fell on her bottom, revealing more than she would have liked of her legs. Cwenneth hastily smoothed her skirts down.
‘That’s better,’ she said in her most imperious voice, playing for time and ignoring the way her insides did a little flutter at his intense look. ‘Keep your hands to yourself in the future.’
‘If you want a race, so be it, but I will win.’ The planes of his face hardened to pure stone. ‘You are welcome to try. I will catch you before you go ten steps. And my mood will be less generous.’
He reached down and raised her up. His hand lingered lightly on her shoulder, restraining her.
‘Will you strike me down if I run?’ Cwenneth whispered. She’d survived Narfi, only to be killed for sport by this man? Her limbs tensed, poised for renewed flight, but she forced her legs to remain still.
‘Where is the challenge in killing women?’ he responded gravely. ‘I’m a warrior who fights other warriors. Playing games of chase with a beautiful woman will have to wait for another day. I’ve other things to attend to. Give me your word that you will come meekly and I’ll release your arm. Otherwise, I will bind you.’
Cwenneth concentrated on breathing evenly. Playing games of chase, indeed! As if she was some maid flirting with him in the Lingwold physic garden! She was a widow whose heart had been buried with her late husband and son.
She clung on to her temper and did not slap his face. This was about survival until she