In Bed With The Viking Warrior
In Bed With The Viking Warrior
Harper St. George
‘I still don’t know who I am…what if I’m an enemy?’Injured in battle, Magnus awakens with no memory of who he is. Knowing he is in danger, he flees…only to encounter a Saxon maiden in peril.Aisly hates the Danes who invaded her land and killed her husband. Yet, when a mysterious wounded warrior saves her life, she cannot turn her back on him. As Aisly tends to Magnus’s injuries, desire surges between them. But when Magnus’s true identity is revealed, she’s thrown into turmoil – she has invited her enemy into her bed!
“I still don’t know who I am... What if I’m an enemy?”
Injured in battle, Magnus awakens with no memory of who he is. Knowing he is in danger, he flees...only to encounter a Saxon maiden in peril.
Aisly hates the Danes who invaded her land and killed her husband. Yet, when a mysterious wounded warrior saves her life, she cannot turn her back on him. As Aisly tends to Magnus’s injuries, desire surges between them. But when Magnus’s true identity is revealed, she’s thrown into turmoil—she has invited her enemy into her bed!
Parting her lips just a little, she pressed them to his. His lips were soft.
But then his hands were on her shoulders and he gently pushed her away.
In that horrifying moment Aisly realised that she had completely misread his attention.
‘I want to. You’re so lovely. But it wouldn’t be fair.’
His voice was so gentle and his eyes so soft that she wanted to run and hide. The way her body was responding to him was nothing but wrong. And yet for some strange reason she felt close to this foreigner, closer than she’d felt to anyone in a long time. She was just so lonely. That was why.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, and moved back a little.
He caught her wrist before she could get far. ‘Never apologise for touching me.’
It wasn’t an admonishment, precisely. His voice was warm, and if she didn’t know better—he was an injured man—it was textured with longing.
Author Note (#ueb660f24-3297-5ef3-a64d-afced7a05d48)
Some books start with a character or an event in history. Some start with a ‘what if…?’ This is a ‘what if…?’ story. What if two people meet and fall madly in love, neither of them knowing that they are supposed to be enemies? What if by the time they do find out it’s too late to change their minds and hearts but the world wants to keep them apart?
This is how Magnus and Aisly’s story started for me. Magnus is a noble warrior, bound by his duty but with a soft heart. The last thing he needs is a woman who challenges that loyalty. Aisly is focused and fiercely independent, and has already been burned by one bad relationship. The last thing she needs is another man in her life. Yet from almost the first moment they meet they recognise a part of themselves in the other. They’ll have to work through their own insecurities, whilst the world tries to keep them apart, to find their happily-ever-after.
I hope you enjoy reading their romance as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you so much for reading.
In Bed with the Viking Warrior
Harper St. George
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
HARPER ST. GEORGE was raised in rural Alabama and along the tranquil coast of northwest Florida. It was this setting, filled with stories of the old days, that instilled in her a love of history, romance and adventure. At high school she discovered the romance novel, which combined all of those elements into one perfect package. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband and two young children. Visit her website: harperstgeorge.com (http://www.harperstgeorge.com).
Books by Harper St George
Mills & Boon Historical Romance
Viking Warriors
Enslaved by the Viking
One Night with the Viking
In Bed with the Viking Warrior
Outlaws of the Wild West
The Innocent and the Outlaw
Digital Short Stories
His Abductor’s Desire
Her Forbidden Gunslinger
Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk..
For my parents. Thanks for all the babysitting so I could get this book finished!
As always, thank you to Tara Wyatt and Erin Moore for being there for me when the writing gets hard. Thank you to Brenna Mills for reading my unpolished drivel. Special thanks to Michelle Styles for her advice and sharing her historical knowledge. You all are the best. I can’t even say how much I appreciate the help.
And a big thank you to my editor Kathryn Cheshire for helping this story shine!
Contents
Cover (#u535cd731-fdc8-5318-a299-cb2d0d0addb6)
Back Cover Text (#udcbd57c0-37a5-50f0-98c1-0d7efc294054)
Introduction (#u13bd7780-b2f7-5e50-a4de-51b16a26a677)
Author Note (#ua40f413b-829c-5da2-948c-be8ac7ec0b3e)
Title Page (#u66922b5b-d2bb-516b-9385-214521fe4c30)
About the Author (#u352fb37a-25bd-5321-8593-06024a917be1)
Dedication (#u2efe59df-ac24-5992-9b16-4e10f2782842)
Chapter One (#u2635c307-97d6-5458-8dbc-32a6cd311fc2)
Chapter Two (#u8d50c7f1-29b4-5111-af94-30f0a522a257)
Chapter Three (#u1c3ef839-3585-57a3-b50f-c8453c605143)
Chapter Four (#u00b70b6c-e233-518a-a039-e0f2e79ce336)
Chapter Five (#ub4489ffd-5215-513d-803c-f6b18628752e)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ueb660f24-3297-5ef3-a64d-afced7a05d48)
Smoke filled his nose, burning his lungs as he breathed it in, almost suffocating him until he blew it out in a long wheeze that left him dizzy and nauseated. But his body was so starved for air that he breathed in again almost immediately. A cough tore through his chest, wrenching him sideways, though he could barely move because his arms were caught under an unidentified weight. Slowly he opened his eyes, the heaviness of an extremely long sleep making even that simple task difficult and causing his head to feel muddled and full of cobwebs.
An orange blaze filled his vision and he closed his eyes against the sharp pain that stabbed through his temple. Belatedly, he became aware of the heat warming his body, almost blistering in its intensity because he was far too close to the fire. Turning his head away, he forced his eyes open again only to stare into a pair of grotesque eyes, their lids open wide, the irises clouded over, unseeing. Dead eyes. He’d seen dead eyes before. A tangled memory of dead bodies came to him. He moved his head away as far as his body would allow to see the rest of the face. The head’s mouth was open in a silent scream.
He opened his own mouth to call to someone, but nothing came out save a hoarse cry of anguish. He jerked back but was caught by that same unidentifiable weight as before. Only now he knew. Now, as he looked around him, as he took in the sheer magnitude of the eyes staring at him, he knew what that weight was.
He was in a death pile. Slain warriors had been stripped of their clothing, their identity, and piled high to be burned. It would save the hassle of burying the bodies and keep the vultures at bay.
He had no memory of how he’d come to be here. No memory of a battle and he didn’t recognise the men. The only thing he knew with any real certainty was that he wasn’t dead, but he would be if he didn’t get away. Wrenching hard on his arm, he managed to pull it free from the man lying on it. The force of the movement made him roll to the side, landing in a heap on the dirt next to the bodies. He lay there for a moment, fingers pressed to the ground as he tried to get his bearings.
Taking stock of his body, he made sure that all of his limbs were in good working order. Aside from some scratches, everything seemed to work. He was nude, but he’d have to deal with that later. It hurt to breathe, though. Now that he was opposite the fire, he could take his first breath of fresh air. It still burned going in. Pushing himself up to his knees, he groaned as a wave of pain moved through his head. His hand went to his forehead and found a crusty gash there. The blood had matted in his hair.
He pulled his hand away and the world went dim before it tilted and started to spin. He had to press a hand back to the ground to stop himself from toppling over. Now that he was aware of the injury, a constant pounding had begun in his skull and wouldn’t let up. A wave of nausea moved through him and he groaned as he fell forward, retching into the dirt. Nothing but bile came up.
He ran a hand over his chest and it felt grainy, as if his skin was covered in a fine powder. Bringing his fingers to his nose, he smelled cold ashes. How long had he been asleep? What battle had got him here? Trying to remember only made his head feel clouded and dark, so he stopped trying to remember. Ignoring the lurch in his belly, he forced his head up to look around the clearing just to make sure no one was there. Right now he needed to get to safety. Whoever was in charge of these bodies probably wouldn’t be happy to see him alive when they returned.
A path led away from the fire through the trees. He’d go the opposite way, through the forest, and put as much distance as he could between himself and this certain death. But he couldn’t stop himself from taking one last look at the dead. If he’d battled with them, one of them should at least look familiar, but he didn’t recognise any of the faces he could see. They were strangers. Walking around the pile of men—there were at least a score of them, maybe more—prodding as he went, he hoped one of them would still be alive, but their flesh had already hardened.
Dead flesh. Dead eyes. There was nothing but death here.
Glancing around the clearing again, he saw nothing he could take with him. Their clothing had all been taken, burned probably or scavenged by the victors. There were no weapons. The large fire caught his gaze again, the bright light making his eyes water.
Turning, he made his way through the woods, stumbling from tree to tree as he fought to keep himself upright. His legs were weak and he was having trouble keeping his balance, probably from the head wound. He needed to find somewhere safe to rest for a couple of days. And he needed water to cure his parched throat.
The night was cloudy, obscuring the stars from him. Not that it mattered. He didn’t know where to go, where he’d come from, his own name. Trying to call up memories left him with a dark void. Frustration threatened to make his head pound harder, but he pushed the thoughts away. Right now he needed to find safety to recover. The rest would come once he’d had a chance to heal. It had to.
Up ahead the sound of water rushing over rock made his heart pick up speed in his chest and his legs gained new strength as he followed the sound. The back of his throat tingled at the very thought of water as his legs powered him forward to reach it. Pushing away from the final large oak that bordered the stream, he slid down the muddy embankment and landed in the stream, the smooth pebbles at the bottom biting into the soles of his feet. He lunged face forward into the stream, drinking in the cool water as if he hadn’t had a drink in years.
Even though it was cold, it burned going down and he tasted smoke. Before he could stop it or fight against it, his stomach heaved, expelling the water and leaving him in a knot of agony, his hands pressed to his head as the world swam around him. Falling back against the bank of the stream, he lay still, the water freezing as it knifed through his flesh, but he was afraid that the cold was the only thing keeping him conscious, so he wouldn’t chance leaving it just yet. When he opened his eyes, blackness hung around the periphery of his vision, but he refused to give in to it and forced himself to sit up. This time when he drank, he cupped it in his hands and took small sips, just enough to ease the ache.
‘Halt!’
The word came out of nowhere, splintering his mind with a thousand shards of pain. It was followed by others spoken in a harsh, tangled string that he couldn’t even begin to unravel. A single man ran towards him, emerging from the forest at the exact spot near the ancient oak that he himself had. He must have followed him from the death pile. It was too dark to see clearly, but he was dressed in a dark-coloured tunic, with a sword held in both hands across the front of his torso.
He had no choice but to fight the man, but with no weapon, armour or even clothing, he was at a distinct disadvantage. Rising to his feet, he gritted his teeth, determined to keep himself steady as he backed into the stream to lure the man down the embankment. There was no way he could fight an opponent with a sword barehanded on solid ground and win, especially not while injured. The freezing water came up to mid-thigh, where he stopped, daring the man to come forward.
The man stopped at the edge of the water, sword raised high, but still too far away to pose an immediate threat should he choose to attempt a strike. He spoke again, this time slower and with venom. It took a moment for his mind to catch up to the words, especially because the man spoke them in a way that sounded wrong. With an accent. ‘You die tonight, Magnus. You won’t cheat death again.’
Magnus. His own name? The word was meaningless to him, not causing so much as a flicker of recognition. The gash had addled him...that was certain.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, his own voice rough and unrecognisable. It bothered him how he’d had to turn the words over and over in his mind before speaking them to make sure they’d come out correctly.
The man laughed, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the moon. ‘You’ve gone daft. It’s all right, Magnus. I’ve come to put you down.’
He moved further back into the stream, making his opponent move forward. The man grimaced when the freezing water soaked through his trousers and lunged to try to swipe at him with his sword, saving himself the trouble of walking further into the water. He lunged to the side, but although the move saved him from the sword, it made him dizzy and the world made a horrifying lurch. He grabbed on to the only thing of substance he could find. The man’s wrist.
He yanked, pulling his opponent off his feet and into the water with him. The man still kept his grip on the sword, though, and quickly found purchase on the stream bed in his booted feet, but he swiped out with his leg, catching the man at the bend of his knee. The force toppled them both over, but he quickly gained the upper hand, his grip strong on the man’s wrist to keep the sword from becoming a threat, while pressing his knee into the man’s stomach.
Freeing a hand, the man swiped out with a fist, catching him in his temple just below the gash and opening it up again. Fresh, warm blood poured down into his eye and clouded his vision. The man spoke, but the sound was drowned out by the ringing in his ears. He refused to give in to his weakness, though. This was it. Either he won this fight or his life was over. And he refused to be dragged back to that pile of death.
Letting go of the man, he transferred his grip to the man’s tunic to hold him, then brought his fist back for a well-aimed strike to his nose. The crack of bone and a cry of pain greeted him and on instinct the man dropped his sword. He took the advantage and fell forward, pushing the man underwater. It wasn’t a noble victory, as he’d much rather finish a fight with his fist or a weapon, but already the rush of strength he’d had at the beginning of the fight was beginning to wane. The man fell under his weight, taking in a mouthful of water as he went under. His opponent thrashed and he simply had to hold on until he went limp a few moments later.
His arms were shaking as he dragged the man to shore. If nothing else, he’d solved the problem of his clothing. Taking a moment to clean the stinging blood from his eye, he quickly stripped the man of his tunic and leggings. There was an emblem sewn near the top, a crest of some kind, and he thought he should know what it meant, but he didn’t. Shaking his head, he tamped down his frustration as he retrieved the sword from the bottom of the stream and then donned the clothing. They were snug on him. The tunic pulled too tight across his shoulders and the trousers were a bit short for his liking, but the boots fit well, even soaked through as they were.
Once he was done, he took hold of the man and dragged him back to the stream. Taking a grip on the man’s upper arm, he pulled him floating behind him as he walked downstream. There were bound to be more enemies around from the battle and he needed to at least attempt to hide the body, in case anyone came looking for the man, they wouldn’t be sure of his direction. It would give him a better chance to escape, and if he could stay in the stream as he fled without succumbing to the cold, then they’d never track him.
* * *
He walked for over an hour before his shivering forced him to consider leaving the water. At least the cold had stopped his bleeding. Taking the body to a natural alcove created by two dead trees near shore, he pushed it inside and gave it one last glance. The man’s head was shaved. He touched a hand to his own beard and shoulder-length hair. He should probably cut it. Whoever this man was, whatever his station, he would have to appear to be like him, particularly if he was wearing his clothing. The man’s knife was stashed in his boot. He’d have to take care of that later. Right now he had to get as far away as he could.
He left the stream a little while later when he came to a section of wide, flat rocks that he hoped would hide his footprints from any trackers come morning. Taking one last drink of water, he stepped out on to the shore and made his way into the woods. The night air was freezing now that he was soaked. More reason to keep walking. If he stopped now, as wet as he was, he’d catch his death by morning. The world continued to come in and out of focus for him as he walked, sometimes stumbling into trees and over foliage, sometimes falling to the ground and momentarily losing consciousness only to rouse himself and force his legs to carry him onward.
* * *
Finally, near dawn, his body revolted and he fell to the ground in a heap. When he tried to rise, the ground came crashing up to meet him again and his head cracked against the earth, sending pain splintering through his entire body. He had to rest before he made his injuries worse. Raising his head enough to find a large spruce with limbs low towards the ground, he crawled to it and took cover in the needles. He couldn’t even take the sword from the scabbard across his shoulder as darkness crept over him.
* * *
It seemed he had just closed his eyes when he awoke with a start. His heart threatened to pound out of his chest, but he stayed very still, aware that one wrong move could mean death. Fluttering drew his attention to a bush just past the reaches of the pine’s branches, where two brown finches rolled together briefly in a brawl before one flew off, chased by the other. The sun was high in the sky.
He sighed in relief and lowered his forehead to the ground. He was still in the same position in which he’d collapsed. Dew covered his already soaking wet clothing and his warm breath came out in a puff of vapour as it mixed with the cool air. The first hard freeze was just weeks away, at most. That didn’t leave him very much time to figure out who he was and where he belonged.
Magnus.
The unfamiliar name twisted and turned itself over in his mind, but it wouldn’t stick. If it was his name, wouldn’t he recognise it? Just thinking about it made his head ache even more. Pushing himself to a sitting position, he had to wait for the world to right itself before he could open his eyes. His hand automatically went to the gash on his forehead and he grimaced at how tender and swollen it was. Another knot graced the back of his head, thanks to his fall. There was nothing he could do for the wounds now, though, not when there was every chance he was being chased by his captors.
His fingers moved to the tangled mess of hair. It was caked with blood and fell past his shoulders. If he came upon anyone, he couldn’t risk looking like a wild marauder covered with blood, so he’d have to cut it. All of the men in the death pile had longer hair and beards. Pulling the knife from the strap on his borrowed boots, he set about sawing through the length of his hair. It fell away in dark blond strands turned red with blood. When that was done, he scraped away his beard, though he wasn’t able to make it a close shave with the crude knife.
On shaking legs, he made his way back to the stream and took a long drink before dousing his head with the cold water until much of the remaining blood had been washed away. He couldn’t risk getting himself too clean and reopening the wounds. He needed all of his strength to get away.
Drawing in a shaking breath, he rose to his feet and entered the icy depths of the stream. If they found his tracks leading to the tree, perhaps they’d continue onward in that direction in their search for him.
* * *
He continued in the stream throughout the rest of the day, only getting out when he couldn’t bear its cold any longer. When night fell, he found another tree and collapsed in exhaustion. He needed food, but that would be a task for tomorrow.
Chapter Two (#ueb660f24-3297-5ef3-a64d-afced7a05d48)
Aisly blinked back the threat of tears and attacked the dirt again with her spade, attempting to uproot the larkspur. The stubborn thing refused to break free of the soil. She’d already been gone for a large portion of the morning, and with the long trek back home, she didn’t have time to waste. The girls should almost be finished with the vestment hems she’d left them. The thick cord-and-line pattern was one they had mastered months ago, but if she didn’t get back soon, her young apprentices would be out playing in the morning sun and she’d never get them back inside to finish their work. A whole day would be lost.
A whole day she couldn’t afford to lose, because she’d be late on the order. The abbess was already fond of implying that Aisly’s charges bordered on sinfulness, even suggesting that a more devout woman might view it as a privilege to do God’s work for the abbey. She’d have no qualms about deducting for tardiness. Aisly didn’t know if her embroidery qualified as God’s work. She simply knew that it was her only means to earn a living. A means that was closer to slipping away from her with every day that passed.
That was the real reason for her tears, the reason she hacked at the root viciously until it finally gave way, causing her to fall backward with a thud. The real reason she’d had to come into the forest today, instead of waiting until the commission was finished. She hadn’t wanted anyone to see her tears. Her menses had begun that morning, a reminder that there would be no child, nothing at all to bind her to the home she had grown to love and to depend on for her livelihood. Nothing at all to keep her father-in-law from evicting her from her late husband’s home. There had been a marriage agreement giving her the right to her home. She had signed it the day she married him with Lord Oswine looking on, but she hadn’t found it in Godric’s things. Without Wulfric’s generosity, or a child to bind her to the property, she’d be homeless and without a means to earn a living.
Gathering her composure, she searched amongst the foliage for her discarded knapsack. Tears were foolishness that accomplished nothing, so she did her best to blink them back. It didn’t bear thinking about Godric’s dreadful father following through on his threat. Not yet anyway. She had months before he could even attempt it and there was no reason to believe that the elders would agree with him.
Even if the elders did agree with him, they would have to sway Lord Oswine. After her parents had died of ague, he had become the guardian of Aisly and her brother. Though the guardianship had meant they’d been more like servants than his children, he’d taken his responsibility for them very seriously. He’d attended her wedding and had overseen the signing of the contract.
Finding the hide bag amongst the dead leaves on the ground, she stuffed the plant inside and tied the drawstring. It was probably foolish to try to take the plant home and hope it took root, but she needed it so that she could practise dyeing her thread come the spring. It would save her coin if she could dye her own. Tying the spade to the knotted belt at her waist, she retrieved Godric’s old sword from the ground beside her and set off for home.
The cold metal beneath her fingers made her feel secure in a way her late husband never had, though it was only the sword he’d used as a boy, not the sword he’d used as a warrior. That sword had been confiscated by the Danes when he’d gone to talk with them at their settlement and been killed. A move that had cost her their savings when the Danes had come to demand recompense for the fire he’d allegedly set that had destroyed a few of their houses. She’d even had to give them her tapestries, the wool in storage and most of her sheep when her coin hadn’t been enough. The sheep had been the least of her worries, at least she still had milk, but the wool had been put aside so that she could weave cloth through the winter to sell in the spring. That had stung.
Yet it was the loss of the tapestries that hurt the most. Her mother had made them. Though her mother had been a well-known embroideress in the villages surrounding Heiraford, and the tapestries were worth quite a bit of coin, Aisly missed them because they’d been the only reminder she had of her mother. Having lost her at the age of eight, her thoughts of the woman were sometimes clouded. The only true memories she had were the hours spent learning the stitches from her mother’s patient hand, and then after her death attempting to recreate the embroidery in those tapestries. Then one day the Danes had come and taken that last connection to her mother. There had been no warning, just a brutal knock on her door one morning telling her what her husband had done and that he was dead. Moments later they’d taken what had been most precious to her.
Some days she almost felt remorse that she mourned the tapestries more than her own husband. Life as a widow was infinitely better than life as Godric’s wife. A few weeks of freedom and she’d already vowed to herself that she’d never marry again and suffer under the rule of another tyrant. To keep that vow she’d have to learn to protect herself. Her brother, Alstan, was one of Lord Oswine’s best warriors and she’d convinced him to spend a few hours teaching her how to properly wield the sword. With so little training, she knew that she had a lot to learn yet, but already the grip felt comfortable in her hand. While not as heavy as the other sword and unlikely to inflict bone-crushing injury to an attacker, the small sword would suffice for protection.
With both hands, she could hold it steady and her arms didn’t shake the way they had when she’d first picked it up a few weeks ago. As she walked back home through the forest, she gave a couple of test strikes and parries. The blade sliced cleanly through the air. Perhaps with time she could actually take on an opponent. Smiling at the thought, she set her gaze on a knot on a tree in front of her and swung in a circle, bringing the blade to a rest against the knot. Perfect.
Her mood improving, Aisly spent the next few moments of her walk finding various brown leaves and limbs to swipe at and following through with triumph. It wasn’t much, but at least she was doing something to help retain her independence. If she could prove to them all that she was capable of protecting herself, while providing for herself, then there would be no need at all for Cuthbert and the other village elders to pressure her into another marriage. Of course, she’d have to convince her brother of that truth as well. But she was certain that she could happily live her life on her own.
Of course, that would mean no child. She paused, her hand going to her flat belly. It would be a lie to pretend the thought didn’t hurt. For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted a child, wanted a family. Living in Lord Oswine’s household had never afforded her or her brother the family life she missed. The nights she’d spent at the hearth with her mother learning embroidery or listening to her father’s tales were long gone. When she’d married Godric, a boy she’d known all her life, she’d assumed that she would finally have that family. But...but Godric was Godric. Always more concerned with the harvest, the coin she made from her sales, the Danes, anything but her. It hadn’t taken long for her to be happier on the nights he hadn’t come home than the nights he had.
Grimacing at her evil thoughts, she shook her head. She shouldn’t think ill of the dead. Godric hadn’t been a good husband by any means, but he didn’t deserve her bitterness now. Dropping her hand back to the sword, she shook off her morose thoughts and eased down the slope to the stream. It’d be faster to walk the well-worn path there rather than continue on through the forest.
Of course that meant she was more exposed, but there hadn’t been an attack since summer. No sooner had she thought the words, than she looked out over the narrow stream to see a man crouched down studying the ground, deep in concentration. Her heart jumped into her throat for a beat before falling down to her belly. A long mane of tawny hair flowed well past his shoulders and he was big, powerful.
A Dane.
If she had any doubt, the chain mail on his torso cinched it for her. The Danes who had come to her home the day her husband had been murdered had all worn the same armour. And this one wore thick gold bands on his arms just as they had. The same feeling of dread she’d had upon seeing them at her door filled her now. They could have done what they wanted to her that day and no one would have intervened. The elders might appeal to Lord Oswine, but everyone knew the Danes controlled the area now. Even the King was merely a tax collector for the invaders, or that was what Godric had told her. That was why Godric had been so angry, so determined to gather men to overthrow the Northmen.
She had yet to come even with him on her side of the stream and, once she could gather breath in her chest again, she slowly moved backwards. If she could reach the safety of the forest, she could continue home without him being the wiser. But, of course, that would depend on her luck and she seemed to be running short on that lately. She’d barely walked backwards two paces before the stones shifted beneath her feet, giving her away.
He looked up quickly from the track he’d been studying and found her, glaring at her from beneath his thick, fierce brow line. Her feet kept moving, almost sliding on the muddy slope as she kept her eyes on him, afraid that if she looked away he’d somehow reach her faster. Since the spring, her village had been assaulted by these barbarians. Rebel Danes who answered to no one, not even the Danes at the settlement, who stole the village’s sheep and crops as if it were their right. At summer’s end two maidens had gone missing, taken by the rebels. The Danish settlement had refused to help find them.
Aisly had no doubt that this man was part of that rebel group. The one time she’d seen officials from the Danish settlement, they’d looked...well, official. Their leaders had appeared well kept and had ridden with at least an outward display of respect through her village. This man looked like a heathen, dirty and dangerous. He didn’t look like them at all. He looked ready to pounce on her and tear her apart.
Taking a shaking breath, she slipped in her frantic attempt to move up to the solid ground of the forest. The sword fell to the mud as she grabbed at the ground to push herself upright. The Dane took the advantage and splashed through the shallow water towards her. Heart pounding in her chest, she quickly decided that her only choice was to face him on the banks of the stream. Gathering the sword with both hands, she righted herself as best she could. The white of his teeth flashed above his full beard, which hung in twin braids down his chest, as he sneered at her attempt. As he came closer, she could see the dark, horizontal lines engraved in his teeth. Just how she’d heard the rebels marked themselves. The men who had come to her door had not had those markings. He didn’t even draw a weapon as he came towards her, so sure was he that he didn’t need it.
The very thought made a dangerous surge of anger come over her, fuelling her strength so that she raised the sword high above her head. His stride was long, so she figured it would take him only ten paces to reach her. She counted off each one in her head. When he was two paces away, he’d be close enough to reach with a swinging sword while still being far enough away that he wouldn’t grab her. Catching him at that precise moment of vulnerability would be her only chance.
Eight.
Her fingers clenched tight, readying to strike.
Seven.
Her feet worked to gain solid footing, soles grinding down into the mud.
Six.
She took in a long breath. She’d let it out with the strike. He saw it and, taking it for fear, sneered at her.
Five.
A flash of movement just over the Dane’s shoulder drew her eye. It was a man coming from the trees. He walked deliberately towards the Dane with his sword poised in front of him. Eyes wide, she forced herself to look back at the Dane and count.
Four.
Before she could check herself, she glanced back at the newcomer. Whether he was friend or foe she couldn’t tell, but he brought a finger to his lips and his eyes demanded silence. Then he tightened both hands on the large sword he swung up past his shoulders. Her lips working in silent debate, she could only stare back at the Dane coming for her. He was close enough now that she could see the mottled blue of his irises.
Three.
She tightened her fingers again and prayed for strength. The rebel Dane let out a sound that was almost inhuman. A growl.
Two.
Something must have caught his eye, or perhaps it was her own glance to the approaching man, but the Dane turned in time to deflect the stranger’s raised sword. She watched in horror as the Dane lunged at the man. Every instinct she possessed told her that she should run and put as much distance between this fight to the death and herself as she could, but her feet stood rooted in the mud and rocks.
They were evenly matched in size, both with broad, muscled frames. But the rebel Dane moved in a clumsy, lumbering manner, while the stranger appeared graceful, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground as he moved in a circle around his opponent, putting himself between her and danger. But just as the Dane growled again and reached for his sword, the stranger lunged forward. The growl turned into a great bellow as the Dane’s eyes widened in pain and he crumpled to the ground.
Keeping a tight grip on her sword, she let her gaze dart to the stranger, uncertain if he was now an enemy instead of her saviour. He watched the Dane until it was clear he wasn’t an immediate threat, then stared back at her with deep brown eyes, bloody sword at his side. Despite the fact that he wasn’t making a move towards her, she couldn’t decide if he meant her any harm. There was no menace in his gaze. But then, Godric had taught her how that could change in an instant.
‘Nay! Don’t come any closer,’ she warned when he took a tentative step forward.
Tilting his head a bit and furrowing his brow, he stared back at her. He still didn’t say a word as he gestured to the man at his feet. Aisly stepped back to put even more space between them and gave him a nod, watching him disarm the fallen Dane. A wave of nausea threatened now that the danger was past and her arms began to shake from holding the sword for so long. He glanced at her as he gently tossed the man’s sword up on to the forest floor, away from them both. His own sword rested on the muddy bank of the stream at his feet. The Dane’s knife quickly followed and then the man held his hands aloft to show her that he held no weapons.
Finally able to take a steady breath, she lowered her arms but kept the sword in front of her and allowed herself a careful study of the man. He wasn’t a Dane. Or at least she didn’t think he was. He was tall, big like them, but his hair was odd. It was dark blond but had been cut in awkward tufts as if he’d taken to it himself with a knife. His beard was barely there, just mere scruff on the lower half of what was a very handsome face. A gash crusted over with blood ran from the centre of his forehead and disappeared into his hair above his ear. It looked to be a few days old and in need of attention. It was angry and pink around the edges and swollen badly. The flesh around his eye on that side was puffy and discoloured.
He wore no chain mail and his brown tunic was rather plain except for a bit of embroidery around the top and an emblem that might have been a bird on the shoulder that seemed vaguely familiar. It wasn’t a Dane’s tunic. She’d seen something similar on a mercenary once, but this man didn’t seem Frankish. Of course, there were other lands.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
His brow furrowed again as he studied her mouth, making her think he didn’t understand her words. ‘What is your name?’ she asked again, keeping her voice steady.
When he still didn’t answer, she worried that perhaps she’d been wrong and he wasn’t a mercenary at all. She’d seen them before and they knew her language. They had to know it if they were to earn a living. If he didn’t know her language, then he was truly a foreigner and one who had no business here. She scanned the edges of the forest looking for others like him and tightened her grip on the sword, raising it again. He wouldn’t be alone if he was here for nefarious reasons.
‘Nay.’ He reached out towards her but stopped short of putting himself any closer to her. ‘I won’t hurt you.’ His voice was rough as if his throat had been damaged and he spoke in a halting accent. A quick glance showed his neck appeared fine and uninjured. ‘I don’t know who I am.’ He gestured to his head injury.
He did appear badly injured. Aside from the gash and swelling, now that she studied him closer, his flesh held an unnatural pallor and a fine sheen of sweat beaded on his skin. She’d once heard of a man who had been kicked by an ox and had forgotten how to talk, but could such a blow make someone forget his identity completely? ‘You don’t know your own name?’
He swallowed once before giving a quick shake of his head that caused him to close his eyes as if in pain and his whole body to waver. When he opened them again, their intensity caught her gaze and held tight. ‘I only know that this man was going to kill me and you gave me an advantage. Thank you.’
Satisfied that he wasn’t a threat, she lowered the sword and said, ‘You saved me. I should be thanking you.’
‘He wouldn’t have been a danger to you had I not led him here.’ The husk of his injured voice was not entirely unpleasant as it raked across her senses. ‘I’ll be on my way. There could be others following me and I don’t want to put you in more danger.’
He retrieved his sword and took a few wary steps backwards before giving her a nod and turning away. As he walked back the way he had come, she noticed that his graceful steps had deserted him. He walked heavily as if he was exhausted and stumbled once, though he caught himself quickly. He meant to continue on his way as if he hadn’t just saved her life. Despite herself, she admired his shoulders as he slung the sword into the scabbard strapped between his shoulder blades. They were broad under his tunic and thick like a warrior’s. And his hand around the sword’s grip was large and strong. A warrior’s hand, marked with small white scars near the knuckles.
‘Wait!’
He paused and turned only his head to look at her, giving her a view of his uninjured profile. It was a fine profile. She didn’t want to think about why the sight of his handsome brow and strong nose made her stomach clench pleasurably.
‘You should rest before moving on.’
‘I’ll be fine. I’d be in your debt if you could tell me where I am.’
How could such a strong warrior not know where he was? The idea was baffling. ‘The stream leads to the River Tyne, a few leagues down the way, I assume. We are near my village, Heiraford.’ She’d never been further than the few miles it took to reach Lord Oswine’s manor and the occasional visit to the abbey. The Danish settlement was just south of that, where the Tyne forked with another river, but she wasn’t sure it was necessary to mention that to the stranger, as he’d been headed north. When the man only nodded his thanks, she continued, ‘Did that Dane harm you? You’re badly injured.’
But he ignored her question and swayed a bit when he turned forward, his feet slipping on the rocks. Fearing that he’d fall and injure himself even worse, she pushed her sword into its short scabbard at her waist and ran forward to his side, slipping an arm around his lower back. The muscle there was solid and dense.
‘When did you last eat?’
He exhaled roughly. A laugh? ‘I’m uncertain,’ he admitted. ‘I awoke two evenings past after having been injured. I can only assume I ate that day.’
‘And you have no memory of that man? No idea why he would want you dead?’
He gave her a wry grin, flashing white teeth. ‘One would think I’d remember the brute, but there’s nothing familiar about him.’
She took a deep breath and pondered for a moment the wisdom of inviting him into her home. He was injured and he had saved her. But everyone had been wary of strangers since the attacks had begun. Helping him was the right thing to do—he clearly needed it—but the village elders wouldn’t agree. She couldn’t afford to stir up any trouble with them.
Nay, it was best to do what was right. ‘Come with me. You saved me. A meal is the least I can do.’
Before she realised what he meant to do, his hand came up so that his fingers very lightly touched her jaw. A pleasurable heat prickled through her from the simple touch. ‘I refuse to put you in further danger, fair one.’
So unexpectedly pleasant was the touch that she moved her head away just enough to break contact. But she couldn’t look away from his eyes. They were a rich brown with tiny flecks of gold in their depths. It took her a moment to gather her words. ‘I won’t be in danger. My home and village are just through the trees there. We have warriors for protection.’ Nodding back towards the man on the ground, she said, ‘The rebel Danes have been plaguing us for months. Thank you for making it one less.’
He seemed so hesitant to accept that she took the choice from him and affixed herself to his side again, her arm going back around his back. ‘At least stay for a meal and a bit of rest. You need your strength.’ If it were only a meal, she could bring it to him outside the gates and then he could be gone before Wulfric and the other elders even found out about him. That would make things simpler. No explaining why a strange man who could possibly be an enemy was in her home. No worrying that Wulfric would use him as an excuse to take her home from her.
‘Aye, I could use a meal. Many thanks, fair one.’ He put his arm around her shoulders, tucking her against his side.
They made a strange pair as they walked slowly towards her village. Aisly sent up a silent prayer that she wasn’t making a huge mistake.
Chapter Three (#ueb660f24-3297-5ef3-a64d-afced7a05d48)
Magnus.
As he put his arm around the woman at his side, the name pounded through his skull. It didn’t fit any more now than it had the first time he’d heard it, but he was becoming more certain that it was his name. There would be no reason for his captor to lie about it, particularly when he’d had no notion that his memories were addled. A twinge of guilt threatened to plague him at his lie, but he put it out of his mind. There was no need to reveal his name to the woman when he had no idea where he was or even who he was. Instinct told him to reveal nothing for his own safety, at least until he was sure these people weren’t enemies.
He was certain the head wound had festered and he was fevered. His choice was simple. Either die slowly over the next several days or risk her village. At least if he risked her village, he would stand a chance. And if he died, he would die with the fair maiden at his side. He glanced down at the woman, his gaze catching on the way she caught her plump bottom lip between her teeth as she helped him navigate a small incline. His arm tightened around her, tucking her soft, well-formed body closer to his side.
Once they were safely up the hill, his gaze travelled the curve of her cheekbone to her eyes. Long, dark golden lashes framed the light green gems. She felt his gaze on her and glanced up just to blush and look away. He continued his perusal, across the light sprinkling of flecks of colour that swept across her face from cheekbone to cheekbone, finally stopping to admire the little bit of reddish hair he could see shining from beneath her headrail. She was lovely.
The vivid, mossy green of her eyes met his again and this time she didn’t look away immediately. They were kind and gentle as they swept over his face before she dragged them away. He had to force himself to turn his attention to the trees around them, needing to stay vigilant.
It bothered him how hard he had to turn the words over in his head before he found the ones he wanted to say. Her language was certainly not his native one. ‘How far is your village?’ They had moved further into the forest, away from the stream.
‘It’s a bit of a walk. We’ll stop frequently if you need to rest,’ she hurried to reassure him.
Stifling his laugh, Magnus shook his head but stopped when it made his head ache. The woman had no qualms about wounding his pride. ‘I can make the walk, fair one. I merely wondered why you’d be alone so far from safety.’
‘I’m hardly alone. I brought my sword.’
He didn’t want to say how the sword hadn’t saved her from the Dane.
‘You think I couldn’t have handled him.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘I think he was more than twice your size. Do you have no man to protect you?’
The question made her step falter, but then she continued onward without looking at him. ‘Nay, I do not need a man.’ Her jaw clenched as she stared ahead.
What would make a woman so young think she didn’t want a man in her life? The question was interesting, but he didn’t press her further. Instead, he focused on putting one foot in front of the other without falling, his gaze scanning the forest for any sign of warriors. They walked in silence for a while, her softness fitting so naturally against him that he allowed himself to relish it. Apparently it had been a while since he’d enjoyed the nearness of a woman. Finally she stiffened beneath his arm, becoming more alert, meaning they must be getting close to the village.
Pulling away from her earned him a puzzled frown, but he wouldn’t let anyone else know the true extent of his injuries. He couldn’t count on anyone to keep him safe, though he believed the woman would try. He trusted her.
‘Your village?’ he asked, spotting a break in the trees far ahead. A wall made of earth and wood rose up tall on the far side of a clearing. The thought that it was easily scalable teased the edges of his mind. His memory might be gone, but his warrior instincts were intact.
The straw of a thatched roof could be seen just above the edge of the wall. It would make an excellent target for an archer with an arrow dipped in pitch. Trying to be mindful of his head wound, he turned his head left, then right to look for the sentries who must have seen them by now and saw no one. Though the movement caused black spots to dance before his vision, making him stumble with the next step, almost toppling the poor woman beneath him.
She stifled a cry of surprise and he did his best to land on his other side, jarring his bruised ribs and grimacing as his head roiled with pain. It was a moment before the roaring in his ears died down and he could hear her speaking to him. It was a moment more before he could concentrate enough on her strange words to make sense of them. The grey at the edges of his vision cleared enough that he could see her lovely face as she stared down at him, her brow furrowed in concern.
‘Please don’t die. Please don’t die. Please don’t die.’ She spoke the words like a mantra.
He couldn’t say why she reduced him to a grinning fool, but the smile spread across his face just the same. It was as if now that he was so close to death, the complexities of life had ceased to matter. Somehow his hand found its way to her cheek. He saw his thumb caressing her cheekbone before he actually felt the sensation of her silken skin. ‘I’ll not die. Not yet.’
Her smile was mesmerising in its beauty. He wondered if he’d found a nymph intent on leading him to his death, but he admitted that he’d happily follow her. He’d already followed her this far into the unknown.
‘That’s my village.’ She nodded towards the wall, though her gaze never broke with his. ‘It’s only a little further.’
‘I’ll stay here. If there are others after me, I won’t lead them to you in the village. It’s not safe.’
She frowned. ‘We’ll be safer inside the walls.’
Shaking his head, he grimaced at the inevitable pain and stilled. ‘It’s close to the stream. There are no fortifications. Nothing stands between you and danger.’
‘There is a wall.’ She frowned. ‘We’re not that close to the stream and there are men always posted on lookout.’
‘It’s too low—that wall is no match for determined warriors. If there are sentries, they should have seen us already.’
She chewed her bottom lip and gave him a searching glance. She was wondering how he’d know that and he couldn’t blame her. The need to run niggled at the edge of his mind, but it failed to give strength to his body and clarity to his vision. There was no help for it. He was at the mercy of her warriors, which was why he wouldn’t go inside the walls.
‘We’ve only approached through the back way and I know where they hide, so I avoided them.’ He glanced at her face at that admission and she gave him a shy smile. ‘I thought it might be best if others don’t know of your presence right away.’
‘Am I in danger from them? A danger to you?’
‘I vow no one will harm you while you’re in my home.’ Their eyes met and held and Aisly had to struggle to take a breath. Something about this stranger affected her more than it should. She didn’t know him at all, but she felt safe inviting him into her home. The danger in that would come from the elders, not the man himself.
He broke the stare, looking back towards the wall of her village. ‘I believe you, fair one. It’s not my intention to make things difficult for you, but it’s best I stay outside. I’ll be on my way after the meal you’ve offered. If you could just bring it out, I’d be grateful.’
She ignored the casual endearment and the fact that she liked it. ‘My name is Aisly. And I fear you won’t be going anywhere for a while in your condition.’ Whether he realised it or not, his wound was grievous. She was amazed that he’d made it two whole days without falling into the deep sleep that could sometimes claim people after such an injury. That sleep usually led to death and it would happen to him soon if she couldn’t figure out how to get nourishment into him quickly. Even that might not be enough. If only the warriors would see things her way and allow her to care for him before they tried to determine if he was a threat to the village.
‘I just need a short rest. I’ll recover quickly.’ He grinned at her.
Typical warrior, refusing to admit to his weakness even when it was to his detriment. Even through the layers of his tunic and undershirt, the heat from his body had been unnatural and a touch to his temple confirmed her fears. He was feverish and wouldn’t last more than another day on his own, and that was if more of those rebel Danes weren’t after him.
‘You need sleep and a meal. Stay here. I’ll go and get you some food and a dressing for your wound.’
He agreed and reached for the sword strapped to his back. When his face twisted in pain, she reached around to unfasten the scabbard so that he could lie back. He smiled at her again as he sat back against a tree trunk and held the sword tight to his chest with both hands. The way he looked at her, so intense, so admiring, made something flutter deep in her belly.
‘Many thanks, fair one.’
She opened her mouth to remind him again that her name was Aisly but decided to let it pass. Rising to her feet, she gave him one last lingering glance. ‘Please stay here. Don’t try to go.’
‘You have my vow.’ His eyes were already half-lidded, making her wonder if that deep sleep would claim him before she could get back to him.
Turning abruptly, she hurried through the woods so that she could approach the gate from the front. It wouldn’t do to have anyone wondering why she was meandering around behind the village, just in case someone got suspicious. She’d tell them about the stranger later, after she had done the minimum to help him.
Pausing a moment at the tree line, she smoothed a hand down her headrail and then her skirt to make sure she didn’t look as harried as she felt. A quick glance at the sun confirmed it was nearing midday. A glance to the left showed movement in the fields. Men and women would still be there for a bit, so it’d be less likely for anyone to question her coming and going. Taking a breath, she took off at a sedate pace across the field towards the open gates. A warrior leaned back against one of the doors that had been blackened from a skirmish with the rebel Danes. He’d been one of the men who had served under Godric but hadn’t been at the settlement that deadly day just over two months ago. She gave him a smile and he nodded before turning back to the warrior at his side.
No one was loitering about just inside the shadow of the walls. The autumn harvest required almost everyone to work, which was a great help to her just then. She breathed easier as she skirted around behind the row of small houses that lined the wall. In the small spaces separating each one, she could see Cuthbert’s hall in the centre of the village. Though most of the warriors were helping in the fields, some of the warriors were sparring. They wouldn’t bother her, but she didn’t want to chance drawing their notice, either, so she stayed mostly hidden until she made her way past the hall and the expanse of land around it.
The blacksmith’s shop was also in the centre of the village; the constant fire meant it needed to be away from the wall. Once she passed it, she was sure the stone forge would help hide her from view of the hall, so she moved back on to the path. She was just in time to see the tow-headed curls of her best apprentice, Bryn, disappearing around a corner. Squeals of children’s laughter followed. It seemed her apprentices had run off, but she was glad of it for once.
Now that she was close to home and didn’t feel like such an interloper, she hurried her pace. Her home was one of the larger houses situated in the western section of the village. Her plot of land was large enough for a small garden, the corral for the few sheep she kept and the structure that held her wool. The thought of it empty now still made her angry. The Danes had come close to ruining all hope of her gaining her independence.
But there was still a sliver of hope. If nothing else, she could ask Lord Oswine for help. There was always hope.
Hurrying inside, she found her home empty. The girls had finished the pieces they had been embroidering and left them neatly folded on the table in front. Resolving to check their work later, she rushed past the hearth in the centre of the house and placed the pack with the plants on the table where she prepared her meals to be dealt with later. The day was turning unseasonably warm, but the plaster walls still held in the cold of the previous night, so she added two pieces of wood to the fire. Then she filled a large bowl with stew simmering in the pot over the fire and placed it inside the basket she used in the garden. She covered it with another bowl to help contain any spills and grabbed a long length of linen, before grabbing her flagon of water and adding it to the basket.
The entire walk back to the stranger, she said prayers that she would find him alive. People were starting to trickle in from the fields, but she kept her gaze averted in the hopes that none of them would offer more than a greeting. The warriors at the gate were so accustomed to her coming and going that they barely gave her a glance. She still waited until she crossed the field and reached the forest before turning in the stranger’s direction.
She walked as fast as she could without sloshing the stew all over the basket. When she finally saw his form in much the same position as she’d left him propped beneath a fir, she sent up a prayer of thanks. He wasn’t asleep as she’d anticipated and he hadn’t left. He was watching her through slitted eyes, a faint smile on his lips despite his pallor. He looked horrible. A fine sheen of sweat now dotted his forehead and his skin seemed even paler than before. But, somehow, he was still striking.
Sinking to her knees beside him, she opened her basket. ‘I’ve brought some food.’
His eyes widened as she lifted out the bowl and his nostrils flared as he caught the scent. ‘The gods have sent you to save me.’ The soft smile lingered on his lips.
Gods? She’d heard the Northmen believed in gods. Her heart pounded, but she didn’t comment on it as she brought the bowl to his mouth for him to drink. It wasn’t until he’d taken a fair amount and leaned his head back to take a breath that she asked, ‘What do you know of gods?’
He shook his head, wincing and stopping, because he’d forgotten the pain it caused. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know of any gods. I spoke before I thought.’
He seemed genuinely unaware. Keeping her hands on the outside of his, she guided the bowl back to his mouth so he could drink down a bit more. She used the opportunity to get a closer look at the ugly gash on his head. It had definitely festered and was pink and swollen at the edges. It should have been sewn up, but it was probably too late for that now.
‘I’ve brought some linen and water to clean your wound, but it needs a poultice.’
He pulled back after taking a healthy drink. ‘I told you, I’ll not stay.’
She bit the inside of her lip to keep from pointing out that he didn’t have much of a choice. She’d wager he wouldn’t be able to make it more than a handful of steps. ‘Then I should at least attempt to clean the grime from your wound before you go.’
His deep brown gaze caught hers again, warming her. ‘Aye, I’d be grateful.’ Then he brought the bowl back to his lips and his eyes never wavered from hers.
When a delightful shiver ran through her, she broke his stare to take out the linen and rip it in half. Retrieving the flagon of water from the basket, she pulled out the stopper with a pop and wet a wadded half of cloth. He gave a barely perceptible nod when she raised it in question, so she gently pressed it to his wound. The soft moan deep in his throat tugged at her heart.
She chewed her bottom lip as she gingerly moved the cloth around the edges of the wound, working her way inward as far as she dared to without causing him more pain. Except it was fairly well crusted over and not hurting him was impossible. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, as she cleaned the area around the wound. Once that was done, she had no choice but to attempt to clean the wound itself. ‘This may hurt,’ she warned.
He didn’t answer, so she chanced a glance down and found his eyes watching her, studying her. Swallowing against an unexpected feeling of breathlessness, she turned her attention back to her task. He didn’t so much as grimace when she started to clean the wound in earnest and he didn’t look away from her face.
It was a delicate task to clean the grime while making sure it didn’t start bleeding again. But after a few minutes she was satisfied that she’d done all that she could. She’d have to see Edyth about a poultice, if she could convince him to agree to come home with her. Discarding the soiled linen, she folded the clean linen and wet it through. The flesh around the eye under his injury was an angry blue and swollen. ‘Let’s keep this over your eye for a while. I hope the cool water will help the swelling.’
He’d finished the stew and placed the bowl on the brown pine needles that were his pallet. When she put the linen in place, his hand came up to cover hers. She almost gasped at the strange pleasure that skittered up her arm, before pulling her hand away. Her gaze jerked to his and she knew he’d felt it, too. He was studying her with a puzzled look.
‘You should at least rest before you move on.’
He nodded, a slight move, but he didn’t speak as he continued to watch her. His body was sagging against the tree more now than when she’d first come upon him. His eyelids were heavier and she knew that it would be but moments before sleep overtook him. She only hoped that he’d wake up.
She began to cautiously repack the items in the basket, but when she moved to set it aside, his eyes didn’t follow her. ‘Stranger,’ she called. He found her then, but he seemed to have trouble focusing, blinking several times. ‘Rest and I’ll keep vigil.’
The command hardly mattered because his large body was already sliding down to the ground. She lurched forward and barely managed to put her hands under him to break his fall, before she gently placed his head on the pine needles.
He took a deep, shaky breath, his brow furrowing a bit before he spoke again. ‘You should tell your warriors about the Dane. If there are more of them close behind, you could be in danger.’
Now that he was almost unconscious, she hoped to wait. While she didn’t think the men in her village would harm him, she wanted to give him a few hours to rest and regain strength from the nourishment, before bringing that hurdle to them. Did he sense that he wouldn’t be waking up soon?
He must have seen her hesitation, because he grabbed her wrist and his eyes opened wider in entreaty. ‘Promise you’ll tell them.’ His words were slightly slurred.
‘Aye, I’ll tell them.’ She nodded and clenched her fist tight.
His chest rose and fell in deep, even breaths and she wondered how long that would hold true. His body was on fire.
Chapter Four (#ueb660f24-3297-5ef3-a64d-afced7a05d48)
The sun was sinking low on the horizon and the foreigner hadn’t shown any signs of waking up. She’d poked, prodded and even talked to him, but he hadn’t moved. His breathing had become ragged and slow, which was when she finally convinced herself that he wasn’t going to wake up. At least not that day.
Aisly had hoped that after his rest he’d be able to at least walk inside the village with her. She had wanted to get him settled in her home before presenting him to the others. That wasn’t going to happen, though. Reluctantly she’d left him in the forest and once again had made her way to the village. This time going straight to Cuthbert’s hall, where she paused and took a deep breath before going inside.
Bollocks. She’d forgotten that today was the day the council met.
The sight of her father-in-law, Wulfric, standing at the end of the long room sent a shiver down her spine and stopped her just inside the door. He wore a brown tunic cinched with a hide belt just below his protruding belly. His dark beard, shot through with silver, was parted in the middle and hung down to his chest. The hair above his lip was shaved, making it that much easier to see the flash of his teeth as he sneered at the young man on his knees before him. Others sat on benches clustered near them in the far end of the room, but every eye was on Wulfric and his victim.
‘Did you not swear an oath on your twelfth year to uphold the laws of this land?’ His voice seemed to bounce off the walls, easily filling the room.
She barely heard the young man’s softer ‘aye’. But something familiar about its cadence caught her ear. Looking closer, she saw that it belonged to Beorn, a man who lived in a cottage near her own. He wasn’t a warrior, but a hard-working field worker who’d only just managed to gather the coin needed to marry his sweetheart a few months ago.
‘Thievery is against the law of this land. I am told you stole a sheep. The wool was found in your home. Your wife...’
With this he gestured, and Aisly realised that the woman she had come to call a friend stood off to the side, silently sobbing.
‘She was there in the home with the wool. It’s obvious she knew—’
At this Beorn interrupted. ‘Nay, she knew nothing. I never told her where it came from.’
‘And yet she never suspected, never questioned.’ The sneer never left Wulfric’s face. The man seemed to get pleasure from tormenting those beneath him. Godric had often behaved the same.
‘She had no reason to suspect. I’d never told her about my debts.’
Aisly chewed lightly on her bottom lip and clenched her arms against her stomach. Rowena had only recently learned that she was with child. What would happen to them? Aisly knew that the young man’s debt had been to Godric. She didn’t know the specifics, because Godric had never told her, but she suspected it had to do with her late husband’s proclivity for games of chance. That meant that the man’s debts had fallen to her and she hadn’t called them due. She’d wanted to when the Danes had taken all her coin, but she knew that the couple didn’t have the ability to pay.
Searching amongst the men for Cuthbert, their chief’s familiar shock of white hair, or his brother Arte’s rotund body, she didn’t find them. Wulfric hardly ever met to address grievances without them present, but it wasn’t unheard of. Her father-in-law was the one the villagers all came to for their disputes.
Wulfric flicked his hand as if the man’s words meant nothing. ‘It matters not. She is your kin and as such will suffer along with you. I’ve no doubt that your thieving tendencies have infected her. You’ll be taken to Lord Oswine with a recommendation to be relocated—’
‘Wait!’ Aisly heard her own voice call out before she could stop herself. All heads turned towards her and the brief reaction she’d entertained of running out the door fled. It didn’t stop her cowardly rabbit heart from beating like that of a cornered animal.
Wulfric clenched his jaw and she had no doubt that vein in his temple that she was so well acquainted with throbbed as he set his eyes on her. She swallowed against the sudden dryness of her mouth and moved forward a few steps.
‘I—Is that necessary, Wulfric? I never called the debt due. Can’t the wool be returned to its owner and this all forgotten?’
‘It wasn’t your debt to call, my dear.’ The momentary shock that had crossed his face at her daring to interrupt was gone, replaced by a sneer.
‘It was owed to Godric, so it’s now mine.’ Her voice grew stronger and she tightened her fists at her sides.
‘Not everything that was my son’s is yours.’ A distinct thread of bitterness laced his words. ‘I was listed on the debt, it reverted to me. I called it due.’
‘They are indebted to you, yet you are the one with the power to level punishment on them for the debt?’ It seemed an unfair advantage.
‘Aye. I have that power. Is there something you are trying to say, Aisly?’
She sucked in a deep breath while her heart tried to beat its way from her chest. Wulfric had made it clear from the very first that he didn’t approve of his son’s marriage to a mere servant. He’d also made it known to others that he didn’t want her to stay in his son’s home. Now wasn’t the time to provoke him, but there was something blatantly unfair about what was happening before her.
‘Nay, Wulfric. I am only asking for you to be merciful. His wife is with child and I’ve never heard of either of them stealing. Perhaps it was one instance of poor judgement. If they return the wool, then nothing has been lost.’
Wulfric gave a short bark of laughter. ‘The sheep is still gone. It’s not only wool they took. And even if it were returned, the theft happened. It won’t erase the crime or the need for the punishment. Actions done, Aisly, cannot be undone.’ He gave her a vicious look that made her think those words were somehow meant for her and a chill crept down her spine. Then he dismissed her with a glance and turned his attention to the man kneeling before him.
‘Perhaps I could pay the debt,’ she insisted. ‘How much is due? As I recall, it’s fairly low.’
The amount he stated was so absurdly high she wondered if he’d made it up. She wouldn’t have had that much coin had the Danes from the settlement not raided her coffers. Correctly assuming she couldn’t pay, Wulfric turned his attention back to the man kneeling before him. He raised his hands high and wide as he made a show of it, delighting in the audience.
Aisly searched the room again for someone to help, but it was a fruitless search. No one save Cuthbert or Arte would dare to oppose him. Turning on her heel, she hurried from the room. The foreigner needed help and Cuthbert was the only one she’d trust to see to him. She’d also mention Beorn’s dilemma. The older man was kind and fair, where Wulfric was cold and deceitful. Perhaps he’d intervene. She rushed back out to the gates and almost ran into Cuthbert as he made his way towards the village from the fields.
* * *
‘We’ll take him to my hall. I’ll have Edyth look him over.’ Cuthbert stared down at the fallen warrior as if he was afraid to touch him. Two of his warriors had come with them back to the tree where she’d left the foreigner, but judging from the disparity in their size and the fact that the stranger would be a dead weight, she didn’t think they’d be enough to carry him inside.
As their chieftain, she’d always found Cuthbert to be wise and just, but she didn’t trust the others. The thought of leaving her foreigner at the mercy of the warriors who slept in Cuthbert’s hall made her stomach turn. ‘I’d prefer to take care of him myself.’ She kept her voice strong and full of confidence, though a quiver of doubt moved through her. The foreigner was big. A glance confirmed that his thigh, clearly bulging against the confines of his trouser leg, was as large as both of hers put together. He’d easily overpower her if he so chose.
Cuthbert gave a quick shake of his head. ‘We cannot trust this man.’
‘Nay, we can’t, but I saw him kill that rebel Dane with my own eyes. He’s not one of them.’ She’d relayed the story to Cuthbert and the warriors as they’d walked back into the forest. Though she’d left out how long she’d sat with him and the strangely gentle way he’d treated her. ‘He had plenty of opportunity to harm me if that was his intention.’
‘He appears too wounded to try to harm you,’ one of the warriors said.
They hadn’t seen him. They hadn’t seen how easily he’d moved to fight the rebel. If he’d wanted to, he could’ve killed her as well. There’d been no malice in his eyes, nothing to make her think he would harm her. She was intimately familiar with that look. The first time she’d seen it was two months after marrying Godric. She’d been busy with a commission and hadn’t noticed how late the day had become. He’d come home with a friend expecting to find roasted meat, only to get pottage. He’d not struck her...not that time...but the desire had been there in his eyes.
‘He’ll need constant care and rest. The hall isn’t the appropriate environment for that.’ The warriors distrusted all foreigners and the simple truth was she didn’t trust his care to them. For some reason, she felt a sense of ownership where he was concerned. Perhaps it was because she’d found him, or that he’d saved her. She really didn’t want to examine it too closely.
Cuthbert cut a glance at her before staring back down at the warrior. ‘I’d have to leave a warrior to guard you. I can’t spare the men, not after the massacre.’ It had been mere weeks since the confrontation that had killed Godric and his warriors, but a retaliation was always a possibility.
‘But we need him to recover. That’s a mercenary’s tunic. He could prove useful.’ Aisly was grasping at anything to make him important to them, though she wasn’t sure why that was so important to her. She hadn’t even known this man when she awakened that morning. But he had saved her life.
The warrior who had spoken before leaned down to examine the embroidered figure on the stranger’s tunic. ‘Aye, it’s a mercenary tunic. But it’s possible he’s a Dane. He has their look.’
‘We’ll need to question him,’ Cuthbert said. ‘The fact remains that he killed the rebel Dane, so he very well could be useful to us. Dane or not, if we could buy his loyalty, he’ll prove useful.’
Aisly didn’t bother pointing out again that the man hadn’t any memories. She’d already mentioned it more than once. Perhaps they’d return once he awakened. ‘Whoever he turns out to be, he needs rest and I’m in no danger.’
‘Nay, not yet, but when he awakens, he could have his strength back,’ Cuthbert argued.
She couldn’t argue that. ‘Then leave him with me bound. He’s already injured. If he’s bound as well, what harm could he be?’
Cuthbert gave a deep sigh, but he relented. Aisly imagined that he didn’t want a wounded warrior lurking around his hall anyway.
* * *
He huddled back into the limbs of the fir tree, hiding himself from the buffeting wind coming in across the water and the people stirring in the small village below. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his thin right arm around them and tried not to shiver too hard. His left arm he kept cradled against his ribs. It was the only way he’d found to ease the near constant pain in them.
A jolt of terror bolted through him when the door to the small house opened and a man stepped outside. He despised that cowardly emotion, so he forced himself to watch the man walk down to the dock where his boat was moored, not looking away once. It wasn’t until the man pushed away from the dock that Magnus breathed a sigh of relief. Only when the boat disappeared did he take his first step out of the forest in a sennight and make his way down the slope to the edge of the village. The pain on his left side tried to slow him, but he ignored it. There was no telling how long he had, so he must make the most of it.
Still...he hesitated when he reached the door of the house, afraid of what he might find inside. His small hand was shaking when he reached out to push the door open and his heart was pounding in his ears.
Magnus awoke abruptly to the sound of muffled voices. The strange dream along with his pain had kept him from finding a peaceful sleep. He was certain it must be a memory from his childhood, but on his life he couldn’t figure it out. As soon as he opened his eyes, it began to dissipate.
It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the low light in the room. A fire flickered somewhere near his feet, but pain throbbed through his temple if he attempted to look at it, so he kept his eyes looking forward. A few moments later he realised that he was looking upward, staring at the underside of a thatched roof. A tapestry hung to his left, separating the area where he slept from the rest of the house. Just past his feet, a hearth glowed with a low burning fire and on the other side of that hearth was a crudely built table pushed up against the wall with cooking implements on top of it. The voices from the front of the house had stopped, but he could hear shuffling sounds.
Before he could even begin to fathom where he was or who could be with him, he became aware of an aching pain in his shoulders. It wasn’t the ache of his ribs, which had been hurt in that mysterious battle, but a new ache. A throb that sent pinpricks of pain through his arms when he tried to move them. When they wouldn’t move, he looked over to see that his wrists were tied to an unfinished, rudimentary headboard. A wave of panic chilled him to the bone and he pulled in earnest, only to realise that his ankles were somehow tied to the foot of the bed. Anxiety tightened in his body and made his heart pound.
His body twisted and heaved as he tried to jerk himself free, no doubt drawing the attention of his captor, but he didn’t care. He needed to get free.
‘Foreigner?’
He turned his head at the sound of her voice and just the sight of her was enough to soothe him. It was her. The side of his body where he’d pressed her against him as he walked warmed at the memory. She wore a different dress, this one a green that made him think of her eyes, with a wide apron tied double around her waist. Standing with her arms slightly raised in front of her as if she was afraid she would scare him, she spoke again, but the words were a rush that he couldn’t distinguish.
He opened his mouth to demand an explanation for the restraints, but the words wouldn’t come right away. Finally, after turning them over a few times, he asked, ‘Why am I bound?’ He had a suspicion that the words didn’t sound as harsh as he intended them, though, because she smiled at him and he couldn’t hold on to even a shred of anger when she did that.
‘They wouldn’t allow you to stay here without restraints. I’m sorry.’ She walked closer and kneeled down beside the low bed. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Let me go.’ He made sure his voice was firm. She flinched back and he regretted it immediately. He tried again, this time keeping his voice even. ‘You know I won’t hurt you, fair one. Untie me so that I can leave.’
‘I know. I don’t think you’ll hurt me. But it was a condition of them allowing you to stay here.’ Her brow furrowed as she leaned forward, her small hands resting on the bed beside him.
‘Them?’ It was a pointless question. Obviously he was in her village and the leaders didn’t trust a stranger, a foreigner as she’d called him. The fact that he was even alive and hadn’t been run through beneath the fir where he’d fallen was a testament to their feelings. Though it was possible they were only waiting to verify his identity before taking that step.
‘The elders. Cuthbert is our chieftain. After you fell asleep, I couldn’t wake you and worried that you wouldn’t wake at all. I had no choice but to tell him that I’d found you. He came and a few others carried you here.’ Magnus couldn’t take his eyes from her face as she spoke. She was so vivid, so vibrant, so alive, that he only wanted to watch her, causing his concentration on her words to falter. It took all the determination he could muster to focus again and make sense of what she said. ‘They wanted to take you to the hall, but I didn’t think that would be the best place for you. I wanted to watch over you myself, so I asked them to bring you here. They did, but only on the condition that I keep you tied down. I only meant to tie your arms, but you were thrashing in your sleep and I was afraid you’d hurt yourself, so I tied your ankles.’
Confusion must have shown on his face, because she gave him a shy smile and blushed. ‘My apologies. I ramble on and on sometimes.’
Blotches of pink swept across her cheeks, drawing his attention to the bit of hair tucked beneath her headrail at her temple. Streaks of russet, or perhaps a darker red, were visible in the low firelight. He wanted to push the atrocity from her head and see it all for himself. An enticing thought that had no right to exist. Pulling himself away from her allure, he shifted and almost grimaced at the pain sparking through his arms from the unnatural position. It had nearly begun to match the throbbing in his skull.
‘How is your head?’ She reached up towards his temple, her fingers pressing lightly against the edges of a poultice and following the line of a strip of linen that held it in place around his head. Satisfied the binding was tight enough, she pressed her palm to his uninjured temple.
‘It aches,’ he admitted.
‘I’ve a draught for you if you’d like to drink it. Edyth, the healer who made your poultice, said it’s to help with the ache.’
He nodded, a brief move because he was loath to do anything that would make her stop touching him. Her soft palm stroked back through his hair and he had to fight the urge to close his eyes in pleasure. ‘You awoke in a sweat last night. I think your fever left. You only feel slightly warm now.’
The words of her unfamiliar language were coming back to him now, but it hardly mattered. He’d listen to her soft voice with its hint of a husky rasp for as long as she wanted to speak to him, whether he understood her words or not. ‘Thank you. You saved my life.’ Though the villagers might yet see to his death.
‘You saved me.’ Their eyes met and the moment stopped. All he could hear was her breath, all he could see was her face and all he could feel were her fingertips as they slid down his face and across his jaw.
‘I put your life in danger and for that I apologise. How can I repay you for your care?’
She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling and her cheeks turning pink again, as she dropped her hand back to the bed. ‘I think you have more recovering to do yet before we should speak of such things.’ She didn’t step back and her close proximity was starting to affect him. The heat from her body warmed his and her scent filled his breath as he drew it in. She smelled fresh and somehow sweet like flowers. It was a vaguely familiar scent, but his memories were too tangled and confused to draw each of them out separately for examination. Just attempting to extract one from the others caused them all to tumble into a tangled ball of impenetrable threads.
‘I shouldn’t linger.’ No matter how he might want to spend more time with her. He didn’t once consider that he might not convince her to untie him. Then he realised what she’d said and the implications of the fact that she’d changed her clothes. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘Just a night. You arrived yesterday and it’s late morning now.’
Almost an entire day and night. Too long. He’d been too weak to hide their tracks. The Danes could follow him straight to her house if they wanted. ‘Then I’ve stayed too long.’
‘Nay, you must not leave yet. You’re still not well. Your fever may well return and you shouldn’t be out there alone.’
Despite his intention to leave her at the first opportunity that presented itself, tenderness for her tugged deep within him. Who was this stranger to stir him the way she did? ‘Don’t fear for me, fair one. I’m stronger, thanks to you.’ He’d touched her the day before. He vividly remembered touching her cheek, the softness of her skin almost like silk beneath his fingertips. A light smattering of freckles swept across her nose and cheekbones and he found himself wanting to trace over them.
Her lips parted, drawing his gaze to them as she took a deep breath. ‘You need food and more rest.’
‘I’ll gladly have more food. Thank you. But I want you to release me.’ He gave a tug on his bonds for emphasis.
Her green eyes widened. ‘I cannot. If it were up to me, I would. I know you’re not a danger, but I can’t betray Cuthbert’s order.’
Something about that statement resonated with him. Perhaps it was the unwillingness to betray trust, or the structure inherent in an order. Whatever it was, it was familiar in a way that left him little doubt that he’d known them both in his past. He was a warrior, of that he was certain.
‘I’ll get your food.’
He had little choice but to watch as she moved back and walked past the hearth. As she retrieved a bowl from the table and filled it from the pot bubbling over the fire, he allowed his gaze to wander around her home. The tapestry next to him cut off most of the view, but his eyes had adjusted enough now that some of the front part of the room was visible to him. The side he could see was lined with baskets of various sizes filled with cloth and thread. A table and stools were there, too, currently littered with needles and frames for holding cloth.
‘You are a weaver?’
‘An embroideress, but I do some weaving as well.’ She smiled back at him and pride shone in her eyes. ‘I have three apprentices now. Well, two. One is still very young and she only comes in the mornings to help tend my garden.’
‘Do you have no servants?’
She shook her head. ‘I had one once. She helped with the garden and household chores so that I had more time for work. But after my husband’s death, I couldn’t afford to keep her.’
Her husband was dead. It was an awful thing, but he couldn’t find the grief that revelation should have caused. Quite the opposite, actually. Exhilaration cut through his physical pain and he knew a moment of complete desire for possession. He wanted her for his own.
The feeling was so great that he forced himself to look away and for the first time he was glad that his wrists were bound so that he couldn’t act on his nearly uncontrollable urge to touch her. His gaze landed on the blanket folded across his legs. It was faded, its colour negligible and dull, but it was hers. This was her bed. The breadth of his body in the centre of the thin mattress left very little room for her on either side, but it didn’t stop his mind from imagining her there, or the way he’d curl around her. The vision was so vivid, the phantom warmth of flesh pressed against his so real, that he knew it was a memory, but the woman’s face and body had changed into Aisly’s. If he wasn’t so certain that she saw him as a stranger, he would’ve sworn they’d been lovers.
It was a preposterous thought. Of course they’d never been lovers and they’d never be lovers. He should say that he was sorry for the loss of her husband, but it was a bloody lie and he wouldn’t lie to her any more than was necessary. So far he’d only lied about his name and he wanted to keep it that way. Instead, he asked, ‘Is the tapestry your creation, then?’ He tilted his head towards the large tapestry hanging from the ceiling next to him. The embroidery was an intricate floral design of faded pinks, yellows and mossy greens arranged in roundels and arches.
‘Aye,’ she began without looking up from stirring the pottage, ‘my mother started it. You can see how the thread is faded more near the top, but the bottom is mine. It’s not as precise as hers. I was learning.’
‘It’s lovely. You’re very skilled.’
She shrugged, but the endearing spots of pink were back to colour her pale cheeks as she stepped away from the hearth. She was very pretty. Just looking at her was mesmerising, but his stomach growled and interrupted the moment. She laughed and he couldn’t help but smile and watch her as she moved. Her small frame might have seemed delicate and fragile on some other woman, but not on her. She handled herself confidently, as if she knew just what she was capable of. He wanted to see more of her hair, but he was limited to the little bit around her face that her headscarf revealed to him. It shimmered with copper undertones at her temples.
‘Your mother must be proud.’
She frowned, a look of sadness darkening her features. ‘I hope she would be.’
He recognised that sadness. Something bitter and hollow swelled within him, some deep longing fated to go unmet. He searched for memories of his own mother, but the effort only caused his head to throb. ‘I’m sorry you lost her.’
Giving him a quick but sad smile, she said, ‘Both my parents died when I was a child. Eight winters. An ague took them within weeks of the other. I have good memories of her teaching me the skill, but I miss her dreadfully. I miss them both, but mothers are special, aren’t they?’
He met her gaze, wanting to comfort her in some way, but unsure how. ‘I’m glad you have the tapestry.’
She frowned again and looked over at the bare walls. ‘I had more, but they were taken from me. Payment.’
‘Payment? For what?’
Shaking her head, she shrugged. ‘Payment for something Godric did. It doesn’t matter.’
He frowned and opened his mouth to ask more when she continued. ‘You should know that a few men went to the stream and found the Dane. They identified him as one in a group of rebels that has been plaguing us since summer.’
‘What have the rebels done to plague you?’
‘It started small—burned crops, stolen sheep. But at the end of summer two of our young women went missing and the rebel Danes burned our wall. Some say the women were lured away by them, others believe they were murdered, sacrificed in a barbarian ritual. They simply vanished.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘I don’t know. For their sake I hope they found men to care for them. But it seems unlikely. The Danes are brutes. All of them. The rebels and those from the settlement.’
‘Do you have no one to appeal to for help? No lord?’ It seemed only right that the villagers wouldn’t exist on their own in the middle of the wilderness—that they’d have someone to appeal to for help.
‘Aye, we have a lord and we did appeal to him. But Lord Oswine wasn’t very interested in dealing with any Danes. The Danes at the settlement run the region now. Though the rebels are a separate group and are even supposed enemies of those Danes, I fear there is no safety from any of them. Whatever they want is theirs for the taking. And to complain to them is to invite more trouble.’ Her voice and jaw had hardened as she spoke while settling herself on a stool she’d placed next to the bed. She brought a small vial to his lips and he drank the draught down, though his stomach tried to rebel against the bitter liquid.
Once the nausea passed, he tried to place the name, but Oswine was not familiar to him. Not that he’d expected it to be, not when his own name was still an enigma. ‘Your lord has not challenged the Danes?’ The frustration clouded his mind, but he pushed back the darkness and focused on the bowl before him as she raised a spoonful of stew to his mouth. He felt like a child, but the fact that it was she who wielded the spoon somehow eased the shame of being spoon-fed.
‘The Danes at the settlement control him now. He won’t do anything to disrupt their hold.’
Finishing that bite, he asked, ‘But these Danes that plague you, are they the same ones controlling Oswine?’
‘Nay, not precisely. The man at the stream was one of the rebels. The rebels broke off from the Danes at some point and answer to no one. The man you killed bore the rebels’ markings. But it hardly matters. The Danes at the settlement care little for our problems. One is hardly better than the other,’ she said, her voice tight with bitterness.
She wasn’t his problem, yet he couldn’t help thinking that she shouldn’t have been out alone when he’d come across her. Not in peaceful times, but especially not with the threat of the rebel Danes. She was a prize any man would find alluring and, with no man to protect her, they could have easily taken her. The thought of her at the hands of that brute he’d killed made his gut clench.
What could he do about it, though? He had to keep moving, to figure out where he belonged and who he was. He undoubtedly had other responsibilities waiting for him somewhere in the world. The thoughts made his head ache, so he forced himself not to think as she brought another spoonful to his lips. Just as he was taking the bite, there was a brisk knock at the door.
Chapter Five (#ueb660f24-3297-5ef3-a64d-afced7a05d48)
Aisly almost dropped the bowl when the knock sounded. A knot of dread churned in her belly as she stood and placed the bowl on the stool. She was expecting Wulfric’s visit any time now. Since Godric’s death, his visits had alarmed her, but she was especially wary after the way she had challenged him the day before. Not that her words had helped. He’d still sent the couple to Lord Oswine. They’d only been allowed to take the few possessions they’d been able to carry and, with the full force of winter only weeks away, their exile would almost certainly mean death, unless Lord Oswine was merciful.
Now it wasn’t just herself she worried about, but the foreigner as well. There was no doubt that Wulfric would have a say in his fate.
She crossed the room and opened the door to see her brother, Alstan, alone. A wave of relief threatened to weaken her knees, but she managed to keep her composure. She was surprised to see him. He lived in a small house at Lord Oswine’s manor and shouldn’t have heard about her guest so soon, unless Cuthbert had sent word yesterday. Lord Oswine wouldn’t have wasted any time sending one of his most trusted men to investigate, particularly since a rebel Dane had been involved. The look on Alstan’s face told her that he was very unhappy with her, though that wasn’t really an unusual look for him.
‘You’ve come to see the foreigner, I presume. Come in. He’s just breaking his fast.’ She stood back and cast a quick glance towards the tapestry as Alstan stepped inside.
Alstan’s colouring was very similar to her own, with his green eyes, though his hair was a bit darker, only shining copper in sunlight, and his face was more freckled from his days spent in the sun. He stared down the length of his sharp nose, fitting her with a glare so fierce she felt her back straightening for the inevitable confrontation. Since Godric’s death a few weeks ago, he’d become almost domineering.
‘Aye. You and I will speak afterwards.’
Aisly clenched her teeth and gave a brisk nod. There was no sense in arguing. He’d say what he wanted whether she agreed or not. Instead of replying, she led him over to her bed, pulling the tapestry back slightly to give them more room to stand by the hearth near the foot of the bed. ‘Foreigner, this is my brother, Alstan. He’s one of Lord Oswine’s men.’
‘Who are you?’ Alstan’s deep voice filled her home with authority.
She stifled the urge to remind him that the man had no memory; certainly Cuthbert had told him that. Her guest was still pale, and though his eye was partially covered with the poultice, the skin there was still very swollen and discoloured.
The foreigner spoke up, delivering nearly the same story to him as he had to her. The same story she’d already relayed to Cuthbert the previous day when he’d been unconscious.
‘Aisly tells us you fought the rebel Dane with bravery. Why is it that you chose to fight him when you could have continued on your way?’
‘I would never leave a maiden to defend herself,’ came his immediate reply.
She couldn’t help it. Her gaze was drawn to him with those words and she sucked in a breath as she found him watching her. His single unharmed eye was warm and intense, and an odd tenderness softened her heart. Nay, he’d never leave someone weaker to fend for themselves. She wondered what woman had claim to him. For certain there was one out there somewhere waiting for him.
But then Alstan’s harsh voice cut through the moment. ‘How do you know what you would never do? You don’t even know who you are.’
‘Alstan!’
The foreigner didn’t even blink, simply narrowing his eye as he answered, ‘I know that I would not leave a helpless innocent to face the wrath of a brute.’
Aisly bristled at the word ‘helpless’ and opened her mouth to defend herself, when Alstan tightened a warning grip on her elbow. She cut her eyes at him but held her tongue. For now.
The foreigner’s gaze darted to that point of contact. His brow furrowed as if it displeased him and she couldn’t stop a trembling smile from starting as a pleasing warmth wrapped around her.
‘And I am indebted to you for that, foreigner.’ Alstan’s hard face didn’t match his words. He seemed angry, not grateful. ‘You saved my sister’s life. It is the primary reason you still have yours.’
The foreigner gave a curt nod.
Aisly intervened before her brother could continue his pompous display of power. ‘Why would you seek to kill him? He’s done nothing to us.’
Alstan continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘The man you killed was one of those renegade Danes. A few of us came across a group of them back in early summer and fought them off. He was one who escaped. Did you not recognise him?’
The foreigner’s eyes narrowed again. ‘Nay.’
‘I thought you might...given how you’re a Dane yourself.’
‘What?’ The word tore from her lips before she could get a handle on herself, and she looked to the foreigner for some sort of denial. None was forthcoming. He lay stoically watching her brother, his jaw tight. Tension crackled in the room.
‘It’s in the way he says his words. He speaks like one of them. His size,’ Alstan explained. ‘While I admit my debt to him for keeping you safe, I believe it’s dangerous for him to stay here.’
‘He is not a Dane!’ The very word tasted like ash in her mouth. ‘Just look at his tunic, the embroidery is that of a mercenary.’ She pointed to the foreigner, who hadn’t moved a muscle in reaction.
‘Aye, he wears the tunic of a mercenary, but that man is a Dane.’ Alstan spoke with such certainty that Aisly had to cross her arms over her stomach to keep them from shaking. Her one interaction with the Danes, aside from the rebel at the stream, had been the day after Godric’s death when they’d come to collect payment and taken nearly everything that she had. She’d been so angry, so afraid, that she couldn’t actually remember what words they’d said, much less how they’d spoken the words. They’d been cold, arrogant, entitled monsters. This man was the complete opposite. He was warm, gentle and kind. He was not a Dane.
‘How dare you call him a Dane when you’ve only spent a few moments in his company? He is a mercenary and—’
‘Enough.’ Alstan raised his hand for silence, keeping his eyes on the foreigner. ‘I’m recommending to Cuthbert that you be allowed to leave today, Dane, and then I’ll consider my debt to you repaid.’
‘Aye,’ said the foreigner, his gaze harder than she’d ever seen it.
‘That isn’t fair, Alstan. That isn’t fair at all. He hasn’t recovered. Putting him out now will be a death sentence.’
Alstan grabbed her elbow again and pulled her towards the door.
‘You’re being an ogre, Alstan.’ Aisly pulled her arm away once they were outside and near the forest. ‘Why did you say he’s a Dane? Is it because you want them to throw him out?’
‘Because he is.’ Her brother turned to face her squarely, with his arms crossed over his chest. ‘He speaks just like one of them. I’ve spoken to them when they came to see about taxes.’
He was referring to the autumn a couple of years ago when the leaders of the Danish settlement had visited with Lord Oswine. The same leaders who had killed Godric. Though her life with her husband hadn’t been the happiest, she could not forgive them for butchering him. She crossed her arms over her chest to keep from shuddering. If the foreigner was a Dane, she wouldn’t feel such tenderness for him. She despised them all. ‘He’s not dressed like one of them. He has no bands on his arms. I think you’re mistaken. Besides, he saved my life.’
‘And that is the only reason I’m not advocating his death. He saved your life and I do owe him for that. He can have his life.’
‘But he won’t have his life if you force him to leave today. Don’t you see that, Alstan? Have mercy. He needs to recover first, at least a little.’ He didn’t respond, but a flicker of doubt shone in his eyes. ‘Do you recognise him?’
He shook his head. ‘Nay, but with the swollen face, bandage...’ he indicated his own hair ‘...and his hair so short, I can’t say for certain.’
‘What is the matter with you?’ Alstan’s behaviour was so odd, so cold and distant.
‘Cuthbert sent a warrior with the message to Lord Oswine’s. When I heard him speak your name, I thought he must be lying. You would never bring a strange man into your home. Not my sister, I said.’ His eyes flashed with anger.
‘He’s hardly a strange man. You spoke with Cuthbert. He saved me down by the stream and he’s obviously injured. I couldn’t repay his kindness by leaving him to die. You would have done the exact same thing had you been me.’
‘I wouldn’t have been so foolish, had I been you.’ Running a hand through his hair, he shook his head. ‘Why were you even down by the stream, Aisly? You know what happened to those girls. Don’t you think those cowards could take you, too?’
She wanted to be angry at his words, but his eyes were so full of worry that it dampened her temper. Alstan had been thirteen winters when their parents had died and she’d only been eight. Alstan had been old enough to apprentice with Lord Oswine’s warriors. Old enough to leave her behind and forget about her, but he hadn’t. He’d continued to look after her, often bringing her extra food and clothing in addition to what the lady had provided her. He reminded her so much of their father that in some ways he had become that to her. ‘I’m sorry. I was preoccupied and drifted closer to the stream than I should have.’
‘Why were you out there alone?’
‘I was collecting larkspur.’ She motioned towards the house, where she’d planted some in small pots inside. ‘I had to go find some before the frost comes and kills them. In spring I hope to use them to dye my own thread. I didn’t want to bother you. You’re busy enough with the warriors, the harvest, and Hilde and the new baby.’
He took in a deep breath as if he was trying to be patient with her, raking a hand over his reddish beard, before saying, ‘I would have made time to go with you.’
‘Aye, I know, but I’d need to send word to the manor and wait for you to have time. Days would have passed. But I didn’t really need you to come with me. I took the sword with me.’ She gave him her best beseeching look. It had worked in the past.
‘Aisly, I taught you how to wield a sword just in case you ever needed to defend yourself. I didn’t teach you so that you could tempt trouble. I never would have taught you had I known that it would lead to you going off alone.’
His worried eyes be damned, Aisly couldn’t hold back her anger any more. ‘I’m not helpless. I went off alone because I am perfectly capable of handling myself and I know this forest better than any Dane. Aye, I was preoccupied and strayed too close to the stream. It was one mistake that I won’t repeat. Haven’t you ever made a mistake?’
He glared down at her for a moment before speaking. ‘You are too stubborn for your own good. I can’t leave you here alone if I can’t trust you to take care of yourself.’
‘I am not stubborn. I am perfectly reasonable. You are the stubborn one.’ She tried to force a calm to her voice, but she feared it wasn’t working with her jaw clenched as tight as it was. ‘This is my home. This is where I belong.’
‘I won’t teach you the sword any more and you’re lucky I haven’t taken it from you. But I will if you continue to prove to me that I can’t trust you with it.’
‘You are not my father nor are you my husband, Alstan. You have no right to take anything from me.’
‘That is true, but you are still my responsibility. Mine and Wulfric’s. I’ll go to him if I have to.’
She gasped at the betrayal and pressed a hand to the pain in her chest.
He took a deep breath and looked past her shoulder, as if uncomfortable with what he had to say. ‘You should consider moving in with us. Hilde would appreciate the help with the children.’
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Harper St. George
‘I still don’t know who I am…what if I’m an enemy?’Injured in battle, Magnus awakens with no memory of who he is. Knowing he is in danger, he flees…only to encounter a Saxon maiden in peril.Aisly hates the Danes who invaded her land and killed her husband. Yet, when a mysterious wounded warrior saves her life, she cannot turn her back on him. As Aisly tends to Magnus’s injuries, desire surges between them. But when Magnus’s true identity is revealed, she’s thrown into turmoil – she has invited her enemy into her bed!
“I still don’t know who I am... What if I’m an enemy?”
Injured in battle, Magnus awakens with no memory of who he is. Knowing he is in danger, he flees...only to encounter a Saxon maiden in peril.
Aisly hates the Danes who invaded her land and killed her husband. Yet, when a mysterious wounded warrior saves her life, she cannot turn her back on him. As Aisly tends to Magnus’s injuries, desire surges between them. But when Magnus’s true identity is revealed, she’s thrown into turmoil—she has invited her enemy into her bed!
Parting her lips just a little, she pressed them to his. His lips were soft.
But then his hands were on her shoulders and he gently pushed her away.
In that horrifying moment Aisly realised that she had completely misread his attention.
‘I want to. You’re so lovely. But it wouldn’t be fair.’
His voice was so gentle and his eyes so soft that she wanted to run and hide. The way her body was responding to him was nothing but wrong. And yet for some strange reason she felt close to this foreigner, closer than she’d felt to anyone in a long time. She was just so lonely. That was why.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, and moved back a little.
He caught her wrist before she could get far. ‘Never apologise for touching me.’
It wasn’t an admonishment, precisely. His voice was warm, and if she didn’t know better—he was an injured man—it was textured with longing.
Author Note (#ueb660f24-3297-5ef3-a64d-afced7a05d48)
Some books start with a character or an event in history. Some start with a ‘what if…?’ This is a ‘what if…?’ story. What if two people meet and fall madly in love, neither of them knowing that they are supposed to be enemies? What if by the time they do find out it’s too late to change their minds and hearts but the world wants to keep them apart?
This is how Magnus and Aisly’s story started for me. Magnus is a noble warrior, bound by his duty but with a soft heart. The last thing he needs is a woman who challenges that loyalty. Aisly is focused and fiercely independent, and has already been burned by one bad relationship. The last thing she needs is another man in her life. Yet from almost the first moment they meet they recognise a part of themselves in the other. They’ll have to work through their own insecurities, whilst the world tries to keep them apart, to find their happily-ever-after.
I hope you enjoy reading their romance as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you so much for reading.
In Bed with the Viking Warrior
Harper St. George
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
HARPER ST. GEORGE was raised in rural Alabama and along the tranquil coast of northwest Florida. It was this setting, filled with stories of the old days, that instilled in her a love of history, romance and adventure. At high school she discovered the romance novel, which combined all of those elements into one perfect package. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband and two young children. Visit her website: harperstgeorge.com (http://www.harperstgeorge.com).
Books by Harper St George
Mills & Boon Historical Romance
Viking Warriors
Enslaved by the Viking
One Night with the Viking
In Bed with the Viking Warrior
Outlaws of the Wild West
The Innocent and the Outlaw
Digital Short Stories
His Abductor’s Desire
Her Forbidden Gunslinger
Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk..
For my parents. Thanks for all the babysitting so I could get this book finished!
As always, thank you to Tara Wyatt and Erin Moore for being there for me when the writing gets hard. Thank you to Brenna Mills for reading my unpolished drivel. Special thanks to Michelle Styles for her advice and sharing her historical knowledge. You all are the best. I can’t even say how much I appreciate the help.
And a big thank you to my editor Kathryn Cheshire for helping this story shine!
Contents
Cover (#u535cd731-fdc8-5318-a299-cb2d0d0addb6)
Back Cover Text (#udcbd57c0-37a5-50f0-98c1-0d7efc294054)
Introduction (#u13bd7780-b2f7-5e50-a4de-51b16a26a677)
Author Note (#ua40f413b-829c-5da2-948c-be8ac7ec0b3e)
Title Page (#u66922b5b-d2bb-516b-9385-214521fe4c30)
About the Author (#u352fb37a-25bd-5321-8593-06024a917be1)
Dedication (#u2efe59df-ac24-5992-9b16-4e10f2782842)
Chapter One (#u2635c307-97d6-5458-8dbc-32a6cd311fc2)
Chapter Two (#u8d50c7f1-29b4-5111-af94-30f0a522a257)
Chapter Three (#u1c3ef839-3585-57a3-b50f-c8453c605143)
Chapter Four (#u00b70b6c-e233-518a-a039-e0f2e79ce336)
Chapter Five (#ub4489ffd-5215-513d-803c-f6b18628752e)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ueb660f24-3297-5ef3-a64d-afced7a05d48)
Smoke filled his nose, burning his lungs as he breathed it in, almost suffocating him until he blew it out in a long wheeze that left him dizzy and nauseated. But his body was so starved for air that he breathed in again almost immediately. A cough tore through his chest, wrenching him sideways, though he could barely move because his arms were caught under an unidentified weight. Slowly he opened his eyes, the heaviness of an extremely long sleep making even that simple task difficult and causing his head to feel muddled and full of cobwebs.
An orange blaze filled his vision and he closed his eyes against the sharp pain that stabbed through his temple. Belatedly, he became aware of the heat warming his body, almost blistering in its intensity because he was far too close to the fire. Turning his head away, he forced his eyes open again only to stare into a pair of grotesque eyes, their lids open wide, the irises clouded over, unseeing. Dead eyes. He’d seen dead eyes before. A tangled memory of dead bodies came to him. He moved his head away as far as his body would allow to see the rest of the face. The head’s mouth was open in a silent scream.
He opened his own mouth to call to someone, but nothing came out save a hoarse cry of anguish. He jerked back but was caught by that same unidentifiable weight as before. Only now he knew. Now, as he looked around him, as he took in the sheer magnitude of the eyes staring at him, he knew what that weight was.
He was in a death pile. Slain warriors had been stripped of their clothing, their identity, and piled high to be burned. It would save the hassle of burying the bodies and keep the vultures at bay.
He had no memory of how he’d come to be here. No memory of a battle and he didn’t recognise the men. The only thing he knew with any real certainty was that he wasn’t dead, but he would be if he didn’t get away. Wrenching hard on his arm, he managed to pull it free from the man lying on it. The force of the movement made him roll to the side, landing in a heap on the dirt next to the bodies. He lay there for a moment, fingers pressed to the ground as he tried to get his bearings.
Taking stock of his body, he made sure that all of his limbs were in good working order. Aside from some scratches, everything seemed to work. He was nude, but he’d have to deal with that later. It hurt to breathe, though. Now that he was opposite the fire, he could take his first breath of fresh air. It still burned going in. Pushing himself up to his knees, he groaned as a wave of pain moved through his head. His hand went to his forehead and found a crusty gash there. The blood had matted in his hair.
He pulled his hand away and the world went dim before it tilted and started to spin. He had to press a hand back to the ground to stop himself from toppling over. Now that he was aware of the injury, a constant pounding had begun in his skull and wouldn’t let up. A wave of nausea moved through him and he groaned as he fell forward, retching into the dirt. Nothing but bile came up.
He ran a hand over his chest and it felt grainy, as if his skin was covered in a fine powder. Bringing his fingers to his nose, he smelled cold ashes. How long had he been asleep? What battle had got him here? Trying to remember only made his head feel clouded and dark, so he stopped trying to remember. Ignoring the lurch in his belly, he forced his head up to look around the clearing just to make sure no one was there. Right now he needed to get to safety. Whoever was in charge of these bodies probably wouldn’t be happy to see him alive when they returned.
A path led away from the fire through the trees. He’d go the opposite way, through the forest, and put as much distance as he could between himself and this certain death. But he couldn’t stop himself from taking one last look at the dead. If he’d battled with them, one of them should at least look familiar, but he didn’t recognise any of the faces he could see. They were strangers. Walking around the pile of men—there were at least a score of them, maybe more—prodding as he went, he hoped one of them would still be alive, but their flesh had already hardened.
Dead flesh. Dead eyes. There was nothing but death here.
Glancing around the clearing again, he saw nothing he could take with him. Their clothing had all been taken, burned probably or scavenged by the victors. There were no weapons. The large fire caught his gaze again, the bright light making his eyes water.
Turning, he made his way through the woods, stumbling from tree to tree as he fought to keep himself upright. His legs were weak and he was having trouble keeping his balance, probably from the head wound. He needed to find somewhere safe to rest for a couple of days. And he needed water to cure his parched throat.
The night was cloudy, obscuring the stars from him. Not that it mattered. He didn’t know where to go, where he’d come from, his own name. Trying to call up memories left him with a dark void. Frustration threatened to make his head pound harder, but he pushed the thoughts away. Right now he needed to find safety to recover. The rest would come once he’d had a chance to heal. It had to.
Up ahead the sound of water rushing over rock made his heart pick up speed in his chest and his legs gained new strength as he followed the sound. The back of his throat tingled at the very thought of water as his legs powered him forward to reach it. Pushing away from the final large oak that bordered the stream, he slid down the muddy embankment and landed in the stream, the smooth pebbles at the bottom biting into the soles of his feet. He lunged face forward into the stream, drinking in the cool water as if he hadn’t had a drink in years.
Even though it was cold, it burned going down and he tasted smoke. Before he could stop it or fight against it, his stomach heaved, expelling the water and leaving him in a knot of agony, his hands pressed to his head as the world swam around him. Falling back against the bank of the stream, he lay still, the water freezing as it knifed through his flesh, but he was afraid that the cold was the only thing keeping him conscious, so he wouldn’t chance leaving it just yet. When he opened his eyes, blackness hung around the periphery of his vision, but he refused to give in to it and forced himself to sit up. This time when he drank, he cupped it in his hands and took small sips, just enough to ease the ache.
‘Halt!’
The word came out of nowhere, splintering his mind with a thousand shards of pain. It was followed by others spoken in a harsh, tangled string that he couldn’t even begin to unravel. A single man ran towards him, emerging from the forest at the exact spot near the ancient oak that he himself had. He must have followed him from the death pile. It was too dark to see clearly, but he was dressed in a dark-coloured tunic, with a sword held in both hands across the front of his torso.
He had no choice but to fight the man, but with no weapon, armour or even clothing, he was at a distinct disadvantage. Rising to his feet, he gritted his teeth, determined to keep himself steady as he backed into the stream to lure the man down the embankment. There was no way he could fight an opponent with a sword barehanded on solid ground and win, especially not while injured. The freezing water came up to mid-thigh, where he stopped, daring the man to come forward.
The man stopped at the edge of the water, sword raised high, but still too far away to pose an immediate threat should he choose to attempt a strike. He spoke again, this time slower and with venom. It took a moment for his mind to catch up to the words, especially because the man spoke them in a way that sounded wrong. With an accent. ‘You die tonight, Magnus. You won’t cheat death again.’
Magnus. His own name? The word was meaningless to him, not causing so much as a flicker of recognition. The gash had addled him...that was certain.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, his own voice rough and unrecognisable. It bothered him how he’d had to turn the words over and over in his mind before speaking them to make sure they’d come out correctly.
The man laughed, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the moon. ‘You’ve gone daft. It’s all right, Magnus. I’ve come to put you down.’
He moved further back into the stream, making his opponent move forward. The man grimaced when the freezing water soaked through his trousers and lunged to try to swipe at him with his sword, saving himself the trouble of walking further into the water. He lunged to the side, but although the move saved him from the sword, it made him dizzy and the world made a horrifying lurch. He grabbed on to the only thing of substance he could find. The man’s wrist.
He yanked, pulling his opponent off his feet and into the water with him. The man still kept his grip on the sword, though, and quickly found purchase on the stream bed in his booted feet, but he swiped out with his leg, catching the man at the bend of his knee. The force toppled them both over, but he quickly gained the upper hand, his grip strong on the man’s wrist to keep the sword from becoming a threat, while pressing his knee into the man’s stomach.
Freeing a hand, the man swiped out with a fist, catching him in his temple just below the gash and opening it up again. Fresh, warm blood poured down into his eye and clouded his vision. The man spoke, but the sound was drowned out by the ringing in his ears. He refused to give in to his weakness, though. This was it. Either he won this fight or his life was over. And he refused to be dragged back to that pile of death.
Letting go of the man, he transferred his grip to the man’s tunic to hold him, then brought his fist back for a well-aimed strike to his nose. The crack of bone and a cry of pain greeted him and on instinct the man dropped his sword. He took the advantage and fell forward, pushing the man underwater. It wasn’t a noble victory, as he’d much rather finish a fight with his fist or a weapon, but already the rush of strength he’d had at the beginning of the fight was beginning to wane. The man fell under his weight, taking in a mouthful of water as he went under. His opponent thrashed and he simply had to hold on until he went limp a few moments later.
His arms were shaking as he dragged the man to shore. If nothing else, he’d solved the problem of his clothing. Taking a moment to clean the stinging blood from his eye, he quickly stripped the man of his tunic and leggings. There was an emblem sewn near the top, a crest of some kind, and he thought he should know what it meant, but he didn’t. Shaking his head, he tamped down his frustration as he retrieved the sword from the bottom of the stream and then donned the clothing. They were snug on him. The tunic pulled too tight across his shoulders and the trousers were a bit short for his liking, but the boots fit well, even soaked through as they were.
Once he was done, he took hold of the man and dragged him back to the stream. Taking a grip on the man’s upper arm, he pulled him floating behind him as he walked downstream. There were bound to be more enemies around from the battle and he needed to at least attempt to hide the body, in case anyone came looking for the man, they wouldn’t be sure of his direction. It would give him a better chance to escape, and if he could stay in the stream as he fled without succumbing to the cold, then they’d never track him.
* * *
He walked for over an hour before his shivering forced him to consider leaving the water. At least the cold had stopped his bleeding. Taking the body to a natural alcove created by two dead trees near shore, he pushed it inside and gave it one last glance. The man’s head was shaved. He touched a hand to his own beard and shoulder-length hair. He should probably cut it. Whoever this man was, whatever his station, he would have to appear to be like him, particularly if he was wearing his clothing. The man’s knife was stashed in his boot. He’d have to take care of that later. Right now he had to get as far away as he could.
He left the stream a little while later when he came to a section of wide, flat rocks that he hoped would hide his footprints from any trackers come morning. Taking one last drink of water, he stepped out on to the shore and made his way into the woods. The night air was freezing now that he was soaked. More reason to keep walking. If he stopped now, as wet as he was, he’d catch his death by morning. The world continued to come in and out of focus for him as he walked, sometimes stumbling into trees and over foliage, sometimes falling to the ground and momentarily losing consciousness only to rouse himself and force his legs to carry him onward.
* * *
Finally, near dawn, his body revolted and he fell to the ground in a heap. When he tried to rise, the ground came crashing up to meet him again and his head cracked against the earth, sending pain splintering through his entire body. He had to rest before he made his injuries worse. Raising his head enough to find a large spruce with limbs low towards the ground, he crawled to it and took cover in the needles. He couldn’t even take the sword from the scabbard across his shoulder as darkness crept over him.
* * *
It seemed he had just closed his eyes when he awoke with a start. His heart threatened to pound out of his chest, but he stayed very still, aware that one wrong move could mean death. Fluttering drew his attention to a bush just past the reaches of the pine’s branches, where two brown finches rolled together briefly in a brawl before one flew off, chased by the other. The sun was high in the sky.
He sighed in relief and lowered his forehead to the ground. He was still in the same position in which he’d collapsed. Dew covered his already soaking wet clothing and his warm breath came out in a puff of vapour as it mixed with the cool air. The first hard freeze was just weeks away, at most. That didn’t leave him very much time to figure out who he was and where he belonged.
Magnus.
The unfamiliar name twisted and turned itself over in his mind, but it wouldn’t stick. If it was his name, wouldn’t he recognise it? Just thinking about it made his head ache even more. Pushing himself to a sitting position, he had to wait for the world to right itself before he could open his eyes. His hand automatically went to the gash on his forehead and he grimaced at how tender and swollen it was. Another knot graced the back of his head, thanks to his fall. There was nothing he could do for the wounds now, though, not when there was every chance he was being chased by his captors.
His fingers moved to the tangled mess of hair. It was caked with blood and fell past his shoulders. If he came upon anyone, he couldn’t risk looking like a wild marauder covered with blood, so he’d have to cut it. All of the men in the death pile had longer hair and beards. Pulling the knife from the strap on his borrowed boots, he set about sawing through the length of his hair. It fell away in dark blond strands turned red with blood. When that was done, he scraped away his beard, though he wasn’t able to make it a close shave with the crude knife.
On shaking legs, he made his way back to the stream and took a long drink before dousing his head with the cold water until much of the remaining blood had been washed away. He couldn’t risk getting himself too clean and reopening the wounds. He needed all of his strength to get away.
Drawing in a shaking breath, he rose to his feet and entered the icy depths of the stream. If they found his tracks leading to the tree, perhaps they’d continue onward in that direction in their search for him.
* * *
He continued in the stream throughout the rest of the day, only getting out when he couldn’t bear its cold any longer. When night fell, he found another tree and collapsed in exhaustion. He needed food, but that would be a task for tomorrow.
Chapter Two (#ueb660f24-3297-5ef3-a64d-afced7a05d48)
Aisly blinked back the threat of tears and attacked the dirt again with her spade, attempting to uproot the larkspur. The stubborn thing refused to break free of the soil. She’d already been gone for a large portion of the morning, and with the long trek back home, she didn’t have time to waste. The girls should almost be finished with the vestment hems she’d left them. The thick cord-and-line pattern was one they had mastered months ago, but if she didn’t get back soon, her young apprentices would be out playing in the morning sun and she’d never get them back inside to finish their work. A whole day would be lost.
A whole day she couldn’t afford to lose, because she’d be late on the order. The abbess was already fond of implying that Aisly’s charges bordered on sinfulness, even suggesting that a more devout woman might view it as a privilege to do God’s work for the abbey. She’d have no qualms about deducting for tardiness. Aisly didn’t know if her embroidery qualified as God’s work. She simply knew that it was her only means to earn a living. A means that was closer to slipping away from her with every day that passed.
That was the real reason for her tears, the reason she hacked at the root viciously until it finally gave way, causing her to fall backward with a thud. The real reason she’d had to come into the forest today, instead of waiting until the commission was finished. She hadn’t wanted anyone to see her tears. Her menses had begun that morning, a reminder that there would be no child, nothing at all to bind her to the home she had grown to love and to depend on for her livelihood. Nothing at all to keep her father-in-law from evicting her from her late husband’s home. There had been a marriage agreement giving her the right to her home. She had signed it the day she married him with Lord Oswine looking on, but she hadn’t found it in Godric’s things. Without Wulfric’s generosity, or a child to bind her to the property, she’d be homeless and without a means to earn a living.
Gathering her composure, she searched amongst the foliage for her discarded knapsack. Tears were foolishness that accomplished nothing, so she did her best to blink them back. It didn’t bear thinking about Godric’s dreadful father following through on his threat. Not yet anyway. She had months before he could even attempt it and there was no reason to believe that the elders would agree with him.
Even if the elders did agree with him, they would have to sway Lord Oswine. After her parents had died of ague, he had become the guardian of Aisly and her brother. Though the guardianship had meant they’d been more like servants than his children, he’d taken his responsibility for them very seriously. He’d attended her wedding and had overseen the signing of the contract.
Finding the hide bag amongst the dead leaves on the ground, she stuffed the plant inside and tied the drawstring. It was probably foolish to try to take the plant home and hope it took root, but she needed it so that she could practise dyeing her thread come the spring. It would save her coin if she could dye her own. Tying the spade to the knotted belt at her waist, she retrieved Godric’s old sword from the ground beside her and set off for home.
The cold metal beneath her fingers made her feel secure in a way her late husband never had, though it was only the sword he’d used as a boy, not the sword he’d used as a warrior. That sword had been confiscated by the Danes when he’d gone to talk with them at their settlement and been killed. A move that had cost her their savings when the Danes had come to demand recompense for the fire he’d allegedly set that had destroyed a few of their houses. She’d even had to give them her tapestries, the wool in storage and most of her sheep when her coin hadn’t been enough. The sheep had been the least of her worries, at least she still had milk, but the wool had been put aside so that she could weave cloth through the winter to sell in the spring. That had stung.
Yet it was the loss of the tapestries that hurt the most. Her mother had made them. Though her mother had been a well-known embroideress in the villages surrounding Heiraford, and the tapestries were worth quite a bit of coin, Aisly missed them because they’d been the only reminder she had of her mother. Having lost her at the age of eight, her thoughts of the woman were sometimes clouded. The only true memories she had were the hours spent learning the stitches from her mother’s patient hand, and then after her death attempting to recreate the embroidery in those tapestries. Then one day the Danes had come and taken that last connection to her mother. There had been no warning, just a brutal knock on her door one morning telling her what her husband had done and that he was dead. Moments later they’d taken what had been most precious to her.
Some days she almost felt remorse that she mourned the tapestries more than her own husband. Life as a widow was infinitely better than life as Godric’s wife. A few weeks of freedom and she’d already vowed to herself that she’d never marry again and suffer under the rule of another tyrant. To keep that vow she’d have to learn to protect herself. Her brother, Alstan, was one of Lord Oswine’s best warriors and she’d convinced him to spend a few hours teaching her how to properly wield the sword. With so little training, she knew that she had a lot to learn yet, but already the grip felt comfortable in her hand. While not as heavy as the other sword and unlikely to inflict bone-crushing injury to an attacker, the small sword would suffice for protection.
With both hands, she could hold it steady and her arms didn’t shake the way they had when she’d first picked it up a few weeks ago. As she walked back home through the forest, she gave a couple of test strikes and parries. The blade sliced cleanly through the air. Perhaps with time she could actually take on an opponent. Smiling at the thought, she set her gaze on a knot on a tree in front of her and swung in a circle, bringing the blade to a rest against the knot. Perfect.
Her mood improving, Aisly spent the next few moments of her walk finding various brown leaves and limbs to swipe at and following through with triumph. It wasn’t much, but at least she was doing something to help retain her independence. If she could prove to them all that she was capable of protecting herself, while providing for herself, then there would be no need at all for Cuthbert and the other village elders to pressure her into another marriage. Of course, she’d have to convince her brother of that truth as well. But she was certain that she could happily live her life on her own.
Of course, that would mean no child. She paused, her hand going to her flat belly. It would be a lie to pretend the thought didn’t hurt. For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted a child, wanted a family. Living in Lord Oswine’s household had never afforded her or her brother the family life she missed. The nights she’d spent at the hearth with her mother learning embroidery or listening to her father’s tales were long gone. When she’d married Godric, a boy she’d known all her life, she’d assumed that she would finally have that family. But...but Godric was Godric. Always more concerned with the harvest, the coin she made from her sales, the Danes, anything but her. It hadn’t taken long for her to be happier on the nights he hadn’t come home than the nights he had.
Grimacing at her evil thoughts, she shook her head. She shouldn’t think ill of the dead. Godric hadn’t been a good husband by any means, but he didn’t deserve her bitterness now. Dropping her hand back to the sword, she shook off her morose thoughts and eased down the slope to the stream. It’d be faster to walk the well-worn path there rather than continue on through the forest.
Of course that meant she was more exposed, but there hadn’t been an attack since summer. No sooner had she thought the words, than she looked out over the narrow stream to see a man crouched down studying the ground, deep in concentration. Her heart jumped into her throat for a beat before falling down to her belly. A long mane of tawny hair flowed well past his shoulders and he was big, powerful.
A Dane.
If she had any doubt, the chain mail on his torso cinched it for her. The Danes who had come to her home the day her husband had been murdered had all worn the same armour. And this one wore thick gold bands on his arms just as they had. The same feeling of dread she’d had upon seeing them at her door filled her now. They could have done what they wanted to her that day and no one would have intervened. The elders might appeal to Lord Oswine, but everyone knew the Danes controlled the area now. Even the King was merely a tax collector for the invaders, or that was what Godric had told her. That was why Godric had been so angry, so determined to gather men to overthrow the Northmen.
She had yet to come even with him on her side of the stream and, once she could gather breath in her chest again, she slowly moved backwards. If she could reach the safety of the forest, she could continue home without him being the wiser. But, of course, that would depend on her luck and she seemed to be running short on that lately. She’d barely walked backwards two paces before the stones shifted beneath her feet, giving her away.
He looked up quickly from the track he’d been studying and found her, glaring at her from beneath his thick, fierce brow line. Her feet kept moving, almost sliding on the muddy slope as she kept her eyes on him, afraid that if she looked away he’d somehow reach her faster. Since the spring, her village had been assaulted by these barbarians. Rebel Danes who answered to no one, not even the Danes at the settlement, who stole the village’s sheep and crops as if it were their right. At summer’s end two maidens had gone missing, taken by the rebels. The Danish settlement had refused to help find them.
Aisly had no doubt that this man was part of that rebel group. The one time she’d seen officials from the Danish settlement, they’d looked...well, official. Their leaders had appeared well kept and had ridden with at least an outward display of respect through her village. This man looked like a heathen, dirty and dangerous. He didn’t look like them at all. He looked ready to pounce on her and tear her apart.
Taking a shaking breath, she slipped in her frantic attempt to move up to the solid ground of the forest. The sword fell to the mud as she grabbed at the ground to push herself upright. The Dane took the advantage and splashed through the shallow water towards her. Heart pounding in her chest, she quickly decided that her only choice was to face him on the banks of the stream. Gathering the sword with both hands, she righted herself as best she could. The white of his teeth flashed above his full beard, which hung in twin braids down his chest, as he sneered at her attempt. As he came closer, she could see the dark, horizontal lines engraved in his teeth. Just how she’d heard the rebels marked themselves. The men who had come to her door had not had those markings. He didn’t even draw a weapon as he came towards her, so sure was he that he didn’t need it.
The very thought made a dangerous surge of anger come over her, fuelling her strength so that she raised the sword high above her head. His stride was long, so she figured it would take him only ten paces to reach her. She counted off each one in her head. When he was two paces away, he’d be close enough to reach with a swinging sword while still being far enough away that he wouldn’t grab her. Catching him at that precise moment of vulnerability would be her only chance.
Eight.
Her fingers clenched tight, readying to strike.
Seven.
Her feet worked to gain solid footing, soles grinding down into the mud.
Six.
She took in a long breath. She’d let it out with the strike. He saw it and, taking it for fear, sneered at her.
Five.
A flash of movement just over the Dane’s shoulder drew her eye. It was a man coming from the trees. He walked deliberately towards the Dane with his sword poised in front of him. Eyes wide, she forced herself to look back at the Dane and count.
Four.
Before she could check herself, she glanced back at the newcomer. Whether he was friend or foe she couldn’t tell, but he brought a finger to his lips and his eyes demanded silence. Then he tightened both hands on the large sword he swung up past his shoulders. Her lips working in silent debate, she could only stare back at the Dane coming for her. He was close enough now that she could see the mottled blue of his irises.
Three.
She tightened her fingers again and prayed for strength. The rebel Dane let out a sound that was almost inhuman. A growl.
Two.
Something must have caught his eye, or perhaps it was her own glance to the approaching man, but the Dane turned in time to deflect the stranger’s raised sword. She watched in horror as the Dane lunged at the man. Every instinct she possessed told her that she should run and put as much distance between this fight to the death and herself as she could, but her feet stood rooted in the mud and rocks.
They were evenly matched in size, both with broad, muscled frames. But the rebel Dane moved in a clumsy, lumbering manner, while the stranger appeared graceful, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground as he moved in a circle around his opponent, putting himself between her and danger. But just as the Dane growled again and reached for his sword, the stranger lunged forward. The growl turned into a great bellow as the Dane’s eyes widened in pain and he crumpled to the ground.
Keeping a tight grip on her sword, she let her gaze dart to the stranger, uncertain if he was now an enemy instead of her saviour. He watched the Dane until it was clear he wasn’t an immediate threat, then stared back at her with deep brown eyes, bloody sword at his side. Despite the fact that he wasn’t making a move towards her, she couldn’t decide if he meant her any harm. There was no menace in his gaze. But then, Godric had taught her how that could change in an instant.
‘Nay! Don’t come any closer,’ she warned when he took a tentative step forward.
Tilting his head a bit and furrowing his brow, he stared back at her. He still didn’t say a word as he gestured to the man at his feet. Aisly stepped back to put even more space between them and gave him a nod, watching him disarm the fallen Dane. A wave of nausea threatened now that the danger was past and her arms began to shake from holding the sword for so long. He glanced at her as he gently tossed the man’s sword up on to the forest floor, away from them both. His own sword rested on the muddy bank of the stream at his feet. The Dane’s knife quickly followed and then the man held his hands aloft to show her that he held no weapons.
Finally able to take a steady breath, she lowered her arms but kept the sword in front of her and allowed herself a careful study of the man. He wasn’t a Dane. Or at least she didn’t think he was. He was tall, big like them, but his hair was odd. It was dark blond but had been cut in awkward tufts as if he’d taken to it himself with a knife. His beard was barely there, just mere scruff on the lower half of what was a very handsome face. A gash crusted over with blood ran from the centre of his forehead and disappeared into his hair above his ear. It looked to be a few days old and in need of attention. It was angry and pink around the edges and swollen badly. The flesh around his eye on that side was puffy and discoloured.
He wore no chain mail and his brown tunic was rather plain except for a bit of embroidery around the top and an emblem that might have been a bird on the shoulder that seemed vaguely familiar. It wasn’t a Dane’s tunic. She’d seen something similar on a mercenary once, but this man didn’t seem Frankish. Of course, there were other lands.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
His brow furrowed again as he studied her mouth, making her think he didn’t understand her words. ‘What is your name?’ she asked again, keeping her voice steady.
When he still didn’t answer, she worried that perhaps she’d been wrong and he wasn’t a mercenary at all. She’d seen them before and they knew her language. They had to know it if they were to earn a living. If he didn’t know her language, then he was truly a foreigner and one who had no business here. She scanned the edges of the forest looking for others like him and tightened her grip on the sword, raising it again. He wouldn’t be alone if he was here for nefarious reasons.
‘Nay.’ He reached out towards her but stopped short of putting himself any closer to her. ‘I won’t hurt you.’ His voice was rough as if his throat had been damaged and he spoke in a halting accent. A quick glance showed his neck appeared fine and uninjured. ‘I don’t know who I am.’ He gestured to his head injury.
He did appear badly injured. Aside from the gash and swelling, now that she studied him closer, his flesh held an unnatural pallor and a fine sheen of sweat beaded on his skin. She’d once heard of a man who had been kicked by an ox and had forgotten how to talk, but could such a blow make someone forget his identity completely? ‘You don’t know your own name?’
He swallowed once before giving a quick shake of his head that caused him to close his eyes as if in pain and his whole body to waver. When he opened them again, their intensity caught her gaze and held tight. ‘I only know that this man was going to kill me and you gave me an advantage. Thank you.’
Satisfied that he wasn’t a threat, she lowered the sword and said, ‘You saved me. I should be thanking you.’
‘He wouldn’t have been a danger to you had I not led him here.’ The husk of his injured voice was not entirely unpleasant as it raked across her senses. ‘I’ll be on my way. There could be others following me and I don’t want to put you in more danger.’
He retrieved his sword and took a few wary steps backwards before giving her a nod and turning away. As he walked back the way he had come, she noticed that his graceful steps had deserted him. He walked heavily as if he was exhausted and stumbled once, though he caught himself quickly. He meant to continue on his way as if he hadn’t just saved her life. Despite herself, she admired his shoulders as he slung the sword into the scabbard strapped between his shoulder blades. They were broad under his tunic and thick like a warrior’s. And his hand around the sword’s grip was large and strong. A warrior’s hand, marked with small white scars near the knuckles.
‘Wait!’
He paused and turned only his head to look at her, giving her a view of his uninjured profile. It was a fine profile. She didn’t want to think about why the sight of his handsome brow and strong nose made her stomach clench pleasurably.
‘You should rest before moving on.’
‘I’ll be fine. I’d be in your debt if you could tell me where I am.’
How could such a strong warrior not know where he was? The idea was baffling. ‘The stream leads to the River Tyne, a few leagues down the way, I assume. We are near my village, Heiraford.’ She’d never been further than the few miles it took to reach Lord Oswine’s manor and the occasional visit to the abbey. The Danish settlement was just south of that, where the Tyne forked with another river, but she wasn’t sure it was necessary to mention that to the stranger, as he’d been headed north. When the man only nodded his thanks, she continued, ‘Did that Dane harm you? You’re badly injured.’
But he ignored her question and swayed a bit when he turned forward, his feet slipping on the rocks. Fearing that he’d fall and injure himself even worse, she pushed her sword into its short scabbard at her waist and ran forward to his side, slipping an arm around his lower back. The muscle there was solid and dense.
‘When did you last eat?’
He exhaled roughly. A laugh? ‘I’m uncertain,’ he admitted. ‘I awoke two evenings past after having been injured. I can only assume I ate that day.’
‘And you have no memory of that man? No idea why he would want you dead?’
He gave her a wry grin, flashing white teeth. ‘One would think I’d remember the brute, but there’s nothing familiar about him.’
She took a deep breath and pondered for a moment the wisdom of inviting him into her home. He was injured and he had saved her. But everyone had been wary of strangers since the attacks had begun. Helping him was the right thing to do—he clearly needed it—but the village elders wouldn’t agree. She couldn’t afford to stir up any trouble with them.
Nay, it was best to do what was right. ‘Come with me. You saved me. A meal is the least I can do.’
Before she realised what he meant to do, his hand came up so that his fingers very lightly touched her jaw. A pleasurable heat prickled through her from the simple touch. ‘I refuse to put you in further danger, fair one.’
So unexpectedly pleasant was the touch that she moved her head away just enough to break contact. But she couldn’t look away from his eyes. They were a rich brown with tiny flecks of gold in their depths. It took her a moment to gather her words. ‘I won’t be in danger. My home and village are just through the trees there. We have warriors for protection.’ Nodding back towards the man on the ground, she said, ‘The rebel Danes have been plaguing us for months. Thank you for making it one less.’
He seemed so hesitant to accept that she took the choice from him and affixed herself to his side again, her arm going back around his back. ‘At least stay for a meal and a bit of rest. You need your strength.’ If it were only a meal, she could bring it to him outside the gates and then he could be gone before Wulfric and the other elders even found out about him. That would make things simpler. No explaining why a strange man who could possibly be an enemy was in her home. No worrying that Wulfric would use him as an excuse to take her home from her.
‘Aye, I could use a meal. Many thanks, fair one.’ He put his arm around her shoulders, tucking her against his side.
They made a strange pair as they walked slowly towards her village. Aisly sent up a silent prayer that she wasn’t making a huge mistake.
Chapter Three (#ueb660f24-3297-5ef3-a64d-afced7a05d48)
Magnus.
As he put his arm around the woman at his side, the name pounded through his skull. It didn’t fit any more now than it had the first time he’d heard it, but he was becoming more certain that it was his name. There would be no reason for his captor to lie about it, particularly when he’d had no notion that his memories were addled. A twinge of guilt threatened to plague him at his lie, but he put it out of his mind. There was no need to reveal his name to the woman when he had no idea where he was or even who he was. Instinct told him to reveal nothing for his own safety, at least until he was sure these people weren’t enemies.
He was certain the head wound had festered and he was fevered. His choice was simple. Either die slowly over the next several days or risk her village. At least if he risked her village, he would stand a chance. And if he died, he would die with the fair maiden at his side. He glanced down at the woman, his gaze catching on the way she caught her plump bottom lip between her teeth as she helped him navigate a small incline. His arm tightened around her, tucking her soft, well-formed body closer to his side.
Once they were safely up the hill, his gaze travelled the curve of her cheekbone to her eyes. Long, dark golden lashes framed the light green gems. She felt his gaze on her and glanced up just to blush and look away. He continued his perusal, across the light sprinkling of flecks of colour that swept across her face from cheekbone to cheekbone, finally stopping to admire the little bit of reddish hair he could see shining from beneath her headrail. She was lovely.
The vivid, mossy green of her eyes met his again and this time she didn’t look away immediately. They were kind and gentle as they swept over his face before she dragged them away. He had to force himself to turn his attention to the trees around them, needing to stay vigilant.
It bothered him how hard he had to turn the words over in his head before he found the ones he wanted to say. Her language was certainly not his native one. ‘How far is your village?’ They had moved further into the forest, away from the stream.
‘It’s a bit of a walk. We’ll stop frequently if you need to rest,’ she hurried to reassure him.
Stifling his laugh, Magnus shook his head but stopped when it made his head ache. The woman had no qualms about wounding his pride. ‘I can make the walk, fair one. I merely wondered why you’d be alone so far from safety.’
‘I’m hardly alone. I brought my sword.’
He didn’t want to say how the sword hadn’t saved her from the Dane.
‘You think I couldn’t have handled him.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘I think he was more than twice your size. Do you have no man to protect you?’
The question made her step falter, but then she continued onward without looking at him. ‘Nay, I do not need a man.’ Her jaw clenched as she stared ahead.
What would make a woman so young think she didn’t want a man in her life? The question was interesting, but he didn’t press her further. Instead, he focused on putting one foot in front of the other without falling, his gaze scanning the forest for any sign of warriors. They walked in silence for a while, her softness fitting so naturally against him that he allowed himself to relish it. Apparently it had been a while since he’d enjoyed the nearness of a woman. Finally she stiffened beneath his arm, becoming more alert, meaning they must be getting close to the village.
Pulling away from her earned him a puzzled frown, but he wouldn’t let anyone else know the true extent of his injuries. He couldn’t count on anyone to keep him safe, though he believed the woman would try. He trusted her.
‘Your village?’ he asked, spotting a break in the trees far ahead. A wall made of earth and wood rose up tall on the far side of a clearing. The thought that it was easily scalable teased the edges of his mind. His memory might be gone, but his warrior instincts were intact.
The straw of a thatched roof could be seen just above the edge of the wall. It would make an excellent target for an archer with an arrow dipped in pitch. Trying to be mindful of his head wound, he turned his head left, then right to look for the sentries who must have seen them by now and saw no one. Though the movement caused black spots to dance before his vision, making him stumble with the next step, almost toppling the poor woman beneath him.
She stifled a cry of surprise and he did his best to land on his other side, jarring his bruised ribs and grimacing as his head roiled with pain. It was a moment before the roaring in his ears died down and he could hear her speaking to him. It was a moment more before he could concentrate enough on her strange words to make sense of them. The grey at the edges of his vision cleared enough that he could see her lovely face as she stared down at him, her brow furrowed in concern.
‘Please don’t die. Please don’t die. Please don’t die.’ She spoke the words like a mantra.
He couldn’t say why she reduced him to a grinning fool, but the smile spread across his face just the same. It was as if now that he was so close to death, the complexities of life had ceased to matter. Somehow his hand found its way to her cheek. He saw his thumb caressing her cheekbone before he actually felt the sensation of her silken skin. ‘I’ll not die. Not yet.’
Her smile was mesmerising in its beauty. He wondered if he’d found a nymph intent on leading him to his death, but he admitted that he’d happily follow her. He’d already followed her this far into the unknown.
‘That’s my village.’ She nodded towards the wall, though her gaze never broke with his. ‘It’s only a little further.’
‘I’ll stay here. If there are others after me, I won’t lead them to you in the village. It’s not safe.’
She frowned. ‘We’ll be safer inside the walls.’
Shaking his head, he grimaced at the inevitable pain and stilled. ‘It’s close to the stream. There are no fortifications. Nothing stands between you and danger.’
‘There is a wall.’ She frowned. ‘We’re not that close to the stream and there are men always posted on lookout.’
‘It’s too low—that wall is no match for determined warriors. If there are sentries, they should have seen us already.’
She chewed her bottom lip and gave him a searching glance. She was wondering how he’d know that and he couldn’t blame her. The need to run niggled at the edge of his mind, but it failed to give strength to his body and clarity to his vision. There was no help for it. He was at the mercy of her warriors, which was why he wouldn’t go inside the walls.
‘We’ve only approached through the back way and I know where they hide, so I avoided them.’ He glanced at her face at that admission and she gave him a shy smile. ‘I thought it might be best if others don’t know of your presence right away.’
‘Am I in danger from them? A danger to you?’
‘I vow no one will harm you while you’re in my home.’ Their eyes met and held and Aisly had to struggle to take a breath. Something about this stranger affected her more than it should. She didn’t know him at all, but she felt safe inviting him into her home. The danger in that would come from the elders, not the man himself.
He broke the stare, looking back towards the wall of her village. ‘I believe you, fair one. It’s not my intention to make things difficult for you, but it’s best I stay outside. I’ll be on my way after the meal you’ve offered. If you could just bring it out, I’d be grateful.’
She ignored the casual endearment and the fact that she liked it. ‘My name is Aisly. And I fear you won’t be going anywhere for a while in your condition.’ Whether he realised it or not, his wound was grievous. She was amazed that he’d made it two whole days without falling into the deep sleep that could sometimes claim people after such an injury. That sleep usually led to death and it would happen to him soon if she couldn’t figure out how to get nourishment into him quickly. Even that might not be enough. If only the warriors would see things her way and allow her to care for him before they tried to determine if he was a threat to the village.
‘I just need a short rest. I’ll recover quickly.’ He grinned at her.
Typical warrior, refusing to admit to his weakness even when it was to his detriment. Even through the layers of his tunic and undershirt, the heat from his body had been unnatural and a touch to his temple confirmed her fears. He was feverish and wouldn’t last more than another day on his own, and that was if more of those rebel Danes weren’t after him.
‘You need sleep and a meal. Stay here. I’ll go and get you some food and a dressing for your wound.’
He agreed and reached for the sword strapped to his back. When his face twisted in pain, she reached around to unfasten the scabbard so that he could lie back. He smiled at her again as he sat back against a tree trunk and held the sword tight to his chest with both hands. The way he looked at her, so intense, so admiring, made something flutter deep in her belly.
‘Many thanks, fair one.’
She opened her mouth to remind him again that her name was Aisly but decided to let it pass. Rising to her feet, she gave him one last lingering glance. ‘Please stay here. Don’t try to go.’
‘You have my vow.’ His eyes were already half-lidded, making her wonder if that deep sleep would claim him before she could get back to him.
Turning abruptly, she hurried through the woods so that she could approach the gate from the front. It wouldn’t do to have anyone wondering why she was meandering around behind the village, just in case someone got suspicious. She’d tell them about the stranger later, after she had done the minimum to help him.
Pausing a moment at the tree line, she smoothed a hand down her headrail and then her skirt to make sure she didn’t look as harried as she felt. A quick glance at the sun confirmed it was nearing midday. A glance to the left showed movement in the fields. Men and women would still be there for a bit, so it’d be less likely for anyone to question her coming and going. Taking a breath, she took off at a sedate pace across the field towards the open gates. A warrior leaned back against one of the doors that had been blackened from a skirmish with the rebel Danes. He’d been one of the men who had served under Godric but hadn’t been at the settlement that deadly day just over two months ago. She gave him a smile and he nodded before turning back to the warrior at his side.
No one was loitering about just inside the shadow of the walls. The autumn harvest required almost everyone to work, which was a great help to her just then. She breathed easier as she skirted around behind the row of small houses that lined the wall. In the small spaces separating each one, she could see Cuthbert’s hall in the centre of the village. Though most of the warriors were helping in the fields, some of the warriors were sparring. They wouldn’t bother her, but she didn’t want to chance drawing their notice, either, so she stayed mostly hidden until she made her way past the hall and the expanse of land around it.
The blacksmith’s shop was also in the centre of the village; the constant fire meant it needed to be away from the wall. Once she passed it, she was sure the stone forge would help hide her from view of the hall, so she moved back on to the path. She was just in time to see the tow-headed curls of her best apprentice, Bryn, disappearing around a corner. Squeals of children’s laughter followed. It seemed her apprentices had run off, but she was glad of it for once.
Now that she was close to home and didn’t feel like such an interloper, she hurried her pace. Her home was one of the larger houses situated in the western section of the village. Her plot of land was large enough for a small garden, the corral for the few sheep she kept and the structure that held her wool. The thought of it empty now still made her angry. The Danes had come close to ruining all hope of her gaining her independence.
But there was still a sliver of hope. If nothing else, she could ask Lord Oswine for help. There was always hope.
Hurrying inside, she found her home empty. The girls had finished the pieces they had been embroidering and left them neatly folded on the table in front. Resolving to check their work later, she rushed past the hearth in the centre of the house and placed the pack with the plants on the table where she prepared her meals to be dealt with later. The day was turning unseasonably warm, but the plaster walls still held in the cold of the previous night, so she added two pieces of wood to the fire. Then she filled a large bowl with stew simmering in the pot over the fire and placed it inside the basket she used in the garden. She covered it with another bowl to help contain any spills and grabbed a long length of linen, before grabbing her flagon of water and adding it to the basket.
The entire walk back to the stranger, she said prayers that she would find him alive. People were starting to trickle in from the fields, but she kept her gaze averted in the hopes that none of them would offer more than a greeting. The warriors at the gate were so accustomed to her coming and going that they barely gave her a glance. She still waited until she crossed the field and reached the forest before turning in the stranger’s direction.
She walked as fast as she could without sloshing the stew all over the basket. When she finally saw his form in much the same position as she’d left him propped beneath a fir, she sent up a prayer of thanks. He wasn’t asleep as she’d anticipated and he hadn’t left. He was watching her through slitted eyes, a faint smile on his lips despite his pallor. He looked horrible. A fine sheen of sweat now dotted his forehead and his skin seemed even paler than before. But, somehow, he was still striking.
Sinking to her knees beside him, she opened her basket. ‘I’ve brought some food.’
His eyes widened as she lifted out the bowl and his nostrils flared as he caught the scent. ‘The gods have sent you to save me.’ The soft smile lingered on his lips.
Gods? She’d heard the Northmen believed in gods. Her heart pounded, but she didn’t comment on it as she brought the bowl to his mouth for him to drink. It wasn’t until he’d taken a fair amount and leaned his head back to take a breath that she asked, ‘What do you know of gods?’
He shook his head, wincing and stopping, because he’d forgotten the pain it caused. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know of any gods. I spoke before I thought.’
He seemed genuinely unaware. Keeping her hands on the outside of his, she guided the bowl back to his mouth so he could drink down a bit more. She used the opportunity to get a closer look at the ugly gash on his head. It had definitely festered and was pink and swollen at the edges. It should have been sewn up, but it was probably too late for that now.
‘I’ve brought some linen and water to clean your wound, but it needs a poultice.’
He pulled back after taking a healthy drink. ‘I told you, I’ll not stay.’
She bit the inside of her lip to keep from pointing out that he didn’t have much of a choice. She’d wager he wouldn’t be able to make it more than a handful of steps. ‘Then I should at least attempt to clean the grime from your wound before you go.’
His deep brown gaze caught hers again, warming her. ‘Aye, I’d be grateful.’ Then he brought the bowl back to his lips and his eyes never wavered from hers.
When a delightful shiver ran through her, she broke his stare to take out the linen and rip it in half. Retrieving the flagon of water from the basket, she pulled out the stopper with a pop and wet a wadded half of cloth. He gave a barely perceptible nod when she raised it in question, so she gently pressed it to his wound. The soft moan deep in his throat tugged at her heart.
She chewed her bottom lip as she gingerly moved the cloth around the edges of the wound, working her way inward as far as she dared to without causing him more pain. Except it was fairly well crusted over and not hurting him was impossible. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, as she cleaned the area around the wound. Once that was done, she had no choice but to attempt to clean the wound itself. ‘This may hurt,’ she warned.
He didn’t answer, so she chanced a glance down and found his eyes watching her, studying her. Swallowing against an unexpected feeling of breathlessness, she turned her attention back to her task. He didn’t so much as grimace when she started to clean the wound in earnest and he didn’t look away from her face.
It was a delicate task to clean the grime while making sure it didn’t start bleeding again. But after a few minutes she was satisfied that she’d done all that she could. She’d have to see Edyth about a poultice, if she could convince him to agree to come home with her. Discarding the soiled linen, she folded the clean linen and wet it through. The flesh around the eye under his injury was an angry blue and swollen. ‘Let’s keep this over your eye for a while. I hope the cool water will help the swelling.’
He’d finished the stew and placed the bowl on the brown pine needles that were his pallet. When she put the linen in place, his hand came up to cover hers. She almost gasped at the strange pleasure that skittered up her arm, before pulling her hand away. Her gaze jerked to his and she knew he’d felt it, too. He was studying her with a puzzled look.
‘You should at least rest before you move on.’
He nodded, a slight move, but he didn’t speak as he continued to watch her. His body was sagging against the tree more now than when she’d first come upon him. His eyelids were heavier and she knew that it would be but moments before sleep overtook him. She only hoped that he’d wake up.
She began to cautiously repack the items in the basket, but when she moved to set it aside, his eyes didn’t follow her. ‘Stranger,’ she called. He found her then, but he seemed to have trouble focusing, blinking several times. ‘Rest and I’ll keep vigil.’
The command hardly mattered because his large body was already sliding down to the ground. She lurched forward and barely managed to put her hands under him to break his fall, before she gently placed his head on the pine needles.
He took a deep, shaky breath, his brow furrowing a bit before he spoke again. ‘You should tell your warriors about the Dane. If there are more of them close behind, you could be in danger.’
Now that he was almost unconscious, she hoped to wait. While she didn’t think the men in her village would harm him, she wanted to give him a few hours to rest and regain strength from the nourishment, before bringing that hurdle to them. Did he sense that he wouldn’t be waking up soon?
He must have seen her hesitation, because he grabbed her wrist and his eyes opened wider in entreaty. ‘Promise you’ll tell them.’ His words were slightly slurred.
‘Aye, I’ll tell them.’ She nodded and clenched her fist tight.
His chest rose and fell in deep, even breaths and she wondered how long that would hold true. His body was on fire.
Chapter Four (#ueb660f24-3297-5ef3-a64d-afced7a05d48)
The sun was sinking low on the horizon and the foreigner hadn’t shown any signs of waking up. She’d poked, prodded and even talked to him, but he hadn’t moved. His breathing had become ragged and slow, which was when she finally convinced herself that he wasn’t going to wake up. At least not that day.
Aisly had hoped that after his rest he’d be able to at least walk inside the village with her. She had wanted to get him settled in her home before presenting him to the others. That wasn’t going to happen, though. Reluctantly she’d left him in the forest and once again had made her way to the village. This time going straight to Cuthbert’s hall, where she paused and took a deep breath before going inside.
Bollocks. She’d forgotten that today was the day the council met.
The sight of her father-in-law, Wulfric, standing at the end of the long room sent a shiver down her spine and stopped her just inside the door. He wore a brown tunic cinched with a hide belt just below his protruding belly. His dark beard, shot through with silver, was parted in the middle and hung down to his chest. The hair above his lip was shaved, making it that much easier to see the flash of his teeth as he sneered at the young man on his knees before him. Others sat on benches clustered near them in the far end of the room, but every eye was on Wulfric and his victim.
‘Did you not swear an oath on your twelfth year to uphold the laws of this land?’ His voice seemed to bounce off the walls, easily filling the room.
She barely heard the young man’s softer ‘aye’. But something familiar about its cadence caught her ear. Looking closer, she saw that it belonged to Beorn, a man who lived in a cottage near her own. He wasn’t a warrior, but a hard-working field worker who’d only just managed to gather the coin needed to marry his sweetheart a few months ago.
‘Thievery is against the law of this land. I am told you stole a sheep. The wool was found in your home. Your wife...’
With this he gestured, and Aisly realised that the woman she had come to call a friend stood off to the side, silently sobbing.
‘She was there in the home with the wool. It’s obvious she knew—’
At this Beorn interrupted. ‘Nay, she knew nothing. I never told her where it came from.’
‘And yet she never suspected, never questioned.’ The sneer never left Wulfric’s face. The man seemed to get pleasure from tormenting those beneath him. Godric had often behaved the same.
‘She had no reason to suspect. I’d never told her about my debts.’
Aisly chewed lightly on her bottom lip and clenched her arms against her stomach. Rowena had only recently learned that she was with child. What would happen to them? Aisly knew that the young man’s debt had been to Godric. She didn’t know the specifics, because Godric had never told her, but she suspected it had to do with her late husband’s proclivity for games of chance. That meant that the man’s debts had fallen to her and she hadn’t called them due. She’d wanted to when the Danes had taken all her coin, but she knew that the couple didn’t have the ability to pay.
Searching amongst the men for Cuthbert, their chief’s familiar shock of white hair, or his brother Arte’s rotund body, she didn’t find them. Wulfric hardly ever met to address grievances without them present, but it wasn’t unheard of. Her father-in-law was the one the villagers all came to for their disputes.
Wulfric flicked his hand as if the man’s words meant nothing. ‘It matters not. She is your kin and as such will suffer along with you. I’ve no doubt that your thieving tendencies have infected her. You’ll be taken to Lord Oswine with a recommendation to be relocated—’
‘Wait!’ Aisly heard her own voice call out before she could stop herself. All heads turned towards her and the brief reaction she’d entertained of running out the door fled. It didn’t stop her cowardly rabbit heart from beating like that of a cornered animal.
Wulfric clenched his jaw and she had no doubt that vein in his temple that she was so well acquainted with throbbed as he set his eyes on her. She swallowed against the sudden dryness of her mouth and moved forward a few steps.
‘I—Is that necessary, Wulfric? I never called the debt due. Can’t the wool be returned to its owner and this all forgotten?’
‘It wasn’t your debt to call, my dear.’ The momentary shock that had crossed his face at her daring to interrupt was gone, replaced by a sneer.
‘It was owed to Godric, so it’s now mine.’ Her voice grew stronger and she tightened her fists at her sides.
‘Not everything that was my son’s is yours.’ A distinct thread of bitterness laced his words. ‘I was listed on the debt, it reverted to me. I called it due.’
‘They are indebted to you, yet you are the one with the power to level punishment on them for the debt?’ It seemed an unfair advantage.
‘Aye. I have that power. Is there something you are trying to say, Aisly?’
She sucked in a deep breath while her heart tried to beat its way from her chest. Wulfric had made it clear from the very first that he didn’t approve of his son’s marriage to a mere servant. He’d also made it known to others that he didn’t want her to stay in his son’s home. Now wasn’t the time to provoke him, but there was something blatantly unfair about what was happening before her.
‘Nay, Wulfric. I am only asking for you to be merciful. His wife is with child and I’ve never heard of either of them stealing. Perhaps it was one instance of poor judgement. If they return the wool, then nothing has been lost.’
Wulfric gave a short bark of laughter. ‘The sheep is still gone. It’s not only wool they took. And even if it were returned, the theft happened. It won’t erase the crime or the need for the punishment. Actions done, Aisly, cannot be undone.’ He gave her a vicious look that made her think those words were somehow meant for her and a chill crept down her spine. Then he dismissed her with a glance and turned his attention to the man kneeling before him.
‘Perhaps I could pay the debt,’ she insisted. ‘How much is due? As I recall, it’s fairly low.’
The amount he stated was so absurdly high she wondered if he’d made it up. She wouldn’t have had that much coin had the Danes from the settlement not raided her coffers. Correctly assuming she couldn’t pay, Wulfric turned his attention back to the man kneeling before him. He raised his hands high and wide as he made a show of it, delighting in the audience.
Aisly searched the room again for someone to help, but it was a fruitless search. No one save Cuthbert or Arte would dare to oppose him. Turning on her heel, she hurried from the room. The foreigner needed help and Cuthbert was the only one she’d trust to see to him. She’d also mention Beorn’s dilemma. The older man was kind and fair, where Wulfric was cold and deceitful. Perhaps he’d intervene. She rushed back out to the gates and almost ran into Cuthbert as he made his way towards the village from the fields.
* * *
‘We’ll take him to my hall. I’ll have Edyth look him over.’ Cuthbert stared down at the fallen warrior as if he was afraid to touch him. Two of his warriors had come with them back to the tree where she’d left the foreigner, but judging from the disparity in their size and the fact that the stranger would be a dead weight, she didn’t think they’d be enough to carry him inside.
As their chieftain, she’d always found Cuthbert to be wise and just, but she didn’t trust the others. The thought of leaving her foreigner at the mercy of the warriors who slept in Cuthbert’s hall made her stomach turn. ‘I’d prefer to take care of him myself.’ She kept her voice strong and full of confidence, though a quiver of doubt moved through her. The foreigner was big. A glance confirmed that his thigh, clearly bulging against the confines of his trouser leg, was as large as both of hers put together. He’d easily overpower her if he so chose.
Cuthbert gave a quick shake of his head. ‘We cannot trust this man.’
‘Nay, we can’t, but I saw him kill that rebel Dane with my own eyes. He’s not one of them.’ She’d relayed the story to Cuthbert and the warriors as they’d walked back into the forest. Though she’d left out how long she’d sat with him and the strangely gentle way he’d treated her. ‘He had plenty of opportunity to harm me if that was his intention.’
‘He appears too wounded to try to harm you,’ one of the warriors said.
They hadn’t seen him. They hadn’t seen how easily he’d moved to fight the rebel. If he’d wanted to, he could’ve killed her as well. There’d been no malice in his eyes, nothing to make her think he would harm her. She was intimately familiar with that look. The first time she’d seen it was two months after marrying Godric. She’d been busy with a commission and hadn’t noticed how late the day had become. He’d come home with a friend expecting to find roasted meat, only to get pottage. He’d not struck her...not that time...but the desire had been there in his eyes.
‘He’ll need constant care and rest. The hall isn’t the appropriate environment for that.’ The warriors distrusted all foreigners and the simple truth was she didn’t trust his care to them. For some reason, she felt a sense of ownership where he was concerned. Perhaps it was because she’d found him, or that he’d saved her. She really didn’t want to examine it too closely.
Cuthbert cut a glance at her before staring back down at the warrior. ‘I’d have to leave a warrior to guard you. I can’t spare the men, not after the massacre.’ It had been mere weeks since the confrontation that had killed Godric and his warriors, but a retaliation was always a possibility.
‘But we need him to recover. That’s a mercenary’s tunic. He could prove useful.’ Aisly was grasping at anything to make him important to them, though she wasn’t sure why that was so important to her. She hadn’t even known this man when she awakened that morning. But he had saved her life.
The warrior who had spoken before leaned down to examine the embroidered figure on the stranger’s tunic. ‘Aye, it’s a mercenary tunic. But it’s possible he’s a Dane. He has their look.’
‘We’ll need to question him,’ Cuthbert said. ‘The fact remains that he killed the rebel Dane, so he very well could be useful to us. Dane or not, if we could buy his loyalty, he’ll prove useful.’
Aisly didn’t bother pointing out again that the man hadn’t any memories. She’d already mentioned it more than once. Perhaps they’d return once he awakened. ‘Whoever he turns out to be, he needs rest and I’m in no danger.’
‘Nay, not yet, but when he awakens, he could have his strength back,’ Cuthbert argued.
She couldn’t argue that. ‘Then leave him with me bound. He’s already injured. If he’s bound as well, what harm could he be?’
Cuthbert gave a deep sigh, but he relented. Aisly imagined that he didn’t want a wounded warrior lurking around his hall anyway.
* * *
He huddled back into the limbs of the fir tree, hiding himself from the buffeting wind coming in across the water and the people stirring in the small village below. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his thin right arm around them and tried not to shiver too hard. His left arm he kept cradled against his ribs. It was the only way he’d found to ease the near constant pain in them.
A jolt of terror bolted through him when the door to the small house opened and a man stepped outside. He despised that cowardly emotion, so he forced himself to watch the man walk down to the dock where his boat was moored, not looking away once. It wasn’t until the man pushed away from the dock that Magnus breathed a sigh of relief. Only when the boat disappeared did he take his first step out of the forest in a sennight and make his way down the slope to the edge of the village. The pain on his left side tried to slow him, but he ignored it. There was no telling how long he had, so he must make the most of it.
Still...he hesitated when he reached the door of the house, afraid of what he might find inside. His small hand was shaking when he reached out to push the door open and his heart was pounding in his ears.
Magnus awoke abruptly to the sound of muffled voices. The strange dream along with his pain had kept him from finding a peaceful sleep. He was certain it must be a memory from his childhood, but on his life he couldn’t figure it out. As soon as he opened his eyes, it began to dissipate.
It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the low light in the room. A fire flickered somewhere near his feet, but pain throbbed through his temple if he attempted to look at it, so he kept his eyes looking forward. A few moments later he realised that he was looking upward, staring at the underside of a thatched roof. A tapestry hung to his left, separating the area where he slept from the rest of the house. Just past his feet, a hearth glowed with a low burning fire and on the other side of that hearth was a crudely built table pushed up against the wall with cooking implements on top of it. The voices from the front of the house had stopped, but he could hear shuffling sounds.
Before he could even begin to fathom where he was or who could be with him, he became aware of an aching pain in his shoulders. It wasn’t the ache of his ribs, which had been hurt in that mysterious battle, but a new ache. A throb that sent pinpricks of pain through his arms when he tried to move them. When they wouldn’t move, he looked over to see that his wrists were tied to an unfinished, rudimentary headboard. A wave of panic chilled him to the bone and he pulled in earnest, only to realise that his ankles were somehow tied to the foot of the bed. Anxiety tightened in his body and made his heart pound.
His body twisted and heaved as he tried to jerk himself free, no doubt drawing the attention of his captor, but he didn’t care. He needed to get free.
‘Foreigner?’
He turned his head at the sound of her voice and just the sight of her was enough to soothe him. It was her. The side of his body where he’d pressed her against him as he walked warmed at the memory. She wore a different dress, this one a green that made him think of her eyes, with a wide apron tied double around her waist. Standing with her arms slightly raised in front of her as if she was afraid she would scare him, she spoke again, but the words were a rush that he couldn’t distinguish.
He opened his mouth to demand an explanation for the restraints, but the words wouldn’t come right away. Finally, after turning them over a few times, he asked, ‘Why am I bound?’ He had a suspicion that the words didn’t sound as harsh as he intended them, though, because she smiled at him and he couldn’t hold on to even a shred of anger when she did that.
‘They wouldn’t allow you to stay here without restraints. I’m sorry.’ She walked closer and kneeled down beside the low bed. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Let me go.’ He made sure his voice was firm. She flinched back and he regretted it immediately. He tried again, this time keeping his voice even. ‘You know I won’t hurt you, fair one. Untie me so that I can leave.’
‘I know. I don’t think you’ll hurt me. But it was a condition of them allowing you to stay here.’ Her brow furrowed as she leaned forward, her small hands resting on the bed beside him.
‘Them?’ It was a pointless question. Obviously he was in her village and the leaders didn’t trust a stranger, a foreigner as she’d called him. The fact that he was even alive and hadn’t been run through beneath the fir where he’d fallen was a testament to their feelings. Though it was possible they were only waiting to verify his identity before taking that step.
‘The elders. Cuthbert is our chieftain. After you fell asleep, I couldn’t wake you and worried that you wouldn’t wake at all. I had no choice but to tell him that I’d found you. He came and a few others carried you here.’ Magnus couldn’t take his eyes from her face as she spoke. She was so vivid, so vibrant, so alive, that he only wanted to watch her, causing his concentration on her words to falter. It took all the determination he could muster to focus again and make sense of what she said. ‘They wanted to take you to the hall, but I didn’t think that would be the best place for you. I wanted to watch over you myself, so I asked them to bring you here. They did, but only on the condition that I keep you tied down. I only meant to tie your arms, but you were thrashing in your sleep and I was afraid you’d hurt yourself, so I tied your ankles.’
Confusion must have shown on his face, because she gave him a shy smile and blushed. ‘My apologies. I ramble on and on sometimes.’
Blotches of pink swept across her cheeks, drawing his attention to the bit of hair tucked beneath her headrail at her temple. Streaks of russet, or perhaps a darker red, were visible in the low firelight. He wanted to push the atrocity from her head and see it all for himself. An enticing thought that had no right to exist. Pulling himself away from her allure, he shifted and almost grimaced at the pain sparking through his arms from the unnatural position. It had nearly begun to match the throbbing in his skull.
‘How is your head?’ She reached up towards his temple, her fingers pressing lightly against the edges of a poultice and following the line of a strip of linen that held it in place around his head. Satisfied the binding was tight enough, she pressed her palm to his uninjured temple.
‘It aches,’ he admitted.
‘I’ve a draught for you if you’d like to drink it. Edyth, the healer who made your poultice, said it’s to help with the ache.’
He nodded, a brief move because he was loath to do anything that would make her stop touching him. Her soft palm stroked back through his hair and he had to fight the urge to close his eyes in pleasure. ‘You awoke in a sweat last night. I think your fever left. You only feel slightly warm now.’
The words of her unfamiliar language were coming back to him now, but it hardly mattered. He’d listen to her soft voice with its hint of a husky rasp for as long as she wanted to speak to him, whether he understood her words or not. ‘Thank you. You saved my life.’ Though the villagers might yet see to his death.
‘You saved me.’ Their eyes met and the moment stopped. All he could hear was her breath, all he could see was her face and all he could feel were her fingertips as they slid down his face and across his jaw.
‘I put your life in danger and for that I apologise. How can I repay you for your care?’
She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling and her cheeks turning pink again, as she dropped her hand back to the bed. ‘I think you have more recovering to do yet before we should speak of such things.’ She didn’t step back and her close proximity was starting to affect him. The heat from her body warmed his and her scent filled his breath as he drew it in. She smelled fresh and somehow sweet like flowers. It was a vaguely familiar scent, but his memories were too tangled and confused to draw each of them out separately for examination. Just attempting to extract one from the others caused them all to tumble into a tangled ball of impenetrable threads.
‘I shouldn’t linger.’ No matter how he might want to spend more time with her. He didn’t once consider that he might not convince her to untie him. Then he realised what she’d said and the implications of the fact that she’d changed her clothes. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘Just a night. You arrived yesterday and it’s late morning now.’
Almost an entire day and night. Too long. He’d been too weak to hide their tracks. The Danes could follow him straight to her house if they wanted. ‘Then I’ve stayed too long.’
‘Nay, you must not leave yet. You’re still not well. Your fever may well return and you shouldn’t be out there alone.’
Despite his intention to leave her at the first opportunity that presented itself, tenderness for her tugged deep within him. Who was this stranger to stir him the way she did? ‘Don’t fear for me, fair one. I’m stronger, thanks to you.’ He’d touched her the day before. He vividly remembered touching her cheek, the softness of her skin almost like silk beneath his fingertips. A light smattering of freckles swept across her nose and cheekbones and he found himself wanting to trace over them.
Her lips parted, drawing his gaze to them as she took a deep breath. ‘You need food and more rest.’
‘I’ll gladly have more food. Thank you. But I want you to release me.’ He gave a tug on his bonds for emphasis.
Her green eyes widened. ‘I cannot. If it were up to me, I would. I know you’re not a danger, but I can’t betray Cuthbert’s order.’
Something about that statement resonated with him. Perhaps it was the unwillingness to betray trust, or the structure inherent in an order. Whatever it was, it was familiar in a way that left him little doubt that he’d known them both in his past. He was a warrior, of that he was certain.
‘I’ll get your food.’
He had little choice but to watch as she moved back and walked past the hearth. As she retrieved a bowl from the table and filled it from the pot bubbling over the fire, he allowed his gaze to wander around her home. The tapestry next to him cut off most of the view, but his eyes had adjusted enough now that some of the front part of the room was visible to him. The side he could see was lined with baskets of various sizes filled with cloth and thread. A table and stools were there, too, currently littered with needles and frames for holding cloth.
‘You are a weaver?’
‘An embroideress, but I do some weaving as well.’ She smiled back at him and pride shone in her eyes. ‘I have three apprentices now. Well, two. One is still very young and she only comes in the mornings to help tend my garden.’
‘Do you have no servants?’
She shook her head. ‘I had one once. She helped with the garden and household chores so that I had more time for work. But after my husband’s death, I couldn’t afford to keep her.’
Her husband was dead. It was an awful thing, but he couldn’t find the grief that revelation should have caused. Quite the opposite, actually. Exhilaration cut through his physical pain and he knew a moment of complete desire for possession. He wanted her for his own.
The feeling was so great that he forced himself to look away and for the first time he was glad that his wrists were bound so that he couldn’t act on his nearly uncontrollable urge to touch her. His gaze landed on the blanket folded across his legs. It was faded, its colour negligible and dull, but it was hers. This was her bed. The breadth of his body in the centre of the thin mattress left very little room for her on either side, but it didn’t stop his mind from imagining her there, or the way he’d curl around her. The vision was so vivid, the phantom warmth of flesh pressed against his so real, that he knew it was a memory, but the woman’s face and body had changed into Aisly’s. If he wasn’t so certain that she saw him as a stranger, he would’ve sworn they’d been lovers.
It was a preposterous thought. Of course they’d never been lovers and they’d never be lovers. He should say that he was sorry for the loss of her husband, but it was a bloody lie and he wouldn’t lie to her any more than was necessary. So far he’d only lied about his name and he wanted to keep it that way. Instead, he asked, ‘Is the tapestry your creation, then?’ He tilted his head towards the large tapestry hanging from the ceiling next to him. The embroidery was an intricate floral design of faded pinks, yellows and mossy greens arranged in roundels and arches.
‘Aye,’ she began without looking up from stirring the pottage, ‘my mother started it. You can see how the thread is faded more near the top, but the bottom is mine. It’s not as precise as hers. I was learning.’
‘It’s lovely. You’re very skilled.’
She shrugged, but the endearing spots of pink were back to colour her pale cheeks as she stepped away from the hearth. She was very pretty. Just looking at her was mesmerising, but his stomach growled and interrupted the moment. She laughed and he couldn’t help but smile and watch her as she moved. Her small frame might have seemed delicate and fragile on some other woman, but not on her. She handled herself confidently, as if she knew just what she was capable of. He wanted to see more of her hair, but he was limited to the little bit around her face that her headscarf revealed to him. It shimmered with copper undertones at her temples.
‘Your mother must be proud.’
She frowned, a look of sadness darkening her features. ‘I hope she would be.’
He recognised that sadness. Something bitter and hollow swelled within him, some deep longing fated to go unmet. He searched for memories of his own mother, but the effort only caused his head to throb. ‘I’m sorry you lost her.’
Giving him a quick but sad smile, she said, ‘Both my parents died when I was a child. Eight winters. An ague took them within weeks of the other. I have good memories of her teaching me the skill, but I miss her dreadfully. I miss them both, but mothers are special, aren’t they?’
He met her gaze, wanting to comfort her in some way, but unsure how. ‘I’m glad you have the tapestry.’
She frowned again and looked over at the bare walls. ‘I had more, but they were taken from me. Payment.’
‘Payment? For what?’
Shaking her head, she shrugged. ‘Payment for something Godric did. It doesn’t matter.’
He frowned and opened his mouth to ask more when she continued. ‘You should know that a few men went to the stream and found the Dane. They identified him as one in a group of rebels that has been plaguing us since summer.’
‘What have the rebels done to plague you?’
‘It started small—burned crops, stolen sheep. But at the end of summer two of our young women went missing and the rebel Danes burned our wall. Some say the women were lured away by them, others believe they were murdered, sacrificed in a barbarian ritual. They simply vanished.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘I don’t know. For their sake I hope they found men to care for them. But it seems unlikely. The Danes are brutes. All of them. The rebels and those from the settlement.’
‘Do you have no one to appeal to for help? No lord?’ It seemed only right that the villagers wouldn’t exist on their own in the middle of the wilderness—that they’d have someone to appeal to for help.
‘Aye, we have a lord and we did appeal to him. But Lord Oswine wasn’t very interested in dealing with any Danes. The Danes at the settlement run the region now. Though the rebels are a separate group and are even supposed enemies of those Danes, I fear there is no safety from any of them. Whatever they want is theirs for the taking. And to complain to them is to invite more trouble.’ Her voice and jaw had hardened as she spoke while settling herself on a stool she’d placed next to the bed. She brought a small vial to his lips and he drank the draught down, though his stomach tried to rebel against the bitter liquid.
Once the nausea passed, he tried to place the name, but Oswine was not familiar to him. Not that he’d expected it to be, not when his own name was still an enigma. ‘Your lord has not challenged the Danes?’ The frustration clouded his mind, but he pushed back the darkness and focused on the bowl before him as she raised a spoonful of stew to his mouth. He felt like a child, but the fact that it was she who wielded the spoon somehow eased the shame of being spoon-fed.
‘The Danes at the settlement control him now. He won’t do anything to disrupt their hold.’
Finishing that bite, he asked, ‘But these Danes that plague you, are they the same ones controlling Oswine?’
‘Nay, not precisely. The man at the stream was one of the rebels. The rebels broke off from the Danes at some point and answer to no one. The man you killed bore the rebels’ markings. But it hardly matters. The Danes at the settlement care little for our problems. One is hardly better than the other,’ she said, her voice tight with bitterness.
She wasn’t his problem, yet he couldn’t help thinking that she shouldn’t have been out alone when he’d come across her. Not in peaceful times, but especially not with the threat of the rebel Danes. She was a prize any man would find alluring and, with no man to protect her, they could have easily taken her. The thought of her at the hands of that brute he’d killed made his gut clench.
What could he do about it, though? He had to keep moving, to figure out where he belonged and who he was. He undoubtedly had other responsibilities waiting for him somewhere in the world. The thoughts made his head ache, so he forced himself not to think as she brought another spoonful to his lips. Just as he was taking the bite, there was a brisk knock at the door.
Chapter Five (#ueb660f24-3297-5ef3-a64d-afced7a05d48)
Aisly almost dropped the bowl when the knock sounded. A knot of dread churned in her belly as she stood and placed the bowl on the stool. She was expecting Wulfric’s visit any time now. Since Godric’s death, his visits had alarmed her, but she was especially wary after the way she had challenged him the day before. Not that her words had helped. He’d still sent the couple to Lord Oswine. They’d only been allowed to take the few possessions they’d been able to carry and, with the full force of winter only weeks away, their exile would almost certainly mean death, unless Lord Oswine was merciful.
Now it wasn’t just herself she worried about, but the foreigner as well. There was no doubt that Wulfric would have a say in his fate.
She crossed the room and opened the door to see her brother, Alstan, alone. A wave of relief threatened to weaken her knees, but she managed to keep her composure. She was surprised to see him. He lived in a small house at Lord Oswine’s manor and shouldn’t have heard about her guest so soon, unless Cuthbert had sent word yesterday. Lord Oswine wouldn’t have wasted any time sending one of his most trusted men to investigate, particularly since a rebel Dane had been involved. The look on Alstan’s face told her that he was very unhappy with her, though that wasn’t really an unusual look for him.
‘You’ve come to see the foreigner, I presume. Come in. He’s just breaking his fast.’ She stood back and cast a quick glance towards the tapestry as Alstan stepped inside.
Alstan’s colouring was very similar to her own, with his green eyes, though his hair was a bit darker, only shining copper in sunlight, and his face was more freckled from his days spent in the sun. He stared down the length of his sharp nose, fitting her with a glare so fierce she felt her back straightening for the inevitable confrontation. Since Godric’s death a few weeks ago, he’d become almost domineering.
‘Aye. You and I will speak afterwards.’
Aisly clenched her teeth and gave a brisk nod. There was no sense in arguing. He’d say what he wanted whether she agreed or not. Instead of replying, she led him over to her bed, pulling the tapestry back slightly to give them more room to stand by the hearth near the foot of the bed. ‘Foreigner, this is my brother, Alstan. He’s one of Lord Oswine’s men.’
‘Who are you?’ Alstan’s deep voice filled her home with authority.
She stifled the urge to remind him that the man had no memory; certainly Cuthbert had told him that. Her guest was still pale, and though his eye was partially covered with the poultice, the skin there was still very swollen and discoloured.
The foreigner spoke up, delivering nearly the same story to him as he had to her. The same story she’d already relayed to Cuthbert the previous day when he’d been unconscious.
‘Aisly tells us you fought the rebel Dane with bravery. Why is it that you chose to fight him when you could have continued on your way?’
‘I would never leave a maiden to defend herself,’ came his immediate reply.
She couldn’t help it. Her gaze was drawn to him with those words and she sucked in a breath as she found him watching her. His single unharmed eye was warm and intense, and an odd tenderness softened her heart. Nay, he’d never leave someone weaker to fend for themselves. She wondered what woman had claim to him. For certain there was one out there somewhere waiting for him.
But then Alstan’s harsh voice cut through the moment. ‘How do you know what you would never do? You don’t even know who you are.’
‘Alstan!’
The foreigner didn’t even blink, simply narrowing his eye as he answered, ‘I know that I would not leave a helpless innocent to face the wrath of a brute.’
Aisly bristled at the word ‘helpless’ and opened her mouth to defend herself, when Alstan tightened a warning grip on her elbow. She cut her eyes at him but held her tongue. For now.
The foreigner’s gaze darted to that point of contact. His brow furrowed as if it displeased him and she couldn’t stop a trembling smile from starting as a pleasing warmth wrapped around her.
‘And I am indebted to you for that, foreigner.’ Alstan’s hard face didn’t match his words. He seemed angry, not grateful. ‘You saved my sister’s life. It is the primary reason you still have yours.’
The foreigner gave a curt nod.
Aisly intervened before her brother could continue his pompous display of power. ‘Why would you seek to kill him? He’s done nothing to us.’
Alstan continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘The man you killed was one of those renegade Danes. A few of us came across a group of them back in early summer and fought them off. He was one who escaped. Did you not recognise him?’
The foreigner’s eyes narrowed again. ‘Nay.’
‘I thought you might...given how you’re a Dane yourself.’
‘What?’ The word tore from her lips before she could get a handle on herself, and she looked to the foreigner for some sort of denial. None was forthcoming. He lay stoically watching her brother, his jaw tight. Tension crackled in the room.
‘It’s in the way he says his words. He speaks like one of them. His size,’ Alstan explained. ‘While I admit my debt to him for keeping you safe, I believe it’s dangerous for him to stay here.’
‘He is not a Dane!’ The very word tasted like ash in her mouth. ‘Just look at his tunic, the embroidery is that of a mercenary.’ She pointed to the foreigner, who hadn’t moved a muscle in reaction.
‘Aye, he wears the tunic of a mercenary, but that man is a Dane.’ Alstan spoke with such certainty that Aisly had to cross her arms over her stomach to keep them from shaking. Her one interaction with the Danes, aside from the rebel at the stream, had been the day after Godric’s death when they’d come to collect payment and taken nearly everything that she had. She’d been so angry, so afraid, that she couldn’t actually remember what words they’d said, much less how they’d spoken the words. They’d been cold, arrogant, entitled monsters. This man was the complete opposite. He was warm, gentle and kind. He was not a Dane.
‘How dare you call him a Dane when you’ve only spent a few moments in his company? He is a mercenary and—’
‘Enough.’ Alstan raised his hand for silence, keeping his eyes on the foreigner. ‘I’m recommending to Cuthbert that you be allowed to leave today, Dane, and then I’ll consider my debt to you repaid.’
‘Aye,’ said the foreigner, his gaze harder than she’d ever seen it.
‘That isn’t fair, Alstan. That isn’t fair at all. He hasn’t recovered. Putting him out now will be a death sentence.’
Alstan grabbed her elbow again and pulled her towards the door.
‘You’re being an ogre, Alstan.’ Aisly pulled her arm away once they were outside and near the forest. ‘Why did you say he’s a Dane? Is it because you want them to throw him out?’
‘Because he is.’ Her brother turned to face her squarely, with his arms crossed over his chest. ‘He speaks just like one of them. I’ve spoken to them when they came to see about taxes.’
He was referring to the autumn a couple of years ago when the leaders of the Danish settlement had visited with Lord Oswine. The same leaders who had killed Godric. Though her life with her husband hadn’t been the happiest, she could not forgive them for butchering him. She crossed her arms over her chest to keep from shuddering. If the foreigner was a Dane, she wouldn’t feel such tenderness for him. She despised them all. ‘He’s not dressed like one of them. He has no bands on his arms. I think you’re mistaken. Besides, he saved my life.’
‘And that is the only reason I’m not advocating his death. He saved your life and I do owe him for that. He can have his life.’
‘But he won’t have his life if you force him to leave today. Don’t you see that, Alstan? Have mercy. He needs to recover first, at least a little.’ He didn’t respond, but a flicker of doubt shone in his eyes. ‘Do you recognise him?’
He shook his head. ‘Nay, but with the swollen face, bandage...’ he indicated his own hair ‘...and his hair so short, I can’t say for certain.’
‘What is the matter with you?’ Alstan’s behaviour was so odd, so cold and distant.
‘Cuthbert sent a warrior with the message to Lord Oswine’s. When I heard him speak your name, I thought he must be lying. You would never bring a strange man into your home. Not my sister, I said.’ His eyes flashed with anger.
‘He’s hardly a strange man. You spoke with Cuthbert. He saved me down by the stream and he’s obviously injured. I couldn’t repay his kindness by leaving him to die. You would have done the exact same thing had you been me.’
‘I wouldn’t have been so foolish, had I been you.’ Running a hand through his hair, he shook his head. ‘Why were you even down by the stream, Aisly? You know what happened to those girls. Don’t you think those cowards could take you, too?’
She wanted to be angry at his words, but his eyes were so full of worry that it dampened her temper. Alstan had been thirteen winters when their parents had died and she’d only been eight. Alstan had been old enough to apprentice with Lord Oswine’s warriors. Old enough to leave her behind and forget about her, but he hadn’t. He’d continued to look after her, often bringing her extra food and clothing in addition to what the lady had provided her. He reminded her so much of their father that in some ways he had become that to her. ‘I’m sorry. I was preoccupied and drifted closer to the stream than I should have.’
‘Why were you out there alone?’
‘I was collecting larkspur.’ She motioned towards the house, where she’d planted some in small pots inside. ‘I had to go find some before the frost comes and kills them. In spring I hope to use them to dye my own thread. I didn’t want to bother you. You’re busy enough with the warriors, the harvest, and Hilde and the new baby.’
He took in a deep breath as if he was trying to be patient with her, raking a hand over his reddish beard, before saying, ‘I would have made time to go with you.’
‘Aye, I know, but I’d need to send word to the manor and wait for you to have time. Days would have passed. But I didn’t really need you to come with me. I took the sword with me.’ She gave him her best beseeching look. It had worked in the past.
‘Aisly, I taught you how to wield a sword just in case you ever needed to defend yourself. I didn’t teach you so that you could tempt trouble. I never would have taught you had I known that it would lead to you going off alone.’
His worried eyes be damned, Aisly couldn’t hold back her anger any more. ‘I’m not helpless. I went off alone because I am perfectly capable of handling myself and I know this forest better than any Dane. Aye, I was preoccupied and strayed too close to the stream. It was one mistake that I won’t repeat. Haven’t you ever made a mistake?’
He glared down at her for a moment before speaking. ‘You are too stubborn for your own good. I can’t leave you here alone if I can’t trust you to take care of yourself.’
‘I am not stubborn. I am perfectly reasonable. You are the stubborn one.’ She tried to force a calm to her voice, but she feared it wasn’t working with her jaw clenched as tight as it was. ‘This is my home. This is where I belong.’
‘I won’t teach you the sword any more and you’re lucky I haven’t taken it from you. But I will if you continue to prove to me that I can’t trust you with it.’
‘You are not my father nor are you my husband, Alstan. You have no right to take anything from me.’
‘That is true, but you are still my responsibility. Mine and Wulfric’s. I’ll go to him if I have to.’
She gasped at the betrayal and pressed a hand to the pain in her chest.
He took a deep breath and looked past her shoulder, as if uncomfortable with what he had to say. ‘You should consider moving in with us. Hilde would appreciate the help with the children.’
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Harper George
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: ‘I still don’t know who I am…what if I’m an enemy?’Injured in battle, Magnus awakens with no memory of who he is. Knowing he is in danger, he flees…only to encounter a Saxon maiden in peril.Aisly hates the Danes who invaded her land and killed her husband. Yet, when a mysterious wounded warrior saves her life, she cannot turn her back on him. As Aisly tends to Magnus’s injuries, desire surges between them. But when Magnus’s true identity is revealed, she’s thrown into turmoil – she has invited her enemy into her bed!