Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Lord Havelock's List\Saved by the Viking Warrior\The Pirate Hunter (30 page)

‘You met someone with a stronger will?'

His body went rigid, and the stone planes in his face returned. ‘A long time ago.'

‘I had no choice. You would have tethered me to that horse and made me run simply for the pleasure of it. I've heard the stories.'

‘I would have slung you over the back with your hands tied behind your back to prevent you stealing my horse.' His brows drew together. ‘Humiliating a woman ultimately humiliates the man more. My father taught me that.'

Cwenneth breathed a little easier. Thrand Ammundson was no nightmare of a warrior. ‘I stand corrected.'

‘Courage impresses my men. You never know when you will need allies. You impressed them today. Now let's see about these blisters.'

He ran a finger along the base of her foot. For such a large man, his touch was surprisingly gentle. Warmth spread up her leg, making her feel alive and cared for. She wanted him to keep stroking, keep kneading the ball of her foot. A sharp pain went through her.

She jerked her foot back. ‘That hurt.'

‘The blisters can be healed. Give me the jar.' He held out his hand. ‘I will show you how and tomorrow you do it yourself. Morning and night until your feet toughen. Tomorrow we go quicker.' He took the jar from her unresisting fingers and knelt down before her.

A pulse of warmth radiated from his touch. He touched first one blister, then another, spreading the soothing ointment on. Cwenneth leant back on the green moss and gave herself up to the blissful relief of the pain vanishing.

A small sigh of pleasure escaped from her throat. Immediately, he stopped and dropped the jar beside her.

She glanced up at him. His eyes had darkened to midnight-blue.

‘Why do you stop?' Her voice came out far huskier than she intended.

‘Finish it. You have the idea.'

‘Thank you for this,' she said, reaching for the jar. A liquid heat had risen between her legs. He hadn't even kissed her or touched her intimately, and she had behaved like...like a woman of the street rather than the lady she was. He was her enemy, not her friend. Her cheeks burnt with shame. Ever since Aefirth had died, she had been encased in ice. She had been so sure she'd never feel anything like that again and now this. With this man who should be the last person on the planet she was attracted to, her enemy but also her saviour.

To cover her embarrassment, she bent her head and pretended to smell the strongly scented ointment. ‘An old family recipe, you said? It is better than anything the monks could provide, but it smells so strong.'

‘It is good for burns as well. Thankfully my grandmother taught me how to make it before she died or it would have been lost for ever. She used to use lavender or dog-rose petals to make it smell better, but I have never bothered with it.' He gave an awkward cough. ‘It has helped me many times. Now let me see you put the ointment on.'

Cwenneth breathed easier, grateful to get the subject away from how his touch made her feel. She needed to remember who he was and what he was capable of. They might have a common cause, but he remained her enemy. She couldn't be attracted to him.

‘I can see where smelling of roses would not give the right impression for a warrior.' She forced an arched laugh. ‘Is it true that berserkers like you can't tell the difference between their own men and the enemy in battle?'

His face emptied of all humour and became a dark, forbidding mask. Her shoulders relaxed. A forbidding stranger she could deal with, the man who kneaded the ointment into her foot was the danger.

‘I've never killed any of the men who serve under my banner, Lady Cwenneth. But then I'm no berserker, merely a warrior who has fought in many battles and proven his worth to his king.' He inclined his head. ‘Can you appreciate the difference?'

Cwenneth examined a stain on her gown. She had made a mistake. ‘They say... I had heard rumours. I thought it best to ask. I apologise. My ignorance about your customs is no excuse, but it is all I have. I'll try for better in the future.'

‘Rumours are often lies,' he said gravely.

‘They say in every rumour a kernel of truth hides,' she said quickly before she lost her nerve. ‘Why are you a warrior in a foreign land, Thrand? Why did you follow that path? Why didn't you stay in the North Country?'

His hands curled into fists, but he stood absolutely rigid. ‘Because it was the only way which was open to me.'

‘People always have a choice.' Cwenneth concentrated on slathering the ointment on her feet. ‘Do you enjoy killing? Is that what it is?'

‘Killing is always a last resort. Intimidation works better.' He gave a half smile. ‘But I am good at warfare. Very good at it. My sword is my fortune. I fight for gold, rather than a country.'

‘But haven't you ever wanted to be something more?' she persisted. ‘Both my husband and brother were warriors, but they also had another life which included lands, a hall and a family.'

‘War is my life, my whole life,' he said. ‘It is what I have chosen. There is nothing else for me.'

He stalked away, ending the conversation.

Cwenneth stared after him, weighing the jar in her hand.

‘Curiosity can get you killed, Cwenneth,' she muttered. ‘The same treacherous Norse blood runs in his veins as Hagal's. You have to think about saving your life and escaping. Keep away from him. Stop trying to see good where none exists.'

The trouble was a small part of her heart refused to believe it.

Chapter Four

T
hrand concentrated on setting up camp properly in this inhospitable and rain-soaked place rather than thinking about Lady Cwenneth and the way with a few simple words she had caused him to remember long-forgotten emotions and people. But her questions kept hammering at his brain.

Why had she wanted to know his reason for becoming a mercenary? What did she hope to gain from it? Mercy? Pity? He doubted if he had any left. All the finer feelings had died when he had discovered his parents' bodies, despite Lady Cwenneth's insistence that she saw good in him.

War gave him life and a reason for being on this earth. When he knelt in the mud before the smouldering farmhouse with his parents' mutilated bodies at his side, he had known what he had to do.

‘What are you going to do with the woman?' Knui called. ‘Now that you have won your wager and proved your point. She managed today, I'll grant you that, but barely. We need to be back in Jorvik for the Storting and I want the question of my cousin's child settled.'

Mine. Cwen is mine.
The thought came from deep within, shocking him slightly at its fierce possession.

Thrand filled his lungs with clean air. He lifted his brow. ‘Do?'

Several of the other men turned pale as they recognised his tone.

‘She struggled. The Tyne remains several days' walk in harsh conditions. Return her to her people and collect a ransom. They will pay nothing for a corpse,' Knui continued on, seemingly oblivious to Thrand's growing irritation and anger. Thrand forced a breath, forced himself to remember his promise to Sven that he would look after his cousin on this trip even though Knui had the reputation of being a big mouth and a braggart. Sven wanted his child welcomed by one of his family. ‘Best sell her to some farmer if you do not wish to collect ransom for her. I've done that in the past. Not as much gold, but some. She won't make it to the Tyne.'

‘My pouch of gold is heavier because you bet against her.'

‘She will bring ill luck to our expedition,' Knui commented.

‘Thor favours her and, if she has Thor's favour, she will make the Tyne and beyond,' Thrand commented, looking at the man in turn as he explained about the earlier encounter with the boar.

‘Thor sent a boar to look after her in the woods?' Helgi gasped.

‘What other conclusion can I draw? The boar blew on her face as if he was anointing her,' Thrand said, fixing Knui with a hard stare. ‘One ignores a gift from the gods at one's peril.'

‘You're a hard man, Thrand Ammundson,' Knui said, making a low bow. ‘I'd thought to spare her life, but you are the leader of this
felag
. Your word and Thor's boar must hold sway. The lady will bring good fortune to this enterprise.'

Thrand clung on to his temper with his last ounce of self-control. Knui had kept to the right side of the invisible line which separated him from insubordination.

Once the
felag
had dissolved, he and Knui would settle their differences, but for now he needed him here where he could see him. The last thing he wanted was Knui running to Hagal with the news. Lady Cwenneth's survival had to be revealed at the time of his choosing and not before. Hagal had slipped away from traps before. This time he wanted to leave nothing to chance. ‘Lady Cwenneth travels with us. She will not be sold to a passing farmer or merchant. My responsibility and mine alone.'

‘Where has the lady gone?' Helgi asked. ‘I wanted to ask her about the boar's tusks and how they curved. It makes a difference to the destiny.'

Thrand frowned, his gaze sweeping the camp site. The steady drizzle had stopped and the sun had come out. Then he saw her, curled in a small ball beside his pack. His shoulders relaxed. She was still here. And she was his. The gods had given her to him to avenge his parents' murder. And he would use her without pity or remorse.

He walked over and spread his cloak about her shoulders. She mumbled slightly and turned her face towards him. Her lips shone red in the pale oval of her face. Innocent. Beautiful—and her chances of living were slim. An unaccustomed stab of pity went through him. ‘Leave her to sleep.'

* * *

Cwen's dream were confused—to begin with it was all blood and gore mixed up with Aefirth's corpse holding its skeleton arms out to her and she started running, but could not escape. She grew so cold that her limbs shook and she doubted that she'd ever be warm again. But she knew she wanted to live, not to die. But then a heavy spice scent combined with a life-giving warmth settled over her, making her remember sensations she thought were lost to her. A peace descended along with warmth. And she watched Aefirth mouth ‘goodbye, go live.' She was safe. All would be well. She half opened her eyes and saw another cloak covered her, far finer than the one she had lent Agatha. A dreamless sleep claimed her.

* * *

In the pale grey light before dawn, Thrand sat, listening to the steady breathing. He never slept long and it was easier to allow other less troubled, dream-plagued men a chance for their rest.

A slight moan turned his attention to the cloak-wrapped woman. Cwen had barely moved since he had taken her half-eaten bread from her fingers and wrapped his second cloak about her. What was he going to do with her, this Lady of Lingwold?

‘You are not what I wanted or needed in my life, Cwen,' he murmured.

Cwen began to thrash about on her makeshift bed. ‘No, please, no!'

He put his hand on Cwen's shoulder. Even the simple touch to waken her from her dream had his body hardening. His mouth twisted. Cwen needed to sleep, rather than be enfolded his arms. She was a complication that he could ill afford. He had to use her, rather than care about what happened to her.

‘Be quiet. You will wake the others.'

‘Thrand?' she whispered, panic evident in her voice.

‘The very same.'

‘I'd hoped it was a dream. That I would wake and find myself in Lingwold. Or failing that, Agatha snoring beside me.' Her voice faltered and her bottom lip trembled, making him want to taste it. ‘But I woke here, knowing what happened and knowing that I can't go back to the same person I once was. My life divided and there's no one to guide me.'

He removed his hand and moved away from her. Hell indeed. It had been months before he slept properly after his parents' murder. And then only because he'd killed two of their murderers. ‘Unfortunately, there is no magic spell to make this go away. Lie quietly. Morning will come soon enough. You are safe here amongst my men. No dark riders will come and get you. Sleep. Close your eyes.'

He walked away from her and the temptation to hold her.

She followed him, his second cloak dragging on the ground. ‘I want to talk to someone. Please. I don't want to dream. I want to know that other people are alive.'

Her words touched a long-buried wound. After his parents' death, he too had wanted company, but there had only been the sound of owls hooting in the night.

‘You enjoy disobeying my orders.'

‘Was that an order?' She ran her hands up and down her arms. ‘It is no good lying there and pretending, knowing that you are awake.'

‘You slept for most of the night.'

‘You watched me?'

‘I notice everyone,' Thrand ground out, annoyed he had revealed anything to her. ‘Part of my job. Don't consider yourself special.'

She dipped her head, not meeting his gaze. ‘I'll try to remember that.'

Thrand shifted uncomfortably. He had hurt her and it wasn't what he had intended. The words had come out far too harshly. All the more reason why starting anything with Cwen was bound to end in disappointment and heartache. He never felt comfortable around women. They either wanted too much or not enough. Even with Ingrid, the woman he'd betrayed his parents for, they had never really talked. It had been all physical.

‘My men need their sleep, even if you don't.' He gestured towards his men. ‘They were awake when you shut your eyes. You missed the songs and the fight when Helgi and Knui quarrelled over a game of tafl.'

‘Will it always be like this?'

‘Knui quarrels with everyone,' he said, pretending to misunderstand her question. ‘I regret I ever agreed to his coming on this journey, but it was the only thing which would settle Sven. I wanted my friend to die easily, rather than ranting. I wanted him to...'

‘You don't trust him.'

He gave her a sharp look. ‘I trust very few people, but a good commander trusts his men.'

‘And is Knui your man?'

‘Trust is forged in battle. I've only travelled with Knui.'

She leant forward, and he could spy the pale hollow of her throat where his cloak gaped. ‘Will I always see them—the corpses, I mean? I swore I could hear the sound of pounding hooves coming after me. Hunting me.'

He carefully shrugged, hating that he wanted to take the pain and suffering from her. ‘Some men suffer and see the parade of the dead. Others sleep soundly.'

‘And you? Do you sleep soundly?'

Her mouth trembled and it was all he could do to keep from dragging her into his arms and kissing her until the dreams fled. He clenched his fists. He made a point of not caring.

‘Watching the stars helps. That and exhaustion.'

Her long lashes covered her eyes. ‘Was that why you forced me to walk? You were doing me a service? I hadn't considered that. Thank you.'

‘Don't go making me into something I am not. My reasoning was purely selfish. I knew my men would bet against you and I enjoy winning.' The muscles in his neck relaxed. There, he had told her a partial truth. He was not going soft or losing his edge, but there was something about this woman he admired. She had courage.

‘If it helps me to sleep, then I'm grateful. It is better you didn't say or otherwise I'd have worried about the dreams.'

‘You have a different way of looking at things.'

She stretched out a foot. He watched the high white curve of her instep and struggled against the urge to hold it again. ‘My blisters are much better. Your grandmother must have been a very holy woman to create such a miracle cure.'

‘She learnt the recipe from her mother.' Thrand put his hand on her shoulder and felt her shiver. Her words brought back long-forgotten memories. This sense of disorientation and questioning was so familiar. The memory of sitting and staring at the smouldering heap that had once been his house, knowing that he too should have seen the signs, stirred deep within him. ‘My grandmother used to say the past was written in stone, but the future is written in water. I never understood it until I was forced to grow up.'

She shook his hand off. ‘Then I shall have to ensure Hagal pays for his crimes. It is something I can do to honour the dead.'

Thrand's muscles tensed. A small beacon of hope. A willing witness, rather than a scared, reluctant one, would give much better testimony. ‘Do you mean that?'

‘Yes, yes, I do.' She tilted her head to one side, her long lashes making dark smudges against her pale cheek. ‘Is there a way?'

‘I want you to make a statement in front of the Storting, tell them what happened. Loud and clear, looking them in the eye and never faltering.'

‘And if the king chooses to believe Hagal and return me to him? Or if Hagal kills me? Once he knows...'

‘Hagal already wants you dead. It is my job to keep you alive.'

‘I have been thinking. There must be a way to disguise myself, make it less likely to be remembered if we encounter anyone before...before we reach Jorvik.'

‘Then you will do it?'

‘Ensuring Hagal and the men who committed the murders are punished for this must become my life.'

Unaccustomed pity stabbed his heart. A beautiful woman like her should have more than vengeance in her life. Annoyed, he pushed the thought away. Cwen had the right to live her life as she saw fit and what happened to her afterwards was none of his concern. ‘You have courage, Lady Cwenneth.'

‘A compliment, I think.' In the grey light, he could just make out the crooked half-smile, which changed her features from pretty to heart-stoppingly beautiful.

‘What do you consider your most memorable feature?' he asked, rather than giving into the renewed temptation to kiss her.

‘My long, blonde hair. One true asset, according to my sister-in-law.'

‘Cut it. Having it short will make you like a thrall, a slave.'

‘Will you do it?' Cwenneth stared directly at Thrand and willed him to understand. ‘I am afraid my hand will not be steady enough even if I can get a sharp knife.'

‘Right now?'

‘Before we start travelling again. Before I become memorable to any traveller.'

‘Hold your head still.'

He took a knife from his belt and with one swift motion, a lock of golden hair tumbled to the ground, swiftly followed by the next one, until all about her feet a golden carpet lay. Her entire being tingled with awareness of him, the way he moved and the gentleness of his touch for such a large man and his warm, spicy scent.

Cwenneth screwed up her eyes and tried to breathe slowly. It had to be a reaction to the day's events rather than a true attraction to a man like him. She had never felt this way about Hagal or any of the other North men she'd encountered. And she knew what he'd done, even if the rumours were exaggerated.

‘With the right tools, the task is easily accomplished.' He stepped back and considered her from hooded eyes. ‘Your hair was too heavy for your delicate features. Your eyes appear much bigger. You were wrong—your hair isn't your most memorable feature. Your eyes are.'

Her hands paused in their exploration of her shorn head. ‘My mother used to call them the window to my soul.'

His face took on an intent expression. ‘They are. Windows.'

‘I will take your word for it. There is no mirror around here.' Cwenneth's heart thumped. Thrand's eyes were mostly iced over. What did that say about his soul? ‘I had a little silver mirror that had belonged to my mother, but it is gone now. Burnt or stolen. Lost to me at any rate.'