Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Lord Havelock's List\Saved by the Viking Warrior\The Pirate Hunter (33 page)

Cwenneth bit back a quick retort. Thrand knew he might not survive the coming battle and he wanted to do right for his friend. More proof if she needed it that he was very different from Narfi and Hagal. He was a good man.

‘Will you be taking the child with you?' she asked. Her mind reeled as she thought about how a child would cope amongst the Norsemen.

‘Why would I want to do that?' Thrand sounded genuinely shocked and surprised.

‘Because it is your friend's child.'

‘The child has a mother. I will make sure the child is looked after, but my life has no room for children or any sort of family.' This time there was no mistaking the finality in his voice. ‘Until my vengeance is complete, I don't have room for anyone in my life.'

Cwenneth hated that her heart ached.

Chapter Six

T
hrand concentrated on keeping his body upright and in the saddle and ignoring the increasing pain in his back. Narfi's final blow had cut deep into his back. With each pound of Myrkr's hoof, the wound protested. Years of battle had taught him to bury the pain and attend to the task at hand—escape.

Cwen was a weapon, nothing more. His destiny was not to have a family. He'd lost his family through his own mistakes. He wouldn't risk it again.

He shifted in the saddle. White-hot pain shot through his back. An involuntary moan escaped his lips. He tightened his grip on the reins and on Cwen's waist.

‘Something is wrong!' Cwen half turned in the saddle. A frown came between her delicate brows. ‘Are you well?'

‘I'm perfectly fine,' Thrand answered between gritted teeth. If they stopped, he doubted if he could get back on Myrkr and be able to lift Cwen up as well. Already his vision was hazy. ‘Far too soon to stop. Myrkr has a good few miles left in his legs. He is just slowing because of the extra burden.'

She put her hand against his chest. ‘Do you really think that or are you simply saying it, hoping I will believe it?'

He concentrated on the road ahead, rather than how Cwen's curves felt against his body. ‘Few dare question me.'

‘Perhaps more should. Stop being arrogant and inclined to believe the legend of Thrand the Destroyer.' She gave an uneasy laugh. ‘You're really Thrand Ammundson, a seasoned warrior, but still human.'

‘You are wrong. We are the same.'

‘I beg to differ.'

Cwenneth glanced back at Thrand's face when he didn't give a quick retort in turn.

Over the past few miles, all the colour had drained from his face, making it more like a death mask than a living countenance. His arm about her waist now resembled a dead man's grip.

She gasped. She should have checked Thrand for wounds before they left. She knew how quick Aefirth had been to dismiss any wound as trivial. Why should Thrand be any different?

Even Myrkr had sensed something was wrong. The horse was moving slowly and kept glancing back at Thrand.

‘We need to stop,' she said. ‘Right now. You must stop.'

‘Go farther.' Thrand drew a shuddering breath. ‘Need to keep you safe.'

‘May God preserve me from stubborn warriors.' She reached for the horse's bridle. ‘We stop now!'

The horse halted immediately. Thrand listed to one side, and his arm abruptly loosened. Cwenneth made a wild grab for Mrykr's mane and barely stayed on the horse.

‘What do you think you are playing at, Cwen?'

Cwenneth let go of the mane and slid off the horse. She mistimed it and fell to the ground. Not the dignified dismounting that she'd hoped for, but it would suffice.

‘Making sure we stop before you collapse and die.' Cwenneth stood up gingerly and stretched out her hands and legs. Nothing seemed to be broken. Her heart beat so fast that she thought it would burst out of her chest. ‘Measures had to be taken. You're badly injured. Stop playing the legend and pay attention to the man.'

‘Leave it.' His jaw jutted out, making him look more like a stubborn boy than a fearsome warrior. ‘I don't need any of your help. Anyone's help. Now are you getting back on the horse? Or do I leave you to fend for yourself?'

‘An empty threat.' Cwenneth tapped her foot on the ground. ‘You need me alive.'

‘Cwen!' He slid off the horse and winced, putting his hand to his back. His mouth was pinched white with a bluish tinge.

‘The fighting was intense. Two men died. My price for continuing on is examining your wound.' She held out her hand. ‘Please, before you get us both killed.'

‘I can take care of myself,' he muttered, not meeting her eyes. ‘I have been doing it for long enough. And if I have survived this many battles, I reckon that I will survive a bit longer.'

She held her hand. ‘I can help. Together we can bind the wound so you can travel. You look half-dead.'

His brief look of longing nearly took her breath away but before she could actually register it, the mask had come down. ‘Far too stubborn.'

Cwenneth put her hand on her hip. She had always deferred to Aefirth and her brother, not wishing to risk their wrath, but Thrand was different. He was not the sort of man to use his fists on a woman whereas her brother had always been quick with his if he didn't get his own way. ‘My late husband died because he ignored his injuries. I won't allow you to do the same.'

‘Why would you do that for me?'

‘Self-interest. I need you alive to keep me alive.'

He gave a great sigh. ‘If you insist...but no fussing.'

‘I do insist. There seems to be a deserted hut over here. Shelter, as the sky threatens rain.' Cwenneth pointed to a little building with its roof in desperate need of repair. A small stream ran alongside it. Shelter and water—what more could she want? Providence. A small boar was carved on the lintel over the door.

Cwenneth's heart leapt. If she ever returned to her old life, she'd make sure she incorporated the boar in any device she might have. Did women in convents have devices? Her brother was likely to make good his threat and send her to one. Whitby, if she was lucky. Or further up the coast if she wasn't. But she'd deal with that once it came about. Right now, there was no guarantee she'd reach Jorvik.

Thrand lifted a brow. ‘You have no idea who uses it. Or when they might return.'

‘We'll stop here for the night.'

‘We need to get up north and back to Jorvik as swiftly as possible. Time is of the essence. I promised my men.'

‘Your men will wait for us.' She marched towards the hut. ‘Are you coming? Or do you leave me to die? Your one weapon against the man who killed your family?'

‘How do you know my men will wait?' His smile was more like a grimace of pain. ‘They are mercenaries. They will go with whosoever pays them the most amount of gold. There is adventure for the taking at the moment. Ireland, Iceland, even the trading routes to the east require men with strong backs and stronger sword arms.'

‘You would wait for them,' she said with sudden certainty. Thrand would wait because he was that sort of person, because he honoured his word. ‘Only Knui spoke out. The rest remained silent. And none bet against you.'

He tilted his head to one side. ‘You appear to know my men very well.'

‘They're men of honour.' As the words left her mouth, she thought of the irony. Two days ago, she would never have thought she'd utter those words about any Norseman, but she knew they were the truth. Honour didn't only belong to the Bernicians. ‘I am going into the hut. You may follow if you wish, but we are not leaving this place until I say.'

She marched into the hut. Her heart thudded in her ears as she heard Thrand's horse whinny. She clenched her fists and hoped that Thrand would not challenge her any more.

‘The hut appears derelict, but it has been used in the recent past,' Thrand said from the doorway. ‘Whoever used it will be back.'

‘Take off your top and stop being difficult.' She put her hand on her hip.

‘A masterful woman. How refreshing. Most of the Northumbrian ladies I've encountered faint at the sight of blood.'

She rolled her eyes. ‘I make no comment on the women you might have encountered previously.'

‘I spoke of ladies. Northumbrian ladies.' His soft words skittered over her flesh.

‘Then as you know I am no longer a lady. I am a woman. You claimed me.' She snapped her fingers, hating the sudden flash of jealousy which struck at her core. Which other ladies had he known? It wasn't any of her business. Truly. She wasn't interested in him. Not in that way. She was only with him because she wanted to survive.

A voice deep within her called her a liar.

‘I will have no more of this nonsense about me being a gently bred lady who faints at the sight of blood. I am a widow and have seen the male torso before. I attended my husband during his last illness.'

‘You are wrong there, Cwen. Your breeding oozes from your pores.'

‘Stop stalling. Strip.'

He pulled off his top and exposed his torso. His skin was a golden hue except where a network of scars gleamed white.

Cwenneth sucked in her breath and hastily averted her eyes from the faint line of hair that led down his chest and disappeared into his trousers. She'd had enough humiliation with his rejection of her kiss earlier that morning.

‘Have you seen enough, my
lady
?'

‘I'll let you know.'

She walked slowly around him, hoping that he didn't notice the flame in her cheeks. The removal of his shirt had dislodged the slight scabbing. Fresh blood oozed from the cut on his lower back. It was a wonder that he had remained upright, let alone was able to ride a horse, hanging on to the both of them. Cwenneth swallowed hard. The debt she owed him grew with each passing breath.

‘Before I take another step that wound will be cleaned and stitched,' she said, opting for a practical tone. Her stomach roiled. ‘Hopefully Narfi's sword was clean.'

‘Can you stitch wounds?'

‘One thing I can do is sew. I embroidered my gown, not that there is any gold left on it,' she commented drily.

‘But have you sewn flesh?' His fingers brushed hers. A jolt of fire ran up her arm.

‘I've seen worse,' she said, avoiding the question. She had watched the monks sew up Aefirth three times—the first time he came home after a battle, after an accident in training, and the final time. But now wasn't the moment to confess her lack of practical experience. ‘The wound doesn't gape and no vital organs are touched or you wouldn't have been able to ride for so long. You have lost blood and the wound still seeps. Sewing rather than burning. A simple enough task for me.' After what had happened with Aefirth and Richard, her confidence in her abilities to heal were next to nil. She had promised her sister-in-law to always call for the monks and never to attempt anything on her own again. But Thrand needed help immediately before he lost more blood or the wound festered.

His hand captured hers. ‘You tremble.'

She pulled away from him. ‘I can do it.'

‘We could find a monastery. A monk would stitch me up. They have in the past. Honour bound, even to help a pagan sinner such as me.'

‘Once Hagal knows you fought Narfi, he will check every church and monastery in the vicinity just in case. He is not a man to respect sanctuary.'

He closed his eyes for a long heartbeat.

‘My husband died from a wound that went putrid.' She kept her gaze on the walls of the hut. Her nails made half-moons in her palms as she felt moisture gather in the back of her eyes. ‘He should have gone to a healer straight away, but he was eager to get home. By the time the monks and I had a chance to look at the wound, it was too late. The poison had spread. They tried to burn it out, but failed.'

He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. ‘How would you have felt if he had died elsewhere?'

She spun around and looked into his face. His mouth was pinched and his lips were more blue than red. ‘Do you have a choice?'

He closed his eyes and his pallor increased. Sweat now cascaded down his face and his arms began to shake.

Cwenneth clamped her lips together and waited, silently praying that he would see sense and stop being stubborn. Men.

He bowed his head. ‘I give in. Tomorrow morning we go. My pack and saddle will need to be brought in. Myrkr stabled. I've no wish for some thief to take them while we are messing with my back.'

‘Remain here.' Without waiting for him to reply, she walked out of the door. Myrkr bared his teeth at her. Normally, she'd have backed away and not even tried. But that wasn't an option. She advanced forward and gripped his bridle.

She tugged, but the horse remained still and unmoving. He gave a low whinny and shook his head, determined to wait for his master.

‘Move it,' she growled and shoved her shoulder against the horse. ‘You have to so I can save his life. Do this for Thrand.'

To her astonishment, Myrkr allowed her to lead him to the small lean-to she'd spied at the side of the hut. There was a manger with the remains of some oats in the bottom. ‘You see—food.'

While the horse ate, she rapidly undid the saddle and removed Thrand's gear. ‘I'll return later. Let you know how it went. Give you some more food.'

The horse lowered his head and pawed the ground twice as if he understood. She pressed her hands to her head. Talking to horses and expecting them to understand—she must be losing her mind. But her nerves eased slightly to think she was not alone.

She staggered back into the hut and dropped the pack down with a thump. ‘Myrkr is safely stabled and your pack is here. Your saddle can wait.'

In her absence, Thrand had started the fire. The flames highlighted the increasing pool of blood on his shirt.

Cwenneth clenched her fists. God save her from self-sufficient men. She put down the pack with a loud and satisfying thump.

‘Be careful with that. If it was too heavy you should have said.'

‘What is in there? The takings from your latest raid?' she bit out.

‘Enough gold to provide for Sven's child as well as healing herbs and a little food.' He sank down to the ground. ‘I think I might have overdone it after all.'

‘What healing herbs do you have?' Cwenneth's mouth went dry. ‘My late husband always used to have a few supplies, just in case there was no monastery available. Hopefully you use the same herbs.'

He motioned towards his pack. ‘There are some. Valerian root, knit bone and a few others. No poppy seeds. Those who have served in Constantinople swear by it, but it gives me strange dreams. And I do have silk for sewing up. Linen stitches do not hold as well. And there is some ale for washing the wound. Or drinking. I don't have any linen for bandages. My shirt will have to do.'