The Viking's Heart

It fell into the dirt with an inauspicious ping. Amazed, Agravar held up the hilt and its paltry stub of steel.

“You broke my sword,” he bellowed in an accusing voice.

The man seemed horrified to see what he had done. “Sir, I am sorry. I—”

He said no more, for Agravar took advantage of his consternation to close the gap between them in two quick strides and lay a crushing blow to the man’s jaw. His red hat flew off in one direction, the feather in the other, and the brave fool crumpled into a heap.

Agravar shoved his embarrassingly damaged weapon into his belt and set off after the woman.

If she reached the horses, she might have a chance, Rosamund thought, hiking her skirts up and running as hard as she could. Not since she was a child, romping in the forests of Hallscroft with the peasant children from the nearby farms, had she pushed her body this hard.

She would never outrun that terrifying Viking. The thought pushed her harder, her legs pumped faster. The horses—if she made it to them, freedom was hers.

The need to know if he was behind her was hard to resist, but she was not about to lose one precious second in glancing back. Wait! She skidded, caught her balance and turned. This was not the way to the horses. This path didn’t look familiar at all. She circled again, panic rising.

A loud, splintering crash sounded from up on her right, where a slight ridge ran parallel to the path she had just come down. Whirling, she saw him as he leaped into the air, his face grim, teeth bared in a bone-chilling snarl that drained the blood out of her body in a single heartbeat. His hair streamed out behind him, pale and shiny, catching dappled sunlight and throwing it back into the forest.

She was so shocked she didn’t think to get out of his way. He landed in front of her, squarely on two feet, but his momentum carried him into her. His hands clutched her waist as they fell, twisting them both so that when they struck the loamy turf, it was he who landed on his back. She fell on top of him, cushioned nicely on his great chest.

He let out a sound that was half grunt, half sigh as the hard ground and her slight weight compressed his mighty form from either side. His arms held her, but loosely. She waited only a moment to catch her breath before pushing herself up and away.

The thick arms tightened immediately, making her struggles impossible. But her hands were free. They struck something solid and cold, giving her an idea. Stilling her body’s movements, she stretched out her fingers, grazing their tips against her boon. Nimbly she worked her hand forward and closed her grip.

He rolled, bringing her under him. She found herself trapped by his arms on either side of her and the broad-shouldered mass of him overhead. As neatly caged as a prisoner, she peered up at the face that hovered only inches from hers.

“Are you the Lady Rosamund Clavier?”

His voice was deep, and at this proximity, the rich tone reverberated throughout her whole body. He smelled vaguely of sweat and a faint hint of soap, perhaps from his shave, for his chin and cheeks were bare.

She nodded, not wanting to try her voice.

“I am sent by your cousin, the Lady Alayna. Be easy, my lady, for I mean you no harm. If I allow you up, will you listen to what I have to say?”

Again she bobbed her head.

He hauled himself up, moving quickly and with surprising agility for one so large. She slipped her hand behind the long panel of her surcoat as she climbed slowly to her knees and then to her feet, her back to him.

“Lady Rosamund, I—”

In one giddy, unpracticed motion, she whirled and brought up what she thought was his dagger in both her hands. “Let me be!” she cried, and jabbed the weapon out at him in a threatening gesture meant to ward him off.

The broken-off hilt of a blade was displayed before her.

Her eyes fastened on it, then shifted to his face. He was watching her with dancing eyes. They were very blue, like a cold north sea. Perhaps that was just her fanciful association from the knowledge that he was a Viking.

“And exactly what do you intend to do to me with that?”

She blinked rapidly, trying to think. “It is more weapon than any you can claim,” she said bravely.

“And what makes you think I am in need of a weapon, my gentle woman?” A blur caught the corner of her eye. And then her hand hurt. She looked at it to see what could be causing the pain and was amazed to find it empty.

“Now we are evenly matched,” he said, stepping forward.

“How can you think so? You are twice my size.” She fell back a few paces. He advanced again, closing the gap and then some.

“I would guess three times or more, but what difference does it make when you possess such cunning?”

“What will you do with me?”

“Nothing worse than rescue you, my lady.”

“Ha! You think I will come easily under that pretty lie?”

A great shoulder lifted and fell. “It matters not, for I’ll have the result either way, although it would be less of a bother if you would cooperate.”

His steady advance, and her retreat, had backed her against a log. It caught under her knees and she stumbled. In a trice, he was beside her, his hands at her waist to steady her and pull her upright.

“Safety, my lady,” he said, and his tone was completely changed from the sharp admonishment of only a moment ago.

His touch was unbearably hot, encompassing part of her back and the side of her hip in one broad palm. His breath fanned down against her cheek, whispering across her flesh and making her shiver…from terror, she thought.

“Please do not touch me.” It was a soft, ineffectual plea.

But he complied. He dropped his hands and stepped away. “Will you come willingly with me, or shall I fling you over my shoulder and bear you like a sack of grain to Gastonbury?”

“You are taking me to Gastonbury?” she asked.

“First I must gather your companion and your horses, then find your guard and my other men, but we should clear the castle walls before darkness.”

At her quiet consideration of this news, he asked, “Does that not reassure you, my lady, that what I have pledged is true? ’Tis not harm I intend you, but deliverance to the safety of your cousin’s care.”

She thought good and long before replying, considering her options, and the possibilities. “Aye, sir. You have my trust.”

By his dubious expression, she could see he was not completely reassured.

And well he should not be, she reflected as she followed his lead.

Chapter Four

With the highwayman slung over one horse, Rosamund seated on another and Agravar in the lead, they came to the clearing just east of the stream.

Other men were assembled, Rosamund saw; both her soldiers and presumably Gastonbury’s. A great welcome went up at their arrival. A man approached the Viking and he dismounted. She heard the name Agravar. The Viking’s name, she supposed. Yes, he had said it before. Agravar.

The man who approached looked like a demon, with a wild mane of dark hair and eyes that were almost black. He turned to Rosamund and she tensed, causing her horse to shy.

The Viking—Agravar—was beside her in a flash, grabbing the reins and steadying the beast. “Come, this is your cousin’s husband.”

This was the legendary Lucien de Montregnier! He stood beside the Viking and nodded. “I know you have had a trying adventure. We shall rest and refresh ourselves before setting out for home. My wife will be anxious to see you.” He ran his hand through his hair and tried to smile. He was almost handsome when he did so. “And I would be grateful if your nerves were made calmer before we resume your journey, else I be taken to task as it was my tardiness that was at fault.”