To Sin with a Viking

She might have been beautiful, if she’d had enough to eat.

He found himself comparing her to Elena. His wife was nearly as tall as he was, with long reddish-blonde hair and eyes the colour of seawater. Their families had arranged the marriage in order to ally their two tribes together. Although she was a quiet woman, the first few years had been good between them.

A chill took hold within him as he wondered what they’d done with her. Was she alive?

But demanding questions of this waif would accomplish nothing. Better to bide his time and gain her trust. Perhaps then he could get her to unlock his chains, and he’d slip away into the night.

‘I can’t understand your language,’ she admitted, drawing nearer. She was far shorter than Elena, and the top of her head only reached his shoulders. ‘But I’m sorry for all of this. I just…wanted to protect my brother.’

He said nothing, staring at her. The young woman’s voice revealed her fear, but there was also a sweetness to it, as if she were trying to soothe a wounded beast.

‘My name is Caragh Ó Brannon,’ she informed him. Touching her chest, she repeated, ‘Caragh.’

Styr said nothing at all. If she wanted his name, then she’d have to set him free first. He sent her a hard look, willing her to release him.

‘If you’ll allow it, I can tend your wound,’ she offered. ‘I truly am sorry for hitting you. I was afraid I’d killed you for a moment.’ She lowered her gaze, wringing her hands together. ‘That’s not the sort of woman I am.’ Her mouth tightened, and she sighed. ‘I don’t know why I’m even speaking to you, for you can’t understand a single word.’

It didn’t seem to stop her, though. Caragh began talking in a stream of conversation, and Styr was so taken aback by her ceaseless speech, he had trouble following some of her words. She kept apologising while she found a basin of water and a bowl of soup. Then he came to understand that it was her way of hiding her fear. By talking her enemy to death.

When she stood an arm’s length from him, Caragh stopped mid-word. Her eyes stared at him with regret, and she set down the bowl of soup at his feet, along with another basin, presumably for his personal needs.

‘I’m sorry to keep you like this,’ she said quietly. ‘But if I let you go, you’ll kill my family.’ Her eyes drifted downward again. ‘Possibly me, as well.’ She dipped the linen cloth into the water and hesitated. Water dripped down into the bowl, and she admitted, ‘I probably shouldn’t have taken you prisoner. But if I hadn’t, you’d have gone after my brother again.’

It disconcerted him that he’d been captured at all. If he and his men had been at their full strength, it never would have happened. The lack of sleep had slowed their reflexes, making it difficult for them to respond to the surprise attack.

Caragh reached out and touched the cloth to his temple, washing away the dried blood. The gentle gesture was so unexpected, he gaped at her. She was intent upon her work, though from the slight tremor in her fingers, he sensed her fear of him. The cool water soothed the swelling, but he spoke no words.

Why would she bother tending his wound? He was her enemy, not her friend. No one had ever touched him in this manner, and he couldn’t understand why this waif would attempt it. Either she had a greater courage than he’d guessed, or she was too foolish to understand that a man like him didn’t deserve mercy.

‘I wish you could understand me,’ she murmured, while a water droplet slid down his cheek. She was staring at him intently, her blue eyes so dark, he found himself spellbound. When her fingers touched the drop of water, an unbidden response flared inside him. Styr moved forwards, stretching the chains taut.

Forcing her to be afraid.

She jerked back, stammering, ‘I—I’m sorry. I must have hurt you again.’ She pointed towards the bowl of soup on the ground. ‘I haven’t much I can feed you, but it’s all there is.’ She shrugged and retreated again, nodding for him to eat.

Styr eyed the bowl of watery soup and then sent her a questioning look. Exactly how did she expect him to eat with his hands bound behind his back?

She waited for a moment, ladling a bowl for herself. With a spoon, she began to eat slowly, as if savouring the broth. ‘Don’t you want—?’ Her words broke off as it dawned on her that she would have to feed him if he was going to eat at all.

A slow breath released from her. ‘I should have thought about this.’ She stood and reached for another wooden spoon. For a moment, she studied him. Her mouth twisted with worry, but she picked up the bowl again.

Styr could hardly believe any of this. Not only had she treated his wounds, she’d offered food and was about to feed it to him.

For a captor, she was entirely too merciful. And it enraged him that he was trapped here with a soft-hearted woman attempting to make the best of the situation while Elena was out there somewhere. He had to escape these chains and find his wife.

Regret stung his conscience, for he’d failed to protect Elena. He didn’t know if she was alive or dead, and guilt weighed upon him. What if another man had violated her? What if she was suffering, her body ravaged with pain?

Styr ignored the soup and called out in a hoarse voice, ‘Elena!’ There was no reply. Again and again, he shouted her name, hoping she would hear him if she was within the ringfort. Then he called out to Ragnar and each of his kinsmen as he tried to determine if he was the only hostage. Or the only one left alive.

‘They’re gone,’ Caragh interrupted when he took another breath. ‘I don’t know where, but the ship isn’t there any more.’ Her face flushed and she admitted, ‘Brendan took the woman hostage. I saw your men lay down their weapons, but I don’t know what happened after that.’

Her gaze dropped to the ground, and he suspected she was withholding more information. He turned his gaze from her, so she would not know that he’d understood her words.

Turbulent thoughts roiled within him, igniting another surge of rage. Where was his wife? Was she still alive? And what of his men?

When Caragh dared to touch a spoonful of broth to his lips, he used his head like a battering ram, sending the bowl flying. She paled and retrieved the bowl, wiping up the spilled soup.

In fury, he kicked at the wall, smashing the wattle and daub frame until he’d created a hole in the wicker frame. He roared out his frustration, straining against the manacles in a desperate need to escape. Over and over, he pulled at the chains, trying to break them.

And when he’d failed to free himself, he cast another look at Caragh. She’d picked up the remains of his soup and added it to her own bowl. When he stared at her, she showed no fear at all. Only a defiant look of her own, as if he ought to be ashamed of himself.

Caragh slept fitfully, awakening several times during the night. Dear God in Heaven, what had she done? Imprisoning the Viking had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now, she regretted it. She shouldn’t have saved his life. He was planning to kill Brendan and had already killed two others. He didn’t deserve to live.

It was several hours before dawn, but she rose from her pallet and tiptoed over to the fire, adding another peat brick. A flicker of sparks rose up, and she stoked the flames to heat the cool interior. In the faint amber light, she studied the Lochlannach man who lay upon the earth.

She had removed his cloak and brooch, not wanting him to use the pin as a weapon. He wore a rough linen tunic beneath the mail corselet protecting his chest, while his fair hair was tied back in a cord. His face was strangely compelling, even in sleep. She sat upon a footstool and studied him.

Though he was harsh, his body strong from years of battle, she couldn’t deny that he was handsome, like a fallen angel. None of the men she’d met over the years even compared to this man’s features.

He was the sort of man to carry a woman off and claim her. Without warning, her mind conjured the image of kissing a man like this. He would not be gentle but would capture her mouth, consuming her. A hard shiver passed over her, for she’d never before imagined such a thing. It was madness to even consider it.

But she’d glimpsed the fury on his face when the woman was taken. He’d fought hard for her, striking down any man who threatened her.

Caragh studied his profile in the firelight, wondering what sort of man he was. Was he a fierce barbarian who would kill her as soon as she freed him? Or did he possess any honour at all?

In his sleep, he moved restlessly, and she realised he was exposed to cool air from the wall segment he’d broken. Though it was summer, the nights were often cold, and no doubt he was feeling the chill. The practical side of her decided that he ought to be uncomfortable for smashing the wall.

Wouldn’t you have done the same thing, if you were a captive? her conscience argued. Wouldn’t you have done anything to escape?

She might have. But he’d killed her kinsmen. He deserved to suffer for it.

They took his woman. He was trying to pro­ tect her.

He’d called out the woman’s name, Elena, for a long time. Likely she was his wife or possibly his sister.

That was what plagued her most. If their situations were reversed, and she had been captured, her brothers would have slaughtered anyone who dared to harm her. She couldn’t fault this man from trying to guard a family member.

But if she hadn’t intervened, he would have killed Brendan. And if she released this man now, he would hunt her brother down and exact his revenge.

Worry knotted her stomach, for she didn’t know where Brendan was. Her last fleeting vision of him was when he’d kept his blade at the woman’s throat, dragging her backwards towards the ship. Caragh had been so busy securing her own prisoner, she’d only caught glimpses of what was happening around her.

One of the older men had helped her to drag the prisoner away from the others, for she’d been too weak to do it herself. After she’d chained the Viking, she’d returned outside, only to find the man’s body cut down by a sword. Her stomach wrenched to think that he’d died because he’d tried to help her.

In her mind, she reconstructed bits and pieces of what she remembered. Brendan with his hostage…and the Lochlannach had dropped their weapons on the sand before they’d waded into the water.

Though a few of Brendan’s friends had joined him, they were outnumbered. Even weaponless, Caragh didn’t doubt that their enemy intended to ambush her brother, reclaiming the ship and the woman. They needed no blades to kill Brendan.

It had been impossible to help him, without drawing the Lochlannach back on herself and the others.