His eyelids were heavy and he closed them, surrendering to the temptation of unconsciousness. Sleep was what he needed now.

But a moment later Elena’s arms were around him and she was supporting his shoulders.

‘Ragnar!’ She shook him lightly, demanding that he open his eyes.

His vision flickered, but he managed to look at her.

‘Don’t leave me,’ she demanded. Her eyes welled up with tears and she commanded again, ‘You can’t leave me here alone.’

‘Just … resting,’ he told her. Sleep would make it easier to bear the pain. The darkness was tempting him to let go, to fall into nothingness.

‘Your lips are blue,’ she told him. ‘If you go to sleep now you might never awaken.’

He didn’t answer her, for his body had been transformed into lead and the last bits of consciousness were sliding away. Though a part of him understood what she meant, he lacked the strength to fight it.

‘Don’t you dare die on me!’ She wept, shaking him again. ‘I can’t survive out here alone. Do you hear me?’ she demanded. ‘If you die, I’ll die as well.’

He tried to form the word no, to tell her he wasn’t going to die at all. But before his lips could move her mouth came down on his in a searing kiss.

FORBIDDEN VIKINGS

Resist them if you can!

Styr Hardrata has travelled to Ireland with his wife Elena to save their marriage. They have grown apart and, when he is captured and she kidnapped, both find themselves faced with irresistible temptations …

Fiercesome warrior Styr is captured by the beautiful Irish maiden Caragh in

TO SIN WITH A VIKING Already available

Lonely Elena is stranded with her husband’s best friend, Viking warrior Ragnar Olafsson, in

TO TEMPT A VIKING February 2014

Read both stories in this powerful new duet of forbidden passion by Michelle Willingham

To Tempt a Viking

Michelle Willingham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RITA® Award Finalist Michelle Willingham has written over twenty historical romances, novellas and short stories. Currently she lives in south-eastern Virginia with her husband and children. When she’s not writing Michelle enjoys reading, baking and avoiding exercise at all costs. Visit her website at: www.michellewillingham.com

Previous novels by this author:

HER IRISH WARRIOR*

THE WARRIOR’S TOUCH*

HER WARRIOR KING*

HER WARRIOR SLAVE†

THE ACCIDENTAL COUNTESS††

THE ACCIDENTAL PRINCESS††

TAMING HER IRISH WARRIOR*

SURRENDER TO AN IRISH WARRIOR*

CLAIMED BY THE HIGHLAND WARRIOR**

SEDUCED BY HER HIGHLAND WARRIOR**

TEMPTED BY THE HIGHLAND WARRIOR**

WARRIORS IN WINTER*

THE ACCIDENTAL PRINCE††

TO SIN WITH A VIKING§

Also available in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBooks:

THE VIKING’S FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE

THE WARRIOR’S FORBIDDEN VIRGIN

AN ACCIDENTAL SEDUCTION††

INNOCENT IN THE HAREM

PLEASURED BY THE VIKING*

CRAVING THE HIGHLANDER’S TOUCH**

And in M&B: LIONHEART’S BRIDE (part of Royal Weddings Through the Ages)

And in M&B eBooks: RESCUED BY THE HIGHLAND WARRIOR (part of Highlanders anthology)

*The MacEgan Brothers †prequel to The MacEgan Brothers mini-series **The MacKinloch Clan ††linked by character §Forbidden Vikings

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

AUTHOR NOTE

TO TEMPT A VIKING is the second book in my Forbidden Vikings series (Book One was TO SIN WITH A VIKING). This duet is centred around the idea that sometimes arranged marriages don’t work … and what will happen when a husband and a wife meet their true soul mates?

Elena Karlsdotter has always dreamed of a loving husband and children, but after being barren for years she blames herself for the failure of her marriage. Her husband no longer desires her, and she’s afraid to let him go, but when she’s stranded with her husband’s best friend, Ragnar Olafsson, she comes to realise that the man of her dreams has been there all along. Fierce and strong, Ragnar holds dark secrets of his own, and Elena helps him to heal old wounds.

I hope you’ll enjoy these Irish Viking stories. Incidentally, the epilogue of this book is based upon a true story about friends of mine who struggled for years to have children.

My other Viking stories include THE VIKING’S FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE, PLEASURED BY THE VIKING and THE HOLLY AND THE VIKING in Warriors in Winter.

Visit my website at www.michellewillingham.com for excerpts and behind-the-scenes details about my books. I love to hear from readers and you may e-mail me at michelle@michellewillingham.com or write via mail at PO Box 2242 Poquoson, VA 23662, USA. I can also be found on Facebook at www.facebook.com/michellewillinghamfans and on Twitter at www.twitter.com/michellewilling.

DEDICATION

Dedicated to all mothers who love their children with special needs.

Your courage and steadfast love are inspiring.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Ireland—AD 875

There was nothing worse than being in love with your best friend’s wife.

Ragnar Olafsson tightened his fists over the oars, pulling hard against the waves of the sea. He shouldn’t have gone with them to éire. But when Styr had asked him to come, he’d agreed in a weak moment. Though he’d buried all traces of his obsession with Elena, the idea of never seeing her again was worse than the torment of seeing her with her husband.

Never once had he let either of them know of his fascination. No one knew of the raw frustration gnawing within him when he watched Styr take the woman he loved into his hut. It was a dark torture, seeing them together.

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to let her go.

As he rowed, Ragnar kept his gaze fixed upon Elena. Her fair hair held glints of red, like touches of fire upon gold. She was like a beautiful goddess—he worshipped her from afar.

She considered him a friend, but nothing more than that. It wasn’t surprising. A woman like Elena deserved a strong marriage to a high-born warrior. Her match with Styr had been arranged years ago and Ragnar wasn’t the sort of man to steal a woman away from a friend. Especially not his best friend.

She’d made her choice and Styr had done everything to make her happy. For that reason, Ragnar had stepped aside.

He’d tried to find another woman over the years. Although he was a strong fighter and several maidens had cast their eyes on him, none of them compared to Elena. Perhaps no one ever would.

He studied her as she stared off at the grey waters. Something had changed in the past few months. She and Styr were hardly speaking to one another any more. Her barrenness was eating away at her spirit, drowning her in misery. When she stared out at the sea, her face was unnaturally pale. There were no words to mend the broken pieces, nothing Ragnar could say to her.

As the boat neared the shore, the waters were shallower than they’d guessed.

‘We’ll stop here,’ Styr ordered. Glancing at the others, he moved to stand beside Ragnar. For a moment, his friend stared out at the shoreline. ‘Will you stay behind with Elena?’ he asked. ‘I don’t want her near the front, if there’s danger.’

‘I’ll keep her safe.’ He would bathe his sword in the blood of any enemy who dared to threaten Elena. Though she didn’t belong to him, she was his to guard. He wouldn’t hesitate to offer his life, if it meant saving her.

Styr rested a hand upon Ragnar’s shoulder. With a dark sigh, he admitted, ‘I am glad you came with us. A journey like this could only be endured with friends.’

‘None of the men has slept in three days,’ Ragnar agreed. ‘We all need a good meal and rest.’ Their vessel had been tossed upon the waves as if the gods had wanted to claim them as a sacrifice. They’d fought the hard winds, trying to battle the storm. And they’d won, at the cost of sleep. His body and mind were so strung out, he could hardly piece together any thoughts other than the desire to collapse upon the sand.

‘A pity you haven’t a woman to warm your bed,’ Styr added with a shrug.

Ragnar sent him a wry look. ‘The last I heard, there are women in éire. I might find one yet.’

He’d had a few women over the years, but none of them compared to her. Though he’d tried, time and again, to purge Elena from his mind, there were many nights when he awakened, covered with sweat...his shaft hard with visions of the woman he loved.

By the blood of Thor, he had to stop thinking of it. Elena belonged to Styr and there was never any hope that it would change. Once she quickened with her husband’s seed, she would find her happiness. Ragnar tightened his hand upon his sword and reached for a shield to distract his mind.

Styr took his own shield, adding, ‘I’m glad you’re here. I need strong fighters among my men.’ To emphasise his point, he lightly punched Ragnar’s upper arm.

Ragnar responded by seizing Styr’s wrist and holding it fast. ‘I’ve bested you a time or two.’

‘Because I allowed it.’ But his friend sent him a dark smile. Styr was like a brother to him. He had taught him how to fight, after Ragnar’s father had neglected to do so. They had trained together in secret, until Ragnar could wield a sword as well as him. In truth, Ragnar was the better fighter, but Styr would never admit it.

Ragnar said quietly, ‘I’ll always guard your back.’ And so he would. Despite his traitorous feelings, he would never betray his greatest friend.

* * *

After dropping their anchor, they waded through the waist-high water. Elena remained on board the ship, as if uncertain whether or not to approach.

‘You can stay on the ship if you want,’ Ragnar told her. ‘We’ll see if it’s safe.’

She appeared troubled but shook her head. ‘No, I want to go with the others. Perhaps if they see me, they won’t think you’re attacking.’

Her reasoning made sense, for invaders rarely had a woman among them. But still, he intended to keep her behind the others.

Ragnar helped her down, trying not to let his hands linger upon her slender form. She wore a cream-coloured gown with a softer rose apron, pinned at the shoulders with golden brooches. Her hair was in tight braids, pinned to her head, and she winced as she made her way through the frigid water.

‘We’ll build a fire for you, soon enough,’ he promised.

Ahead, Styr had his battleaxe firmly in his grasp and all of them studied the settlement. It was unnaturally silent, which set Ragnar on edge. The scent of outdoor fires lingered and he saw evidence of a tribe that had fled. A pot of liquid boiled, the steam rising in the cold air...but there was no one to tend it. A length of cloth lay discarded on the ground, as if its owner had fled too quickly to take it.

‘Stay back,’ Ragnar warned Elena. As he trudged through the water, his vision seemed to blur, his footing growing less stable. The lack of sleep from the violent storms was starting to affect him. He pushed back against the spinning sensation, ignoring his body’s demands for rest.

Something was wrong within the settlement. There were no people and no animals. With each step forwards, his mind dulled. He couldn’t seem to grasp a clear thought and, when he blinked, the world seemed to tip on edge. Ragnar took a moment to steady himself, claiming a deep breath. He would not allow exhaustion to overcome his strength.

When he glimpsed movement, he turned back to Elena. ‘You should return to the boat,’ he commanded. ‘Stay there until we know what’s happening.’ He didn’t want her caught in a battle if the Irish misunderstood their reasons for coming here.

She shook her head. ‘If I stay there alone, I’m unprotected.’ Ragnar started to argue, but she insisted, ‘I’m not going back. I’ll stay here, at the water’s edge, but I need to be on land.’

‘Behind me, then,’ he acceded. Before they could venture another step, he stopped to look at her. Her sea-green eyes held him captive, her skin as pale as milk. So many nights he’d dreamed of sinking his hands into her fiery hair, claiming her soft lips in a kiss.

‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, her face flushed at his stare. It was as if she could read his forbidden thoughts.

Ragnar focused on the sand ahead. ‘No. Nothing at all.’ He scanned the ringfort for movement. In the distance, he spied shadows moving behind one of the huts. The silence was unnerving, as if they were the prey of some unknown attacker. They continued walking through the water until they stood upon dry land.

Ragnar moved several steps towards the shadows, gripping his shield in his left hand, a short sword in the other. More than ever, he was starting to believe that Elena should have stayed on the ship. She remained behind him, on the edge of the sand. Waves washed around her ankles, while she waited with her hands gripped together.

‘Stay back,’ he warned. ‘Call out if you see anything.’ She nodded and Ragnar hesitated. Instinct warned him not to leave her...and yet he wasn’t about to risk endangering her from an unseen attacker. ‘Will you be all right?’

‘Yes.’ But her voice held no confidence at all. She reached to her belt and gripped the hilt of a dagger.

Ragnar moved cautiously towards the shadows, while the others followed Styr. Their gait was heavy, as if the weight of the past few days remained upon their shoulders. All could fight, if necessary, but fatigue had set in.

He kept walking, his mind focused upon any threat, when suddenly, he heard Elena’s scream cut through the stillness. He spun, raising his sword...and found her surrounded by four men.

By the gods, where had they come from? Like ghosts, they’d emerged from the mist that surrounded her.

A dark violence awakened within him. The blood rage pushed away the exhaustion and he raced back to Elena, his sword in hand. He lunged at one of the young men, only to have his sword blocked by a shield. Renewed energy coursed through his veins as he fought with all of his strength. Two men attacked him and he used his shield to deflect a blow, slashing his sword down with his right hand.

He let the battle madness sweep over him, releasing the rage inside. When metal clashed against wood, he slid into the familiar fighting. Everything else faded away except the primal need to protect her.

Another enemy crept up behind him and he saw the wild look in Elena’s eyes. He didn’t care that he was outnumbered. He would not let anyone harm her—not while he had breath in his body. With a crushing blow, he used his shield to knock down the third man, slashing a savage blow to the other.

One of the men grabbed Elena from behind, twisting her wrist until her dagger fell to the sand. He dragged her backwards and Ragnar fought with all his strength to break free of the Irishmen.

But he didn’t know if he’d reach her in time.

Blood thundered in his veins as Ragnar released a battle cry. He cut through the men surrounding him, his blade slashing towards his enemy. Dimly, he was aware of Styr charging forwards as well.

Two men tried to cut them off, but he and Styr divided their enemies. When his attacker struck out, Ragnar threw himself to the sand, rolling free while a sword sliced the place where his head had been.

More of the Irish charged forwards and while he continued to fight, Ragnar saw a young man seize Elena, holding a blade to her throat. There was desperation in the young man’s eyes, of a captor who had never killed before. That made him even more dangerous.

With a renewed surge of aggression, Ragnar pushed his way free, just as Styr raced towards his wife. Before Styr could tear Elena’s captor apart, everything changed.

Another woman emerged, shouting at both of them. In her hands, she held a thick staff as her weapon.

Ragnar ignored her, all of his attention focused on Elena. The young man was distracted, giving him an opening to free her. He inched his way closer, waiting for the right moment.

For an instant, the young man faltered, as if considering whether to let Elena go. He seemed to recognise that if he did, Styr would split his head open with the axe.

But Ragnar could attack from behind, catching the young man unawares. If he struck true, he could free Elena before anyone knew what had happened.

Closer...

He lifted his sword, prepared to strike. Before he could move, the woman brought her wooden staff across Styr’s head, catching him on the ear. His friend dropped to the ground.

Thor’s blood. Ragnar didn’t think, but lunged, just as another man raised his blade for the kill.

‘Styr!’ Elena cried out in anguish, just as Ragnar blocked the blow. She was reaching towards her fallen husband, while the other woman was speaking foreign words that sounded like an apology.

The young man dragged Elena back, stepping towards the water. Deeper he moved, until she was submerged to her waist. He could drown her if he tried.

Ragnar shouted to the others, knowing that all of them were needed to protect Elena and Styr. His friends kept their weapons drawn, their shields at the ready as they approached. Upon the sand, he saw the dark-haired woman binding Styr’s wrists and ankles with long strips of leather. An older man helped her drag him away.

‘Ragnar,’ Elena pleaded. ‘Save him.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper, her sea-green eyes holding her fear of death.

He was torn between saving his best friend...and saving Elena. Gods help him, this was a decision he’d never wanted to make.

‘What should we do?’ his friend Onund asked.

In the end, there was only one choice. He had to save the woman he loved, even at the cost of the man who was like a brother.

‘If anything happens to her, Styr will hold us all to blame.’ Ragnar raised his sword and shield and started towards the water.

Chapter Two

Elena watched in disbelief as Ragnar laid down his weapon and shield upon the sand. What was he doing? He was stronger than any of these men and she didn’t doubt he could kill them all. Why would he surrender?

Unless he had another plan she didn’t know about.

Ragnar moved in closer, the water pooling against his leather boots. He wore chainmail armour and an iron helm while his rough brown hair hung down past his shoulders. Dark green eyes gleamed with purpose, his face holding the merciless cast of a warrior who intended to slaughter his enemies.

And so he would. Elena had seen him training alongside her husband and had witnessed his skills firsthand. There was no fighter stronger than Ragnar Olafsson, and he moved with a speed no man could match.

‘Let her go,’ Ragnar called out to her captor. ‘We’ll return to our ship.’

He spoke to the Irishman as if he believed the man could understand the Norse language. His words were calm, his hands raised up in surrender. But beneath the gesture lay an unspoken threat.

For Ragnar would never bargain with an enemy. Her heart pounded faster as the other Irishmen began to close in.

What was he planning to do? Sacrifice himself? No. He wasn’t the sort of man to play the martyr.

Onund stared at Ragnar with fury. ‘You might intend to surrender, Ragnar, but we won’t. We outnumber them!’ the man snapped, refusing to lay down his weapons.

A flare of irritation slid over Ragnar’s face and it was then that Elena understood his deception.

The Irish might have taken them by surprise, but the same could be wrought upon them, if they believed in the surrender. Ragnar was granting their kinsmen time to gather together. Couldn’t Onund see that?

‘If we attack, he’ll slit her throat. And they’ll kill Styr as well.’ Ragnar lowered his voice, and Elena could no longer hear his plan while her captor dragged her into deeper water. They had almost reached the ship and she didn’t know what Ragnar intended to do.

He had never once taken his gaze from her. The hard look in his eyes spoke of a man determined to get her back. Her mind flashed to the strange way he’d stared at her earlier. It had shaken her senses, for his look had held desire. As if he wanted her...intimately.

The memory of it made her heart pound faster, for she’d never seen him look at her that way before. His green eyes permeated her defences, reaching deep within. She didn’t understand her own reaction to him and her skin prickled from more than the frigid water.

A horrifying thought occurred to her. Ragnar didn’t want Styr to die, did he? Her husband was now a prisoner of the Irish and somehow they had to rescue him.

But what if Ragnar wasn’t intending to save him? What if he turned his back on Styr?

Never could she imagine Ragnar as a traitor, but she couldn’t let go of the unbidden fear.

At last, the others followed his lead, setting down their shields and returning to the water. One by one, they followed, while the Irish closed in behind them.

‘Some of you should stay behind for Styr,’ she called out in warning.

But the instant she spoke, the Irishman plunged her head beneath the icy water. In shock, she lost her breath, her hands clawing at the surface. He jerked her from the water, her hair sodden and blinding her. Harsh words were spoken, his voice issuing warnings she didn’t understand. And before she realised what was happening, he’d hauled her back on to their ship. She never had the chance to fight back, for the cold had penetrated her body, seizing her with shock.

Her consciousness grew hazy and she was only dimly aware of the blade at her throat while he gripped her wrists and found a length of rope to bind her. At last, he secured her to the front of the boat.

Before long, her kinsmen emerged from the water, four Irishmen behind them. They didn’t try to fight, but allowed themselves to be taken. She strongly suspected they would wait for the right element of surprise.

And yet there was no one to help Styr. With a sinking heart, she stared back at the shoreline. Her husband was already gone and there was no way to know if she’d see him again. Although they’d grown distant over the past few months, she knew it was her own fault for turning him away. He was a good man, a warrior who deserved better than a barren wife like herself.

The knife of self-pity slid into her and she forced it back. It would do her no good now. She needed to gather her courage and do what was necessary to survive. It was their only hope.

When Ragnar climbed aboard, he kept his eyes upon her as they bound him. She couldn’t guess his plans, but the message was clear. He had every intention of freeing them from captivity.

The Irish had taken the oars, but with only four of them, the ship didn’t move very fast. Her captor, whose name she learned was Brendan, took command of the sails, letting the wind pull them far away from land.

Only when Ragnar was shoved a few feet away from her did she dare to whisper at him, ‘What will become of Styr? You left him behind with no one. He could already be dead.’ A chill crossed her at the thought and hot tears rose to her eyes.

‘If they’d wanted him dead, they wouldn’t have taken him prisoner,’ Ragnar pointed out. ‘They’ll try to use him as a hostage. But we’ll return before any harm can come to him.’

She didn’t know what to believe. For all she knew, they might torture Styr or kill him as an act of vengeance. ‘What if you’re wrong?’ she murmured.

‘I’m not. Trust me.’

She locked her eyes with his, silently pleading with him to strike sooner. ‘You can’t abandon him.’

His demeanour shifted into a man who resented her accusations. There was no softness, no mercy upon his face at all. ‘I swore to him that I would guard you with my life. And so I have.’ He leaned in, his dark green eyes demanding her attention. ‘We’re going to take back the ship, this night.’

‘Your hands are bound,’ she argued.

‘Are they?’ His voice held such indifference, she began to wonder if she was wrong to doubt him. Upon her face, she felt the warmth of his breath. His long brown hair held hints of gold, his face rigid like a conqueror’s. The look had returned to his eyes, one that made her falter. It reached beneath her desperate fear, sliding through her veins until he held her captive.

Trust me, he’d demanded. She wanted to believe in him, for he was their best hope of returning to the ringfort. But once again, he was watching her in a way that made her pulse quicken. It only deepened her discomfort.

A moment later, one of the Irishmen grasped him and shoved him back. Though his words were incomprehensible, she couldn’t tear her gaze from Ragnar. If he had somehow freed himself, he’d done a good job of disguising it.

The winds had swelled again, the skies growing darker. She was growing hungry, but no one offered food or water. When the Irishmen explored the ship, they quickly found Styr’s store of supplies below deck. They devoured the food savagely, eating every bite of dried meat and preserved fish without offering them a single morsel. Only the bag of grain remained. Glancing at the Irish, Elena suddenly noticed how thin they were. It was as if they had been starving, their faces were so gaunt.

For the second time, she wondered if it had been wise to surrender. These men had not the strength of the Norsemen. But in their eyes, she saw that they were bent upon survival now, as if all traces of humanity were gone. Like animals, they fought amongst themselves for the choicest pieces of food.

Her earlier frustration with Ragnar diminished. Men who cared for nothing but their own lives would do anything. They would kill with no remorse.

Their leader, Brendan, was hardly more than an adolescent. But in his eyes, she saw determination. Whatever he planned to do with them, he would not be swayed from his course.

Though it had been hours since she’d been dragged back to the ship, she’d been unable to get warm. Her body was freezing, while her wet hair was clammy against her skin. Fear magnified the discomfort and her mouth grew dry with thirst.

‘Could I have some water?’ she asked Brendan, even knowing he did not understand her words. She glanced over at the men, who were drinking wine, nodding to them to convey the meaning.

His mouth closed in a grim line and he ignored her question, adjusting the mainsail instead. When she studied her friends and kinsmen, she watched to see if Ragnar was right. Had they managed to free themselves? They sat motionless, their arms behind their backs. None would look at her.

Perhaps...

Ragnar spoke to the men, his voice a calm echo against the sea. ‘At moonrise.’

She took a breath, glancing at the Irish to see if they’d understood him. They were too busy gorging on food, but Brendan’s brow furrowed. Without a word, he unsheathed his blade and crossed the boat until he sat behind her. She felt the kiss of the blade upon her throat, and the young man stared back at Ragnar in a silent challenge.

* * *

Ragnar intended to gut the Irishman, before the night was over, for daring to touch Elena. He’d sliced through his bonds, using a hidden blade that he’d passed to his kinsmen, one by one. Now, the blade was his again and he was waiting for the right moment to strike.

They had been sailing for hours and several of the Irish had fallen asleep—all, save the man holding Elena captive. Brendan seemed to sense that the moment he let her go, his life would be the forfeit.

The sun had descended below the horizon, and the moon was beginning to rise. Ragnar eyed the other men, silently warning them to be ready. He kept his gaze fixed upon Elena, watching for the moment to seize her. She appeared tense and, upon her throat, he saw the barest trace of blood.

His fist clenched upon the dagger, while he vowed his own vengeance upon the man who kept her captive. Elena’s shoulders were held back, her body stiff as if she didn’t dare move.

Ragnar needed a distraction, a way of diverting Brendan’s attention away. Taking a hostage or possibly attacking without warning. His brain went through a dozen possibilities, all of which were feasible, but held an inherent risk.

Gods above, why couldn’t this be any other hostage but Elena? If it were, he’d simply drag her away, slicing her attacker’s throat. But the threat was too strong. Elena meant everything to him and he would do nothing to endanger her life.

He saw her glance up at the crescent moon, which had slid out from behind a cloud. At the sight of it, her face went white. Ragnar wanted to say something, to reassure her that all would be well.

‘Elena.’ He couldn’t stop himself from speaking her name, despite the risk. Don’t be afraid. I’ll free you.

The Irishman spoke words that sounded like another warning, but his voice cracked at the end, undermining the threat. Reminding him that he was hardly more than a boy.

‘The ship is moving closer to the shore,’ Ragnar told her.

‘I—I can’t swim very well.’ Her fear was tangible, but she cast a look at the dark water. The wind was strong now, pulling the vessel east. Ahead, he spied a large outcropping of rock, a tiny island not far away. She could reach it, if she tried.

‘I won’t let you drown,’ he swore.

She seemed to consider it, seeking reassurance from him. Though he knew she belonged to Styr, he wished in that moment that he could hold her. Give her the comfort she needed.

And then, as if the gods had willed it to be so, he spied the perfect diversion.

* * *

Brendan Ó Brannon had never been so terrified in all his life. He held the knife to the Lochlannach woman’s throat, all the while wishing he’d never left the shores of his homeland. At the time, he’d believed he was protecting his sister Caragh. He’d thought he could force the invaders to leave, bringing their ship miles away from home before he and his friends could abandon the ship at night, swimming to shore.

But these men hadn’t slept. They’d never taken their eyes off him or the woman he held hostage. With every minute that passed, his impending death came closer.

A hollow sorrow filled him up, with the knowledge that he’d never see his sister or brothers again. All because he’d tried to be a hero. What did he know of defending them against fierce Lochlannach invaders? Nothing at all. He was only seven and ten, barely a man. He’d acted without thinking and worse, he’d left his sister Caragh alone. She had no one to take care of her and he doubted if he would make it out alive.

One man, in particular, made him nervous. He stared hard at him, as if he intended to murder Brendan the moment an opportunity presented itself.

Silently, Brendan prayed that he could somehow get out of this. He considered letting the woman go, throwing himself overboard, no matter how far from shore they were. His chances of survival were better.

But he held on to her, for she was the only person keeping him and his friends alive. Soon enough, they would reach the southernmost tip of the eastern coast of éireann.

The moon was clouded this night, making it difficult to see. His body was exhausted and he fought to keep his hands from shaking.

A shout came from one of his men, alerting them to another ship. Brendan kept his blade at the woman’s throat as he turned to look. Just as his friend had warned, a large merchant ship was bearing down on them.

But the men weren’t Irish.

His mouth went dry, his palms sweating. It was the Gallaibh, the Danes who were as fearless as the Norse. His grandsire had spun tales of the bloodthirsty invaders who would kill anyone who breathed.

God help them all. If they survived this night, it would be a miracle.

‘Turn the ship!’ Brendan commanded. If they could get closer to shore, they might have a chance of escaping. But he wasn’t accustomed to the Lochlannach vessel and he didn’t know how to steer it. Instead of moving in the direction of the shore, it seemed that an invisible force was turning them towards the path of the Danes.

Fear ripped through him and he caught a glimpse of archers taking aim. His stomach twisted and he stared back at the water, wondering if he had the courage to seize his escape. Drowning was better than facing a dozen arrows.

His gaze fixed upon his hostage. The woman was hardly older than his sister Caragh. He took a breath, wishing he’d never taken her. She didn’t deserve to fall into the hands of the Danes, who would rape her before they killed her. He’d made countless mistakes this day, but there were precious seconds left.

With his knife, he cut the ropes securing her to the front of the boat, then sliced through her bonds. She stared at him in surprise, rubbing her wrists. Without asking why, she stumbled back towards her kinsmen.

To his friends, Brendan ordered, ‘We’ll have to jump. If they get too close, we won’t survive.’

‘If we abandon the ship, we’ll drown,’ a friend countered.

Brendan’s heart beat faster, a thin line of sweat sliding down his neck. ‘Once we make it to shore, we’ll journey back to Gall Tír on foot.’

If they made it to shore. The Danes were even closer now and he heard them shouting words in an unfamiliar tongue.

‘It’s too far,’ his friend argued.

‘We don’t have a choice. If we stay here, we’ll die tonight.’ After they abandoned the ship, he could only hope that the Lochlannach would remain on board and let them be. But from the mercenary look in the Viking leader’s eyes, Brendan wasn’t at all convinced that the man would let them go. His stomach lurched at the thought of their impending fate.

Without warning, the Lochlannach rose from their places, closing in on him. It was clear that they’d freed themselves from the ropes some time ago and had been waiting for the right moment to attack.

The archers drew back and the first storm of arrows struck the ship. Brendan threw himself to the deck and heard the dull thud of an arrow piercing flesh. When he saw the face of his dying kinsman, he cringed, keeping low on the ship.

The Norsemen were shouting, and all around him, he heard the sounds of men jumping overboard. He heard the screams of those who were shot by the archers before their bodies landed in the water.

The woman lay against the bottom of the boat, while her kinsmen defended her. He saw the Lochlannach leader stiffen when an arrow pierced his leg. The woman cried out, and a moment later, she emerged from her hiding place, jumping off the ship. The man followed, though Brendan doubted he would make it to shore with his injuries.

Fear rose in his throat and he closed his eyes, prepared to face his death. All around him, he heard the sound of the Danes closing in.

Let my death be swift and painless, he prayed. And let my sister be safe.

* * *

Elena’s heart slammed into her chest, her pulse beating so fast, she was dizzy from fear. The icy water struck her like a fist, her gown weighing down upon her. Though she moved her arms and legs, it was not enough to swim—more like treading water.

Now that she was free of the ship, it seemed that the outcropping of rock was impossibly far away. Her breathing quickened and she fought with her arms and legs, struggling to keep her head above water. Behind her, she heard the shouts of men and the clash of swords.

Her face dipped beneath the wave and she choked upon the salt water, coughing as she struggled again to reach land. In the darkness, she could barely see anything around her and she doubted if she could make it to the small island.

Fear penetrated her to the bone. You’re not strong enough to reach land. You’re going to drown.

Her resolve was weakening, but she continued churning her arms, until there was a sudden splash. A strong arm grasped her around the waist, pulling her to him. When she looked up, she saw Ragnar holding her. He propelled them through the water with immeasurable strength, like a ship cutting through the waves. She gripped him around the neck, thankful that he, too, had escaped.

‘Swim!’ she heard Ragnar say. ‘Don’t look back.’

She was desperately afraid, her mind seizing with shock. Her face dipped below the water again, but a strong arm dragged her up. Ragnar urged her to keep moving, holding his arm at her waist. They swam together while behind them, they heard the shouts of the Danes taking command of the ship.

Freya, protect me, she prayed, as they fought to reach land. The crescent moon slid from behind a cloud, reflecting its light upon the surface of the water. She stared at the light, her fear closing in again.

She had to live. Despite her terror, she would fight to survive. Even if they were the only two left alive.

Chapter Three

Her arms were leaden, her body freezing from the icy water. But with Ragnar at her side, she took courage. He was speaking words of encouragement, though his pace had slowed.

When at last her feet touched the bottom, Elena breathed a sigh of relief. Her body was exhausted and trembling, but they were both on land.

Ragnar’s steps were heavy, his body leaning upon hers as she strode through the water. She couldn’t understand why he was struggling to walk, until the moonlight gleamed upon him, revealing the arrow protruding from his upper thigh.

‘You’re hurt,’ she breathed, offering him her support as they stumbled to the sand.

Ragnar didn’t answer and she felt the urge to panic. How badly was he wounded? A dark fear rose up that she couldn’t survive on her own.

A moment later, she pushed aside the errant thoughts. He wasn’t dead yet, and if she tended his wound, he might live.

Her mind sealed off all thoughts except those that would aid her. She needed to take out the arrow, bind his wound and get them a fire and shelter. There was enough wool in her gown to tear off for a bandage.

‘Ragnar,’ she said. ‘Look at me.’

He did, but there was so much pain in his gaze, she feared the worst. His hose and tunic were soaked with seawater, the chainmail armour gleaming against the moonlight. She needed to take off his armour to examine his wound.

‘I’m going to help you over to those rocks,’ she said. ‘Can you manage to walk that far?’

He gave a nod, as if it took too much energy to speak. Blood streamed down his leg from the arrow in his thigh, but at least it wasn’t pumping out. She eased him to sit down and helped him remove his armour and the padded tunic beneath. Then she used the knife at his waist to cut long strips from her skirts. The thought of pressing more salt water against his wounds was excruciating, so she looked around for an alternative. There were patches of moss and she dug at the stones, trying to find something to make a barrier against the wet wool.

‘We need a fire,’ Ragnar reminded her, reaching inside his tunic. ‘You might...build one.’

‘Soon,’ she promised. ‘I’m going to take out the arrow.’

‘I might bleed out if you do,’ he said quietly.

‘I can’t leave it, can I?’ She placed her hands on his shoulders, kneeling down before him. ‘You kept me protected. I’ll do everything I can to help you.’

For a single moment, she caught a glimpse of a fierce longing in his eyes, before he shielded it and looked away. She didn’t know how to respond, for fear that she’d misread him.

Elena took a deep breath and reached for the arrow. It would pain him more if she told him when she was planning to take it out. Though she’d never before removed an arrow from a man’s skin, it didn’t look too deep. She questioned whether to force it all the way through the skin or whether to jerk it out. Both would cause pain, but pushing it through would likely be easier.

‘I don’t want to cause you pain,’ she said steadily. ‘But this must be—’ with one huge push, she forced the arrow through the opposite side ‘—done,’ she finished, snapping off the tip and sliding the shaft free. He let out a gasp of pain, but she packed the wound with moss and bound it tight with the first strip of wool.

‘I thought you would give me more warning than that,’ he breathed, fighting against the pain.

‘Anticipated pain is worse than reality,’ she responded.

‘And you’ve had an arrow tear through your flesh before?’ His voice was harsh, but it was done now.

‘It wasn’t that deep,’ she offered. ‘The bleeding isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.’ Thank the gods for that. If it had gone any deeper, she doubted if she’d have had the strength to force the arrow through the other side. His rigid muscles would have made it impossible.

* * *

Once Ragnar was bandaged, she left him sitting against the rocks. There was a tremor in his body, as if he were unable to stop himself from shaking.

He was right; they did need a fire to warm them. But first, she had to find flint. It was too dark to see the stones, however.

Her mind stumbled with panic, the freezing air and the darkness starting to undermine what little courage she had left. They needed shelter and warmth to protect them this night. Their survival depended on it.

Elena forced herself to think of the smaller details, knowing that a fire would help them both more than anything. She still had Ragnar’s knife. ‘I’ll try to find flint among the stones,’ she told him.

‘Wait.’ He reached into his tunic and pulled out a stone that hung from a leather thong around his neck. ‘This is flint.’

She tried to loosen the knot while her hands rested against his throat.

‘You weren’t hurt, were you?’ he whispered. His voice resonated between them and a spiral of warmth rippled through her. She grew aware that her hands were around his neck, almost in an embrace.

‘No.’ To calm her beating heart, she murmured, ‘Don’t speak now. Just rest while I build a fire.’

When the knot wouldn’t untie, she lifted the leather thong over his head, taking the flint and his blade. The scent of his male skin was unlike her husband’s, but it held the familiarity of a close friend. How many times had she relied upon Ragnar over the years? They’d been friends all her life, and if she had to be stranded with anyone, she was grateful it was him.

She renewed her courage and slipped into the comfort of routine, gathering dried seaweed for tinder and driftwood along the beach. It was clear that in the morning they would have to move inland to get food. They couldn’t survive here without fresh water or shelter. Yet she didn’t know if Ragnar could manage to swim again.

Don’t think of that now, she ordered herself. Dawn was soon enough to worry about the rest of it.

When she’d arranged the wood and tinder, she struck the flint with his blade, until she caught a spark and blew it to life. Slowly, she fed the fire until the warmth blazed.

Her clothing was sodden, but it felt good to sit beside the flames. When she looked back at the water, there were no ships anywhere—only the cool lapping of waves against the shore of the island. ‘What do you think happened to the others? Do you suppose they’re alive?’

‘I overheard the Danes talk of selling them as slaves.’ He grimaced, adjusting his position against the rocks. ‘If they didn’t murder all of them.’

Elena rubbed her upper arms, trying not to imagine it. The idea of being the only survivors from their voyage was impossible to grasp. Even the thought made her fears well up inside, before she pushed them back.

‘You’re cold, aren’t you?’ she remarked, moving beside him. Though she’d bandaged his thigh wound, his clothing was as wet as hers. ‘Do you want me to help you get closer to the fire?’

Ragnar shook his head. ‘I’ll be all right.’ He closed his eyes, adding, ‘In the morning, we’ll go to the mainland.’

‘Do you think you can manage the crossing?’ She worried about whether he had the strength when he was struggling to walk. Her own swimming was barely strong enough to keep her above water. Though he was stronger than most men, the salt water against his wounds would make it brutally painful.

‘I don’t have a choice, do I?’ Though he kept his words neutral, she sensed his pain and wished there was something she could do to alleviate it.

She reached out to take his hand. ‘We’re going to live, Ragnar. And I owe you my thanks for saving me from the Danes.’

He squeezed her hand, but his gaze remained distant. Though he gave no answer, she understood that he’d sworn to protect her. Nothing would make him forsake that vow.

‘Will you come and sit beside me?’ he asked.

Something within her stirred at his request. It was dangerous to be so close to this man. Although he was a close friend, instinct held her back. Elena took a few steps away, needing the space.

‘I should gather more wood,’ she argued, fumbling for an excuse.

‘It’s going to be all right, Elena,’ he assured her.

She wanted to believe it. But they were miles from anywhere, and her husband was a prisoner. Their men were held captive, taken as slaves or killed. She felt herself hovering on the brink of tears. As she gathered up more twigs and small bits of driftwood, she glanced up at the crescent moon once again.

A ripple of uneasiness filled her, but she brushed the feeling aside. Right now, she had to concentrate on surviving the night ahead. Doggedly, she continued searching for wood, letting the mindless task blot out the horrifying fears. The night temperature had begun dropping and she returned to the fire, stacking the sticks and twigs she’d gathered.

‘Do you think my husband is alive?’ she asked Ragnar, thinking of Styr.

‘I’ve no doubt of it.’ He leaned against one of the stones, gritting his teeth when he moved his leg.

Though it should have made her feel better, the longer she sat by the fire, the more despondent she grew. In the space of a few hours, she’d lost everything—her husband, her people, their ship and even a shelter. Silent tears welled up and spilled over, against her will.

‘Come here, Elena.’

She ignored him, needing a good cry. She deserved it, after all that had happened.

‘Are you really going to make a wounded man drag himself across the sand to get to you?’ Although his voice held teasing, there was enough determination that made her aware that he’d do it.

‘I’ll be fine.’ But she obeyed, returning to sit beside him. When his arms came around her, she wept in earnest. His kindness was her undoing, for she didn’t know how to gather up the pieces of her life or how to begin anew from here. Her husband, as well as their kinsmen, could be dead. They had no ship and they were stranded in a foreign land, far away from home.

Ragnar said nothing at all, but held her tightly and his presence did bring her comfort. She wasn’t alone, despite all that had happened. That, at least, was a consolation.

His skin was warm from the fire and she rested her cheek against him, closing her eyes. ‘Sleep,’ he urged. ‘I’ll just lie here and count the hours until I stop hurting.’

Although he was trying to make light of the injury, she knew he was in a great deal of discomfort. ‘I wish I had something to take away your pain.’

An enigmatic smile crossed his face. ‘It would be worse if you were not here at all.’ With a heavy sigh, he added, ‘In the morning we’ll decide how to get to the mainland.’

She lay beside the fire, but sleep would not come. The heavy weight of her wet clothing was making it difficult to dry off. Elena unfastened the brooches at her shoulders and peeled off the wet outer apron, leaving on the cream-coloured gown. She set it upon the rocks to dry, though she doubted this was possible by morning. Still, she might sleep better without the heavy layers of wetness.

She huddled upon the sand, leaving the fire between them. Ragnar’s face was as exhausted as hers, his dark green eyes solemn. ‘You can sleep beside me without fear, Elena.’

She hesitated, for never had she slept beside any man except Styr. But then again, there was no shelter here. Sleeping alone would be uncomfortable for both of them.

But did she dare sleep beside Ragnar? Her reluctance must have been evident, for he shrugged and leaned up against one of the rocks as if it were no matter.

With a sigh, she realised that she was being foolish. Sleeping beside Ragnar would mean nothing at all. He would never threaten her marriage, not when her husband was his closest friend. Her apprehensions were groundless.

Silently, she rose from her place on the sand.

* * *

Dawn came far too soon. Ragnar had hardly slept at all, but the warmth of Elena’s body was pressed against his back. His wounds ached, but he didn’t move at all, not wanting to disturb her.

Her hair was still damp, in a tangled red-and-gold mass around her shoulders. The braids had come undone and the strands held the wildness of bent curls. Her pale gown outlined her slender body with curves and he forced the sinful thoughts away.

Not yours, he reminded himself.

Her eyes opened and she yawned, sitting up. ‘Did you sleep?’ Eyeing his wounds, she added, ‘Are you in much pain?’

He was, but he welcomed the dull ache. To lie beside Elena had been a dream he’d never imagined and his torn flesh had reminded him of the boundaries between them. If he had died last night, he could think of no better place to spend his last hours.

His leg burned, but he forced himself to answer, ‘I’ll be all right. We need to reach the mainland today.’

She knelt before him and unwrapped the bandages. At the sight of his wounded flesh, she blanched. ‘It doesn’t look good.’

He shrugged. ‘I’m alive.’ For now, he thought, but didn’t say so. If he developed a fever, that could slay him quicker than the arrow wound.

‘You need a better healer than me,’ she argued. Rising to her feet, she took a deep breath and glanced around her. ‘But it’s too far for both of us to swim to the mainland.’ She stared at the small copse of trees. ‘There may be some fallen wood we could use for a raft.’

‘You aren’t strong enough to pull a log into the water,’ he argued. Already Elena appeared exhausted, her green eyes clouded with unspoken fear.

‘No, but I can find smaller branches and tie them together. We could hold on and then try to swim.’

‘And what are you going to tie the wood with? Grass?’

In answer, she lifted her skirt, baring her legs to the knees. ‘I’ll cut off more of my dress.’

The image of her long bared legs was enough to send a sharp flare of heat coursing through him. ‘If you think it will work,’ he said. He’d never seen beyond her ankles, but now she’d revealed shapely calves. He could only imagine the rest of those long legs, for she was a tall woman.

And another man’s wife.

His best friend’s wife.

Ragnar leaned his weight against the stones, pushing his way up to a standing position. The sky was a hazy rose and gold, and mist frosted against the edge of the mainland. His stomach twisted at the thought of food and he hoped they would catch fish or other game.

But he wasn’t much use to Elena. Not like this. The barest pressure of weight upon his leg was agonising, and he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to limp towards the other side of the island. It was a small outcropping, hardly more than a copse of trees and large boulders. There was no food, no water and their only hope for survival was to make the crossing.

He glanced at the grey salt water, knowing that it would burn his wounds with unholy fire. Elena’s suggestion, that they bind fallen limbs together, was a sound one. The pain had been bad enough when the arrow was still inside him, but more flesh was exposed now that she’d taken it out.

* * *

When Elena emerged from the woods, she dragged four stout branches along the sand, each the thickness of his forearm. She had gathered up her hair, twisting it in a knot and securing it with a small stick while she worked. She used his knife to cut off more material from her skirts. As she bound the limbs together, his traitorous imagination conjured up the vision of her bared legs tangled with his own, his body lying atop hers.

Ragnar closed his eyes, furious with himself for even thinking such dishonourable thoughts about her.

‘Let me help you,’ he said to Elena. He needed the activity to distract him. Anything to keep his gaze away from her bared flesh.

Limping towards the pile of limbs, he sat down and wove the fabric under and over each branch, securing it tightly. Elena worked opposite him, mirroring his method, until at last it was ready.

The morning light reflected upon her skin and, though she appeared tired, there was determination in her eyes. She was staring at the arrangement of wood, frowning. ‘It won’t float with your weight.’

He shrugged. ‘There’s not enough wood for that. But if it gives us something to hold on to, that will be enough.’

She studied their raft, then glanced overhead at the sparse trees that shaded them. ‘I wish you had a battleaxe as your weapon. It would be more useful, cutting branches and trees.’

‘I prefer a sword.’ He liked the balance of the weapon and it suited fluid battle motions where he could slash at his enemy. ‘Styr’s weapon is the axe.’ The moment he spoke her husband’s name, a flash of sadness came over Elena.

‘I want to believe he’s alive,’ she murmured. ‘That somehow he’ll come for me.’ But she shook her head, rubbing her arms against the chill.

‘If he doesn’t, I’ll take you back myself.’ His words were little reassurance, for neither of them knew what had happened to Styr. He might still be a prisoner, or he could be dead.

‘You can’t make the journey with that leg. It’s too far.’ With a sigh, Elena began pulling the small makeshift raft across the sand.

Before she could go any further, Ragnar limped towards her and caught her arm. ‘I may be wounded, Elena, but I’m not dead. The wound will heal.’ He didn’t want her to think of him as helpless and he let his hand slide down her arm to grip her hand. A trail of gooseflesh rose over her skin at his touch. ‘You won’t be stranded here. I swear it by the blood of Thor.’

Her hand gripped his and, when she met his gaze, there was a flicker of hesitancy before colour spread over her cheeks. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

He wanted to pull her close, to taste the lips that had haunted him for so long. But she only turned back to her discarded apron, pulling it over her head and fastening the brooches at her shoulders. She had the innocent demeanour of a maiden, but the body of a woman who had known a man intimately.

Without a word, he began dragging the raft towards the water, suppressing a gasp when the salt water lapped against his bandaged wound. The vicious pain was the reminder he needed to stay away from Styr’s wife.

Elena joined him, holding on to the bound limbs while they made their way towards the mainland. Ragnar kicked with his good leg, grateful that the tide was coming in, aiding them in their journey. But by the gods, the salt against his open wound was shredding apart his control.

The bound wood did give them a means of staying together, without the risk of drowning. As she struggled to swim, he bit back the pain and fought to help her.

‘You look as if you’re hurting again,’ she commented, churning her left arm in the water while she held on with her right.

‘It’s like hot knives searing my skin,’ he admitted, keeping his voice light. ‘Not very comfortable.’

She sent him a sympathetic look. ‘When we reach land, it will be better, I promise.’

If he didn’t drown first. He bit his lip hard against the pain, forcing himself to continue.

The waves pushed them closer and Ragnar concentrated on the strand ahead of them. With every stroke, it seemed further away. The cold water numbed his skin and he felt his eyes beginning to close, his fingers slipping from the wood.

‘Ragnar!’ Elena shouted at him, pulling him back to the present moment. ‘Stay with me. You can’t let go now.’ She made her way to his side, holding his waist. ‘We’re not so very far.’

He knew it, but his body was rebelling against the sea water, his mind fighting to help her. The cold embedded within his veins, making it more difficult to move.

‘I need you,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’

It was her voice that forced him onward. She spoke words of encouragement, urging him not to give up. And although they had been in the water for what seemed like an hour, eventually he felt his feet sink into sand. He bit hard to keep his teeth from chattering, and Elena remained at his side, holding on to him. He stumbled through the waves, but she helped him to remain balanced.

They staggered through the sand, his vision blurred and his ears ringing. He damned himself for the weakness, fighting to remain conscious. Elena needed him and he would not fail her.

‘Listen to me,’ she insisted. ‘We’re here. We’re safe now, but you can’t stay on the sand. Just a little further.’

She held his waist, letting him lean on her as she tried to get him past the water’s edge. But when her leg accidentally bumped against his wound, he couldn’t suppress the hiss of pain.

She apologised and pleaded, ‘We’re almost there. Only a few steps more.’ The world tipped, but she held tight, keeping him on his feet.

‘I’m not going to die,’ he told her, but his words sounded thick and slurred.

‘I won’t let you.’ She eased him to sit down with his back against a hillside. Ragnar leaned back, resting his head upon the amber grass while he stared up at the clouded sky.

‘You’re too cold,’ she said. ‘I have to get you warm.’ She moved beside him wrapping both arms around his waist. Though her skin was cool, her presence slipped beneath the pain of his wounds, offering comfort.

* * *

He wanted to tell her what she meant to him, to spill out the words he’d kept buried for so long, but honour kept his lips silent. He would accept the warmth of her embrace, knowing that it could never be more than that.

He was angry with himself for leaving Styr behind, though he’d had no choice at the time. The Irish might kill his friend, for Styr had no value as a hostage and he would never be any man’s slave.

Ragnar glanced over at Elena, who was busy gathering tinder for a fire. Her skirts were cut short to her knees, while her red-gold hair was still bound in a knot at her nape. She moved with efficiency, but as she stacked the wood and arranged the seaweed, the earlier tremors became impossible to stop.

So cold. He couldn’t feel his fingertips or his toes and his muscles felt stiff and ungainly.

‘You’re so pale,’ Elena said, hurrying to strike a spark. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get you warm again, as soon as I can start the fire.’ But her own hands were shaking, as if she, too, were suffering from the intense cold of the sea. After several attempts, the spark kept dying out.

His eyelids were heavy and he closed them, surrendering to the temptation of unconsciousness. Sleep was what he needed now.

But a moment later, Elena’s arms were around him and she was supporting his shoulders. ‘Ragnar!’ She shook him lightly, demanding that he open his eyes.

His vision flickered, but he managed to look at her.

‘Don’t leave me,’ she demanded. Her eyes welled up with tears and she commanded again, ‘You can’t leave me here alone.’

‘Just...resting,’ he told her. Sleep would make it easier to bear the pain. The darkness was tempting him to let go, to fall into nothingness.

‘Your lips are blue,’ she told him. ‘If you go to sleep now, you might never awaken.’

He didn’t answer her, for his body had transformed into lead, the last bits of consciousness sliding away. Though a part of him understood what she meant, he lacked the strength to fight it.

‘Don’t you dare die on me,’ she wept, shaking him again. ‘I can’t survive out here alone. Do you hear me?’ she demanded. ‘If you die, I’ll die as well.’

He tried to form the word ‘no’, to tell her he wasn’t going to die at all. But before he could speak, her mouth came down on his in a searing kiss.

Chapter Four

Elena couldn’t say why she’d kissed Ragnar. It was either that or strike him. Anything to shock him into awakening. As she’d hoped, his eyes had sharpened, his body jolting at her touch.

‘Why did you do that?’ he demanded.

It had been only a short kiss, one hardly more than the touch of her lips on his. But he was staring at her with fury and she let go of him, edging her way back on the sand.

‘You weren’t responding. I thought if you closed your eyes, you wouldn’t wake again.’ But her face was on fire now and she regretted her actions. Worse, she’d never seen him this angry before.

‘Don’t ever kiss me again,’ he warned.

‘I’m sorry.’ She hadn’t expected him to react so strongly. ‘It was just a way of getting your attention, to make you open your eyes.’

‘The next time you need my attention, use your fist. Not your mouth.’ He grimaced, easing up to a seated position near the fire. ‘Styr is my friend and your husband. You would do well to remember it.’

‘I haven’t forgotten.’ But her face was burning with humiliation. She hurried to finish building the fire, wishing she’d never done anything. ‘It was meaningless, Ragnar. Truly.’

But nothing she said would dispel the anger and frustration in his eyes. She hadn’t truly considered the consequences and his violent response unnerved her.

‘It will never, ever happen again,’ she swore.

‘See that you keep that vow.’ His voice was cold, almost cruel.

Elena backed away, wishing there were words enough to apologise for what she’d done. Why couldn’t he understand that it was only an impulse, one intended to awaken him? Instead, he acted as if she’d tried to seduce him.

The forbidden thought of this man claiming her swirled inside her. Of his mouth opening against hers, taking her down against the sand.

She closed her eyes against the dark heat that poured over her. No, she would never fall under such a spell of madness.

Finally, Ragnar said, ‘We’ll need food and shelter. Go and look around at the terrain. But stay nearby, in case you have need of me.’

Elena didn’t point out that his injuries would prevent him from defending them. Instead, she welcomed the chance to leave, to escape her embarrassment and make herself useful. She hurried from the shore, shielding her eyes against the sun as she searched for a way to make shelter.

She crossed over the rise of a hill and saw a wide oak tree with many branches. The leaves might shelter them from the rain, but there was still too much exposure from the wind. Her mind turned over the problem while she gathered as many fallen branches as she could find. She began to organise the branches by length and width, laying them out in neat stacks.

Some were tall enough to make a lean-to shelter, but nothing larger than that. She was grateful that it would only be temporary, for it would force her to sleep close beside Ragnar once again.

The bitter taste of shame lingered, for she’d made such a foolish mistake, thinking the kiss would pull him back from losing consciousness. She winced to remember it.

If it had been Styr, he would have kissed her back, taking command of the embrace. Ragnar’s mouth had been cool, his lips firm. And though the kiss had meant nothing, her body had unknowingly responded to him. She took a slow, deep breath, ignoring the sensitivity of her breasts against the linen shift. Styr was the only man who had ever touched her. The only man who ever would.

But their lovemaking had grown stagnant, a duty they had both endured for the sake of conceiving a child. Sometimes her thoughts drifted away and she found herself going through the motions. Lying with Styr had been pleasurable and she hadn’t minded it. But as of late, her thoughts had been so focused upon whether or not his seed would take root within her, she’d forgotten to enjoy it.

Finally, she’d asked him to stop trying. The bitter memory burned inside her, for she’d allowed her festering grief to transform into anger. She didn’t want her husband to share her bed any more, for every time he lay with her, she was reminded of her failures as a wife.

Elena stopped sorting the wood, her eyes blurring with tears before she forced them back. She was stronger than this. She had to be. Sooner or later, they would find a way back to the ringfort and they would rescue Styr. Then she would do what she could to heal their shattered marriage.

It was best to ignore the kiss with Ragnar, as though it had never happened. It had been a foolish thing to do and his volatile reaction only reassured her that she had nothing to fear from sleeping close to him. Breathing a little easier, she walked back to the beach, her mind already envisioning the shelter. She would build a watertight lean-to that would keep out the rain and any harsh weather.

Along the way, she spied some wild strawberries and picked them, tying them into her apron. There were also some carrots, hardly bigger than her thumb, but they would still do well enough. Further inland, she spied the silvery surface of a pond.

Water. She breathed a sigh of relief, letting herself hope for the first time that they could survive here.

She wasted no time in getting a drink. Then she found a leaf larger than her hand and curled it into a cone, filling it with water for Ragnar. It wasn’t much, but it was a start, until she could find another container. There was so much to do; her mind was reeling from all of it.

* * *

When she returned, she saw that he was leaning on his side, his eyes closed. Pain tightened over his face and blood darkened the bandage on his thigh.

Guilt flooded through her, for she shouldn’t have left him this long. The cone of water fell from her hand and she ran to kneel beside him.

‘Ragnar.’ She tried to awaken him, shaking him slightly. He didn’t respond and she loosened the torn fabric, peeling back the bandages. The skin was an angry red and at the sight of it, her spirits sank. He was beyond her healing abilities and she didn’t know where she could go or what she could do.

‘I’m not a healer,’ she muttered, as she touched his cheek. ‘But you can’t give up. Not now.’

His wound was swollen and she racked her mind to think of any herbal knowledge she’d heard of. Ragnar remained unconscious and she didn’t know what to do for him.

There were no people here. There was no one to help, no one to tell her the proper way to treat his wounds. He would die if she did nothing.

She had to reach inside and find a place of calm. Surely if she studied him more carefully, she would find the answers.

Elena took a deep breath, then another as she examined his leg. His skin was hot to the touch, so tight as if it were an animal skin bulging with water.

It needed to be drained, she decided. Some of the healers drew blood to bring out the evil spirits. Perhaps if she released some of the pressure, it would help.

She pulled her dagger from its sheath, starting to lose the edge of her courage. The idea of hurting him more, of causing him to bleed, made her wince. But neither could he tolerate this pain.

Beneath her breath, she murmured prayers to all the gods as she cleaned the knife with a cloth and began probing his wound. His hands clenched at his sides, and his eyes flew open when she touched the raw flesh.

‘Don’t,’ he gritted out.

‘I’m going to ease the pain,’ she said. ‘The wound needs to be lanced.’

His eyes were wild, his mouth tight as she reopened the wound. The moment her blade touched the swollen area, it sliced through the poisoned flesh. Blood and pus mingled from the wound and she fought to hold back the wave of nausea. But as she bled him, the swelling did seem to recede. She couldn’t tell how long she would have to let out the bad blood, but eventually, she held the edges of his flesh together and wrapped his leg tightly.

All she could do now was pray. She tried to make him as comfortable as possible, but inwardly she knew they needed a better shelter or they would both die. And that meant leaving his side to build it.

Only when she was certain he was asleep did Elena venture out again. Though it bothered her to leave him, their survival depended on it.

* * *

‘Ragnar.’

Her voice awakened him from the harsh pain that flowed like a never-ending stream. It was twilight and the sunset haloed Elena’s hair from behind.

By the gods, he’d never known anyone more beautiful. But he’d learned to mask any emotions, never to let her see what he felt. Even if he died here, he refused to surrender to the traitorous thoughts he felt towards her.

Her hand came to touch his cheek, and he didn’t speak a word, taking comfort from the warmth of her palm.

‘The rain will come soon,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve built us a small shelter for the night. Can you lean on me to walk?’

He almost laughed at that, but one glimpse of the sky made him realise that he could either struggle and walk with her or lie here on the sand while the rain poured down over them. The clouds were thick and a fog was rolling in off the shoreline.

She leaned down and put both arms around him, guiding him up to a seated position. At such a close distance, he saw the tints of red within her hair and her sea-green eyes held such fear, there were no words to allay it. Words would not stave off the hand of Death, if it came for him.

Ragnar bent his good leg and grimaced as she pulled him up to stand. The moment he did, white spots spun in his vision, threatening to pull him under. ‘Elena, I don’t know how far I can make it.’

‘You’re strong enough to get there,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve gathered some food and made a fire for us.’ She continued talking, bearing the heavy weight of him as best she was able. The journey seemed endless. At one point, he asked, ‘Why did you build it so far away?’

‘I needed a tree to support the driftwood,’ she explained. ‘And we don’t want our shelter caught in the tides.’

He hardly heard any more of what she said, for he was lost in his own sea of pain. But as they moved in closer, he thought he scented something cooking.

Surely he was imagining it. But the heady aroma of a roasting fowl made his mouth water.

‘Did you catch something?’ he asked, squinting at the glow of the fire ahead.

The chagrined smile on her face confirmed it. ‘I set some snares, yes. And when we’ve both eaten, the night will be easier.’

He doubted if any food would settle the aching inside, but he would say nothing to cast a shadow over what she’d done to help them both. A ringing resounded within his ears and she caught him before he could fall, holding his waist.

‘We’re almost there.’

Thank the gods for that. It seemed to take an hour before he finally reached the tiny shelter she’d built of fallen limbs around a thick tree trunk. At first, it appeared crude, a mass of large branches and leaves. But as she eased him down, he realised it was wider than it appeared. The structure was circular, with stout branches as supports and smaller, more flexible limbs woven between them.

‘How did you ever have time for this?’ he questioned.

Her face flushed and she shrugged. ‘I kept returning to check on you, but you were sleeping. It seemed like a better use of my time.’

The wind was increasing and he eased backwards until he was inside the shelter. Elena tended the fire and adjusted the roasting meat until the fowl was fully cooked.

He’d never smelled anything so good in his entire life. When she broke off a piece, she blew on it before bringing it to him. He tasted the meat and found it delicious.

‘Styr is a fortunate man,’ he remarked. Though he kept his tone even, it was far more than the food. It was the way she had laboured over the shelter, managing to build something of this complexity in a short amount of time. ‘I don’t think he realises half of what you do for him.’

The look in her eyes turned startled, as if she’d never expected him to say such a thing. Perhaps it was the belief that he might die that caused him to speak so freely.

‘I am his wife. I want to make his home comfortable.’ She ate but no longer looked at him.

Ragnar knew that in the past few months, Elena and Styr’s marriage had suffered. Her barrenness had taken its toll upon her, and Styr had confided their troubles. It had put Ragnar in an awkward position. He’d urged Styr to talk to Elena, but he was torn between wanting them to reconcile...and wanting the marriage to end.

He was such a selfish bastard. What good would it do, if she and Styr parted ways? Elena would never turn to him. She knew his darkest secrets, of the vicious adolescence he’d endured...and the violence that still dwelled beneath his skin. He knew better than to think she would consider someone like him.

As the wind grew stronger, Elena moved deeper within the shelter and pulled out a panel he hadn’t noticed. It had been disguised amid the other branches, but it formed a door. Almost within seconds, the rain began to pour down over the shelter.

But they didn’t get wet. He stared up and realised that she’d layered the leaves so thickly that they were fully protected from the storm.

‘You did well, Elena,’ he complimented. ‘I suppose you’re tired from the work.’

She nodded. ‘A little. How is your leg?’

‘It hurts. But it’s not nearly as swollen as it was before.’ The wound ached, but the pain was more bearable.

‘I’ll try to find some garlic bulbs or other herbs to draw out the poisoned blood,’ she promised. ‘When it stops raining.’

‘In the morning will be soon enough.’ He finished eating and an awkward silence descended between them. She wouldn’t look at him and he realised that she was still embarrassed by what she’d done.

‘I’m sorry for what I said before.’ He leaned back against the structure, well aware of how close she was. ‘I know you meant nothing by the kiss.’

She let out a heavy sigh. ‘Thank you for that. I don’t know why I did it. It was truly just to keep you conscious.’

He studied her. Though the rain had extinguished the fire outside their shelter, in the dim space, he caught a shadowed glimpse of her beautiful face. He wished he could admit the truth, that the softness of her kiss had caught him stronger than any blow might have. She tasted of innocence, and dreams that would never be.

‘We will find a way to return,’ he said to her. ‘I’ll bring you back to Styr, once my wounds heal.’

She nodded and as the rain poured faster, she moved across to him. ‘I’m afraid for him. Even though we had our differences, I don’t want him to die.’

When she leaned against him, he brought his arms around her. She was quiet, but he could feel the dampness of her cheeks as she silently wept.

‘We’ll find him,’ he said to her. ‘I promise you that.’

She sniffled again, and then admitted, ‘There’s another reason why I’m afraid. It—it’s the moon.’

He didn’t understand what she meant and waited for her to elaborate.

‘When we left Norway, it was a full moon. It’s gone through all of its phases and almost a second phase.’

She sat up, then, though he could not see her face as the night grew darker. ‘I—I haven’t had my woman’s flow since we left Norway, Ragnar.’ There was tremulous hope in her voice as she admitted, ‘I think I may be pregnant at last.’

* * *

The night had been brutal. Visions and dark dreams haunted him, his body burning with fever. He was hardly aware of anything, except Elena offering him drinks of cool water.

He didn’t want to admit the possibility of death, but he would not lie here and yield quietly. He’d vowed to bring Elena back to Styr.

‘Elena,’ he muttered, his voice sounding like a growl, ‘we can’t stay here.’

‘We don’t have a choice.’ She moved beside him, as if to lend the physical comfort of her presence. ‘You have to rest to heal.’

He sensed the fear in her voice, but he refused to dwell on the chance of death.

‘To return to Styr, you must go southwest along the coast. Keep the morning sun to your left side and—’

‘I’m not leaving you,’ she interrupted.

‘If I don’t heal, you must go.’ The last thing he wanted was for her to suffer beside him, starving in the middle of nowhere. Already, his stomach was roaring with hunger.

‘You aren’t going to die,’ she insisted. ‘Your wounds are much better. Though I imagine you’re half starving, since you’ve been asleep for so long.’ She drew back the door of the shelter she’d made. The sun blinded him, and he glanced down at his wound.

Although it was still painful, it wasn’t nearly as swollen as he’d expected. Elena had made a poultice of garlic bulbs and he wondered how many times she’d changed it during the night. His entire body reeked of garlic. It was a wonder she could stand to be near him.

She brought him a bowl of stew and Ragnar questioned when she’d had time to make it. Within the hot liquid, he tasted rabbit and other vegetables. ‘Has it only been one day since we arrived on this shore?’ he asked.

Elena shook her head. ‘We’ve been here for three days. Your fever was terrible and I didn’t know if you’d awaken. I tried to feed you as best I could, but...it was difficult.’

Three days? It seemed impossible that the time had passed so swiftly. And yet he could not deny the truth of what he saw. The edges of the wound had begun to close and it wasn’t nearly as hot to the touch.

‘I was glad to find the garlic,’ Elena continued. ‘My mother told me it was good for healing wounds and she was right. I crushed up some of it.’

‘I smell terrible,’ he admitted wryly. But if it had kept him alive, it was well worth it. The question now was whether he was capable of walking again.

Slowly, Ragnar eased himself out of their shelter and used her help to rise to his feet. With only a little weight on the wounded leg, it wasn’t too bad.

Elena looked weary from the past few days but was no less beautiful. Her red-gold hair was braided back into a single tail and it brought into sharp relief her pale skin and heart-shaped face. Her green eyes studied him with relief.

‘In another few days, you’ll be fighting other battles,’ she predicted. ‘Though the scars will remain.’

‘All warriors bear scars.’ It was a physical reminder that they had conquered death, defeating their enemies. ‘But I owe you thanks for my life.’

She shook her head. ‘You saved mine on board the ship. You owe me nothing.’

‘No. I swore a vow to Styr,’ he reminded her. A vow he’d made to protect her. Although they were alive, he needed to bring her back to the ringfort settlement.

‘I know you’ll heal and we’ll find him, as you said,’ she promised.

His gaze moved down to her flat stomach, remembering what she’d told him about her pregnancy. Elena saw the direction of his attention and flushed slightly, moving her hand over her womb. ‘I’m surprised I haven’t felt sick so far.’

‘Not every woman suffers during the early months,’ he remarked. ‘My sisters never did.’

Her mood lightened and he saw the hope in her eyes. She had wanted a child for so many years.

God help him, he was jealous of Styr. He wished that Elena were his wife, that she were pregnant with his child. He wanted to awaken beside her, reaching over to feel the babe move within her skin.

He forced himself to walk, ignoring the dull pain in his thigh. The worst of the danger was over; he’d live. But with every day that passed, he wanted Elena more than ever. She was an obsession he couldn’t abandon and all women paled beside her.

Why, by the gods, did she have to belong to his best friend? If she were with any other man, he’d damn the consequences, claiming her as his own. She was a desperate craving he needed to satisfy. When he glanced back, he saw the peaceful expression on her face, for she believed she would finally have the child she wanted.

An honourable man would be glad for her. She would return to Styr and this babe would heal the breach between them. No longer would she suffer in silence; she had achieved her greatest desire.

Ragnar stopped walking, staring down at the water below them. The grass was damp from earlier rainstorms, but now the sun warmed the earth. He didn’t know how they were going to make it back, but likely their best course of action was to travel along the coast. If they happened to see ships, they could try to hire one to take them back.

‘You shouldn’t push yourself too hard,’ Elena warned. ‘You need to regain your strength.’

No, what he needed was space away from her. A chance to clear his head so he wouldn’t give in to the instinctive urges taunting him.

Ragnar reached down for a fallen branch, using it to help support his weight as he moved across the field. A faint noise caught his attention and he stopped, listening hard.

Elena frowned. ‘Did you hear something?’

He nodded, pointing further inland. ‘It was coming from over there.’ Leaning against the staff, he continued his pace, moving towards the sound. It was as if a large group of people was approaching.

Her face broke into a smile. ‘Thank the gods. They’ll have food and supplies. I think we’re saved.’

But as the sounds grew louder, he realised what he was hearing. These people were fleeing, not travelling. Dozens of men, women and children were running across the plains, while behind them, he spied men pursuing them on horseback.

Warriors with weapons drawn, ready to strike them down.

Chapter Five

Elena’s heart was racing and Ragnar pushed her towards the fleeing women. ‘Run!’ he commanded.

She started to obey, but then saw that he was holding his ground, staring at the riders. Though he had only a sword, he held it steady, waiting for the men to approach.

The calm in his eyes belied the storm that was to come. She’d seen Ragnar fight before and he became a different man when the battle rage swept over him. His sword became part of him, cutting down any enemy who threatened those under his protection.

Few survived and he granted no mercy.

But this time, he stood as a wounded man. Upon his face she saw the grim determination of a man who would sacrifice himself before he’d allow any man to harm her. But even with his strength and fighting prowess, he could not hope to bring down all the men on horseback. He was outnumbered and likely he was shielding her, granting all of them time to get away.

She froze in place, stopping one of the Irishmen. ‘He needs help,’ she pleaded. ‘He can’t stop them alone.’

The man stared at her before she realised he could not understand her words. But he cast a glance at Ragnar, his expression holding surprise that a wounded man would stand against their enemy.

One of the riders lifted his sword, prepared to strike him down. Instead of raising his own weapon, Ragnar stood calmly, waiting for the killing blow.

Freya, protect him.

She knew what would happen—she’d witnessed it a thousand times. He would hold steady and the act of suicidal madness twisted his enemy into questioning their actions. No sensible man would stand and face charging horses.

Even as she trusted him, Elena couldn’t bear to think of anything happening to Ragnar. He’d been her friend for so long, always there when she’d needed him. She bit her lip hard to prevent herself from interfering and when she stepped back, the rider’s attention flickered for a moment.

It was enough for Ragnar to twist his sword, slicing the rider from his horse. The animal whinnied, rearing up, and Ragnar seized the reins, barely dodging another blow before he swung up on the left side, protecting his wounded leg.

It took all of Elena’s courage to remain among the Irish instead of running towards him. She knew she was a distraction and a danger if she dared to intervene.

He guided the horse forwards, keeping his sword poised.

‘You’re Norse,’ one of the riders said in their tongue.

‘I am,’ Ragnar countered. ‘My name is Ragnar Olafsson from Hordafylke. We came to éire a few days ago.’ He kept his voice calm, but Elena heard the trace of steel beneath it. He was not about to stand down and let these raiders continue their attack.

‘I am Alfarr Gelinsson,’ their leader replied. His gaze narrowed upon Ragnar. ‘Why would you defend these men and women? They’re not your people.’

‘No, but we need supplies. They can offer that to us.’

‘Join us,’ Alfarr offered. ‘We’ll take from them and share what is left.’

From behind her, Elena sensed the Irish growing uncertain about the continuing conversation in a foreign tongue. She raised her hands in reassurance, hoping they would not interfere with the negotiation.

‘Why do you not trade with them?’ Ragnar asked calmly, drawing his horse closer until he was within reach of their leader.

Alfarr stared over at the Irish and then spit on the ground. ‘They are weak. Taking their supplies would be an easy victory.’

‘You look like a man who enjoys fighting,’ Ragnar challenged. ‘Would you rather make a wager?’

What was he doing? Elena took a step forwards, wondering what his intentions were. Ragnar wasn’t strong enough to fight these men, not with his wound. She’d bandaged it heavily, but no doubt the other Norsemen were well aware of the injury. It would affect his speed, no matter how strong he was.

She wanted so badly to interrupt, but she held her tongue, afraid it would weaken his position before the men.

‘I wouldn’t mind a wager,’ Alfarr agreed. His gaze passed over Elena with interest and she felt a prickle of uneasiness pass over her skin. ‘Especially if a woman is involved.’ Despite the short distance, she could feel his stare upon her and it made her skin crawl.

Ragnar didn’t bother to look back. ‘She is not a part of this.’

‘When you’re dead, she will be,’ Alfarr answered.

‘But if I win,’ Ragnar warned softly, ‘your man will be dead and you’ll go raid another tribe. Not this one.’

‘You’re wounded, Ragnar Olafsson. You are no match for us.’

‘Then I’ll meet Odin in Valhalla, if my sword does not prevail,’ he said.

So much rested upon this fight. Not only their fate, but the fate of the Irish as well. It angered Elena that the people kept a distance instead of joining him. Why had no one offered to help?

Fear quickened in her veins as the men faced off. Even if Ragnar prevailed, she suspected the men would not keep their word. Raiders who lived and died by their swords were not men of honour. The moment Ragnar’s back was turned, they would cut him down.

She closed her eyes, trying to bring clarity to her clouded mind. If he were not wounded, she didn’t doubt that he would strike down every last man.

But with only one good leg to stand on, he might not live through the rest of this day. She would become their prize of war unless she did something to stop them.

Elena turned back to the Irish, her mind spinning with ideas, most of which wouldn’t work. But when she saw a woman carrying a basket of green apples, an idea began to take root. The apples were a symbol of the gods. Men like these might not honour the afterworld...but they would understand the effects of a curse. It was something to be feared.

There was one way to put an end to the fighting and drive the invaders away.

Freya, be with me, she prayed.

* * *

They chose their tallest man to fight him. The hersir weighed more than Ragnar, but Ragnar wasn’t afraid to face the man. The larger the warrior, the slower he tended to move.

His thigh wound was aching, but Ragnar blotted all of the pain from his mind. If he failed in this fight, they would take Elena and use her. He had no doubt of it. In times like these, he had to use his wits, rather than his strength.

The man had chosen a battleaxe as his weapon and after dismounting from the horse, Ragnar took a round shield from the warrior he’d already killed.

Thor, guide my blade, he prayed. Let me strike true.

He waited for the man to make the first move, for in that motion he could determine his enemy’s weaknesses.

‘Your wound will slow you down, Olafsson,’ the man remarked, eyeing the reddish stain on Ragnar’s thigh. His enemy tossed his battleaxe and caught it again, the silvery gleam of steel revealing a sharp blade. The man was fair-haired with a reddish beard and wore a hauberk made of whalebone.

‘Wounded or not, the gods favour me.’ He nodded towards the sky, which was transforming from sunshine into a darker hue. Large clouds drifted into a grey mass, forming storms. ‘In a little while, Thor will show his lightning and you will be in Valhalla to greet him.’

‘Or you will,’ the man countered.

Ragnar glanced back towards Elena, but was startled to see that she’d disappeared. It was for the best, he supposed. At least if she’d gone, he would not have to worry over her fate.

But he’d known her too long. She wasn’t one to run from a fight. It was more likely she’d gone to fetch a weapon herself.

Better to end this quickly, then.

Instinct took over and he let the blood course through his heart, pushing back any trace of mercy. This man would die and soon.

Ragnar raised his shield to defect a blow from the battleaxe, biting back a gasp when the man kicked his thigh. Pain shot through him, but he slipped into the blur of fighting, no longer feeling anything. He was aware only of the weapon in his hands and the movement of his enemy. Blood seeped against his wound, but he dulled his mind against distractions.

‘You’re stronger than you look. But not for long,’ the man said. He renewed his attack, using his own shield to press hard against Ragnar.

Ragnar’s muscles tensed as he refused to surrender ground. He was a warrior, a man sworn to live and die by the sword. Wounds and pain were a part of the fighting and as he pivoted to dodge another blow, his father’s words came back to taunt him.

You’re weak and soft, boy.

He tasted blood in his mouth when his enemy’s fist ploughed into his jaw, but he willed himself to feel nothing, just as he’d endured years of his father’s beatings.

Pain was a part of him. He knew how to isolate himself from feeling anything at all, letting the hollowness claim his spirit.

You’re worthless.

Every blow, every bruise brought out a ruthless side to him where there were no emotions to make him human again. He became predatory, slashing hard with his sword. He was blinded in this moment of battle, fully immersed in the kill. Anyone who dared to come near would suffer the consequences.

Metal bit through flesh and he was rewarded with his enemy’s gasp.

They stood back, circling each other. Ragnar tasted blood and sweat, and he saw the moment of uncertainty in the Norseman’s expression.

He gritted his teeth, feigning weakness. Waiting for the moment when his enemy would strike hard. Abruptly, the man shoved his shield against Ragnar’s wound, lifting his axe high for a killing blow.

Ragnar threw himself to the ground, lifting up his sword at the last second. With all his strength, he forced the blade upwards, impaling his enemy.

Blood spilled from the man’s lips as Ragnar’s blade remained in his gut. It was not a clean death and he forced the man over, rising to his feet before he struck hard and ended the fight.

He kept his sword in hand, anticipating a second attack. The haze of fighting was still upon him, like a veil of red. Dimly, he grew aware that no one was going to approach him now.

‘Take your men and go,’ Ragnar ordered, his gaze fixed upon the leader.

‘I never agreed to leave,’ Alfarr countered. ‘And now the rest of my men will fight. You cannot kill all of us—’

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