AUTHOR NOTE

Sometimes arranged marriages in historical romance end in happily-ever-after. And sometimes two good people are never meant to be together. I wanted to explore the idea of a marriage between a husband and a wife who want to make it work but are unable to connect. And what will happen to them when they meet their true soul mates?

This duet of books, beginning with TO SIN WITH A VIKING, explores that theme without trespassing into the realm of adultery. Both Styr and Elena Hardrata deserve a happy ending…but it will not be with each other. Styr is taken captive by Irishwoman Caragh Ó Brannon, and the forbidden attraction between them is searing. He must decide whether to maintain his loyalty to a wife who is heartbroken in their marriage or whether to reach out to the woman who has taught him how to love. Elena’s story will follow, when she is rescued by fellow Viking Ragnar Olafsson.

I hope you’ll enjoy these Irish-Viking stories. If you want to read more about my Hardrata heroes, Styr is the ancestor of Tharand Hardrata, the hero of THE VIKING’S FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE, and later of Kaall Hardrata, hero of The Holly and the Viking in WARRIORS IN WINTER.

You’re welcome to 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 via mail at PO Box 2242 Poquoson, VA 23662, USA. I can be found on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/michellewillinghamfans and Twitter at www.twitter.com/michellewilling.

About the Author

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††

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)

 *The MacEgan Brothers

 †prequel to The MacEgan Brothers mini-series

 **The MacKinloch Clan

 ††linked by character

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

To Sin with a Viking
Michelle Willingham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Chapter One

Ireland—ad 875.

The tribe was slowly starving to death.

Caragh Ó Brannon stared at the grain sack, which was nearly empty. One handful of oats remained, hardly enough for anyone. She closed her eyes, wondering what to do. Her older brothers, Terence and Ronan, had left a fortnight ago to trade for more food. She’d given them a golden brooch that had belonged to their mother, hoping someone would trade sheep or cows for it. But this famine was widespread, making anyone reluctant to give up their animals.

‘Is there anything to eat, Caragh?’ her younger brother Brendan asked. At seventeen, his appetite was three times her own, and she’d done her best to keep him from growing hungry. But it was now evident that they would run out of food sooner than she’d thought.

Instead of answering, she showed him what was left. He sobered, his thin face hollow from lack of food. ‘We haven’t caught any fish, either. I’ll try again this morning.’

‘I can make a pottage,’ she offered. ‘I’ll go and look for wild onions or carrots.’ Though she tried to interject a note of hope, both of them knew that the forests and fields had been stripped long ago. There was nothing left, except the dry summer grasses.

Brendan reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘Our brothers will come back. And when they do, we’ll have plenty to eat.’

In his face, she saw the need to believe it, and she braved a smile she didn’t feel. ‘I hope so.’

After he went outside with his fishing net, Caragh stared back at the empty hut. Both of their parents had died last winter. Her father had gone out to try to catch fish, and he’d drowned. Her mother had grieved deeply for him and had never recovered from the loss. She’d given her own portion of food to Brendan numerous times, lying that she’d already eaten. When they’d discovered the truth, it had been too late to prevent her death.

So many had succumbed to starvation, and it bled Caragh’s conscience to know that both of her parents had died, trying to feed their children.

Hot tears rose up as she stared at her father’s forge. He’d been a blacksmith, and she was accustomed to hearing the ring of his hammer, watching the bright glow of hot metal as he shaped it into tools. Her heart was as heavy as the anvil, knowing she would never hear his broad laugh again.

Though his boat remained, she didn’t have the courage to face the larger waves. Her brothers knew how to sail, but none of them had ventured out again after his death. It was as if evil spirits lingered, cursing the broken vessel that had returned without their father.

She wished they could leave Gall Tír. This desolate land had nothing left. But they lacked the supplies to travel very far on foot. They should have gone last summer, after the crops had failed to flourish. At least then, they would have had enough to survive the journey. Even if they now travelled by sea, they had not enough food to sustain them beyond a day.

The hand of Death was stretched out over everyone, and Caragh had felt her own weakness changing her. She could hardly walk for long distances without growing faint, and the smallest tasks were overwhelming. Her body had grown so thin, her léine hung upon her, and she could see the thin bones of her knees and wrists.

But she wasn’t ready to give up. Like all of them, she was fighting to live.

She picked up her gathering basket and stepped outside in the sunlight. The ringfort was quiet, few people exerting the energy to talk, when there was the greater task of finding food. Her older brothers weren’t the only ones who had left to seek supplies. Most of the able-bodied men had gone, especially those with children. None were expected to return.

A few of the elderly women nodded to her in greeting, with baskets of their own. Caragh thought of her earlier promise, to find vegetables, but she knew there was nothing out there. Even if there was, the others would likely find it first. Instead, she made her way towards the coast, hoping to find shellfish or seaweed.

She stopped to rest several times when her vision clouded and dizziness came over her. The water was nearly black this morn, the waves still and silent. Her brother was standing along the shoreline with his net, casting it out into the waves. He waved his hand in greeting.

But it was the sight of the longship on the horizon that evoked fear within both of them. The vessel was large, a curved boat that could hold over a dozen men. A massive striped sail billowed from the mast, and a single row of white and red shields hung over the side. In the morning sun, a bronze weathervane gleamed upon the masthead and a carved dragon head rested at the prow. As soon as she spied it, her heartbeat quickened.

‘Is it the Lochlannach?’ she cried out to her brother. So many tales she’d heard, of the barbaric Vikings of the Norse lands who ravaged the homes of innocent people. If their ship was here, they had less than an hour before the nightmare began. Gooseflesh prickled upon her skin at the thought of being taken by one of them. Or worse, being burned alive if they attempted to seize her home by force.

‘Go back to our house,’ Brendan commanded. ‘Stay inside, Caragh, and for God’s sake, don’t let anyone in.’ He pulled in his fishing net and hurried back towards the ringfort.

‘What are you going to do?’ She caught up to him, afraid he was about to do something foolish.

Her brother’s grey eyes turned cold. ‘They have supplies, don’t they? And food.’

She was horrified at his sudden thoughts. ‘No. You can’t try to steal from them.’ The Norsemen were ruthless warriors who would murder her brother without a second thought.

‘They’ll try to raid the fort. They’ll be gone while I take what’s on board their ship.’

‘And what about the rest of us?’ she demanded. ‘If we’re fighting for our lives, we might all be dead by the time you return. If you return,’ she added. ‘No, you can’t do this.’

Her brother entered their father’s hut, searching for a sword among the blacksmith tools. ‘If you’d rather, go and hide in the forest. Climb one of the trees as high as you can and wait until it’s over.’

‘I can’t abandon the tribe.’ There were elderly folk remaining, who were too weak to fight. Though her own strength was waning, she couldn’t turn her back on their kinsmen.

Her hands were trembling, the fear rising up from inside. Brendan took her hand and squeezed it. ‘If we don’t take their supplies, we’ll die anyway. Either today or a fortnight from now. We both know it.’

She did. But she didn’t like stealing. Though she’d lost nearly every possession they’d owned, she still had honour. And that meant something.

‘We could ask,’ she said. ‘If they see how little we have, they may share with us.’

Her brother’s expression darkened. ‘Since when do the Lochlannach possess mercy?’ He belted the sword at his waist. ‘Gather the others and take them from here, if you wish. Leave the ringfort unprotected, and perhaps they’ll take what they want without hurting anyone.’

She stared at him, her thoughts caught in a tangled web of fear. ‘Don’t go, Brendan. The risk is too great.’

‘Don’t be afraid, a deirfiúr.’ He bent down and kissed her forehead. ‘I’d rather die in battle than die the way our parents did.’

She could see that no argument would influence him. But perhaps she could speak to his friends. He might listen to them, though he paid no heed to her warnings.

All she could do was try.

No man ever wanted to admit his marriage was dying.

Styr Hardrata stared out at the grey waters cloaked with mist, watching over his wife Elena. She stood with her hands upon the bow of the ship, her long red-gold hair streaming behind her in the wind. She was beautiful and strong, and he’d always been fascinated by her.

But that strength had now become a coldness between them, an invisible wall that kept them apart. She blamed herself for their childlessness, and he didn’t know what to say. He’d tried everything until now, she grew sad every time he tried to touch her. Lovemaking had become a duty, not an act of passion.

Though he’d tried to ignore her growing reluctance, he was tired of her flinching whenever he tried to pull her near. Or worse, feigning pleasure when he knew she no longer wanted his touch.

The slow burn of frustration coiled inside him. This was a war he didn’t know how to fight, a battle he couldn’t win. Styr approached the front of the boat and stood behind her. He said nothing, staring out at the grey waves that sloshed against the boat.

‘I know you’re there,’ she said after a time. But she didn’t turn around to look at him. There was no smile of welcome, nothing except the quiet acceptance she wore like armour.

He didn’t know how to respond to her coolness but said the only thing he could think of. ‘It won’t be long now before we arrive.’ And thank the gods for it. Their ship had been plagued by storms, and he hadn’t slept in three days. None of them had, after the strong winds had threatened to sink the vessel. His mind was blurred with the need to find a pallet and sink into oblivion.

In fact, the moment his feet touched ground, he was tempted to lie there and sleep for the next two days.

‘I’ll be glad to reach land,’ she admitted. ‘I’m tired of travelling.’

He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she didn’t turn to embrace him. She held herself motionless, staring out at the water. In time, he lowered his hand, suppressing the disappointment.

In truth, Elena had startled him when she’d agreed to leave Hordafylke and journey with him to Éire, for a new beginning. Though their marital troubles had worsened over the past year, he wanted to believe that she wasn’t ready to give up yet. He held on to the hope that somehow they could rekindle what they’d lost.

Styr waited for her to speak, to share with him the thoughts inside, but she offered nothing. He considered a thousand different things to say to her, questions about what sort of house she wanted to build. Whether she would want a new weaving loom or perhaps a dog to keep her company when he was fishing at sea. She loved animals.

‘Do you—?’

‘I’d rather not talk just now,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve not been feeling well.’

The words severed any further conversation attempts, and he stiffened. ‘So be it.’ He went to the opposite end of the boat, needing to be away from her before he said something he would later regret.

Disappointment shifted into anger. What in the name of Thor did she want from him? He wasn’t going to lower himself and beg for her affections. He’d done everything in his power to make her happy, and it was never enough.

Frustration surged inside him, though he knew it was unwarranted. She was tired from the journey, that was all. Once they built a new home and started over, things might change.

The shores of Éire emerged on the horizon, and he stared at the desolate, sun-darkened grasses. Though he’d heard tales of how green the land was, from this distance, it appeared that they were suffering from a drought.

His friend Ragnar stepped past the men rowing and stood beside him. ‘I still don’t know why you wanted to settle here, instead of in Dubh Linn,’ he remarked, pointing towards the east. ‘The settlements there are a hundred years old. You’d find more of our kin.’

‘I don’t want Elena surrounded by so many people,’ Styr admitted. ‘We’d rather begin anew, somewhere less crowded.’ As they drew nearer, he thought he glimpsed a small settlement further inland.

Ragnar sat across from him and picked up an oar. Styr joined him, for the familiar rowing motion gave him a means of releasing physical frustration. He was glad his friend had decided to journey with them, along with a dozen of their friends and kin from Hordafylke. It made it easier to leave behind his home, when his closest friends were here. He’d known Ragnar since he was a boy, and he considered the man like a brother.

‘Has she said anything to you about this journey?’ Styr asked, nodding towards Elena. She, too, had known Ragnar since childhood. It was possible that she might confide her thoughts in someone else.

Ragnar sobered. ‘Elena hasn’t spoken much at all. But she’s afraid—that, I can tell you.’

Styr pulled hard on the oar, his arms straining as the wooden blades cut through the waves. Afraid of what? He would protect her from any harm, and he was more than able to provide for her.

‘What else do you know?’ he demanded.

‘The men are tired. They need rest and food,’ Ragnar said. His friend’s face mirrored his own exhaustion, after they’d been awake for so long.

‘I wasn’t talking about the men.’

Ragnar rested the oars for a moment, sympathy on his face. ‘Just talk to Elena, my friend. She’s hurting.’

He knew that was the obvious answer. But Elena rarely spoke to him any more, never telling him what she was thinking. He couldn’t guess what was going on inside her head, and when he demanded answers, she only closed up more.

He didn’t understand women. One moment, he would be talking to her, and the next, she’d be silently weeping and he had no idea why. It made him feel utterly helpless.

As their boat drifted closer, he eyed Ragnar. ‘I’ve been saving a gift for her. Something to make her smile.’ He’d bought the ivory comb in Hordafylke, and the image of Freya was carved upon it. When he showed it to his friend, Ragnar shrugged.

‘It’s a nice gift, but it’s not what she wants.’

Though his friend was only being honest, it wasn’t what Styr wanted to hear. ‘Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think we wanted to be childless all these years?’ His temper broke out, and his words lashed out louder than he’d intended. Elena was holding on to her waist, and she didn’t glance back at either of them. He didn’t doubt his wife had overheard their argument. But as cool-headed as she was, she’d never confront him.

‘I’ve made offerings to the gods,’ he admitted, dropping his voice lower. ‘I’ve been a good husband to her. But this curse is wearing on both of us. It has to end.’

Ragnar stood, preparing to lower the sail. ‘And if it doesn’t?’

Styr stared at his hands, not knowing the answer to that. But he strongly suspected that there was nothing he could do to make his wife happy again. He stole a last look at her, and at that moment she turned back. Her pale face was shadowed, her eyes holding such pain, he didn’t know how to heal it.

In the end, he busied himself with the ship, unable to bridge the growing distance between them.

The Lochlannach were here. Caragh’s heart beat so rapidly, she could hardly breathe. There were a dozen men walking through the shallow water, and their size alone dwarfed her kinsmen. Battleaxes and swords hung from their waists, while they carried round wooden shields. Several of the men wore chainmail corselets and helms with narrow nose guards. One man was taller than all the others, possibly their leader. His eyes narrowed upon the ringfort, and Caragh remained hidden behind a pile of peat bricks.

She’d managed to evacuate most of the people, aside from Brendan and his friends. The young men worried her, for they seemed intent upon attacking the Lochlannach. If they did, doubtless they would be slaughtered in the attempt.

She didn’t know what to do. Should she approach them and find out what they wanted? Their leader drew closer, and he was so tall, he stood a full head above her brother Brendan. He had fair hair bound back, and his shoulders were broad, like a man accustomed to hacking his way through a battlefield. His cloak was black, and a golden brooch fastened it on one side. Beneath it, she caught the glint of chainmail, though he wore no helm. There was no trace of mercy in his visage, as if he’d come to plunder and take everything of value.

She tried to calm the wild beating of her heart, but in the distance, she spied her brother moving behind the men. Four others were approaching from opposite corners, intending a surprise attack.

Why wasn’t Brendan moving towards the boat? With horror, she realised that he’d changed his intent. No longer was he planning to raid their supplies.

It seemed her younger brother and his friends were planning an attack of their own. Caragh swallowed hard, praying for a miracle. If only her older brothers were here to stop him. Or any of the other men. She had to do something to protect Brendan, but what?

She started to rise from her hiding place, when suddenly, she spied a female standing back from the men. Her skirts were sodden from walking through the water, and she stared at the ringfort as if she were nervous.

If these men had come to raid, they would never have brought a woman along. Who was she?

Caragh had no time to consider further, for her brother and his friends made their move. Within seconds, they surrounded the woman, dragging her away from the other men.

Her scream cut through the air, and the Viking leader charged after the young men. The other Lochlannach followed, but their movement lacked energy, as if they had not fought in some time. The leader showed no weakness at all, and a roar erupted from him as he ran, his battleaxe unsheathed.

He was going to kill them.

Caragh bit her lip so hard, she tasted blood, when the Viking was surrounded by her kinsmen. He swung his battleaxe, his chainmail shirt outlining immense muscles and a honed body well accustomed to fighting. The blade sank into one of the young men trying to hold him back.

She closed her eyes tightly, her blood pulsing so hard, she felt faint. Although the Norseman was outnumbered, the young men’s efforts would come to naught. They would die for this—Brendan among them.

She couldn’t stand aside and let it happen. Caragh slipped back into the blacksmith’s hut, searching for a weapon she was strong enough to wield. Precious time slid away and she tried to lift her father’s hammer, without success.

Something. Anything. She whirled around, and this time, she saw a wooden staff in the corner. Although it was heavy and thick, at least she could lift it.

She rushed out of the hut, only to find that several more of her kinsmen had returned from their hiding places, and had surrounded the Lochlannach. Older men charged forwards with their own weapons, and several lay dead. Others had managed to subdue several of the enemy men, tying them up as hostages.

But it was the Viking leader who held her attention now. He’d torn his way free of the people and was running after the woman, blood lust in his eyes.

Straight towards her brother.

Caragh didn’t think, but raced after him, her lungs burning as she ran. She didn’t know what she could possibly do to stop the warrior, but she gripped the wooden staff in her hands, praying for strength she didn’t have. Her terror seemed to slow, magnified by the need to save Brendan. Her brother had seized the woman with both hands, leaving him powerless to defend himself.

‘Brendan, let her go!’ she shouted, but he didn’t. The Viking raised the battleaxe above his head, prepared to strike.

Without knowing where her strength came from, Caragh swung the staff at his head. The man turned at the last second and the staff caught him across the ear. He dropped hard, the axe falling from his hand. The woman screamed, reaching towards him as she cried out words in an unfamiliar language.

Caragh felt the woman’s pain, and she met the woman’s eyes with her own, wishing she could make her understand. She’d had no choice in this.

Chapter Two

Styr awakened, feeling as if someone had crushed his head. When he tried to sit up, a rush of pain poured through him.

It was eerily quiet, and it took him a moment to reassemble what had happened. He smelled a peat fire, and when He tried to sit up, he realised that his wrists were chained behind his back, around a thick post. He was now a prisoner.

Where was Elena? Had they taken her, too? His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he struggled to stand. There was only a woman standing on the far end of the room, watching him with wariness. He listened hard for the sound of his language, for any evidence that his kinsmen were alive. But there was nothing.

He knew the Irish language, after his father had taught him many foreign tongues. As a voyager, Styr knew how valuable it was, and he’d mastered several languages as a boy. But he asked the woman no questions, not revealing his ability to understand her words. He might learn more about Elena and Ragnar, if he pretended he knew nothing.

‘Where have you taken the others?’ he barked out, using a Norse dialect he knew she wouldn’t understand.

She flinched at his tone and remained far away. Good. In the shadowed light, he couldn’t quite make out her features, but it surprised him that her family had left her here alone with him. Where were the other men? Why was there no one else to guard him?

He began examining his bonds more closely. They had chained his arms behind his back, around a thick beam on the opposite wall. He guessed the circumference of the beam was the width of his thigh, for when he leaned his weight against it, it did not budge.

‘Let me go,’ he demanded, still using the Norse language. To emphasise his words, he strained against the chains.

When the woman stepped into the light, he was shocked by what he saw. Her face was terribly thin, her eyes sunken from lack of food. The bones of her wrists were narrow, and though he recognised her as the one who had struck him down, he couldn’t imagine how she’d done it.

There was no possible way she’d had the strength to move him here and put him in chains. She looked as if a strong wind would knock her over.

Her eyes were a strange blue, so dark, they were almost violet. Her brown hair hung to her waist, unbound except for a small braided section at her temples.

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.

Why had he lured them away from Gall Tír? It was reckless and dangerous.

Unless Brendan was trying to lead the enemy away in a desperate act of bravery.

She closed her eyes, steeling herself against the possibility that her brother was already dead. Hours had passed, but he hadn’t returned at all. She could only pray that he was still alive.

Disbelief and fear welled up inside her. All of her brothers had abandoned her. She hadn’t argued when Terence and Ronan had gone, confident that they would return with the promised supplies. But now, it had been nearly a fortnight, and there was no sign of them.

What if none of her brothers returned? What if all of them were dead?

The idea of being alone, with no one to protect her, was terrifying.

With a heavy heart, she searched inside for the right decision about what to do now. She couldn’t release her prisoner. If she did, she had no doubt he would strike her down. His dark, callous eyes bespoke a ruthless nature. There was nothing tame about him, and she saw no alternative except to keep him chained until her older brothers returned.

If they returned.

She closed her eyes, forcing away the thoughts of doubt. No, Terence and Ronan would come back. They had to.

Caragh picked up a woollen brat that she used as a winter wrap and tiptoed over to the section of the wall that the man had destroyed. She reached up to secure it over the hole, using it to block the wind.

When she turned around, she saw him staring at her. She pressed her back against the broken wall, just as he rose to his feet. His eyes were a dark brown, and she couldn’t read the expression on his face. But she wouldn’t make the mistake of trusting him. She inched further away until he spoke a word she didn’t understand.

‘What do you want?’ she asked.

His gaze followed her, and he paused a moment. ‘Water.’

It startled her to hear her language spoken by this man. ‘You know Irish?’

But he only repeated, ‘Water.’

Caragh went to fill a wooden cup with water, and she felt his eyes watching every move. When she drew close, she hesitated, not wanting to be so close to him after he’d already spurned the bowl of soup. But with his hands chained behind his back, there was no other alternative.

She swallowed back her apprehension and raised the cup to his lips, tilting it slightly. He drank, and in the shadowed light, she saw the rough stubble of facial hair. It was the same light blond colour as his hair, and when she lowered the cup, her eyes were drawn to his mouth. His lips were firm, a slash of a mouth that she doubted had ever smiled. In his dark eyes, she saw a worry that mirrored her own.

‘Where is she?’ he demanded in her language.

Caragh stepped back from him. ‘So you do know Irish.’ It meant he’d understood every word she’d spoken.

‘Where?’ he repeated. The ice in his voice held the promise of vengeance, and she retreated further. Though he could not harm her while he was in chains, she didn’t doubt that he’d kill anyone who threatened the woman called Elena.

Her face paled, but she repeated what she’d said before, ‘I told you already. I don’t know.’ She tried to calm the roiling fear in her stomach, admitting, ‘Brendan took her as a hostage and set sail.’

Frustration drew his face taut with silent rage. ‘I have to find her. Let me go.’ His command was spoken in a steel voice, one meant to be obeyed.

Though she understood his need, she couldn’t possibly free him from the chains. ‘I can’t release you,’ she protested. ‘You’ll kill me if I do.’ In her mind, she envisioned him taking his chains and wrapping them around her throat.

‘I don’t usually kill women. Even the ones who try to crack my skull.’ He tested the post, straining against his bonds.

‘I’m sorry for your wound, but I had to protect Brendan,’ she argued.

‘And I had to protect my wife.’ He half-snarled the word, his rage erupting. ‘She’s an innocent. She did nothing to you.’

‘The men were wrong to attack,’ she admitted, crossing her arms. ‘I tried to stop my brother, but he wouldn’t listen.’ Though it wouldn’t make any difference, she offered, ‘We were starving and needed supplies.’

‘And you thought you’d take them.’ Bitterness clung to his tone, and he let out a cynical breath of air. ‘We would have shared what we had, if you’d asked.’

‘Attacking you was never my idea,’ she insisted. It shamed her that this man thought of her as nothing but a thief, when she wasn’t.

‘Let me go, Caragh.’

‘Not yet, Lochlannach,’ she countered. Frowning, she added, ‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘I am Styr Hardrata. My wife is Elena.’

‘I saw her with the others. She’s beautiful.’ Caragh returned to the cold pot of soup and moved it closer to the hearth to warm. ‘Be assured, my brother doesn’t plan to hurt her. He’s only seventeen…and thoughtless, I’m afraid.’

‘He plans to ransom them or sell them as slaves, doesn’t he?’

She hadn’t thought of that, but it was doubtful. ‘I don’t know what he plans to do.’ Truthfully, she doubted if he’d considered any of his actions, it had all happened so fast. ‘All I know is that I can’t free you until my older brothers are here. Once they are, then you can go as it pleases you.’

‘And I’m supposed to stay here and ignore what’s happening to the rest of my family? You expect me to wait and do nothing?’

She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. ‘I won’t let you hurt my brother.’

His dark eyes gleamed in the stillness. ‘If she’s harmed because of what he did, I’ll kill him. Be assured of it.’

She believed him. There was a darkness in this man, a soulless being who wouldn’t falter when it came to retribution. It didn’t matter that Brendan was young and foolish. In the Viking’s eyes, she saw the promise of vengeance.

Her hands were trembling as she ladled more soup into a bowl. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’

‘What I want is to be released.’ He glared at her, and she tightened the hold upon her fear.

Ignoring his demand, she said, ‘I have very little food. If you want to eat, I will share what there is. But if you’re going to push it away, tell me now, and I’ll keep it for myself.’

He said nothing for a time, staring towards the fire. ‘I suppose I’ll have to keep up my strength for the day when you set me free.’

‘I regret hurting you. But I had no choice.’ She picked up the bowl with both hands, steam rising from the soup. It felt as if she were nearing a dragon as she approached the warrior.

He waited, and when she stood before him, he said, ‘You look as if you haven’t eaten well in weeks.’

She hadn’t but didn’t say so. ‘There was a drought, and we lost a good deal of our harvest last summer. Many died during the winter, and it’s too early to harvest this year’s crops.’

Caragh raised the bowl to his lips, and this time, he drank. The soup wasn’t good, watery with only a bit of seaweed. But there was nothing else.

‘What of your animals?’ he asked. ‘Sheep or cattle?’

She shook her head. ‘They’re gone. My brothers went to trade for more food.’ To him, it might seem that they’d done little, but she knew the truth. They’d given up most of their possessions for food. ‘Believe me when I say there is nothing to eat,’ she continued. ‘I’ve looked everywhere.’

‘You live near the sea,’ he pointed out. ‘There’s no reason for you to starve.’

But it wasn’t that easy. ‘The fishermen left, months ago, and took their boats with them,’ she explained. ‘We can only get the smaller fish near the shore. It’s not enough.’ She didn’t mention her father’s boat, for they had not touched it in months. The others, too, had left it alone.

Styr’s hard gaze fastened upon her. ‘There is no reason to starve if you know the ways of the sea.’

When she took the bowl away, she noticed that the side of his face was swollen red and would likely be bruised black and blue by morning. Seeing his wound bothered her, for it was her fault he’d been hurt.

Caragh went to fetch a linen cloth, soaking it in more cool water. Without asking his leave, she went and touched the sore spot, bathing it to prevent the swelling from growing worse.

He stared at her in disbelief. ‘Do you always strike your enemy and then tend his wounds?’ His eyes held suspicion, as if he weren’t accustomed to anyone taking care of him. It made her feel foolish, and she pulled the cloth away.

‘I’ve never taken a man prisoner before.’ Her cheeks burned, and she retreated, wishing she’d never dared to touch him. Everything about this man threatened her, from his fiercely handsome face, to his raw strength. It was like chaining a predator, and she needed to remember that he was not to be trusted.

‘How long before your brothers return?’ he asked.

She shrugged. ‘They’ve been gone a fortnight. I have no way of knowing when they’ll be back.’

‘And if they don’t return?’

Caragh shook her head, not wanting to imagine it. Inwardly, she tightened the invisible bands around her fear and frustration. Ronan and Terence had sworn to return, and she believed they would.

But it was Brendan who gave her the greatest cause to fear. Her younger brother hadn’t considered the consequences of his actions, and he might pay the price with his life.

Returning to the far side of the hut, she washed out the bowl and set it to dry. Her voice was quiet, but she admitted, ‘If they don’t return, I’ll let you go. It would be more merciful for you to kill me than to starve to death.’

He sat down, leaning back against the post. and though she was desperately tired, Caragh sat beside the fire. Absently, She picked up a comb and began to run it through the long dark strands, hoping to calm herself. She was aware of him watching her, but she tried to ignore his gaze.

‘Why did they leave you here?’ he asked. ‘Don’t your brothers believe in protecting their women?’

She pulled at the comb, not looking at him. Aye, she did feel uncertainty at her future and a sense of hurt that they’d gone off without her. But she wouldn’t reveal it to him. ‘I can care for myself.’

‘Can you?’ He eyed her, and beneath his gaze, she felt embarrassment at her thinness.

‘I haven’t given up hope. My brothers will return, and—’

‘—and you’ll starve in the meantime.’ His scorn irritated her, for he behaved as if she weren’t lifting a finger. ‘The women of my country would be out hunting for food, scouring the land instead of waiting at home.’ He gave a shrug, and his diffidence infuriated her. ‘But then, you’re Irish.’

How did he dare to mock her, when she’d given up her own share of food on his behalf?

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ she demanded.

He only sent her a sardonic look, as if she could guess which insult he’d implied. Aye, she might not be a sword-wielding warrior, but she wasn’t weak. Not by half.

She glared hard at his unsympathetic face, wondering how he dared to criticise her. ‘What would you have me do, were you in my place?’

‘Leave. Find a man to protect you and care for you if your brothers won’t take the responsibility.’

‘Sell myself, you mean.’ Though he might be right, she hated the thought of giving her body in exchange for survival. She’d rather die.

‘You wouldn’t have to sell yourself,’ he said. His dark eyes fastened upon hers, his voice deepening. ‘Most men are weak when it comes to women in need. And you’ve a fair enough face.’

Though his words were spoken with no innuendo, she felt herself blushing. It wasn’t at all true. The men in her tribe wanted a demure, modest woman who rarely talked. Not one who spoke her mind and questioned everything.

‘I’d rather survive using my wits,’ she admitted. She stepped backwards, adding, ‘And if I’m to find any more food for us in the morning, we should both get some sleep.’

‘If you set me free tonight, you won’t have to feed me at all,’ he pointed out.

She ignored the suggestion. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Because you’re too afraid?’

‘I captured you, didn’t I?’ she shot back. ‘I doubt if any of your women could say the same.’

‘Only because I was unconscious,’ he admitted. ‘In my homeland, many wanted to capture me, but only one other succeeded.’

His wife, he meant. Caragh crossed her arms and stared at him. ‘She must have the patience of a saint, then.’ Putting up with a man of such arrogance would be a true test of any woman.

‘She likes me well enough,’ was his answer. But she caught a sense of brooding in his tone. Almost a reluctance to speak of Elena.

‘I hope you find her,’ Caragh said quietly, ‘and that she’s unharmed when you do.’ It was the truth. She’d seen the agony on the woman’s face when Caragh had struck down her husband. She didn’t want to be the cause of any suffering between them.

Styr stood up again and stepped forwards, testing the length of his chains. ‘Oh, I will find her,’ he warned.

His brown eyes turned foreboding with a violent edge. ‘But I’m not going to wait around to be murdered by your brothers. One morning, you’ll awaken, and I’ll be gone.’

Chapter Three

The hours spent alone were gruelling. Not only was Styr’s stomach snarling from lack of food, but Caragh had been gone from sunrise until evening. It was as if she were seeking revenge for his earlier remark about the women of his country. This time, she had indeed left him alone all day. He’d used the time to study his chains, trying to determine how the manacles were fastened. It seemed they were attached with iron pins, ones that could only be removed with a hammer and an awl.

He’d tried to kick at the support beam to loosen it, but to no avail. His wrists were bloody after trying to squeeze his hands through the manacles, and again, it was no use.

Never in his life had he been any man’s captive, let alone a woman’s. Though Caragh might eventually free him, it wouldn’t be soon enough to suit him. Elena was at the mercy of those men, and although they’d had their marital troubles, she was still his wife. He was bound to protect her, and he couldn’t stop until he’d freed her.

The image of Elena’s face haunted him with the fear that she’d been dishonoured or hurt. A man protects his woman, his father had said, time and again. He is merciless to those who threaten her.

Styr turned to face the top of his post. There was a way to free himself, if he was willing to destroy Caragh’s dwelling. He studied the structure, at the way the beam supported the house. It was possible…

Where was Caragh now? Was she even planning to return? His mouth was parched with thirst, and the water in the bucket on the far side of the room seemed to taunt him.

The door swung open, and a younger man entered the hut. His mouth curved in a sneer. ‘So, this is Caragh’s new pet. I heard she captured a Lochlannach.’

Styr said nothing at all, pretending he didn’t understand a single word. Even so, he adjusted his stance, in case he needed to fight.

‘Why is she keeping you here? Does she need a man that badly?’ His enemy circled him, as if taking his measure. From his stance and the possessive tone, Styr suspected the man desired Caragh, but she’d spurned him.

‘She shouldn’t have kept you alive, Loch lannach.’ Rage coloured the man’s voice as he unsheathed a blade. ‘You killed our kinsmen.’

Styr never took his eyes off his enemy, for he had only one opportunity to save himself. He gathered up the chains until there was no slack and they were locked tight against the wooden beam.

The man raised his knife, the blade slashing downwards towards his heart. Styr gripped the post and swung his legs out, tripping the man. The edge of the blade caught his leg, but the cut was shallow.

He locked his legs around the man’s neck, squeezing until the man began to choke. A coldness settled within him, with the bitter resignation that he had no alternative—it was this man’s life or his own. Seconds ticked by and his enemy’s muscles grew limp.

A moment later, the door flew open. Caragh ran forwards. ‘No! Release him!’

Styr held on until the man lost consciousness. ‘Would you have rather he killed me?’ He struggled to his feet, ignoring the blood that ran down his leg.

She paled at the sight. Her gaze shifted to the other man, and her emotions held a trace of regret.

Taking the fallen knife, she hid it among her possessions, leaving both of them weaponless. When the man started to revive, Caragh helped him to his feet. Quietly, she ordered, ‘Leave my home, Kelan.’

The look in the man’s eyes was murderous. His voice was hoarse as he gritted out, ‘Why did you save him? He doesn’t deserve to live, Caragh.’

‘Go,’ she repeated. ‘He is my prisoner, not yours.’ Though she kept her voice calm, Styr sensed her unease with the man.

Kelan’s gaze swept over her, lingering over her body. ‘You’re not safe with him.’

She shielded her thoughts, her violet eyes growing cold. ‘It’s no longer your concern.’

A dark flush came over Kelan’s face. ‘He slaughtered our kin, or did you forget?’

‘Our brothers attacked them first,’ she reminded him.

‘You’re defending a murderer?’ The disbelief in his voice held venom. ‘He’s worth nothing at all, Caragh.’

She gave no reply but opened the door in a silent command to leave. Although the man obeyed, Styr knew it was only a matter of time before Kelan attacked again. And next time, he might not be able to save himself. His earlier resolve to free himself was now critical.

Caragh closed the door and lowered her head for a moment, not facing him. Her shoulders slumped, and he realised she was trying not to cry. The weight of the world seemed to bear down on her, and he saw her swipe her hands across her eyes before she turned to face him.

Her gaze drifted to his wounded leg. ‘He hurt you.’

Styr shrugged. ‘It’s nothing. Just a slight cut.’ But despite his insistence, she was already reaching for water and a cloth to tend it.

She was entirely too soft-hearted. Too trusting and naïve, especially with a man like him who knew nothing of forgiveness.

‘Who was he to you?’

Her mouth tightened, but she shrugged. ‘He’s a member of our clan, that’s all.’

‘No. He was more than that.’ Styr hadn’t missed the underlying tension between them.

Caragh let out a sigh. ‘He wanted to wed me once. But I refused him.’ Before he could voice another question, she met his gaze squarely. ‘And I don’t want to talk about it any more.’

As soon as she touched his thigh with the damp cloth, he reflexively jerked.

‘I’m sorry. I’ll try to be gentle,’ she assured him. But it wasn’t the touch of her hands against the knife wound. It was the sudden softness of female fingers, perilously close to his groin. Though he told himself that the sudden response would have happened to any man, he felt himself tightening with an unwanted arousal.

Styr gritted his teeth, pressing his temple against the post to evoke the harsh pain of his head wound. He needed something to distract himself from Caragh’s hands. He could imagine her palm sliding up his inner thigh, cupping his arousal. Elena had never done such a thing but usually lay beneath him while he’d joined with her.

Sometimes…he wished she would have touched him in return. To know that she desired his attentions instead of accepted them.

He let out a hiss of air as Caragh finished cleansing the wound. ‘It doesn’t need to be stitched,’ she agreed. ‘You were right.’

Thank God for that. She stepped away, but as she did, he spied the redness around her dark blue eyes and remembered that she’d been crying.

‘You were gone a long time,’ he said. ‘Did something happen to upset you?’

She shrugged. ‘I walked for miles, but there was still no food.’ Her eyes gleamed again and she admitted, ‘I was angry with myself. There was a rabbit, but my stone missed him. I couldn’t catch him while running because I lost my breath.’ Her features tightened with anger. ‘We’re going to run out of food tonight.’

The desperation in her voice affected him more than he wanted it to. He should ignore it for, once she was out of food, she’d have to free him.

But he heard himself saying, ‘You live by the sea. You won’t run out of food.’

‘Our nets have been empty for some time now.’

‘Go out further,’ he said. ‘The large fish are in the deeper waters.’

‘I can’t.’ She trembled a little, as if too afraid of the sea. There was danger in the deepest waves, true, but Styr revelled in the adventure of sailing. Harnessing the wind was like trying to steal the power of the gods. Even during the wild storm on the journey here, he’d welcomed the reckless force of the waves. It was freedom in its purest form.

‘You also need bait,’ he continued. ‘Go out to the beach with a torch. Look for crab along the shoreline. Search near the seaweed.’

‘I haven’t seen crab in weeks. There aren’t—’

‘Trust me,’ he insisted. ‘More of them come out at night. You’ll need them for the fishing lines.’

‘I shouldn’t leave you here alone. Kelan might return.’

He sent her a disbelieving look. ‘I can defend myself, Caragh. Or did you forget that I defeated him even while I was chained?’

She ignored him and let out a rough sigh. Opening her basket, she revealed a bunch of clover and changed the subject. ‘I’m afraid this is all I could find. I have enough grain for us tonight, but that’s all.’

‘So you’ll run out of food and starve to death, without a fight. You won’t even try.’ He stood up, hoping to provoke her anger. In her eyes, he could see the hopelessness, the physical weakness dragging her lower.

‘It’s not about trying.’ She dropped the basket and confronted him. ‘Do you think I haven’t scoured the shores, looking for food? Don’t you think all of us have tried?’

‘I think you’d rather wait on your brothers to save you than try to save yourself.’ He deliberately spurred her temper, knowing it would overcome the fear. Rage was the best weapon against the suffocating doubts.

‘Perhaps I should have let Kelan kill you,’ she muttered. ‘Then there’d be one less person to feed.’

‘You haven’t fed me today,’ he reminded her. ‘And from the look of it, you haven’t eaten, either.’

And at last, her fury got the best of her. Tears of frustration streamed down her face. ‘I haven’t eaten for nearly a fortnight, save a few greens and a soup that’s mostly water. I can’t remember the last time I had meat, and I’m so hungry, I can hardly walk anywhere without getting tired.’ She tore down the woollen cloth from where it covered the hole in the wall.

‘Then you had to come and destroy the only home I have.’ She wrapped the brat around her head and shoulders, holding on to herself as if she could hold back the emotions. ‘I don’t know what to do any more. It’s frustrating to have nothing to show for my efforts.’

He said nothing at first, for this woman wasn’t his responsibility. She’d taken him prisoner, and there was no reason to offer his advice.

But when he saw her shadowed face, he could think only of his wife. Was Elena hungry, as well? Was anyone watching over her? Or had they turned their backs on her?

If Caragh died, none of the others would free him. She was his only hope of escaping. And the only way to do that was to gain her trust.

‘Set me free, and I’ll help you get food,’ he said at last. ‘Then you can guide me to find my wife and kinsmen.’

She shook her head slowly, a rueful smile on her face. ‘You’d only abandon me here, as soon as I let you go.’

Of course she would believe that. But he wasn’t about to spend any longer, waiting until her brothers arrived. He would keep trying to free himself, no matter what he had to do.

Caragh took a branch from her supply of kindling and made it into a torch, lighting it in the fire. ‘I suppose I could try to look for crab for a little while. Wait here, and I’ll return within the hour.’

As if he had a choice.

He leaned back against the post, determined to do anything necessary to make his escape.

Styr tested the chains behind his back, lifting the manacles as far up as he could, to his shoulders. He leaned against them with his full body weight, stepping against the post. Though his wrists burned from the effort, he walked backwards up the post, lifting the chains with every step. After falling back down several times, he realised he had to keep the chains taut. Inch by inch, he guided himself up, gritting his teeth against the ache. It was the thought of freedom that pushed him past the edge of pain, while he twisted the chains and continued higher.

The support beam reached up to the ceiling. Slowly, he pulled himself up, until his shoulders touched the thatch. Sweat beaded against his forehead as he fought to keep his balance. If he could just lift his arms a little higher, he could raise the chains over the top of the post. It was attached to the roof, but the other beam was thinner, perhaps the width of his wrist.

Every muscle in his body cried out with agony, but he pushed past the pain. he would endure this for Elena’s sake.

His shoulder nearly dislocated when he shoved the chain over the top of the beam. He hung, suspended, from the smaller piece of wood, and his body weight strained against the beam.

Come on, he pleaded. Break.

He gulped for air, swinging against the wood while he feared it was his wrists that would break. In his mind, he pictured the face of Elena and her haunted sadness.

She needs you.

With a Herculean effort, at last the smaller beam cracked and he fell to the ground against his knees.

He couldn’t move, and for a long moment, he rested his cheek against the earthen floor. His wrists were slick with blood, and they throbbed with pain.

But he’d done it. He was free to move, free to leave this place. Though his hands were still bound in chains, no longer was he confined to Caragh’s hut.

Styr rose up to his knees, letting out a shuddering breath. It was better to wait until morning to go after Elena. This land was unknown to him, and he needed to plan his journey.

That meant gathering supplies and food—if there were any to be had. He sobered, for he’d travelled enough to know that he couldn’t go off blindly trying to track down Elena and Ragnar. Since they’d gone by boat, they could be anywhere along the coast.

He needed a ship of his own, to travel the same path. And he needed to break free of these chains.

Slowly, he stood, eager to escape the confines of this place. He struggled to open the door, but when he stepped outside, he breathed in the scent of freedom. All was quiet, the night cloaking the sky with darkened clouds. In the distance, he spied the flare of a single torch.

Caragh.

He gripped the chains to hold his silence as he tiptoed into the night. Soundlessly, he made his way towards the beach where he saw her staring intently at the sand. Alone, with no one to help her.

In her face, he saw the dogged determination to survive. It was breaking her down, but she kept searching. He’d known men who were quicker to give up than her.

She walked alongside the water, the torch casting shadows upon the sand. In the faint light, her face held a steady patience. Her skin was golden in the light, her brown hair falling over her shoulders in untamed waves.

She was far too gentle for her own good. What kind of a woman would capture a Norseman and then give up her own food? Why would she bother treating his wounds, when he’d threatened her?

And why was there no man to take care of her? No husband or lover…unless Kelan intended to offer his protection. From her coolness towards the man, she wouldn’t want him near.

Styr remained in the shadows, even knowing that he shouldn’t be here. He ought to be studying the perimeter of the ringfort, searching for hidden supplies or information about these people.

Instead, he couldn’t take his eyes off Caragh, as if she were the vision of Freya, sent to tempt him. Like the women of his homeland, she possessed an inner strength he admired. Though Fate had cast her a bitter lot, she’d faced the grimness of her future.

Taking him prisoner had been the action of a desperate woman, not a cruel one. He knew within his blood, that if he left her now, she would starve to death.

He shouldn’t care. Because of her, he’d been helpless to look after his wife and his men. He owed her nothing.

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away. Perhaps it was the way she’d tended his wounds…or the way she’d wanted to protect her brother. He understood loyalty to family.

He cursed her for weakening his resolve, but he couldn’t leave until she had enough food to survive a little longer. Turning his back, he returned to her shelter, his mind filling up with plans of how to gain a boat.

Once he’d found fish for Caragh, he’d have his own supplies, too. Then, he could go out in search of his wife.

Caragh sat upon a large stone, watching the sand for any sign of movement. Styr had claimed that she might find crabs at this time of night, but she doubted there would be anything.

His accusation stung, that she would rather wait on her brothers than try to save herself. Of course she’d tried to survive. she’d done everything she could to find food.

Every breath was a fight to live, and she’d grown accustomed to hunger. The emptiness inside her was a constant reminder of how capricious Fate could be. But the Lochlannach’s words had bruised her feelings.

The familiar dizziness blurred her vision, and she took slow, deep breaths to keep from fainting. In time, the ringing in her ears stopped, and she concentrated on the water once more.

A flicker of movement caught her eye, and she raised the torch. She was startled to realise that Styr’s prediction was right. There were crabs underwater at night. Quickly she reached for one and placed it in her basket. Though it was too tiny for meat, if she caught enough of them, they could make a good soup.

One by one, she saw more crabs and added them to her basket, feeling her spirits lift.

After another hour passed, she decided she’d caught enough. Though there were only a dozen, they would provide sustenance. She smiled with relief, covering the basket to protect her catch.

It was late, but she was so hungry, she hardly cared. Right now, she wanted to boil some of the crabs for food. Hurrying back, she opened the door and saw the Viking exactly where she’d left him. When he spied her, his eyes seemed to say: I told you so.

‘You were right,’ she admitted, revealing the crabs she’d caught. But she hardly cared what he thought. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling. ‘I’ll boil these and make a soup.’

The Lochlannach shook his head. ‘Don’t. You’ll catch fish if you bait lines with the crab tonight. Put them where the tide comes in and you’ll have bass or flounder in the morning.’ He gave her further instructions about the kind of fishing lines she needed and the hooks.

Caragh put up her hands, not listening. ‘No. We should eat now. I know you must be as hungry as I am.’

‘We’ll eat the grain tonight,’ he corrected. ‘Fish in the morning.’

‘If there are any fish.’

‘There will be,’ he promised. ‘I was right about the crabs, wasn’t I?’

She eyed her basket in dismay, wanting so badly to eat them. But they were no bigger than the palm of her hand…and the promise of large fish made her mouth water.

‘I’m afraid of losing the crabs,’ she confessed. ‘What if I bait the lines and get nothing for my trouble?’

‘It’s possible,’ he told her. ‘But I’ve spent my life living off the sea. I know how to catch fish.’

Caragh regarded him. If so, then it might be their salvation. She’d never been able to catch anything but small fish in the shallow water.

She pulled out some of the fishing lines belonging to her brother and Styr repeated his instructions, explaining how she should pierce the shell with the hook.

‘Set out the lines,’ he said. ‘And in the morning, you’ll see.’

He appeared confident that it would work, but Caragh wasn’t so certain. The sea was unpredictable, and more often than not, she’d caught nothing.

She placed the bait and the fishing lines in her basket, walking slowly past Styr. His demeanour was stoic, almost arrogant in his belief that she could not fail in this. But when he turned to look at her, there was a slight shift in his expression, almost as if he held empathy towards her.

His dark eyes held a steadiness, willing her to believe in this. A tightness seized up in her chest, for she desperately wanted to hope. Her gaze passed over his wounds. The cut upon his leg didn’t seem to be bleeding any more, but his head wound was still swollen.

‘Thank you for helping me,’ she said. ‘I pray that this will work.’

In the dim light of her house, she noticed a difference in his posture. There was something unusual about the way he was sitting.

Frowning, she started to approach, but he said, ‘Go and set the lines before your torch dies out.’

‘All right.’ She reached for her basket and the torch, adding, ‘If I do catch any fish, I promise I’ll free you in the morning.’

He sobered, giving a single nod. Though she didn’t know if it was safe to make such a vow, she was a woman of her word. And their lives depended on catching these fish.

Styr crept outside, shadowing Caragh. Immediately, he noticed that she was choosing the wrong location for her lines. No fish of any size would swim near the pools where she’d set the bait. He remained hidden, watching as she moved from one line to the other. In all, she set out a dozen, in various locations along the shallow waters. He waited until she was further away and then knelt down, using his shackled hands to pick up the first line, moving it out into deeper water.

Thor’s blood, he shouldn’t be interfering like this. But there was no choice. He needed supplies and food before he could go after Elena.

The tide was going out, and Styr crouched down, searching for a place where the line would lure larger fish. Though his hose grew soaked, he waded towards a sandbar. He gripped the baited line behind him, searching until he found the right place. Luck was with him, and his foot pressed against a stone, one large enough to hold the line. Kneeling down in the water, he manoeuvred his hands until he was able to secure the line with the stone.

When he turned back, he was startled to glimpse the outline of a boat, anchored near the shore. Caragh had said nothing about it, claiming that the fishermen had taken their boats with them. This one was set apart from the settlement, almost as if someone had tried to hide it.

But now, he had a means of leaving this place. A way of retracing the path of his wife and kinsmen. Thank the gods.

With a quick glance, he saw that Caragh was starting to return. Styr rose from the water and hurried towards the shore. He melted back into the shadows, running towards her hut. Though a close glance would reveal that he was no longer bound to the post, he hoped he could feign sleep. His clothing might dry by morning, though it was doubtful. He leaned against the post, curling his body to hide his chains.

Within minutes, the door creaked open. ‘Styr?’ Caragh whispered.

He didn’t answer, hoping she would go to sleep and leave him alone. The wind blew against his back, making his wet clothing more uncomfortable.

With his eyes shut tightly, he ignored the footsteps approaching, willing her to leave him alone. Before he realised what was happening, she had laid his cloak over him. The wool was warm from where she’d set it by the fire.

Her scent clung to the cloak, and it rendered him motionless. No one had ever done anything like this for him. He doubted if she’d even realised the significance. Kindness came to Caragh as naturally as breathing.

He closed his eyes, damning himself for a fool. There was no way he could leave her behind now, even if they did catch fish. It would haunt him for the rest of his life if she starved to death.

Whether or not she wanted it, he was going to take Caragh with him when he went in search of his wife.

Someone had to look after her.

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