A brave Viking...

Is her sworn enemy!

When Norman Lady Gisela strays into hostile Saxon territory, she doesn’t expect to be rescued by a mysterious Viking. She has no delusions handsome Ragnar Svendsen would be interested in her with her war wounds, but she must make a deal with him to rescue her brother from his Saxon captors. Their journey results in unexpected passion, but surely there can be no future for Gisela with her enemy?

MERIEL FULLER lives in a quiet corner of rural Devon with her husband and two children. Her early career was in advertising, with a bit of creative writing on the side. Now, with a family to look after, writing has become her passion… A keen interest in literature, the arts and history—particularly the early medieval period—makes writing historical novels a pleasure.

Also by Meriel Fuller

Conquest Bride

The Damsel’s Defiance

The Warrior’s Princess Bride

Captured by the Warrior

Her Battle-Scarred Knight

The Knight’s Fugitive Lady

Innocent’s Champion

Commanded by the French Duke

The Warrior’s Damsel in Distress

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Rescued by the Viking

Meriel Fuller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08873-2

RESCUED BY THE VIKING

© 2019 Meriel Fuller

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

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

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One
September 1069—north-east Lincolnshire

Sunshine quivered across the water. A skin of limpid light sealing in the deep blue-green depths, bright sparkles forcing Gisela to narrow her eyes as she paused in her work. Touching the brooch at her throat, making sure the long pin secured the wrap of linen around her head and neck, she stared bleakly across the water at the longships entering the mouth of the estuary. Her heart plummeted. Oh no, not them. Not the Danes.

Her hands released the bucket handles and she straightened up, rubbing her chafed hands, raw from rope burn. Blisters had formed on the undersides of her fingers: white, water-filled sacs that would soon start to hurt. The ships were coming closer, their round red shields, gold bosses gleaming, lining along the side of each vessel. The sails had been lowered, rolled up into great bundles of canvas and rope, and the men had taken to the oars to steer the narrow, lightweight crafts up the river. Strings of jewelled liquid trailed through the dusky air as the paddles lifted, then dipped again. A guttural chanting, rhythmic, echoed across the water. The sharp jabs of sound coupled oddly with the dainty twitterings of the wading birds who picked their way through the vast salt marshes that led down to the river, powerful current brown and churning. Like a burn of flesh, panic seared her veins and she chewed fretfully on her bottom lip, forcing herself to control her breathing. They would be all right, the three of them. She would make sure of it.

A cheer went up beside her. Then another. One by one the men and women who worked beside her spotted the ships, then put down their pails, the thick salty water slopping over the sides. Thrusting their fists into the air with jubilation, they turned to each other, smiling, clasping at hands and shoulders. Someone snared her sleeve. ‘We are saved!’ the woman cried, her bony fingers digging into Gisela’s forearm. ‘The Danes will help us! The Danes will send those Normans home with their tails between their legs!’

Gisela pinned a wide smile to her face, hoping to mirror the woman’s excitement. These people could not guess who she truly was! She had to be so careful. Look at their joyous reaction to the Danes’ arrival! They couldn’t wait to be rid of the Normans. What would they do if they knew one was standing in their midst, carrying the salt pails alongside them? They would surely kill her! Her head swam suddenly and she wriggled her toes in her rough leather boots, searching for stability.

The woman said something else to her, nudging her conspiratorially. Failing to understand the quick words, Gisela’s mind washed blank. Even now, even after being in England for all this time, her brain struggled to decipher the outlandish Saxon vowels. She spoke little, her voice clipped and low, hoping not to give away an accent, or any clue to her true identity. Her sister, Marie, was the same, comprehending little of what was said around her, but their father was more adept, having learned the barbaric language as a child.

‘Eh?’ the woman cackled, shoving her, jolting her sideways. Drying salt streaked the other woman’s lined forehead. ‘Don’t you agree, my girl? There’ll be some fun between the bed-sheets tonight, you mark my words!’

The woman referred to the Danes, of course. Their reputation for womanising was renowned, notorious, but not all of it was by mutual consent. She’d heard the tales of Saxon women being dragged to the longships by their braids, or flung across fur-covered shoulders, kicking and screaming all the way, to be taken back to the Norse countries, claimed as Viking brides. She shuddered. England was a heathen country, but the land where these Danes came from? That was infinitely worse.

‘Pick up those pails and move along!’ an older man, beard grey and straggling, bellowed at the workers. ‘And don’t think you’re finishing any time early! We’ll keep going as long as that sun is in the sky!’ His gaze alighted on Gisela, mouth tightening in disapproval. She could tell he thought there was something odd about his latest worker, this slim young woman who had asked him for work a couple of days ago. Gisela spoke quietly, keeping her head lowered, but every time she glanced at him, she knew her brilliant blue eyes held a challenging look. She hoped he wouldn’t consider that she might be a noble, someone of higher rank, and not just a poor peasant desperate for coin. She knew her slowness to respond when he talked to her and the way she fingered the scarf at her neck constantly, like a talisman, might give her away, but she couldn’t help herself. Ultimately, she was a hard worker and so felt confident he wasn’t about to turn her away.

‘Hey, you there!’ He jabbed his fist towards Gisela. ‘Go out on to the flats and help the children bring the brine in from the lower pans! They must be emptied before the tide comes in.’

Turning her head, she stared over the thick oozing mudflats that sloped gently down towards the narrow, fast-flowing channel in the middle of the river. Trepidation flickered in her belly. The tidal flow was sluggish now, almost on the turn, having drained out of the estuary and into the vast North Sea beyond, exposing the slick-topped expanses of mud. Studded with clumps of bristly sedge, the wet bluish-brown surface shone in the evening light. She watched the children head out to the water’s edge, to the rectangular pools filled with the precious salty brine. Why was he sending her out there? The children were half her weight, able to scamper across the wooden planks laid end to end across the mud without disappearing into the treacherous, stinking ooze.

‘But...surely I will sink...?’ Gisela’s voice faltered. A long wisp of pale sable hair had escaped the confines of her headscarf; dancing in the air. She shoved it impatiently back beneath the cloth.

The bearded Saxon narrowed his eyes. He was big and burly, clearly used to having his orders followed. ‘Are you refusing to go out there, girl?’ He folded his arms, wrinkling the supple leather of his jerkin. ‘Because you’ll receive no coin from me if you don’t!’

Some of the other workers slowed their movements, glancing over at Gisela. Colour rose in her cheeks. The last thing she wanted to do was draw attention to herself. ‘No, no, I’ll do it!’ she said, grabbing the rope handles of her buckets. Up until now this job had been physically hard, hefting the pails of brine to the sheds where it was boiled down to form the precious salt. The work was arduous, boring, but there had been no danger. But now? Now, in order to quash her rising fear at the thought of going out on the mudflats, she had to remember her real purpose for doing this job. To earn enough money to pay for the ferry across to the north. And to find Richard.

* * *

With a practised eye, Ragnar Svendson ran his gaze along the undulating shore of the river, searching for a safe spot where the boats could draw up. Jumping down from the prow, bracing his long legs against the gentle pitch and roll of the ship, he strode along the middle of the ship, through the men working the oars, towards his friend leaning against the gunwale.

‘What do you think?’ Eirik asked, glancing up as Ragnar joined him.

Ragnar turned his lean, tanned face to glance across the jumbled roofs of Bertune. ‘I think it will do for tonight,’ he replied. ‘The men are tired; they need to rest.’ He flexed his fingers over the smooth wood of the gunwale, rolling his shoulders forward. The journey had been easy and quick from Ribe, the North Sea mercifully flat for once, with light breezes speeding them across the waves to the north-east coast of England.

‘’Tis a pity that we cannot land on the north side, but the tide is too low.’ Eirik smiled. ‘Do you think this small town is ready for us?’

Ragnar stuck one hand through his hair; the vigorous strands fired to white-gold in the light of the setting sun. He laughed. ‘Who knows? We’ve come to help them after all; they should welcome us with open arms.’ He glanced back into the belly of the longship, at the coxswain beating time on a small drum to the forty men on the oars. Each man sat on a chest: wooden boxes that contained their scant possessions for the journey to England. And behind this ship, three more identical vessels followed them up the narrow channel.

‘We can cross on the morrow.’ Eirik smoothed his palm along the polished prow. The curved wood rose up into a figurehead: a dragon’s head with prominent eyes, a tongue of wooden fire. ‘My brother won’t arrive with his fleet for another day or two.’

‘And then you can march together to meet with Edgar Aethling in Jorvik. The city is directly north from here, across the water.’ Ragnar glanced at the far side of the vast, wide river where stiff, dull-yellow reeds bisected oozing, creaking domes of mud. Seabirds wheeled in the limpid sky above, mewling and squawking: lonesome, plaintive sounds cutting the air.

Eirik nodded. As the eldest son of Sweyn, the Danish king, he had been sent to help the deposed Anglo-Saxon king in his fight against the Norman invasion. ‘In that case, this place is perfect,’ he said, clapping a large hand on Ragnar’s shoulder, ‘and you and I and the rest of the men can have some fun! I’ve heard these Saxon maidens can be very comely!’

Ragnar shook his head: a swift, brutal movement. ‘Nay, Eirik, I’ve not come here for that.’ His eyes pinched to emerald slits; a muscle twitched in his jaw.

‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ Eirik’s face fell. ‘But you’ll be with us until tomorrow, will you not? It will soon be too dark to travel. Why not have some fun this night, while you can, eh?’ He pushed his knuckles against Ragnar’s jaw, a teasing punch. ‘Besides, what fair maiden could resist that clean-shaven face?’

‘The weather’s too hot for a beard,’ Ragnar said. ‘It’s much better this way.’

‘If you say so,’ replied Eirik, ‘but I swear your mother had something to do with it. Is she trying to turn you into a Norman?’

Ragnar grinned, his teeth white and even in his tanned face. ‘Thor’s hammer, Eirik, what do you take me for? Of course she’s not!’

‘If you say so.’ Eirik chuckled, raising his black eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Well, I still think you should take advantage of this town’s hospitality.’

‘I might.’ Ragnar threw his friend a non-committal smile, reluctance slicing through him. As the shallow-drafted longships approached the shoreline, he gazed across the jumble of thatched, earth-walled huts that made up the town of Bertune. Trickles of woodsmoke rose vertically, hazing the air; figures moved on the shoreline, people stopping and pointing as they watched the vessels approach. He had no idea how long his journey north would take. All he knew was that he had to find the man who had wrecked his sister’s life. Who had turned the happy, confident figure of his sister into a listless, silent wraith. She had not spoken a word since she had been carried off the ship at Ribe.

‘How will you find him anyway?’

Ragnar shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘All I know is that he’s a Norman lord, given lands to the north of Jorvik by the Conqueror. That’s all I have at the moment.’

‘How will you get close to him? These Normans guard themselves well, especially in this hostile part of the country.’

‘I have no idea, Eirik. But once I do, I will find out what happened to Gyda after she was abducted.’ Guilt jabbed through him. ‘We’ve tried everything else.’

He had been the one to encourage her in the first place, told her to travel to England with the man she loved. He narrowed his eyes. For helvede, he had even lifted her on board the ship! He remembered his sister’s delighted laugh as he swung her up and over the gunwale, up to the grinning boy who wished to marry her. Now her betrothed was a dead man and Gyda, when she eventually returned, had changed beyond all recognition.

Eirik peered at him, sensing his friend’s distraction. ‘Are you set on this idea, Ragnar? I hope you deal with him quickly, for I will miss you at my side if there’s any fighting to be done.’ He grinned, a wolfish glint in his eyes.

‘Eirik, if you’re involved, then there will be fighting.’ Ragnar laughed, shaking off the pall of remorse that cloaked his shoulders. Now was not the time for self-recrimination or brooding. That time was done. It was time for action. He owed it to his sister to track down the man who had wrenched her from her lover’s side. To find out what had happened to her.

‘It’s the only thing I live for,’ Eirik replied, turning down the corners of his mouth in mocking sadness.

‘As well as Bodil and the children,’ Ragnar added. ‘Don’t forget them.’ His firm lips quirked with humour. Although Eirik was a warrior, he was also a devoted husband and father who liked nothing better than cradling his latest son against his chest and crooning out the old Norse songs into the poor baby’s ear. Ragnar often stayed with Eirik as he and his family lived nearer to the port at Ribe and so he had witnessed his friend’s softer side on several occasions.

‘And Bodil and the children, too.’ Eirik agreed enthusiastically. ‘That goes without saying.’ He peered over into the water as the ship slowly altered its course towards the shore. ‘Ah, good, it’s not muddy here,’ he said. ‘I can see the bottom. We can haul the ships straight up and keep our boots clean.’

At his words, the wooden hulls scraped gently against the stones and sand; oars were drawn in through the holes cut into the wooden sides, secured for the night. Men leapt out, lithe and long-legged, bracing their cloaked shoulders against the prows, lifting the flaxen ropes to pull the boats further up the shore. Jewelled hilts, from short swords stuck in leather belts, shone out in the dying light as the men shouted, called out instructions to each other. And then the townsfolk ran down to help them, laughing and patting them on the back like old friends, happy that these tall, handsome Danish men had come to help them throw off the punishing yoke of the Norman infidels.

The narrow wooden planks wobbled beneath Gisela’s feet, tipping one way, then the other, brownish water bubbling up from the mud and washing over the flimsy boards, staining her leather boots. Stepping cautiously, she made her way out to the gaggle of children dipping their buckets. Sea birds wheeled about her head, spreading huge white wings, cackling and screeching; fear snaked through her diaphragm. A child squeezed alongside her with a full, slopping bucket, then another, almost pushing her off the plank in their haste to reach the boiling house on the shore.

These salt pans were more basic than the ones nearer the town: shallow pools dug out above the low-water mark, edges shored up with lumps of stone to stop the unstable mud sides caving in. She knelt down on the stone lip, swinging her bucket into the dense salty water, setting it beside her while she repeated the action with the other bucket.

The light was dimming fast now, the sun dipping below the horizon in a riot of pink and orange hues. The Danish longships pulling up to the shore turned to dark silhouettes, the masts a cluster of black poles against the shimmering sky. Although it was only September, the evening air was chill, heralding autumn; Gisela shivered in her thin gown. Her sleeves were wet, splashed with sea water, and she pushed the coarsely woven wool up to her elbows to stop them becoming even more soaked.

For their journey north, her father had insisted that both she and her sister Marie change their fine noble garments to more lowly outfits for travelling, so they would not attract attention. The servants in their castle on the south coast, their new English home given to her father for his loyalty to William the Conqueror, had been happy to supply both girls with serviceable gowns. An underdress of fawn undyed wool, an overdress of darker brown, crudely patched at the hem. The only things Gisela retained from her previous life were her fine woollen stockings, her leather boots and her mother’s silver brooch that held her scarf in place.

‘Come on, mistress!’ a little girl called to her from the end of the plank. ‘The tide is coming in! We must go back now!’ Looking around, Gisela realised that all the children had gone and were walking back to the shore. She glanced at the river; the brown water slopped and churned, the foaming tide beginning to fill the deep crevasses that scored the mudflats. The blood in her toes prickled; she had been kneeling for too long. Scrambling to her feet, pausing a moment to gain her balance on the rickety wooden plank, she reached down to heave up the buckets. Her arms ached, as if they had been stretched to twice their length already.

Not far ahead, some of children had stopped, their gaunt, undernourished frames clustering around each other. She heard a wail, then another, and increased her pace towards them, carrying the heavy pails. A child, the small girl who had called out to her, had fallen into the mud, and was now up to her knees in the thick, gelatinous ooze.

‘How did she get there?’ Gisela asked sternly, looking down at the wan, grime-streaked faces.

The children appeared puzzled for a moment, as if they hadn’t quite understood her. She was used to this, for as much as she tried to disguise her foreign accent, sometimes the Saxon vowels evaded her. She repeated her question, more slowly this time, and a boy eventually spoke. ‘It was him, mistress.’ He poked another boy in the arm. ‘He pushed her in, she was teasing him, you see...’

‘I understand...’ Gisela said sharply, seeing the girl’s face whiten with fear as she struggled in the mud, slapping down futilely with her palms. Placing her buckets carefully on the board, Gisela took two long strides out from the plank on to the mudflat, intending to pull the child out.

‘Oh, mistress, no...!’ the boy shouted out in warning, as her feet encountered the mud. She sank, promptly, her feet disappearing, swiftly followed by her calves and knees, her body lurching forward in shock. ‘Oh, God...no!’ Gisela cried out in horror as she realised her mistake. The hem of her gown rose up around her and the thick cold mud hugged her knees, her thighs.

‘Oh, mistress, you shouldn’t have done that!’ another child said. ‘That mud is dangerous, it’ll suck you down. That’s why we use the planks. To stop us disappearing...’

Gisela let out a long, shaky breath. In her effort to reach the girl, she had forgotten. Sweat gathered beneath her linen scarf, along her neckline. She longed to rip it off and feel the cool air against her skin. Do not panic, she told herself sternly, fear bubbling treacherously in her belly. Do not. Beside her the little girl wept openly, her pinched face marred by tears and grime.

‘I will get you out of here,’ Gisela said confidently. Putting her hands beneath the child’s bony arms, she pulled and lifted, ignoring the fact that she sunk lower in the process, until she heard a satisfying sucking noise. The mud released its grip on the child’s legs; Gisela fell sideways, the child in her arms. Relief coursed through her.

‘Crawl flat on your belly over to the plank,’ she told the girl.

The child frowned at her, her sweet face doubtful. ‘But what about you, mistress?’

‘Tell someone to come for me, when you reach the shore,’ Gisela told her. ‘Find someone to help me!’ she called to the rest of the children, watching the girl slither across the mud to join them. They nodded in unison, pointing at her, then nodded again, the bedraggled group chattering in subdued voices as they made their way back along the planks.

As the wind whipped away their high-pitched voices, a gust of vulnerability, insidious and threatening, enveloped her. In this windswept barren landscape, she was completely alone, up to her thighs in mud, unable to move. Her buckets of brine sat on the wooden plank, mocking her. How long would it take for the children to send someone out? Would they even come? The salt-pan master had no care for her, he knew there was something peculiar about her, despite her rattling out the same story that her and her father and sister had all told on this journey. They were Anglo-Saxons heading north to live with relatives as the Normans had dispossessed them of all they had owned in the south. Maybe her mangled use of the English language had finally given her away.

She tried to bend forward, lying down flat on the mud, scrabbling with her hands to try to reach a clump of reeds, to try to pull herself out. The mud seeped through her gown, cold and wet against her stomach and breasts. She tugged on the grass, slowly, gradually, hoping for the smallest movement around her feet and legs, a sign that the mud was giving up its hold on her. Nothing.

To her right, the river slopped and gurgled, an ominous sound; the water spilled over the lower walls of the salt pans, starting to fill the shallow ponds. The tide was coming in quickly now. With a sickening dread, Gisela eyed the water gushing towards her. Sinking in the mud was not her only worry. Now, drowning seemed like a more likely option. Screwing her eyes up, she sought and found the figures on the shore, pale ghosts in the twilight. The children had surely reached the adults by now and were telling them to come and fetch her. Aye, that was it. As she straightened up, the thought comforted her and she kept her eyes pinned on the bleached lines of the planks, heading back to shore, squinting in the half-light for any sign of help, watching for someone, anyone, to come out to rescue her.

But then, to her utter dismay, the cluster of people by the boiling houses walked away. Not one face turned towards her! Nay, they were heading towards the Danes, newly arrived on the shore. Arms raised in welcome towards the visitors, the shouts and calls of greeting echoed out across the mudflats. Distracted by the Danes’ arrival, they had forgotten, or had not even been told about her, stuck yards out from shore in the mud. No one was coming. Panic swirled in her chest, a great flood of terror that she would die out here, her breath choked off by the incoming tide, until the air in her lungs expelled in a scream of sheer desperation. She screamed and screamed, her voice shrill and clear, waving her arms violently towards the shore, for her life depended upon it.

Chapter Two

As the Danes jumped from the longships, calf-length leather boots splashing through the shallows, the Saxon townspeople crowded on to the strip of shingle, slapping the tall seafaring warriors on the back, shaking their hands. Smiling widely, the men accepted flagons of mead from the dark-eyed Saxon maidens, hefted steaming meat pies from passing wooden trays, eating with real appreciation. Ragnar ran an eye along the bows of the longships, making sure all vessels were drawn up high enough against the incoming tide. The six boats had carried more than two hundred men across the North Sea; Harald’s larger fleet would bring double that number in the next few days, swelling their ranks to a sizeable army to help the Saxons throw off the Norman yoke.

‘Torvald has found us an inn for the night.’ Eirik walked over to him, handing back his empty tankard to one of the Saxon maids. ‘The men can sleep in the ships, but I, for one, wouldn’t mind a comfortable mattress, as I’m sure you would.’

‘Age getting the better of you, Eirik?’ Ragnar grinned.

Eirik laughed. ‘Perhaps. I have the choice so I may as well be comfortable.’ His gaze fell on a nearby Saxon maid, her face blushing with attention as she moved deftly around the crowd with a tray of ale tankards. ‘This town is as good as any for us to spend the night.’ His mouth twisted with a rueful grin as he pushed strands of dark hair from his eyes.

‘Too bad you’re married,’ Ragnar said. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards.

‘Aye,’ Eirik said wistfully. ‘But you’re not. Sure you won’t take what’s on offer?’ He jabbed Ragnar in the ribs.

His short hair, thick golden strands, riffled in the sharpening breeze. ‘No, Eirik.’ Guilt crashed over him, black, coruscating. A flock of geese flew low over the mudflats, necks stretched out, honking wildly, and he followed their path in silence, his body gripped with regret.

‘It’s a shame.’ Eirik folded huge leather-bound arms across his chest. He looked out across the water.

It’s only what I deserve, thought Ragnar, after what had happened to Gyda. His younger sister was worsening by the day, a thin pale effigy of the maid she once had been, shrinking before his eyes, before his parents’ eyes. Her silent presence haunted his days, as she brushed past him like a ghost, or perched, mute, at the end of the table. She hadn’t spoken a word since she’d been brought back from this godforsaken land.

‘What I could never understand, though,’ Eirik continued, ‘was why Gyda decided to travel to England with Magnus in the first place? On a raiding mission, of all things.’

Because I told her to do it, thought Ragnar. By Thor, I encouraged her! I could see how much in love with Magnus she was and could see how against that love our parents were. I told her to go, that I would explain everything to our parents: Gyda and Magnus would marry in England and return to Denmark as husband and wife. All would be well. But then, suddenly, it wasn’t.

Raised voices nearby yanked Ragnar’s attention from his memories. He was thankful. He had no wish to dwell on his sister’s plight any longer than was necessary. His eyes traced the shadows, hunting out the sound of an argument. Beneath the overhanging thatch of a building, a woman tugged at a man’s tunic sleeve, a large bulky man, his flabby red-flushed face slack from alcohol. She was pointing desperately, gesticulating with her fist out to the mudflats, her voice a shrill cackle, pitched with urgency. Not many people were around now; the crowd by the longships had drifted away, eager to show their Danish visitors the delights of the town, funnelling eagerly up the narrow streets that led from the shore. Only Eirik and Ragnar and a few of their men remained on the shingle.

Lifting one meaty fist, the man clouted the woman around the ear, shoving her backwards. ‘You have no right to speak to me like this. Get away! I told you, I’ll fetch her when the tide comes in.’

Hunching over, her hand cupping her throbbing ear, the woman replied sullenly, ‘The tide is coming in, you senseless oaf! The maid’s up to her knees in it already. You need to do something, otherwise she’ll drown.’

Staggering back against the uneven cob wall of the building, the man lifted his tankard and took a huge gulp. The ale trickled down his chin. ‘Let the girl drown, then! What do I care?’

‘She rescued little May, did the children not tell you? That’s why she’s in the mud. She stepped off the planks to save her.’

Anger flaring in his gullet, Ragnar covered the shingle in three long-legged strides. To see a man hit a woman like that filled his mouth with sour distaste. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked the woman, touching her elbow with concern. Clutching her ear, she stared up at Ragnar in astonishment, then nodded slowly.

As Eirik came up beside him, the drunk man raised his head, regarding the tall Danes with a churlish, guarded look. ‘’Tis our business.’ He cleared his throat noisily. ‘Go into town with the rest of your men.’

Sensing an ally, the woman lifted her eyes to Ragnar, plucking nervously at his tunic sleeve. ‘The maid is stuck in the mud!’ Her cheeks were pinched, crusted with salt. ‘And the tide is coming in so fast, she will surely drown!’ Guided by her pointing finger, Ragnar scanned the bluish-brown marshes, the clumps of stiff grass, his gaze snagged by the deep grooves cut into the thick brown ooze. The setting sun flashed against something, a brooch, or a ring, he knew not what, and his eyes honed in on that spot. And then he saw. The silhouette of a figure calling plaintively through the twilight. The foaming edge of tide swilled around her knees, floating out the hem of her dress. The woman was correct: time was not on her side.

‘Fetch a long rope from one of the ships,’ he ordered one of their men who had followed Eirik and him across the beach.

‘You’re not going out for her, are you?’ Eirik frowned. ‘Let these people rescue their own, I say. We should not involve ourselves in the business of the town.’

‘Then what in Odin’s name are we doing here?’ Ragnar lifted brindled eyebrows, burnished arcs of copper below his flaxen hair. ‘We’re supposed to be helping them throw off the Norman yoke, yet we can’t rescue a Saxon maid from the mud? She is going to die out there, unless we do something. Do you want that on your conscience?’

‘Nay, of course not.’ Eirik grimaced, his expression rueful, as if ashamed of the way his thoughts had run. Despite his superior rank to Ragnar, they were friends first and foremost, having grown up together on neighbouring estates in Ribe.

‘Besides, you’re not going out there.’ A muscle quirked beneath Ragnar’s high cheekbone and he smiled. ‘The King of Denmark’s son, wading through the mudflats? Your father would never let me hear the end of it.’

‘Then go with Thor’s blessing,’ Eirik replied, as their man returned with the unwieldy coil of rope slung around his neck and torso. ‘Let’s hope she’s alive by the time you reach her.’

* * *

Gisela’s throat was dry, scraped raw by her continued shouting. Exhaustion made her head swim, her thoughts dancing about with chaotic abandon. Crossing her arms over her chest, hugging herself, she wished for the hundredth time that she had worn her cloak that day and not just her thin gowns and chemise. She was cold, shivering uncontrollably now, the icy mud gripping her legs and thighs like an iron fist. Treacherous sea water swirled around her, embracing the tops of her legs, curling lovingly around her freezing limbs. As the tide lapped higher and higher, a panicked fear took hold, silencing her screams. For what was the point of calling out? No one was coming for her now. The shore was visible in the limpid twilight, snagged by lingering sunlight, but it was empty, deserted. Everyone had gone.

Unable to settle on one spot for any length of time, her vision scurried across the silvery mud. Twinkles of light shimmered out from the huddle of cottages that formed the town. A weakness suffused her muscles, draining the last of her strength; her stomach was empty save for the small bowl of gruel she had eaten with her father and sister that morning. Her brain jumped and twitched with hunger and fatigue; the temptation to lower herself into the swirling brown water, to sink her hips into it, threatened to overwhelm her.

How would her father cope without her? Her sister? Poor Marie, she had been through so much already. Her beauty had been the bane of her life, her angelic looks catching men’s interested gazes wherever they went. Tears welled in Gisela’s chest, spilling hotly down her cheeks, blurring her sight. She would no longer be there to protect her. Pressing trembling palms to her face, she wept at the sheer hopelessness of her situation, the sea water creeping to her waist, soaking the coarse fabric of her gown. She had never been prone to self-pity, but at this moment in time, as the tears dripped down through her fingers, she truly believed that she was going to die.

The slim outline of the maid’s wavering figure became gradually more distinct as Ragnar strode along the narrow wooden planks, the rope tied around his waist for safety playing out behind him, back to his men on the shore. Shiny tussocks of grass perched on top of the carved mudflats; seabirds wheeled around his head, flapping and croaking at his presence as he passed by. Halfway across the mudflats, the incoming tide lapped his calf-length boots, frothing around his ankles. He cursed. The leather would take an age to dry out.

Jerking his head up, he suddenly realised the maid’s screaming had ceased. Had she even seen him? For if she saw him, it would give her hope. But the girl stood with her hands over her face, the brown churning current of the river at her back. A coarse linen scarf wrapped tightly around her neck and head, secured with a fearsome-looking silver brooch, the silver that had flashed in the dying sun, attracting his attention before.

‘Hey!’ he called out in Saxon. ‘Hey! You there, I’m coming for you!’ He was expecting her hands to fall away from her face, for her to look up and see him. But she remained as she was, face covered with her hands, as if she hadn’t heard him. Which, of course, she might not have, given the noise that the seabirds were making. The maid’s garments were shabby, ripped in places, loose threads dancing in the shimmering light. Layer upon layer of earth-coloured cloth enveloped her, garments that every low-born Saxon seemed to wear.

Ragnar sighed. Any one of their men could have come out for her. But he knew what had driven him out here: the same thing that made him ride headlong into battle, always at the front of the pack, swinging his axe with violent dexterity around his head; the cursed restlessness of his soul, the tortured guilt over what had happened to his sister. His mind and body never settled, beset with a constant, driving energy.

When he finally reached her, the water was up to his knees. Still she did not look up. Had she not heard him approach? Legs braced apart, Ragnar stood on the plank, the maid a couple of feet away, her gown floating around her, swirling in the vicious tide. ‘Give me your hand!’ he shouted at her.

* * *

The voice stabbed in her chest. A harsh, guttural order, in Saxon, which she struggled to understand. Her hands dropped from her cheeks, midnight-blue eyes rounding in shock. A huge man stood in front of her, his hand stretched out across the churning water. The dying sunlight caught the ends of his hair, firing them to a molten bronze. A golden halo, springing out around his head. Like an angel, she thought stupidly, her mind befuddled. Had an angel come to rescue her? The heady scent of leather and woodsmoke rose from him, mingling with the strong salt-laden smell of the sea. Was he an illusion, a figment of her exhausted brain dreamt up by her desperate plight?

Gisela frowned as she peered more closely. Nay, not an angel. The man towered over her, spreading his long legs wide against the surging rush of tide. Clad in a sleeveless leather tunic, criss-crossed with leather straps, fearsomely riveted, he looked more like a barbarian, scowling darkly at her failure to move, or to even stretch her hand out towards him. Secured by an ornately wrought brooch, a length of woollen cloth wrapped around his broad shoulders served as a cloak; woollen braies encased his powerful legs. Honed thigh muscles flexed beneath the cloth. The sun’s low angle threw his face into relief, like a carved statue, the craggy angles of his square jaw and the shadowed hollow of his cheeks beneath sharply delineated cheekbones.

Her heart plummeted foolishly. She was not often given to fanciful notions, but her imagination, dulled with fatigue, had certainly excelled on this occasion. Her fear of drowning, of near death, had forced her mind to evoke this image of perfect masculinity. She folded her arms, mouth set in a mutinous line, challenging the vision to disappear. An apparition dreamed up by her mad, unfocused brain through fear and lack of food. The man did not exist. If she stared at him long enough, he would surely vanish. Gisela tipped her head to one side, waiting.

‘What is wrong with you?’ the man roared again in Saxon, his generous mouth twisting in frustration. ‘Do you understand me? Give me your hand!’ The water caressed the hemline of his woollen shirt, hanging beneath his shorter tunic. Frowning, she struggled to work out his identity; he wore no surcoat to denote his coat of arms like any Saxon or a Norman knight. With that mass of golden hair around his head, he appeared before her like a Norse god of old. Laughter bubbled up in her chest. What would her confused mind come up with next?

Something gripped her shoulder, shaking her violently. Then a hand pushed against her cheek, fingers calloused and warm, one thumb digging into her chin. She reared back at the contact, but the fingers held tight, pulling her forward. Bright green eyes loomed into the centre of her vision.

‘Look at me,’ the man said, his harsh voice clipping the Saxon vowels. ‘You have to help me, otherwise you are going to drown. Do you realise that? Put your arms around my neck and I will pull you out of here.’ As he reached over, his hands dug intimately beneath her armpits, gripping her flesh through the layers of clothing. Gisela flinched, a jolt of heat racing through her; his thumbs brushing against her breasts.

But this isn’t happening, she told herself dully, as a small squeak of protest fell from her lips at his cursory manhandling. Bending double, the man reached out from his place of security on the plank, the white wood palely visible beneath the water, and pulled and pulled, dragging her slowly, inexorably, from the mud. ‘Put your arms around my neck!’ he demanded again, growling against her ear. Stung to compliance by the harsh command, Gisela lifted her slim arms, linking her fingers at the back of his neck. His skin was warm; the fronds of his hair tickled her hand. She frowned, her muddled mind trying desperately to make sense of the situation. Was he truly pulling her out of this godforsaken mud?

Air sucked around her frozen limbs as the mud released its cruel snare upon her legs. Her feet, caked in heavy mud, dangled uselessly as arms of thick-roped muscle lifted her, shoving her slender frame against a hard, masculine body, chest to chest. The man thrust one arm beneath her hips, swinging her legs up high. Her soaked gown clung to her thighs, to the soft flare of her hips.

Warmth surged through her, a delicious puddle of sensation that broke through her vague, dream-like state of semi-consciousness. His nearness was brutal, a curt slap on the jaw, buffeting her sensitive core, wrenching her body to a state of full, throbbing alertness. Breath squeezed in her lungs; it was as if his cursory touch ripped the clothes from her body and exposed her nakedness for all to see. She felt stripped bare, vulnerable, her breasts bouncing treacherously against his solid chest, her arms flailing away from his neck, not wanting to hold on to him for support.

‘Put your arms back around my neck, or we shall both be in the water!’ He began to carry her back to shore, jolting her light weight deliberately so that she was forced to hold on to his neck, his shoulders. Twisting her face up to the rigid features that loomed above her in the semi-darkness, she released one hand to brush her fingers across his jaw, a fleeting butterfly touch, in wonderment.

‘Êtes-vous vrai?’ she asked in French, using her mother tongue without thinking. Are you real?

* * *

Ragnar’s step faltered in surprise; he almost lost his footing on the plank. The maid’s speech was soft, musical; her lilting French accent tunnelling into him. It was not often he heard the language out loud, but he understood it, for his mother had spoken in her native tongue to him from birth, but only when they were alone, for his father did not approve. His father hated any reminder of how he had abducted his wife from France, all those years ago, despite their happy marriage now. Ragnar peered down into the pale glimmer of the maid’s face. What, in Thor’s name, was she doing here?

‘Je suis,’ he replied, confirming her question.

‘Dieu merci,’ she gasped out in relief. Thank God. Her light-boned frame sagged against him, ropes of unconsciousness binding her into oblivion.

Chapter Three

‘Who is she?’ Eirik demanded as Ragnar laid the maid down carefully. Her face was grey, pallid. She was so still. Kneeling beside her, his big knees grinding into the shingle, he seized her wrist, pushing up the fraying cuff, searching for a pulse. Against his fingers her blood bumped reassuringly; relief flooded over him. He rose to his feet, his eyes assessing her calmly. Her over-gown was loose, a plaited belt gathering the shabby, patched material at her waist. Dark brown in colour, stained with white streaks of drying salt, clagged with mud at the hem. No decoration around the plain circular neck, the centre slit opening. Her garments denoted her status: a peasant, living hand to mouth on whatever coin she could earn. Foolish of him to be so concerned; the maid was quite clearly a nobody, nothing to him certainly. And yet her plight plucked at his soul. She seemed so alone, and vulnerable, with no one rushing to protect or claim her.

‘I’ve no idea.’ Reaching down, Ragnar yanked the rucked hem of her longer underdress over her shapely shins, woefully caked in layers of grey, cracking mud. He was not about to reveal the traitorous words the maid had spoken to him out on the marsh; he would keep that knowledge to himself until he found out her reasons for being in Bertune. Why here, of all places? In a part of the country where Normans were truly hated. A place where the Saxons had begged the Danes for their help in overthrowing them. But this solitary maid, whey-faced and slender? Whoever she was, she was no threat to him, or to anyone else. Had she any idea of the danger she was in?

The woman who had originally alerted them to the maid’s plight lurked by the cottage wall that backed on to the beach. Ragnar turned to her. ‘Who is she?’

‘She works out at the salt pans with us,’ the woman replied, a wary look half-closing her red-streaked eyes. ‘And a hard worker she is, too. But she’s only been with us a day or so. Needs coin for the ferry, I think. Doesn’t talk much.’

‘Where does she live, then?’ Eirik said, his tone faintly peevish. ‘We can’t leave her lying here.’

‘Eirik, why not go and join the rest of the men in the town?’ Ragnar suggested, hearing the growing frustration in his friend’s voice. ‘I’ll deal with this.’

‘Are you sure?’ Eirik’s boots crunched heavily across the shingle as he came towards Ragnar. ‘I could do with a drink.’ He touched his leather-bound toe to the maid’s right flank, lifting her body in a desultory manner, a sneering twist to his mouth. ‘Surprising that such a little thing should cause so much trouble, don’t you think?’ he said disparagingly, removing his foot so abruptly that the slim body rolled back on to the beach. The maid’s arm fell out to one side; her palm, delicate pink lines creasing the soft underside, scraped against the jagged stones. Ragnar’s fists curled tight; he resisted the urge to shove his friend away. Hell’s teeth, treat the woman like a human being, he thought, not an animal!

‘Go.’ Ragnar pinned a wide grin on his face that he hoped was convincing. He pushed at Eirik’s shoulder, a friendly gesture. ‘I can take her home.’

‘After one look at you, she’ll run anyway.’ Eirik laughed, starting to walk up the beach. ‘You’re enough to scare the hell out of any woman. Don’t waste too much time on her. I expect to see you in the inn before full dark!’ He lifted his arm in farewell, the strengthening breeze ruffling his dark hair. Then he disappeared down an alleyway between the gable ends of two cottages, the shadowed twilight swallowing up his tall figure.

The maid was shivering now; a blue caste tinged her face. Unpinning his cloak, Ragnar dropped to his knees, the shingle poking through his braies into his muscled shins. His sword hilt jabbed upwards as the tip of the leather scabbard hit the beach; he shoved it to one side so that the weapon rested against his hip. He frowned, drawing thick coppery brows together. Was Eirik right? Despite Ragnar’s vicious reputation on the battlefield, his skill with an axe and sword, he had no wish to scare any woman, let alone this delicate effigy lying on the stones. She lay so still, like one of those statues in the new church in Ribe, her cheek as smooth as marble, unblemished. Hulking over her slight figure, he felt like a cumbersome idiot, awkward and unwieldy, his body too big to tend to a woman so slight. He spread his cloak over her chest, then, sliding his hands beneath her, he raised her carefully so he could tuck the woollen cloth around her back.

The fragile knobs of her spine pushed against his fingers. As he laid her back down, the faintest smell of roses lifted from her skin; his solar plexus gripped, then released with the sensual onslaught. His senses jolted, quickening suddenly. When was the last time he had been this close to a woman? Close enough to smell her perfume? He couldn’t remember. His sister’s desperate situation had consumed his days and haunted his nights. Any desire had been crippled by guilt, his couplings with women rare, and, if they occurred, tended to be swift, joyless affairs in which he took little pleasure.

Impatient with his memories, Ragnar swept his gaze around the beach. He needed to rid himself of this girl and concentrate on finding the man who had bullied his sister into a ghostly shadow of her former self. But now the shingle was deserted, save for a lonesome gull, orange-beaked, stalking along the foaming edge of the incoming tide. Strange that no one wanted to help her. But then, these were troubled times—trust had to be earned. He wondered whether the townspeople had sensed the maid’s difference, her foreign ways, without actually putting a name to them.

A slight moan made Ragnar look down. A whimper of returning sensibility. The girl’s long eyelashes fluttered rapidly against her pallid cheeks, mouth parting fractionally. Her lips were full, plump, stained a luscious rose-pink. Inexplicably, he yearned to see the colour of her hair, fingers itching to pluck at the constricting headscarf, unfasten the silver brooch and cast the voluminous length of material aside. Sweat prickled on his palms; he rubbed his hands down his braies.

Her eyes sprung open. Huge pools of deep blue dominated her face, sparkling like sapphires. The inky depths of the ocean on a bright summer’s day. In the fading light, he drank in the magnificent colour, devoured it, nerves spiralling round and round in increasing excitement, pushing his heart to a faster beat. What was happening? Inconceivable that such a dull little maid should have such an effect on him, bundled up as she was like a nun in her drab, mud-stained garments, every inch of skin hidden from view apart from the white terrified circle of her face.

Wait. Nay, not terrified. Ragnar read the flare of anger in her eyes, the lips compressed in tight rebellion. The mutinous clenching of her fists by her side. ‘I’m here to help you,’ he said in English, trying to keep his voice gentle. He reached out to touch her shoulder.

‘Get your hands off me!’ the maid squawked at him. Knocking his arm sideways, she struggled to sit up. His cloak fell forward, pillowing in her lap as she brought herself upright. She threw his garment irritably to one side, digging her palms and heels into the shingle, rocking her hips, struggling to shift her body backwards, away from him.

‘Easy, maid,’ Ragnar said, sitting back on his heels. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ Despite her efforts, she hadn’t managed to move very far.

‘I know that, you blundering lump!’ The maid stopped, seemingly frustrated by her lack of movement. She touched a finger to the brooch at her neck, as if reassuring herself that the silver pin remained in place. ‘Why would you bother to pull me out of the mud, if you were going to kill me?’

Ragnar bit his lip to stop himself laughing out loud. Where on earth had she learned her English? From an army camp? Her cursing was on a level with any common knave. He grinned, rapidly adjusting his original opinion of her. Out there on the mudflats, she had been a forlorn, helpless figure, her diminutive frame and finely honed, angelic face denoting a benign, docile character. How wrong he had been. She was worse than feisty, a regular termagant. He folded his arms across his wide chest, almost as if he prepared to do battle with her. Curiously, he relished the thought.

* * *

What, in heaven’s name, was he smiling at? The man hulked over her, great shoulders blocking out the darkening sky, his green gaze intense, flaring over her with bold scrutiny. Her eyes ran rapidly across his leather-strapped torso, his calf-length boots stained with salt water. Was he a Saxon? Or worse...one of the men from the longships. A Viking? Despite her truculent bravado, anxiety gripped Gisela’s chest; she knew she had to stand up and walk away, but at the moment, the task seemed impossible. A horrible weakness engulfed her, sapping the strength in her legs, numbing her arms and hands.

‘Who are you?’ Her blunt question, hard-edged, accused him.

He tilted his head to one side. ‘I’m a Dane,’ he replied. ‘We have just landed here, on the shore.’

Oh Lord, he was a Viking, after all! They were even worse than the Saxons with their bloodthirsty reputation for merciless fighting, laying waste to whole villages without a hint of remorse. ‘But you...you can’t be.’ A wary light entered Gisela’s eyes. ‘You...you’re speaking English!’

He laughed. ‘English is very close to our Norse language. It’s easy for us to change from one to the other.’

Her thoughts tumbled, fuzzy and confused. What was happening to her? She felt caught, trapped in some nightmare for which she couldn’t find a way out, despite the way her mind twisted and turned. She had no memory of how she had arrived back at the beach. ‘Did you carry me?’ Her tone was brittle, sharp.

He lifted one shoulder, then let it drop, unconcerned. ‘Yes. You fainted. I’m not surprised. You probably thought you were going to die out there.’

Gisela stared rigidly at the shingle, the slick of green algae across white stone, remembering the slosh of water around her thighs. Her throat was raw from shouting. Yes, she had truly thought she would die. But why had he come out to rescue her, this man, this stranger, of all people? Beneath the intense scrutiny of his emerald-green eyes, she shuffled her hips uncomfortably, glowering at his hands, loose fists curled against his brawny thighs. Hands that had moved over her insensible body, hoisting her high. How could she not remember his touch? Her cheeks flushed suddenly, a livid stain dusting her high cheekbones. Lord, he could have done anything! She would have been at his mercy, him, a Dane! Her eyes flashed blue fire. She crossed her arms over her bosom, jutting her chin forward. ‘What did you do to me?’

Ragnar drew his dark-blond brows together in a deep frown. What on earth was the woman talking about? Her expression was stony, openly challenging him, as she waited for his answer. What was she expecting him to say? His eyes traced the curving top line of her lip, the fierce, determined set of her mouth. Tipping his head to one side, he recalled the soft weight against his chest, the sensual roll of her breast as she folded against him.

‘Er... I carried you from the mud to the beach. That’s it.’ His speech was a low burr, rumbling up from his ribcage.

‘What else?’ she fired back at him. Her hands dropped to her sides, balling into fists against the pebbles.

He followed their movement, wanting to laugh. What was she about to do? Clout him around the jaw? Beat him senseless? It was as if... His mouth parted slightly as the line of her questioning became clear. Of course, he was a Dane and she would judge him as such. ‘Nothing else, maid. What were you expecting? That I would rape you midway between the river and the beach? How low your judgement is of me.’

An angry flush tore across her pale cheeks. ‘It wouldn’t have surprised me. Your reputation is notorious.’

‘Not to the Saxons,’ he replied curtly. ‘We’ve come here to help, after all. The town is welcoming us with open arms.’

The maid’s head knocked back as if he had hit her; she bit her lip as if she had made a mistake. ‘Yes, of course, I forgot myself.’

He wondered whether she had forgotten speaking to him in French. He would keep her secret; it made no difference to him whether she was Norman or Saxon. She had been a maid who needed help and that was the end to it. Her agitated fingers played with the ragged filaments of her scarf fringe in her lap. The damp fabric of her gown moulded to her thighs, revealing their curving, slender contours. ‘Can I take you home?’ he offered.

She threw the fringe of her scarf aside, raised her huge blue eyes to his. ‘No. But...thank you for coming out to me,’ she said. ‘You can leave me now. Please, go.’

He nodded, acknowledging her grudging thanks, hearing the dismissal in her voice. She wanted to be rid of him, that much was obvious. He thought of Eirik, and the rest of the men, slugging ale down their throats in the nearest inn. The lusty singing would have started by now. He was reluctant to join them. ‘And what are you going to do?’ he asked. ‘Sit here on the beach all night?’

Her magnificent eyes gleamed up at him. ‘It’s no concern of yours,’ she said tightly, sliding her knees up to her chest, hugging them. ‘I told you to go.’ Her voice held a hard edge, disdainful.

She was ordering him about as if he were some common foot soldier! He raised his eyebrows at her rudeness, hips rocking back on his heels. Pins and needles started to prick the soles of his feet. ‘And I’m telling you that you should mind your manners. I’ve just saved your skin.’ A warning lilt entered his voice. ‘A little humility wouldn’t go amiss. You would have died if I hadn’t come along.’

She flinched at the sudden harshness in his tone. ‘Someone would have come eventually.’

‘No,’ Ragnar said. ‘No one was going to help you. Your master was prepared to leave you out there to drown. Care to tell me why?’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ Placing her palms flat on the stones, she levered herself upwards. As she rose, she tottered forward unsteadily. Rising with her, Ragnar grabbed her upper arm, fingers pincering her flesh, preventing her from falling.

‘C’est possible parce-que tu est Normande? Maybe because you’re a Norman,’ he murmured close to her ear.

She lurched away from him in shock, but he held her fast. ‘I don’t understand you,’ she replied in English. ‘What are you saying to me?’ She rolled her arm forward in a circular motion, tugging downwards, trying to release his fearsome grip.

But Ragnar had seen the terror strike her gaze. He tugged at her sharply, forcing her to stagger closer, the startled oval of her face mere inches from his own. Her skin was like pouring cream, a polished lustre of silk. ‘You do understand me,’ he continued in English. Her delicious rose scent curled around him. ‘You understand me very well. What are you doing here, a Norman maid, living in the middle of all these Saxons? Don’t you realise they would kill you if they had any idea?’

* * *

God in Heaven, what had she done out there on the mudflats? What had she said? She wanted to weep with the thought of her own stupidity. How had she managed to give herself away so easily, to this man of all people? This tall broad-shouldered Dane, with his flare of bright gold hair and eyes of green who had come to help the Saxons. Was he going to kill her now?

‘Let me go!’ Gisela cried, struggling in his grip. ‘Otherwise I’ll...’ Her voice faded away as she realised the futility of what she had been about to say. Her fiery anger leached away, her spirits exhausted.

‘What...otherwise you’ll scream?’ His tone was sarcastic, grating. ‘And that will do a lot of good, won’t it? For we both know that no one will come. And we both know why.’

Her shoulders caved forward, as if his words had delivered a physical blow. She stopped fighting his grip, her slight body drooping. ‘Let me go, will you, please?’ Gisela said quietly, the breeze whipping away the end of her sentence. His glittering gaze moved over her, stripping away her courage, leaving her exposed, as if her inner thoughts were stretched out on the ground for all to see. ‘I’m none of your concern.’

She was right. She was none of his concern...and yet, Christ, she intrigued him. He knew that if she had been anyone else, he would have walked away and left her on the beach. But some small part of him urged him to linger at her side. ‘I will take you back to where you live,’ he offered. ‘The town’s not safe.’

‘You said it,’ she said, her tone faintly mocking. ‘But do you really think anyone would bother with the likes of me?

‘I only have to go down that alley over there,’ she explained, pointing to a shadowed gap in the distance. ‘And my family will be waiting for me.’

Relinquishing his grip on the soft muscle of her upper arm, the Dane gave her a little push, sending her staggering off across the shingle. ‘Go then,’ he said bluntly. ‘Have it your way.’

Chapter Four

Gisela walked quickly along the alley, away from the beach, away from him, eager to reach the safety of her lodgings. The shadowed light made her step disjointed, uncertain; a couple of times she stumbled and her hands flew out to check her fall, scraping against rough exterior walls. Her hem, weighed down with thick, drying mud, clagged unhelpfully around her ankles, hampering her gait. Tears wobbled in her chest. She had only needed a few more days of working on the salt pans to earn enough money for them all to cross the river and be out of this place. Why, oh, why had she agreed to go out on to the mudflats with those children?

Desolation rolled over her, the air catching in her lungs. She had had no choice. The master had told her to go out there. If she hadn’t followed his orders, then she would have had no work at all. But, because of what had happened out on the salt marsh, they would have to leave this place as soon as possible. Tonight, at least. A pair of sparkling green eyes punctured her vision. The Dane. Because of that man, they would have to leave. It wouldn’t take him long to tell others of his suspicions about her. She whipped her head around, checking that no one followed her, disquiet threading her nerves, making her increase her pace.

The foul smell of the town’s midden, stinking and sour, washed over her as she approached the tiny cottage that served as their lodgings. Wrinkling her nose, she pushed against the wooden door, stepping down on to the earth-packed floor. Thick smoke hazed the chamber. She coughed, waving her hand in front of her, trying to clear the smoke so she could see. A fire burned feebly, smoke coiling up to the hole in the rafters, a chimney of sorts. Marie, her older sister, sat on a low stool, poking a stick fretfully into the damp, smouldering wood. Her golden braids, long plaits falling to her waist-belt, shone out in the gloom. She stared miserably across to Gisela, her face streaked with tears.

‘Where is he?’ Gisela’s heart filled with trepidation. A swift glance around the chamber told her that her father was not there. ‘Where’s he gone, Marie? Tell me!’ A rising fear laced her voice.

‘Oh, Gisela, he wanted to do something! Something to help you. He hated the way you were working so hard to make coin, while we sat around all day!’

‘But he can’t work...’ Gisela spluttered. ‘His leg...’

‘He felt so useless. Surely you can see that?’ Marie’s voice pleaded with her. ‘As I do, Sister. This is all because of me! I feel so guilty, I should have... I should have married...’ Her eyes, a stunning turquoise colour, wavered with tears as her sentence trailed away to a desperate silence.

‘No! Don’t say it!’ Gisela responded angrily. ‘Don’t ever say such things again! We did the right thing, Marie, even if our brother was taken.’ She crouched down, taking her sister’s hands into her own. ‘None of this is your fault, do you hear me? That man...that man is a monster, the way he treated you...’

Marie’s hand reached out, touching the brooch that secured Gisela’s linen headscarf around her neck. The intricately wrought silver glittered as her fingers grazed the metal. ‘And the way he treated you, Sister. For that I am truly sorry.’

‘It was a small price to pay.’ Gisela’s eyelashes fluttered down with the memory of that horrific day: the swift retort of the sword, the slice of blade against her neck, the blood. But she had held on to Marie, held on to her sister as if her life depended on it, dragging her away from that awful man, dragging her to safety.

Marie’s hand fell back to her lap. ‘Not that small,’ she responded sadly. ‘Does the scar pain you?’ Dropping the stick, she hugged her knees, rocking slightly on the stool like a child. Despite being three years older than Gisela, her delicate beauty, her frailty, made Marie appear younger. Her ethereal looks attracted attention wherever she went, however much they tried to hide it, making her vulnerable. It was for this reason, as well as the fact that she was physically stronger, that Gisela had sought work in the town. Her plain features and short muscular body drew few glances, an attribute she was glad of while living among these Saxons; she could slip unnoticed through a crowd. Up to now. A shudder gripped her as a male voice barged through her thoughts, speaking in French. Is it because you are a Norman?

Gisela shoved the unwanted memory away, pinning a bright smile on her face. ‘It’s fine.’ Her response was clipped. She had no wish to talk about her injury, or to go over the details of that day, the regrets and recriminations. She had no wish to worry Marie any more than was necessary. At this moment, the only thing she wanted to do was find their father.

Marie was peering at her, suddenly noticing the mud caking her sister’s clothes, her wan, drained features. ‘Gisela? Did something happen to you today? You’re much later than usual.’

‘No, nothing. We had to work later, that was all. Further out in the mudflats.’ Easing herself up from her crouching position, she rolled her shoulders forward, trying to relieve the ache along the back of her neck. Although she was used to using her body physically, the days at the salt pans were long and hard, and the buckets of brine were heavy to lift. Her upper arm pained her, a sore bruised spot where the Dane had gripped her; she chewed on her bottom lip, resentful, annoyed at him, at the way he had unwittingly managed to spoil their plans.

She sighed. ‘Tell me where Father is.’

‘He’s gone to the inn. The one in the market square.’

Her heart sank, fluttered wildly. ‘But why, Marie? What could he possibly hope to achieve by going there?’

Marie hung her head, a listless, defeated gesture.

Gisela folded her arms, mouth compacting into a stern, forbidding line. ‘He’s gambling again, isn’t he?’ Darting to the corner of the cottage, she opened one of the three travelling satchels that were stacked against the wall, pulling out the few personal items that lay at the top and flinging them on the floor. Two cloth sacks full of gold coins nestled at the bottom of her father’s satchel.

One sack was missing. ‘He took a third of the ransom money, Marie! A third! Why didn’t you stop him?’ Distraught, she turned back to her sister. ‘You know how long it’s taken us to save up that amount!’

‘I tried, Gisela. I’m so sorry.’ Marie hunched her shoulders, winding her arms across her chest. ‘But he was adamant; you know how he is.’

Gisela knocked her fist against her head, straightened up. ‘Hell’s teeth, Marie! What does he think he’s going to do? The town’s awash with a Danish fleet that’s just come in! They’ll take it from him in an instant!’

‘He’s good at dice.’ Marie’s voice quavered with doubt. ‘He knows how to win.’

‘Maybe against these dim-witted townspeople,’ Gisela replied harshly. ‘But against the Danes?’ She stared fiercely at the floor, toed the packed earth angrily with her boot. ‘We were so close, we almost had all the money. We almost had our brother back. Why did he decide to risk this now?’

Marie’s fingers fretted with the end of one of her blonde plaits. ‘He wanted to help, Gisela. He thought he was doing the right thing.’

Gisela drew a length of coarse red wool out of her own travelling bag, wrapping it around her shoulders, a makeshift shawl. ‘I’ll have to go and find him.’

Rising from the stool, Marie nodded. Reaching out, she snared Gisela’s hands with her soft fingers. ‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop him.’

Gisela gave her sister’s hands a quick little squeeze, a gesture of reassurance. ‘You know we can’t let him lose that money. I must track him down before it’s too late.’

A frustrated anger at her father’s behaviour drove her on, driving out her fatigue. Stepping out into the alley, Gisela held her heavy, mud-clagged skirts high above her ankles, her stride rapid and light through the maze of narrow streets. In the gap between the thatched roofs, the sky had darkened to a midnight blue, pinpointed with stars, a waxing moon. The cold, ethereal light picked out the street for Gisela as she hurried along, the constant roar of men’s voices drawing her towards the town’s main square.

Something brushed against her ear; her headscarf had worked loose, slipping back over her silky hair. Ducking into a shadowed doorway, she un-pinned the brooch at her throat, quickly adjusting the material. As her fingers fumbled with the silver pin, she heard masculine voices, loud and strident, coming down the street, moving closer to her. Panic flared in her chest. Her nervous fingers dropped the brooch and it clattered down on to the muddy cobbles, the filigreed silver sparkling in the moonlight. As she dipped down to reach for it, a meaty hand scooped the brooch up before she had time to curl her fingers around it.

‘Give that back to me!’ Gisela demanded, straightening up.

A flush-faced Saxon man peered closely at her. ‘Who do we have here, eh lads?’ He grinned at his friends, swaying in various stages of drunkenness around him. Before Gisela had time to stop him, the man snatched the scarf away from her hair and pushed his hand around her chin, forcing her head up so he could see her face more clearly. ‘A beauty, methinks, and no mistake! What are you doing out on your own, maid? Touting for business in this busy town?’

They thought she was a whore! Her mouth was dry and she licked her lips, trying to find her voice, the blood hurtling through her veins in terror. ‘Get your filthy hands off me,’ she spat out fiercely.

‘William...’ a young man stepped forward, his mouth coiling with disgust. ‘Are you out of your mind? Look at her! Look at her neck! Someone’s dealt with her, good and proper. Why would you want to bed that?’

The man’s gaze slid to the scar on her neck, the line of puckered skin that stretched from behind her ear to a point just shy of her windpipe. ‘Sweet Jesu,’ he muttered. His hand dropped away, the scarf and brooch dropping from his shocked fingers to the ground. ‘No wonder you’re out on your own, girl. No one will touch you, marked as you are.’ Turning away, he spat on the ground, ushering his friends away. ‘Keep moving, lads, before she gives us the evil eye.’ The men moved off down the lane, sniggering, jostling each other.

She listened to the sound of their laughter, their whispering and tittering as they staggered off. Tears pooled in her eyes as the familiar shroud of humiliation descended; her skin hummed with shame as she bent her knees to retrieve the brooch and scarf. Why was she so surprised? What had happened then was precisely the reason she kept her scarf wrapped securely around her neck. She had experienced similar expressions of disgust aimed at her in the past, masculine declarations of snide revulsion; why should she subject herself to any more derision than was necessary? She knew she was ugly, that she would never marry or have children because of what had happened to her.

Emerging into the open area from the narrow street, Gisela lifted her gaze across the cobbled square, across the smiling faces of Danes and Saxons, the tethered horses, the dogs trotting to and fro, sniffing the ground, eager for scraps. Even in the freshening breeze, the air was thick with the smell of ale and mead, roasting meat. Fires burned beneath iron skillets; glowing sparks flew up, reflecting against chainmail hauberks, jewelled sword helms. The small Saxon town had gone to a great effort to welcome these Danish warriors.

Her feet teetered on the cobbles. She took a deep shaky breath, her flesh still trembling from her encounter with the Saxon men. Where was her courage? She needed it now, yet those men had driven it from her with their disparaging glances, their ugly words. Forget it, she told herself firmly, forget them. Your father needs you now. And yet, as she stared across the square to the inn, the sign of a gilded angel swinging above the entrance, her heart sank. Was she really going to have to fight her way across this crowded space to the inn and pull her father out? Suddenly all she wanted to do was to turn around and fly back to Marie. There was a possibility that her father might win more coin, after all, and return home unscathed.

She pressed her lips together, hugging her arms about her middle, staring at the heaving mass before her. It was a remote possibility, at the very least. If she failed to retrieve the ransom money before her father lost it all, then her brother’s life would be in jeopardy. And it would be her fault. Come on, Gisela, she chided herself, you are made of sterner stuff than that; as a family, they had come too far and gone through too much to give up now.

Snapping her shawl across her body, she ducked her head, plunging into the fray, squeezing and sliding her way through the crowds, her eyes pinned firmly to the ground. Nobody spared her a second glance, the huge blond Danes intent on slugging back their tankards of ale and singing their songs. Some had their arms firmly fastened around dark-haired Saxon maidens, claiming them already for the night ahead. Edging her way around the horses tied to the wooden rail at the front of the inn, Gisela stopped for a moment, gathering her breath and her resolve.

Over to the left, a group of Danes were gathered around what looked like a bundle of clothes on the ground. One man dropped to his haunches, reaching his arm out, shaking something, then another man crouched by his side. Nay, she realised, not clothes; it was a man, stretched out on the cobbles. She twisted her mouth into a sneer: these Danes were renowned for drinking themselves into a stupor. Twitching her gaze away, she stared back at the inn, light flickering out through the cracks in the wooden shutters. How was she going to go in there, a woman, without everyone turning to look at her as she came through the door? Sweat prickled her armpits, a cold sliding sensation coiling in her belly.

Then something made her turn back to the man on the ground. There were more men around him now, voices raised in consternation, the thick Norse vowels floating across to her. They had managed to shift him into a sitting position, his grizzled head cradled in his hands as he slumped against the wall. Between the calf-length boots of the Danes, she could see the man’s scuffed short boots, green woollen braies. Not a soldier, by the looks of him. Her heartbeat increased by a notch, then began to pound, her knuckles whitening around the wooden rail. She knew who the man was.

‘Father!’ she yelled, careful to use the Saxon language. These Norse barbarians would understand her. She raised her fists, thumping against the broad phalanx of Danish backs, criss-crossed with leather straps over shining mail-coats. ‘Let me through!’ As the men turned in surprise, Gisela pushed forward, squeezing through the jumble of thickset bodies. One man placed his arm in front of her, barring her way. ‘Nay, mistress, ’tis not for you to see.’

But she had already seen. The hunched body of her father, crumpled against the wall, head cupped in his open palms. The grey grizzled hair and beard, matted with blood. His face, deathly white, scored by familiar creases. Blood trickled down over his large bony wrists, dripping to the ground.

‘What have they done to you?’ Her voice was a long, low moan. Sliding to her knees beside him, she untied her shawl, wrapping it around her father’s shaking shoulders. ‘What happened?’

Her father’s dull stare lifted to her face, his eyelashes flicking up in recognition. He cleared his throat, licking his parched lips. ‘I won, Gisela, I won a lot. And they took it all.’

Fury seized her, a white-hot blinding anger at the unfairness of the situation, at her father’s stupidity to attempt such a foolhardy deed. Her eyes dropped to her father’s sword, the hilt gleaming from his belt. With no thought other than to exert revenge on those that had stolen from her father, Gisela grabbed at the hilt, wresting the shining blade from the leather scabbard. Springing up like a cat, she jumped to her feet, turning on the watchful circle of Danes.

‘Which one of you took his money?’ she cried out, slicing the air with the knife. The blade gleamed ominously, catching the light of the fires from the market square. ‘Who did this?’

‘Nay, not us, mistress,’ one of the men replied. ‘You are mistaken.’ His blond hair straggled down over chainmail clad shoulders. ‘We found him like this, unconscious and bleeding. It was us that helped to sit him up.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ Gisela planted her feet firmly apart, as if bracing herself for a physical fight. Her fear of these warriors slipped away at her father’s plight; she had to retrieve the money, one way or another: their situation was desperate. ‘We all know what you Danes are capable of. Why not attack an old man and take his money? He’s easy prey, after all.’ She swung the sword around in a half-circle, the movement haphazard, jerky. ‘Give it back to me, now! I’m warning you, I know how to use this!’

‘But we don’t have it, maid,’ another man explained, holding his hands out, trying to placate her. ‘We...’

‘What is going on here?’ From the back of the group, a voice rang out, deep and commanding. Immediately the men bowed their heads, forming a gap to let another man step forward. Half a head taller than his companions, with seal-dark hair and eyes of molten brown. A young man, who carried himself with the arrogant swagger of authority, his head cocked to one side as he listened to a rapid explanation from one of the men. He swept a cursory glance down at her father. Keeping his distance from her blade, surrounded by the burly Danes, he stared at Gisela, narrow lips curling with disdain.

Sweat prickled from her fingers against the leather hilt, but she held her ground, her expression mutinous, fierce, the blade tipped up in front of her.

‘What is all this nonsense, maid?’

‘Are you the leader of these men?’

‘Aye, I am Eirik Sweynsson.’ He wound his arms across his leather-bound chest. ‘Tell me, what goes on here?’

‘Your men, your godforsaken men, have taken all my father’s money, and his winnings!’ Her challenging blue gaze swept over the men, fully expecting one of them to step forward and admit his guilt. ‘They attacked him!’

Eirik smiled slowly. ‘But I think you are mistaken, maid, for they tell me that they did not. On the contrary, they helped him.’

‘And you believe them?’ Aghast, Gisela’s speech juddered out. ‘You need to search them, at the very least!’

‘Why should I believe you over my own men?’ Eirik lifted his chin, regarding her with contempt. ‘A lowly Saxon maid, dressed in rags.’ He cast a disparaging eye across her patched gown, the drab linen scarf around her head and neck. ‘For all I know, it probably isn’t your money anyway. You probably stole it from someone else.’

His goading words ripped through her; her temper flared. ‘How dare you?’ she cried out. Forgetting the sword in her hand, she lunged forward, wanting to hit out, wanting to wipe the smug, supercilious smile off his handsome, self-satisfied face.

Whipcord arms snared her waist, a punishing, bruising grip, jolting her roughly away from her intended target. She was lifted, feet dangling as if on strings, then crushed back against an iron-hard body. Fingers twisted into her wrist, pinioning the flesh, until the sword slipped from her hand and clattered to the ground. Swinging her legs, she kicked her heels furiously against the shins of her unseen opponent, pushing down angrily on the muscular forearm clamped around her waist.

‘Cease, maid, if you know what’s good for you.’ A voice, horribly familiar, drilled into her ear. Her belly plummeted in recognition., No, not him, not the Dane from the beach! Gisela began to struggle more, desperate to extract herself from his tight, unforgiving hold.

Watching her futile efforts, Eirik laughed, a mocking sound. ‘I wish I could applaud your efforts, maid. But it’ll take more than a short sword to do away with the likes of me.’ He raised his gaze above her head, catching the eyes of the man who held her. ‘I owe you one, Ragnar—’ he grinned ‘—although I’m not sure my life was in any danger.’ His eyes dropped to the blade glinting on the ground, the smile vanishing from his face. ‘Make sure she’s punished for what she’s done.’ He turned away, clapping his arm around the man next to him. ‘Come, we’re missing valuable drinking time here! Ragnar will sort out the girl.’

Ragnar. So that was the name of the man who held her. The same man who had pulled her from the mud. Not a gentle name, but one that suited his flashing eyes and the craggy angles of his face, the tall muscular body that spoke of the open sea, of lands unexplored: a restless soul. As she watched the Danes walk away, his chest pressed into her spine. The dusky scent of leather and salt, a fresh vitality, poured from him, enveloping her.

She closed her eyes, a flush rising across her cheeks; her breath caught, then emerged in staggered gasps at the intimacy of her situation. His honed thighs riding against her hips, nay, cradling them! His thick arm grazing the underside of her breasts. Sweet Jesu, she had never been this close to a man! And after what had happened to her and her sister, she had vowed to keep away from them for ever. But now? Now heat flickered, deep in her belly, spiralling upwards: a slow sensual climb. Her heart lurched in despair.

‘Let me go,’ she croaked. Her mind danced chaotically as she tried to think what she should do next, but the thoughts flicked away from her, flighty, ephemeral.

Around her waist, the burly forearm released fractionally, allowing her feet to slip to the ground. Hands planted heavily on her shoulders, spinning her around. His chin was on a level with the top of her head, clean-shaven, shallow grooves on each side of his generous mouth defining his jaw.

Gisela tipped her head up, catching his emerald gaze. ‘Those men have my father’s money.’ Fatigue swept over her and she swayed a little beneath his firm grip. ‘I must go after them. I must get it back.’ The tiredness leached through her voice, draining it of conviction.

‘There’s no need,’ Ragnar said calmly. ‘They don’t have it.’

She rolled her shoulder irritably beneath the weighty impact of his hand. If only he would go and leave her alone, for then she would at least be able to think in a logical manner. His direct green gaze muddled her, turning her brain into useless pulp. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ she said grumpily. ‘Shouldn’t you be off drinking with the rest of them?’ She was so close to him that her knee nudged against his thigh; she wrenched her leg away in annoyance, jolting against him as she did so.

* * *

Ragnar laughed. For such a little thing, the maid showed astonishing courage. Either that or complete stupidity, he hadn’t decided yet. As he and Eirik had approached earlier, she had been completely surrounded by his fellow men, those big lumps of masculinity who towered above her. And yet she had seemed completely in control, swishing that small blade around as if she would tackle each and every one of them in hand-to-hand combat.

Was she even afraid of him? Of what he might do? Eirik had asked him to punish her. Not a trace of fear showed in her face. Her skin glowed, fine marble in shadowy light; a delicate rose colour flushed her cheeks. The sapphire sparkle of her magnificent eyes dominated her face, flashing with defiance. Her whole frame bristled with undisguised hostility; he should have been annoyed, but strangely, he found himself drawn to her shrewish, belligerent manner. He liked it. The majority of women he met, and that was not many, to be fair, seemed pathetic and feeble, pale ghosts compared to this firebrand.

He brought his hand up, deliberately cupping her cheek, knowing such a gesture would rile her. ‘Did we spoil your little game, maid?’ His thumb rubbed across the satin pelt of her skin, a cursory touch; she flinched at the contact, jerking her head away.

‘Game?’ she flared at him, jerking her head at her father’s defeated posture. Her red shawl looked incongruous around his shoulders, the one bright spot of his drab attire. ‘That is my father sitting there! Attacked and left for dead, his money stolen...by them...’ She jabbed a finger in the direction that Eirik had taken his men. ‘I wanted them to give it back.’

‘So you thought that pushing a knife into the King of Denmark’s son would be the solution?’ Ragnar stuck his hand through his hair, no doubt leaving the vigorous blond strands sticking upwards, haphazard. His gaze narrowed. ‘What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?’

‘You mean that dark-haired oaf is a prince?’ she replied scathingly.

‘Aye, maid,’ he confirmed, his mouth twitching with amusement, ‘that dark-haired oaf, as you like to call him, is the heir to the whole of Denmark. So you had better watch your step.’

‘But the money—’

‘Hell’s teeth, woman, are you completely stupid? Leave it alone. Go home and shut the door and try not to go around threatening to stick knives into people. Do you understand? No wonder your poor father has his head in his hands, with a daughter like you! First the mud and now this!’

Gisela glared at him, her mouth compressed into a wilful line.

Ragnar shook his head at her, a boyish grin pinned to his face. ‘And don’t you look at me like that, maid. You can hate me as much as you like, but you know I speak the truth. Go home. You might be foolhardy, but you’re certainly not stupid.’ He brought the harsh contours of his face closer to hers. ‘And your use of the Saxon language seems to have improved since I saw you last.’

* * *

Shock flooded through her, a chill shudder of foreboding. How could she have forgotten? Somehow she had given herself away out on the salt marsh. Ragnar had spoken to her in French, but she hadn’t responded. He hadn’t guessed her true identity, had he? For, as far as she could remember, she hadn’t uttered a word of her mother tongue in his presence.

Down on the ground, her father was trying to scrabble to his feet. To her surprise, the Dane leaned down, grabbing his upper arm to help him up. Gisela leapt to his other side, and together they brought the older man on to his feet.

‘Which way?’ Ragnar said companionably as he laced her father’s arm around the back of his neck.

Gisela, her arm supporting her father’s waist on the other side, peered around to Ragnar in astonishment. Suddenly, her father’s fragility was all too apparent, his gaunt frame hanging off the Dane’s broad shoulder. A wave of vulnerability washed through her. ‘We don’t need you,’ she replied resentfully. ‘Don’t you think you and your lot have done enough for this evening?’

A look of disdain crossed his lean features. ‘As you wish.’ He pulled away roughly so that her father’s full weight fell heavily against her. She staggered backwards, heels striking the wall as she fought to hold him upright. Her slight frame buckled beneath her father’s bulk and she wondered whether she was even capable of taking one step forward. She hated the fact that the Dane watched her, saw her weakness with his knowing eyes.

‘I can do it!’ she whispered fiercely as he came towards her.

Scooping the man’s arm around his neck, Ragnar regarded her coolly. ‘No, maid, you cannot. Even I am not so heartless as to leave you here, at the mercy of a town full of drunken Danes.’

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