‘Oh, I don’t know!’ she replied testily. His glimmering gaze caught her, held her captive. ‘It could be any number of things: the way you keep hauling me about, your insufferable arrogance, or the fact that you’re a Dane!’ She planted her hands firmly on her hips, glaring at him, as if squaring up for a fight.
A wry grin lit up his face at her rudeness. ‘Or maybe,’ Ragnar said slowly, ‘it’s because I know your secret?’ He lifted his coppery eyebrows, thick and unruly. A question, left dangling in the air.
His low voice knocked into her, the slicing blade of a knife; she struggled to keep her features in a set, neutral position and not react to his words. What had happened, out there on the marshes, to give herself away? If only she could peel back the layers of fog that had engulfed her as the water swirled around her hips. She remembered being lifted high against his chest, carried, but nothing else. Tossing her head back, she fixed him with a wide-eyed sapphire stare. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Who are you then?’ Ragnar rapped out. He took a step forward, his leather-covered toes nudging hers beneath her mud-encrusted hem, his broad shoulders hulking over her, deliberately intimidating. ‘What is your name?’ He was being a bully, using his height and bulk to unnerve her.
Rearing back from him, Gisela felt her heels strike the cob wall behind her. ‘Why do you want to know so much?’ Her breath emerged in shallow truncated gasps. ‘Who I am should not matter to you!’
* * *
Aye, the maid was right. Whoever she was, and whatever she and her father were doing, was none of his concern. But ever since he had plucked her from the rising tide, he had felt a growing need to protect her, a duty of care in the face of her obvious vulnerability, despite her protests to the contrary. She seemed so alone, an outsider in this Saxon town, a foreigner speaking her oddly accented English, bereft of support or protection. Her bristling feistiness sparked his curiosity; her twilight eyes, breathtaking, kept him standing over her, rooting his feet to the spot. In a moment, he told himself, he would walk away, rejoin Eirik and his men. He should not be wasting his time on her, especially when he needed to concentrate on the other, more serious, matter of finding his sister’s abductor.
‘What matters,’ he said sternly, honing in on a plausible reason to stay for a little bit longer, ‘is that you attacked my commander and he will be asking questions about you. So you need to tell me something, maid, otherwise he is very likely to come after you in person. And he would not be as lenient as me.’ This was an outright lie, for Eirik would be well into his cups by now, having completely forgotten about the encounter with the maid and her father.
‘Why can’t you leave us alone?’ Lunging forward, the woman placed her palms flat against his chest, trying to shove him away in a futile effort to gain some space between them. Her delicate touch seared into him; his muscles quivered. The pit of his belly contracted, sending a ripple of delight down to a place that had lain dormant, barren, since his sister’s ordeal. Guilt had stifled his desire on that fateful day, choked the air out of all feeling. But this woman, with her quiet, understated beauty, ignited a devil within him, a devil that whispered in his ear, nudged at him and drove him on. The cool, logical part of his brain clamoured at him to stop, to hold himself in check. He ignored the warning. Self-restraint fled, chased away by the limpid blue of her huge eyes, the promise of her slim, curving body against his.
Ragnar leaned in, closing the gap between them, deliberately pressing his heavy thighs and chest against her. Her chin jerked up at the shocking contact: his taut, honed muscles against her slim thighs. Inches from his mouth, her lips shimmered, like the velvet petals of a rose, luscious and enticing. A sweet, plush curve that he longed to trace with his finger. And his mouth.
‘What are you doing?’ Her fingers clawed frantically at his tunic, digging into the fine red wool, trapped by the bulk of his body.
‘There are other ways to gain information.’ Ragnar trailed one lean forefinger across her cheek, savouring the satin of her skin. Awareness smouldered, a slow kindling fire engulfing his heart, his belly.
‘Nay! Not like this!’ she cried out. What did he intend to do? Throw her down on the cobbles and flick up her skirts, in full view of her father? ‘Go away!’ she said. But her voice was weak, lacked conviction.
Ragnar heard the faint surrender in her voice, the spark of compliance. His mind fell across it, seizing it like a wild animal. Wanting to take, consume, without thought or consideration. He dipped his head; a brindled lock of hair fell across his brow. Lust stirred his loins, a deep, visceral yearning. He gripped her shoulders like a starving man, lifting her up to him. A simple kiss, he told himself. Nothing more. Such a little thing to take, after all this time in the wilderness. His mouth slipped over hers, brushing her bottom lip. The softest touch. Blood pounded along his veins, gathering speed; his heart bumped faster, erratically. Her cheek brushed against his, the rose fragrance lifting from her skin, filling his nostrils. Beneath his questing lips, her mouth parted. Her fingers relaxed against him.
‘Gisela...?’ A wavering voice called up from the step. An old man’s voice. Her father.
Ragnar’s mouth broke from hers in a moment, a swift, brutal ending. His head rocked back in shock, strips of colour searing his high cheekbones. His hands fell from her shoulders, dropped to his sides, chastened. His strong sinewy fingers curled into tight fists. By Odin, what on earth had possessed him?
* * *
Bereft of his grip, Gisela staggered back on useless legs, knocking back against the cottage wall. A flake of loose plaster dislodged itself, scattering small white pieces across her dress. Dazed, she brought her hand to her quivering mouth, almost in wonderment. Her fingers trembled, shaking with reaction. Why was she not shouting at him, berating him for what he had done? Slapping him across the face? Instead she sank back, knees barely supporting her, belly wound tight in a coil of longing, a craving for...what?
She had a tentative idea of the carnal ways of men and most of what she knew was bad, cobbled together from servants’ dire stories, her mother, God rest her soul, and her sister’s terrifying ordeal. So how could she explain this, this crazy senseless fluttering through her veins? How could she explain the way her body had folded into his, when the only thing she should have been doing was pushing him away? Staring at the ground, she hung her head in shame, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Darting her gaze towards her father, she hoped he hadn’t seen. But, although he was stirring, his eyes were still closed. She almost wept aloud with relief.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ragnar said mildly, following her glance. ‘He saw nothing.’
‘You’re despicable,’ she spat at him bitterly, incensed by the lack of concern in his words. Lunging towards him, she raised her hand to slap him hard across the cheek. ‘You took advantage of me!’
He caught her wrist, mid-air, snaring the delicate bones with long fingers.
‘You had no right!’ Her voice was shrill.
‘Perhaps not.’ Ragnar shrugged his shoulders. ‘But we both enjoyed it.’ His eyes traced the outline of her mouth, her lips no doubt reddened by his kiss.
‘Nay, I did not!’ Gisela replied vehemently. ‘You men are all the same, be you Saxon, Norman, or Dane! Savages the lot of you, riding roughshod over women, pillaging and raping...’
‘I did not rape you.’ A small line appeared between his raised eyebrows, creasing his tanned, sea-roughened skin.
‘You were going to.’ A half-sob hitched her voice, tart, accusing.
Ragnar sighed, a long exhalation of breath emptying his lungs. A muscle twitched in the shadow of his cheek.
‘Nay, you’re mistaken, maid. Believe me, if I wanted to sleep with a woman, I would have chosen someone other than you.’ He swept his eyes from the top of her head, over her drab, stained clothes to the scuffed boots poking out from her hem: a look of utter scorn.
>
His cruel tongue lashed her, as if he had hit her, violently, across the jaw. Her mouth whitened with the cold slosh of comprehension. What had she been thinking, to accuse him of such a thing, to go as far as to consider herself as an item of desire? The idea was laughable. Normally, she was under no illusion about her lack of attractiveness towards the opposite sex, content as she was to live in the shadow of her older sister’s beauty. But from the moment she had met him, this tall, blond Dane, this day had been anything but normal.
Gisela shrank from him, touching the brooch at her throat like a talisman. This man made her act like a fool, turning her into a different version of her normal persona: a more beautiful, seductive version. How he must be laughing at her inside. She had not the slightest doubt that he would return to his men and regale them all with tales of the short ugly Saxon maid who truly believed she was about to lose her innocence.
And yet, even now, in the flickering aftermath of their brief kiss, her heart still pounded, thumped with the hurtling pace of her blood. She was lying to herself, deluded. With him, she was not safe at all.
* * *
The door of the cottage creaked inwards at Gisela’s knock. Marie’s pale, anxious face peered out. Gisela placed a quick finger to her lips, a warning to her sister to speak in Saxon and not their customary French that they spoke when they were alone. Marie’s eyes widened at the sight of her father, at the man supporting his other side, then nodded swiftly. She understood.
‘I was worried,’ she said. ‘What happened to—?’
‘We’ll take him inside first, then I will explain,’ Gisela said briskly, cutting off her sister’s question. She resented the Dane at her side, hating the way she had had to rely on him to help bring her father home. The latter part of the journey had been conducted in complete silence, Gisela quietly determined to build up her reserves of self-reliance after her wretched humiliation. The Dane’s disdainful words had undermined her, stripping her briefly of her fighting confidence. She needed to regain her inner strength and courage. Pushing the sweet memory of his lips swiftly to one side, she had managed to gather her scattered wits, marshalling her defences, ready to do battle once more.
‘Of course.’ Marie darted about, spreading her father’s padded bed-roll next to the smouldering fire. ‘Put him here, so he can warm up.’ Her eyes fell on her father’s forehead, the seeping blood. ‘Oh, his head!’
‘He was attacked,’ Gisela explained, her voice hollow. ‘And the money has been stolen.’
Ducking beneath the lintel, Ragnar helped Gisela to manoeuvre the older man through the doorway and down the steps. He lowered the man’s large frame on to the sleeping mat. The man groaned, slumping to one side as Marie crouched down beside him, tending to him. A bucket full of water stood at the edge of the room; she scooped up some of the liquid into a small bowl and brought it over to their father. Dipping in a clean cloth, she proceeded to dab at the ragged gash on the older man’s forehead.
* * *
Ragnar straightened up. His unruly hair brushed the ceiling rafters as he sought the maid’s bright face in the smoky gloom. There she was, eyes blazing, her mouth compressed in a tight, hostile line, her arms folded decisively across her chest: a fighting stance. For some reason, he was glad to see that spark of combat return after his brutal dismissal, even though he knew he would be the only one on the receiving end of that anger. It made him feel alive again.
‘Gisela,’ he said, repeating the name spoken by the older man. ‘So that is your name.’
She nodded stiffly.
It suited her somehow, the quick delicacy of the vowels mirroring her swift step, the liquid beauty of her eyes. Like a fawn in the forest, alert to every footstep, nimble and quick. But also strong. In mind and in body. He was in no doubt about that—beneath her voluminous clothes, her limbs were honed, as if she were accustomed to physical exercise, and the way she tussled verbally with him was evidence of a sharp intelligence.
‘I am her sister.’ The other maid glanced up from her ministrations. ‘Marie.’
The two young women were very much alike, he realised, although Marie must have been older. Small lines fanned out from the edge of her eyes; her angelic beauty holding a haunted, chastened look. Next to her, Gisela blazed with vitality, her cheeks flushed pink, magnificent eyes dancing with a vivid blue, brimming with thwarted anger towards him.
‘Where are you from?’ Ragnar asked, a hint of steel entering his voice. ‘What are you doing here in this place?’
‘We have a castle down in the south,’ Gisela replied vaguely, clearly hoping it would be enough. She lifted her chin, jutting it forward with stern determination. ‘I must thank you once again for your help, but you can return to your men now. I’m afraid we have no money to pay you for your service.’ Her voice was cold, bitter, holding the hard edge of dismissal. She glared pointedly at the door, the clearest indication that she wanted him to leave.
Ragnar ignored her, tilting his head to one side. ‘Why not pay me with the truth, maid,’ he said, his low voice rumbling conspiratorially. ‘I know you’re Norman, so why keep denying it? I’ll do nothing with the information, I swear.’
‘You’re wrong!’ Gisela blurted out, panic flaring through her. ‘And anyway, why would I trust you, a Dane?’ She took a step forward towards him, then faltered, as if thinking the better of it. Her eyes dropped to his mouth; she flushed, wrapping her arms about her belly.
Ragnar tracked the path of her eyes and knew she was thinking of their kiss. An unexpected warmth curled about his heart. ‘When I carried you in from the mudflats, you spoke to me in French and I knew then what you were. Anyone else would have delivered you straight to the Saxon sheriff of the town, but I did not.’
Gisela glanced at him sadly. ‘What did I say?’
‘You asked me if I was real,’ he replied slowly, remembering. Her delicate weight against his chest. The sift of rose perfume in his nostrils. ‘And when I confirmed it, you said, “Thank God.”’
‘I thought no one would come.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. In the flickering firelight her skin adopted a limpid sheen, like rich pouring cream. ‘I thought I was going to die out there.’ The words fell from her mouth unbidden and she clapped her hand across her lips, as if ashamed of the fear revealed by her speech. Twisting away, fretful, she dipped her slight frame to pick up a bunch of sticks from a pile near the door and threw them on to the fire.
‘But I did come.’ He watched the revelation chase across her finely honed features, the disappointment at giving herself away. ‘And I didn’t take you straight to the Saxons. So you know that you can trust me.’
* * *
The silver rivets on his leather surcoat danced before her eyes. A haven for her troubled mind. What would it be like, to lean against that generous expanse of muscle for one sweet moment and draw comfort from that hard masculine body? To breathe in his heady, musky scent? Her lungs constricted, held within an iron cage. Eyes springing upwards, she caught his sparkling gaze, teetering on the edge of confession. His words made sense and she clung to them, momentarily, like a lifeline.
A moan from her father made her glance down at Marie, as if she could find the answer in the neat folds of her sister’s headscarf. She remembered how they had trusted a man before and how he had destroyed his sister’s life. She couldn’t tell this Dane, this stranger, anything. Like danger in human form, he unnerved her, volatile and intimidating. Shedding energy and power in rich, seductive waves. Filling the small chamber with his muscled bulk, pushing her off balance.
‘I owe you nothing,’ she said finally, her speech wobbling slightly, rough-edged. She fingered the silver brooch that fastened the scarf around her neck. ‘Least of all a confession.’
‘You owe me your life.’ His reply was swift. ‘I would have thought that counted for a great deal.’
‘I didn’t ask you to save me,’ she
responded grumpily.
‘Then next time I’ll leave you there!’ Ragnar stared into her eyes, as if willing her to confide in him.
‘Thank you for helping with our father.’ Standing up, the wet cloth dripping between her fingers, Marie lifted her chin towards Ragnar. He nodded curtly, acknowledging her gratitude. Then he dipped his head beneath the low-slung lintel, the buckled wood flaking with age. Looking back, his gaze swept what must have appeared a stiff tableau: the old man lying beside the fire, his injured head in a makeshift bandage, and the two women standing shoulder to shoulder, Marie’s expression one of benign lenience, Gisela’s face set in lines of truculent relief. He stepped out into the twilight chill, a strange pang knifing Gisela’s heart at the thought of him leaving for good.
Chapter Six
For a long moment, Gisela maintained a stony glare at the shut door, making completely sure that Ragnar had gone. Then she darted across the room, lowering the wooden bar to span the half-rotted planks, a barrier against any more unwanted visitors. Despair creased her face as she turned to her sister. ‘Oh, Marie, what a mess! A complete mess!’
‘Who was that?’ her sister asked. Curiosity rippled through her voice. ‘He looked like...well, he wasn’t a Saxon, was he?’
‘Nay, he was not,’ Gisela replied bitterly. ‘He’s a horrible, stinking Dane!’ Her eyes shuttered briefly. A Dane who made free with his hands and his mouth, she thought. She jabbed her teeth down into her bottom lip, trying to erase the lingering burn of his kiss.
‘Why did you bring him back here, then?’ Marie said. She wrinkled her pert nose critically.
‘It wasn’t my choice,’ Gisela replied. ‘He insisted on helping me back with Father. I...’ Her voice trailed away as she remembered the moment as she lunged for the Danish prince, the powerful arms dragging her away, hard sinewy fingers gripping her hand, forcing her to release her father’s sword. She had no wish to cause her sister any further anxiety by telling her about what had happened in the town. ‘When he rescued me from the mudflat... I spoke in French, not English. By mistake. I was so afraid, thinking I would die out there. For a moment, I must have lost my head.’
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