Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Still there was no reply.

  She rubbed her eyes, trying to still her trembling hands, trying to think. She remembered attacking the knave who had first grabbed Josette. Remembered wounding his arm. And then he had struck her to the ground.

  The rest was a blur. A haze of pain. She had only a vague memory of shouted words she could not understand. Then darkness.

  But she realized her jaw no longer hurt. Touching her cheek, she felt no tenderness at all. How long had she been asleep? Mayhap someone had gallantly carried her to a place of safety and taken care of her.

  That hope vanished as she glanced down at the garment she was wearing. Whoever had brought her here had undressed her—and garbed her in a shimmering white silk kirtle that revealed every curve of her body. The bodice dipped indecently low between her breasts, and though the skirt reached her ankles, it was slit on both sides, baring her legs from ankle to hip with each step she took.

  She froze for one stomach-churning second. Clearly it was not a chivalrous rescuer who had carried her to this place but someone who did not have gallantry on his mind.

  With a frightened oath, she ran to the wall, searching for a sconce, a torch, some light she could use to hunt for a door. She found none. Cursing, she kept moving anyway, into the darkened half of the room, feeling her way along the paneling in hope of discovering a way out.

  Her fingertips encountered strange scrollwork and carvings in the paneling and odd items displayed on the wall—stone sculptures, a cool piece of ivory, a dented metal great helm. And the furry head of some sort of horned animal. She yelped in alarm and jumped backward a step. Breathing hard, she turned away from the wall, half afraid of what her fingers might brush across next. Panic began bubbling up inside her. God’s mercy, there must be a way out of here!

  She had moved several yards beyond the hearth, but her eyes had adjusted to the dark now. The blackness no longer seemed quite so thick. She could just make out several pairs of tall, flat wooden rectangles lining the opposite wall, a few feet above the floor. It took her befuddled mind a moment to identify them.

  Shutters.

  Windows!

  She rushed across to the nearest one. Fumbled for the latch in the darkness. Found it. Yanked the shutters open wide.

  A warm, salty breeze blew against her face and tangled her hair. She blinked in the brightness of a full moon and dazzling starlight, heard surf pounding the shoreline. When her eyes adjusted again, she could see the ocean far below, and a heavy mist that seemed to glow silver in the moonlight. The keep—or whatever this place was—sat perched on a cliff high above the sea.

  Mayhap she was not very far from Antwerp!

  Then she realized there were no trading ships in view. No sounds of the bustling wharf. No sign of the merchants who had thronged into the city for the trade fair. This coastline was deserted.

  And the breeze that caressed her cheeks was not frosty with autumn’s chill but warm with the heat of midsummer.

  Avril’s fingers bit into the edge of the window as she fought a sudden wave of dizziness. How far had she traveled? She remembered Gerard telling her of places he had visited in the East and the South, where it was always warm.

  Glancing up at the night sky, she realized that the stars were not arranged in the familiar patterns she and Giselle liked to give names and fanciful stories.

  Where in the name of all the saints was she?

  She looked down, thinking she might jump to freedom, but saw only a scant fringe of grass beneath the window. The earth fell away in a sheer drop so high she could barely glimpse the shore below—a slender white froth of waves slashed into foam by jagged rocks.

  But not far from shore, just for a moment, she thought she saw a glow. Was it a fire of some kind? A ship’s lantern?

  “Help!” she shouted in desperation, leaning out the window as far as she dared. “Someone help me! I have been abducted! Help me, please!”

  She repeated her plea in Flemish, German, a half-dozen languages one after another.

  But the glow vanished as if swallowed up by the sea, and the rhythmic crashing of the waves smothered the sound of her voice. No one replied. She was alone here. Alone and isolated.

  No one would be coming to her aid.

  Fear slid down her back like melting ice. She whirled away from the window. There must be an exit. She had to escape. Return home to her daughter.

  And she had to help Josette, if she was anywhere near here.

  If Josette was still alive.

  Forcing that frightening thought to the back of her mind, Avril strode into the center of the chamber, able to see better with rays of moonlight spilling through the open window.

  The glitter of steel on the wall caught her attention. Along with hunting trophies and strange sculptures and artifacts, the owner—or owners—of this place had a number of weapons on display.

  How foolish, she thought with a grim smile of satisfaction, to leave them within easy reach. She walked over and selected a double-edged blade that was long enough to use as a sword yet light enough to throw, if the need arose.

  When her abductors returned, they would find themselves with more trouble than they had bargained for.

  Gripping the weapon in one hand, she was about to renew her search for an exit when a sound from the dark, distant corner of the chamber startled her—the sound of a key turning in a lock.

  Her pulse racing, she retreated a few steps, away from the hearth and the open window, trying to conceal herself in the shadows. She kept the sword raised in front of her and peered into the blackness.

  A door creaked open. A massive, heavy portal from the sound of it. It closed an instant later with the clatter of an iron latch. Avril heard a footfall. Another. Then naught more.

  Naught but the pounding of her heart.

  “Milady?” a quiet male voice called after a moment, speaking French. “There is no need to hide from me. I mean you no harm.”

  She did not reply, edging silently along the wall. Now that she knew the general location of the door, if she could tiptoe her way around him...

  “You cannot hide forever.” He walked farther into the room, his tone becoming impatient. “And there is nowhere to run.”

  Ha, she thought, moving faster. That was his opinion. Once she reached the door, he would discover why she had always won footraces when she was a girl—

  Her next step carried her straight into a small table and sent both her and whatever had been on it crashing to the floor.

  She landed hard and yelped in pain as she bruised her hip on the hard stone and cut her hand on a shard of glass. Cups and platters and a shattered goblet littered the floor around her.

  Uttering what sounded like an oath, her abductor closed in on her, a massive shadow looming out of the darkness.

  “Stay back!” she shouted, grabbing the sword she had dropped. “I have a weapon. And I am skilled enough to use it!”

  The threat stopped him, at least for the moment. “A blade will avail you naught more than shouting yourself hoarse at the window did.” He sounded annoyed rather than concerned about his safety. “You cannot harm me, milady.”

  What arrogance! Shaking her head, Avril got to her feet, careful of the broken glass. “Come any closer and you will discover precisely how wrong you are.” She tried to judge the distance to the door, took a cautious step.

  And felt surprised when he moved away from her, toward the window.

  “I do not doubt your skill,” he said dryly. “I saw you demonstrate it in the marketplace.”

  He stepped into the pool of moonlight that poured through the open shutters.

  Avril gasped, staring at him in open-mouthed astonishment. “You!” she choked out. “You are the trader who ran into me at the street corner.”

  Her pounding heart seemed to fill her throat as she gaped at him. It was unmistakably the same tall, heavily muscled rogue who had collided with her. The same fierce, rugged face. The same bronzed skin and sun-
colored hair, utterly at odds with the moonlight all around him.

  “As I recall,” he said sardonically, one corner of his mouth curving, “it was you who ran into me.”

  Avril felt a rush of dizziness, just as she had in Antwerp—mayhap because he seemed familiar, in a way she could not explain. There was something about his deep, quiet voice. Something in his gaze.

  He had eyes of the palest blue, like a clear, cool lake reflecting a summer sky.

  And as he regarded her silently, the unnerving sensation she had felt upon first meeting him shimmered through her once more—a dazzling heat, as if the sun had tumbled from the heavens to fill every fiber of her being. The impact swept over her so suddenly, so powerfully, it robbed her of breath, voice, of her very senses.

  Even as she struggled to give the feeling a name, she sensed, somehow, that he felt it, too. Which only mystified and unsettled her all the more.

  Shaken, she managed to tear her gaze from his, and realized that he no longer wore the homespun tunic and cloak of a trader. He was garbed in naught but a pair of close-fitting brown leggings, leather boots, and a gold armband encircling one thick bicep. A sheathed sword and knife hung from his belt.

  Every hard plane and angle of his shoulders and chest and powerful arms was exposed to view. From his unyielding stance to the blunt tips of his fingers, he looked as strong and solid as the rocks that sliced up the sea below his keep.

  He moved away from the window, and a moment later the center of the room flared with the glow of fire, as he used flint and steel to light the candles in an iron candle-stand. The golden warmth flickered over his back and arms, casting every muscle and sinew in sharp relief.

  “Put the weapon down,” he said without looking at her.

  Avril shivered. It was not a suggestion but a command. He spoke in the same way he moved—with an air of authority. As if he owned not only this place but everything in it.

  She felt renewed fear curl in her belly. But she did not comply. She tightened her hand around the blade’s hilt, ignoring the sting in her injured palm.

  Carrying one of the candles, he moved even closer to light a second candelabra. Avril held her ground—and, in the growing brightness, felt surprised to see that she was not in a bedchamber after all.

  There were cook pots, copper utensils, and a cauldron beside the hearth. A table for eating in one corner. Shelves that held linens and soaps for washing, next to a rain barrel. This odd dwelling seemed to be some sort of long, one-room home.

  Finished with his task, her abductor glanced toward her, mouth open as if he meant to issue another command. But then his gaze fastened on the revealing silk kirtle and skimmed down her body, taking in every inch of skin illuminated by the light.

  Those pale azure eyes suddenly darkened in a blaze of heat. Avril inhaled sharply, filled with feminine alarm at the obvious direction of his thoughts. Every instinct urged her to flee, yet she could not move. And could not understand the tingle that coursed through her limbs, holding her fast.

  “I left a tunic for you.” His voice sounded even deeper than before. A muscle flexed in his lean jaw. “Did you not see it?” He nodded toward the foot of the bed, where a garment of black velvet lay draped over a trunk.

  “I-I was more interested in finding a way out!” She tried to keep her voice from wavering, looked at the distant door. Wondered if she dared try to run past him. “Where am I?” she demanded, deciding boldness was her only choice at the moment. “Who the devil are you and what do you—”

  “Put down the blade,” he repeated with measured patience, “and we will discuss this”—he seemed to search for the appropriate word—”situation calmly.”

  “Calmly?” She sputtered. “I have been attacked by brigands, kidnapped, carried off to sweet Mary knows where, locked in a room, and now—”

  “Milady,” he said in soft warning. Without another word, he advanced toward her, his patience apparently at an end. She retreated only a step.

  Then she retreated three more.

  As he kept coming, she decided that discretion might be better than valor at the moment. She dashed toward the bed, snatching up the black velvet tunic on the way and clutching it in front of her. She tossed the weapon into the center of the rumpled sheets.

  “There. There, are you satisfied?” She kept moving, maneuvering around until the huge bed was between them. The sword was still within reach if she chose to lunge for it.

  But he seemed placated for now. He kept his distance, reaching out to close his fingers around one of the dragon-headed posts.

  “If I had meant you any harm,” he grated out, pronouncing each word distinctly, as if she were a slow-witted child, “if I had intended to kill you, or do aught else”—his gaze flicked over her body again—”I already had ample opportunity. You will have to trust me.”

  Trust him? Trust him! Avril choked back a biting retort and quickly pulled the tunic over her head. It was obviously one of his, the sleeves much too long, the hem falling to her ankles. But at least she no longer felt as exposed as she did wearing only the ridiculous scrap of silk.

  “Where am I?” she repeated more calmly once she was dressed, trying not to provoke him again. “How far are we from Antwerp? How long was I asleep?”

  “You were asleep...” He paused, clearly choosing his words carefully. “A short time. I brought you here early this morn. That gown was the only female garment I had at the time. I have brought you some others, along with some additional female trappings you might require.” He nodded toward a pair of sacks he had left on the far side of the room. “As for where you are, this is Asgard Island. I bid you...” He paused again, sighing tiredly. “Welcome.”

  Despite the greeting, his attitude was hardly hospitable. Naught that he was saying made any sense. This man had kidnapped her, yet he did not seem to want her here.

  In fact, from the way his fingers gripped the bedpost, she had the distinct impression he wanted to throttle something. Or someone.

  “Asgard Island?” she echoed, searching her memory for all the names of places she had read about, all the places Gerard used to describe when he spoke of his travels. “I have never heard of it.”

  Those blue eyes met hers again. “I know.”

  Somehow that simple comment was more terrifying than aught else he could have said. “Who are you?” she whispered. “And what do you want with me?”

  “My name is Hauk Valbrand.” He inclined his head politely. “And in truth, I do not want you at all.”

  Before she could ask him to explain that baffling comment, he continued.

  “My only intention in the marketplace was to keep Thorolf from—”

  “Who?”

  “The man who was about to kill you. Thorolf. You angered him, and he is not a forgiving sort. If I had not stepped in to rescue you, you would have been drawn and quartered.”

  “Rescue?” She clung to that word, her heart pounding with hope. “If your only intention was to rescue me, does that mean you intend to let me go?”

  He stepped away from the bed, turning his back and staring down at the fire, “Nay,” he said, his tone one of regret. “That I cannot do.”

  Avril was becoming more puzzled by the moment. “I-is it ransom you are seeking, then?” she guessed. Taking hostages was a common enough tactic used by men of a certain ilk, to gain riches or power from noble families.

  He choked out a laugh, a humorless sound. “Does it look as if I am lacking in wealth, milady?”

  She glanced around the room, seeing everything clearly in the wavering light. The long, single chamber was not only the size of a great hall—it was filled with fine goods, tapestries, costly artifacts, furnishings of every description. One nearby trunk, its top wide open, held an overflowing pile of silver and gold coins in many sizes, including some that looked ancient.

  Her stomach started churning. Clearly her abductor was not in need of more riches. “Then why have you kidnapped me?”

 
“Because once I claimed you, I had no choice,” he bit out. “Neither of us has a choice any longer, milady.”

  She shook her head, unable to breathe. “You are not making sense. Naught you have said makes any sense! What do you want with me? What happened to my friend—”

  “Your friend is safe and well, as you are,” he assured her. “Neither of you has come to any harm, and neither of you will. You have my word.”

  “What good is the word of a knave and a brigand who kidnaps defenseless women?”

  “You are hardly defenseless,” he said dryly, turning to regard her once again. “And though you may believe me a brigand, I am in fact honor-bound to protect and care for you now. I know this is difficult for you to accept, milady.” He raked a hand through his tangled blond hair, looking frustrated. “You will understand eventually. But there is no time now to explain further. We are late for the althing—”

  “The all-what?”

  “Althing. There is a meeting of our council of elders tonight, and your presence is required.” He gestured toward the sacks he had brought in for her. “Change your garments. Let us be on our way.”

  Avril gaped at him. Simple as that, he expected her to obey him? “Listen, you... you... overgrown oaf, I do not know who you are—”

  “I have told you my name.” He frowned. “I suppose I should ask yours.”

  “Lady Avril de Varennes,” she supplied hotly. “Of the family of the Duc Gaston de Varennes of the Artois.” She emphasized the word duc. “Mayhap you have heard of him. Mayhap you realize now what a mistake you have made. The Varennes family holds favor with King Philippe himself. They will be looking for me—”

  “They will not find you.”

  The confident way he stated that made Avril’s breath catch in her throat. “You are wrong! They will not rest until they find me. And when the duc’s men get their hands on you—”

  “They will not.”

  Again he said it as a simple matter of fact. Avril started to tremble. Her mind was spinning. She felt as if she were caught in a nightmare from which she could not awaken.