The Shipwreck

by Glynnis Campbell

  Kimbery gasped.

  “Oh, she wasn’t surprised. She knew all about Osbern’s trickery and expected such shameful behavior. She leaped out of the way, and the point of his sword plunged into the mud beside her. Ignoring all the rules of chivalry, he dove at her, intending to wrest her to the ground, where he could pummel her with his fists, like the dishonorable dog that he was. But she was light and quick, and she skipped out of his reach. One clever slice of her sword, and Osbern fell to the sod with his trews around his ankles.”

  Kimbery giggled. “What about the last brother?”

  “When it came time to battle Wilfred, her last brother, the warrior woman tossed off her helm and showed her face.”

  “Why, Mama?”

  “Because Wilfred believed that women were made to be the servants of men, and she wanted him to know exactly who was getting the better of him.”

  “What did he say when he saw who she was?”

  “He called her bad names.”

  “What bad names?”

  “They’re so bad, I can’t repeat them.”

  Brandr smiled at that.

  “But the other brothers—Eldred, Grimbol, and Osbern—were as angry as bees when they found out they’d been beaten by their own sister. So they yelled at Wilfred to clout her soundly.”

  “Oh, nay, Mama.”

  “But try as he might, Wilfred couldn’t lay a hand on her, for she was nimble and strong. You see, while her brothers had lain lazily about, boasting of their skills, she’d spent long hours practicing. She eventually managed to smack his arse with the flat of her sword and sent him crashing into his other brothers.”

  Kimbery laughed long and hard. “Smack his arse!”

  The woman couldn’t help but laugh along, which made Brandr grin.

  “Aye. And when she’d defeated them all, a servant who’d seen the entire battle ran to tell their father. Her father was so proud of her, he gave her a beautiful jeweled sword as a prize, saying that it was she who should rightfully inherit his lands.”

  A strange shiver ran up Brandr’s spine. He glanced at the jeweled sword in the corner. Could the story be true? Pictish women were said to be able to handle a blade. But could she possibly be the intrepid swordswoman in the story? Surely not. Surely the tale was a work of imagination. After all, the heroine of her story had become a landed heiress. This woman lived in a humble hovel.

  “Did she live happily ever after, Mama?”

  There was a hesitation. “Oh, I’m sure she did.”

  “Mama,” Kimbery announced, “I want a sword.”

  “You have a sword.”

  Brandr raised a brow. The little girl had a sword?

  “Not a wooden sword. A real sword,” Kimbery said.

  “When you’re older.”

  “And I want brothers to fight with,” she added.

  “That I can’t promise you.”

  “I want to be a warrior just like the lady in the story.”

  Her mother chuckled. “You’ll be twice as good as the lady in the story.”

  “Mama, can we practice sparring?”

  “Tomorrow,” she promised, “but only if you get a good night’s rest.”

  After she finished tucking in her daughter, the woman emerged again. Brandr quickly sized her up and decided the story couldn’t be true. She might be able to wield a blade, but no sweet-faced maid could possibly vanquish four seasoned warriors.

  CHAPTER 6

  The next morning, Brandr woke with a face full of sheep. He sputtered and reared back as far as he could, which wasn’t far, since he was on a short leash.

  “Caimbeul likes you,” Kimbery informed him.

  He grimaced as the smell of the ewe hit him full force. “Gah!”

  “Don’t you like her?” she asked.

  He blinked the sleep from his eyes. The little girl had obeyed her mother—she was staying out of his reach—but she was holding the sheep on a rope and letting it nuzzle him with its crooked mouth.

  “Shouldn’t she be outside?” he whispered.

  “Shh. Don’t tell Mama. She doesn’t like when I—“

  “Kimmie,” came a sleepy voice from the bedchamber. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Nobody.”

  There was a sudden thrash of linens and the woman rushed into the room, a warning ring in her voice as she came. “You’d better not be going near that Vi-...” When she saw that Kimbery was safe, the anxiety deserted her eyes. Then she saw the ewe. “How did that sheep get in here?”

  Kimbery shrugged. “Caimbeul wanted to see my da. I’m going to put her back.”

  “I’ve told you a hundred times, Kimmie, sheep don’t belong in the house. And he’s not your da. Now if you don’t take that animal out of here this instant…”

  Brandr grew deaf to her scolding as he took note of the woman’s attire. By Odin, she was clad in little more than a sheer linen shift, rumpled from sleep. One side had slipped down, exposing the smooth, round cap of her shoulder. There she had a blue tattoo like those engraved on Pict warriors. It was an intriguing three-looped knot that had no beginning or end. Her hair was mussed in a careless way that reminded him of long nights tussling in bed. Her feet were deliciously bare, and her frayed shift revealed the supple curve of her calf and her ankle, which also bore an inked design, this one in the shape of a broken sword. But it was her mouth that was the most alluring. He remembered that mouth now. He’d kissed her, and her lips had been as sweet and soft as wild blackberries.

  His loins tightened, and guilt made him grind his teeth against desire. But willing it away didn’t make it disappear, and while the woman continued to herd the sheep and her daughter out of the cottage, Brandr fought to keep his thoughts on survival, escape, anything but the beautiful, feminine silhouette revealed by the dawning sun as she opened the door.

  Avril silently cursed herself for oversleeping. Keeping Kimbery safe meant being up and about before the wee lass could get herself into trouble. She’d certainly found trouble this morning, letting the ewe into the cottage. Avril wondered if she’d been such a handful at that age.

  From the doorway, she watched Kimmie lead the sheep back to her pen. “Make sure you close the gate,” she called.

  Then she turned and caught the Northman staring at her. He looked like a warrior, stern and hardened, about to march into battle. His eyes were hooded, and his jaw was tight. His chest rose and fell with a deep breath as his gaze slowly coursed up the length of her. Finally, he met her eyes.

  A flash of heat like lightning seared her as she recognized his expression. She’d been wrong. It wasn’t a warrior’s bloodlust. It was desire, pure and direct. Her breath caught, and her face turned to flame. But his ice-blue gaze did nothing to quench the fire, instead fueling her distress.

  She clenched her fists. She should curse him, clout him, kick him. Yet she did nothing. Though the urge to rebuff him was strong, the compelling lust in his eyes was even stronger.

  She licked her lips. Against her will, her gaze drifted down to his mouth. She remembered the light touch of his hands upon her face, the warmth of his breath, the taste of his kiss. What scared her was that a part of her longed to feel it again.

  And if Kimbery hadn’t burst in upon them at that moment, she didn’t know what might have happened.

  “Mama! Mama!” Kimbery cried, jumping up and down, waving her wooden sword. “Spar with me! Spar with me!”

  Avril cleared her throat. Of course. Sparring had always helped her when she felt emotionally out of sorts. She could take up her sword and slash away at anger, fear, and, in this case, desire, and defeat them soundly before they could get the best of her.

  “You promised,” Kimbery reminded her.

  “I did promise. Just let me get…dressed.” A blush stole up her cheek as she realized she’d rushed out in her nightclothes. No wonder the Northman was looking at her like that.

  She avoided his gaze as she swept past, but she couldn’t avoid hearing the
conversation between the Viking and her daughter while she dressed in the next room.

  “Do you have a sword?” Kimbery asked.

  “I did.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “I lost it in the sea.”

  “Maybe Mama can get you a new one.”

  “Kimbery,” Avril warned, “are you talking to that man?”

  “Nay,” she lied. “I’m talking to Maeve.”

  Avril heard only whispers after that until she emerged.

  “Watch me, Da!” Kimbery cried, leaping about with her wooden sword, battling an unseen enemy.

  But the Northman’s eyes were fixed upon Avril as if nothing else existed.

  Brandr’s breath caught in his chest. He’d heard legends about female Pict warriors, but he’d never seen a woman dressed, or rather undressed, in such a manner. She’d foregone her confining linen underdress and wore only her sleeveless kirtle, which gave her a greater range of motion and revealed the blue design on her shoulder and her sleek-muscled arms. Riding low on her hips was a leather swordbelt carved with intricate designs. She’d tucked the kirtle back up under the belt so that it bloused halfway down her thighs, exposing a pair of long, lovely legs that were tucked into short seal-fur boots.

  If he’d thought the sight of the woman in her nightclothes was alluring, it didn’t compare to the vision of her dressed for battle. Perhaps that was the secret of Pict warfare. What foe could fight such a distracting beauty?

  “Watch me! Watch me!” the little girl was yelling as she leaped about. It took all of Brandr’s willpower to drag his gaze away from the lass’s breathtaking mother.

  “Kimbery, not in the house,” she scolded.

  “But I want Da to see me.”

  “We’ll leave the door open.” She gave him a look then that said the door would be open, not so he could watch the little girl, but so she could keep an eye on him.

  Which was fine with him. After spending the night on a leash with a throbbing broken arm and waking to a stinking sheep nuzzling at his ear, he figured he deserved the reward of watching a woman cavort about half-naked.

  What began as a pleasurable pastime quickly turned into torment. It had been more than a year since Brandr had bedded a woman, and his body responded as eagerly as a starving man seated at a feast. As the woman flexed and lunged in preparation for sparring, she unknowingly taunted him with her taut, slender arms and her silky thighs. Her garment clung to her body, hugging every subtle curve. Each time she twirled to change direction, her skirt flipped up, and he couldn’t help but watch for a glimpse of something more.

  She hunkered down beside her daughter, giving her instruction, and his gaze slipped over her rounded knees. She wrapped her arms around Kimbery, showing her how to hold the sword, and he observed the nuanced play of the muscles of her shoulder. She stood, planting her feet wide apart, and he admired her shapely calves.

  “Can you see me?” Kimbery called out to him.

  He gave a guilty start. “Aye,” he croaked. The truth was he’d scarcely given her a glance, so transfixed by her mother was he.

  “Pay heed, Kimbery,” the woman warned. “Don’t get distracted.”

  The little girl began hacking away at her mother with her wooden sword, and the woman easily defended herself, coming around slowly and carefully with her own steel blade. He’d never seen a woman wielding a sword before, and her skill surprised him. He wondered how good she was when she wasn’t checking her blows.

  Of course, she was no match for a Viking. But it was admirable that she was teaching her daughter useful fighting techniques. It would keep the little girl from becoming easy prey.

  He continued to watch as she demonstrated proper shield technique, showed Kimbery how to dodge blows, and the two of them practiced diving to the ground, rolling, and coming up with blades at the ready.

  As they sparred, tendrils of the woman’s hair came loose from her long braid. Her cheeks grew rosy, her skin glowed, and her chest heaved with each exertion. She reminded him of the women he’d pleasured in his bed when he was a single, virile, carefree young man. He suddenly longed to snatch away her sword, carry her off, toss up her skirts, and ease his desires upon her battle-warmed body. And this troubled him deeply.

  Avril found it difficult to concentrate when the Northman was staring at her. She didn’t return his stare, but she could feel his eyes upon her. She’d left the door open for more than one reason. Aye, she wanted to keep an eye on him—she was fairly sure he’d already made an attempt to escape—but she also wanted him to see that she was no ordinary frail lass. She could hold her own with a sword. And he’d have a fight on his hands if he tried to challenge her. She’d been a victim once. She didn’t intend to be one again.

  “Did you see me, Da?” Kimbery yelled after she’d done a perfect forward roll and lunged forward with her wooden sword.

  “Aye,” he called back, “well done.” But his gaze wasn’t on Kimbery. He was looking at Avril again with that smoldering heat, like a wolf about to devour a lamb.

  She gulped. No one had ever looked at her with such hunger. It made her knees weak and warmed her all over. Curious lightning charged the air, an uncontrollable current born of the strange attraction between them. It sucked the will from her and made her long to do things against her nature—to go to him, to touch him, to kiss him—which terrified her, because her sword was a useless weapon against her own desire.

  But fear turned quickly to self-loathing and then fury. Troubled by her wayward emotions and reminding herself that he was her enemy, that his kind had murdered her people and ruined her life, she broke off her gaze and shook free with a shudder, trying to focus again on her lesson with Kimbery.

  “Mama, I want to spar with Da,” the little girl said, skipping in a circle.

  Sweeping her blade sharply through the air, Avril barked, “Don’t call him that!”

  Kimbery stopped skipping. “What should I call him, Mama?”

  Avril could think of a dozen names for the Viking, none fit for the ears of a child. Before she could choose one, he answered.

  “Brandr,” he called from the cottage. “My name is Brandr.”

  It was a strong name—a strong name for a strong man. But she didn’t want to know his name. Knowing his name made things worse. He was easy to despise when he was simply a Viking, a Northman, a marauder. Calling him Brandr made him a man of flesh and blood.

  “Can Brandr fight with us, Mama?”

  “Nay.”

  “Why not?” Kimmie asked.

  He answered before she had a chance. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you, little one.”

  Avril smirked at that. “He’s afraid he might lose.”

  Brandr lifted a brow and gave her a cocky smile. “Not even with a broken arm.”

  His grin sent a shiver through her. She hoped it was a shiver of revulsion. She feared it was something else, something that made her feel lightheaded and foolhardy, almost crazy enough to free him and let him try…almost.

  But she wasn’t a fool. She couldn’t let him bait her.

  “My name’s Kimmie,” Kimbery informed him, holding her sword high over her head. “And Mama’s name is Avril.”

  Avril choked. She didn’t want him to know her name. The exchange of names suggested an intimacy she didn’t want to encourage.

  “Pleased to meet you, Kimmie,” he said with a polite nod. Her name, however, came out on a purr. “Avril.”

  She bristled. That was exactly why she’d wished to remain nameless. Already he breathed her name as if they were lovers. Already it felt like he was insinuating his way under her skin.

  “Come on, Kimmie,” she said, shaking off the uneasy shiver that had passed through her. “Let’s show the Viking what we do to men who think they can hurt us.”

  She hoped to impress upon him that the ladies of Rivenloch were not to be trifled with or underestimated. But she also worried that his shipmates might show up. So she taught Kimbery some u
seful defensive ploys in addition to straightforward sword fighting. She showed her how to use her elbows to jab a belly, her heels to stamp on toes, her teeth to bite fingers, and her fists to punch a man where it hurt most.

  So enrapt was she with teaching Kimbery survival skills that she didn’t notice the figure stealing up on the cottage until it was too late. But the instant she saw the glint of metal, her worst fears were realized. It could be no one else. The Northman’s shipmates must have come looking for him.

  Without a second glance, she swung Kimbery up and pushed her toward the cottage door. “Go!”

  For once, Kimbery didn’t question her, but rushed inside.

  Her Viking prisoner, however, called out, “Is it my men?”

  She didn’t answer him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Wheeling immediately with her blade drawn and her heart racing, she faced the oncoming threat.

  But it wasn’t his men. It was her neighbor, the one who’d given her the sheep. She lowered her shoulders in relief. While she watched the man make his way toward her, she saw that he wielded, not a sword, but a spade.

  “Erik!” Brandr called out suddenly from behind her. “Gunnarr!”

  Her eyes widened. Shite! She couldn’t let her neighbor find the Northman.

  She whipped her head around and hissed at him. “Hush! It’s not your men!”

  The last thing she saw before she lunged for the door, slamming it shut, was the perplexed furrow between the Viking’s brows.

  Brandr bellowed out a curse. Unfortunately, he startled the little girl, who now looked as if she might burst into tears.

  “Shh, Kimmie. I’m sorry,” he soothed. “It’s all right.”

  But he wasn’t so sure. He wished the woman hadn’t slammed the door between them. If it wasn’t his men out there, who was it? Thieves? Murderers? Though he realized it was completely contrary to reason at the moment—Avril was his enemy, after all—his instinct to protect women rose to the surface, overriding everything else. Whoever was out there evidently posed a threat to her. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have pushed Kimbery into the cottage.