“Will we reach Asgard in time?” Keldan asked desperately, glancing from Bjarn to the other man’s still form, covered by a blanket. “Will he recover?”
“Nei, Kel,” Hauk said quietly.
Keldan’s expression became stricken.
Coughing, Bjarn opened his eyes, gripping Hauk’s forearm. “She is... beautiful, ja?”
“Ja, that she is,” Hauk replied, knowing the young man was referring to the red-haired English girl he had chosen. Even wounded, Bjarn had managed to carry her safely aboard.
“Would have made... a fine... wife.” His mouth curving in a peaceful smile, the young raider breathed his last, his eyes on the stars.
“Nei,” Keldan whispered. “Nei, this cannot be!”
Jaw clenched, Hauk gently closed Bjarn’s eyes and pulled a blanket over him. “It will not help to keep watch,” he said gruffly, addressing Keldan and the others who remained huddled around the two friends they had lost. “They will not awaken again. See to your women.”
For a long moment, the raiders seemed unable to move. One whispered a prayer to Tyr, the god of war. Another cursed. Then, one by one, the silent, anguished men of Asgard moved to starboard and port and into the stern, returning to the brides they had won at such great cost.
The women, who had been sobbing or cursing when they were carried aboard, had all quieted after the men gently covered their faces with cloths soaked in the juice of the sommer root. They would sleep throughout the journey. It was a necessary precaution, so the captives would never be able to reveal the island’s location.
They would awake to a new life, in a new world.
“I begin to understand what you said earlier,” Keldan choked out as he and Hauk reclaimed their places near the tiller. “I do not like the outside world so well after all.”
Hauk nodded and said naught, his throat dry and tight. He had not wanted Kel and the others to learn the lessons of loss and grief—lessons he himself had learned too well.
Keldan fell silent, his earlier, jovial mood gone. Not even the petite brunette asleep beside him could chase away his somber expression. He eased her into his arms.
Thorolf still looked utterly unrepentant. “Had the two of you not interfered with me, none of this would have happened. No one would have noticed—”
“It is hard not to notice you hacking up a guardsman in the middle of a crowded street,” Hauk shot back. “You violated our laws—”
“I was defending myself. Keldan is the one who violated the laws. That woman was to have been mine.” His gaze settled on the little brunette. “I saw her first. Since she was stolen from me, I will take Bjarn’s female—”
“After what you have done, you do not deserve either of them.” Keldan’s arm tightened protectively around the girl he had claimed.
“That will be for the council of elders to decide,” Thorolf said smugly.
“If I were you,” Hauk warned him, “I would not be so quick to speak to the council concerning this night’s events.”
Thorolf fell silent, rubbing at his blood-soaked, bandaged arm, dividing a glare equally between Hauk and Keldan and the unconscious woman next to Hauk.
Keldan glanced at the sleeping demoiselle curled up on Hauk’s cloak, his eyes full of concern. “How is she?”
Hauk looked down at his captive, gently brushing a strand of spice-colored hair back from her bruised cheek. “I believe Thorolf may have broken her jaw, but she will recover.”
“I am glad, my friend. She is perfect for you. Not only beautiful, but brave enough to take on a man twice her size, armed only with a knife.”
Hauk lifted his gaze, giving Keldan a pained look. “I have you to thank for this. I did not want a new bride. Especially some mad Valkyrie who is as quick with a blade as a man.”
“But like it or not, she is yours.”
Hauk swore under his breath, studying his unwanted prize. After all the commotion in Antwerp, she had a black smudge on her cheek, its shape like a teardrop.
He reached into a bucket of drinking water, wet his hand, and brushed the mark away with his thumb, leaving a trail of dampness behind.
“Ja,” he agreed at last. He could not deny the truth of Keldan’s words. Nor could he disobey the law. He had spoken the words twice, in the presence of another Asgard islander. I claim her, he had shouted in the midst of that insanity in the street. I claim her.
At the time, it had been the only way to keep Thorolf from killing her. But with those words, this fiery, green-eyed demoiselle had become his.
Now and for the rest of her life, she was his.
Chapter 4
The gentle crackling of a fire drew Avril slowly to awareness, the sound pleasant, familiar. Soothing. She tried to open her eyes but could not summon the strength. Her entire body felt so heavy, drowsy. So... strange. She could feel soft, smooth sheets against her skin and a plump, downy pillow beneath her cheek. The scent of woodsmoke tickled her nose.
Struggling to awaken, she managed to lift her lashes, just long enough to catch a glimpse of a stone hearth a few feet away, a fire dancing merrily in the darkness, before her eyes closed again.
She groaned, her mind as befuddled and sleepy as the rest of her. Where was she? She could not remember. It seemed odd, though, that Giselle would allow her to remain abed this way, without scampering about and demanding that her maman wake up...
But nay, her sweet girl was not with her. She had left Giselle with Gaston and Celine. Left her in their care when she—
Went to Antwerp.
Avril’s heart lurched in her chest. Her eyes snapped open as it all came crashing back: the fair, the marketplace, the giant of a man who had attacked her and Josette.
Josette! Where was Josette?
With a choked cry, Avril pushed herself up on one elbow, trembling with the effort, forcing her limbs to obey. Blinking, she looked around her. And felt as if a lead weight had dropped through the pit of her stomach.
She was in an unfamiliar chamber, one unlike any she had seen before. The hearth provided a scant circle of light around the bed she was in, just enough for her to make out walls paneled in glossy, dark wood, square rafters high overhead, a ceiling that looked like it was made of tree bark. The tops of the bed’s four curving posts had been carved to look like dragon’s heads complete with jeweled eyes that reflected the fire’s glow.
Her heart thudding, Avril peered into the darkness beyond the footboard. “Is... is anyone there?” Her voice sounded like a dry croak. Her throat felt parched. “Where am I?”
There was no reply but the echo of her own words. The room sounded as if it were the size of a great hall, and seemed to be much longer than it was wide. She could not tell, could not begin to see the opposite end.
She pushed back the blankets that covered her and stumbled to her feet, strength returning as her heart pumped fear and outrage through her veins. What had happened? Who had brought her here?
And why had they left her alone?
She took a few shaky steps away from the bed, feeling a cool, stone floor beneath her feet.
“Is anyone there?” she repeated, trying to sound bold and challenging rather than frightened out of her wits.
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 s
truggled 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.
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