The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  A sudden thought wormed its way to the forefront. What if this unexpected option was the simple solution to her future, a way to ensure that she could stay in her castle for life? Surely her father would be pleased if she married his right-hand man—the one he would doubtless leave his castle to, since he had no male heirs.

  This time, no books could assuage the pounding of her heart. Outside, thunder pounded and rain swept across the moors, spraying mist into her open windows. She jumped from her bed, slamming the shutters together and drawing the iron bar across them for good measure. She wished she could lock her thoughts away so easily, but it was impossible now that Ronan’s face had betrayed his true feelings. Was this an answer to her prayers?

  This would be a surprise attack. Ari Thorvaldsson cast a lingering glance at his family’s chain-mail shirt, which he would leave behind to enable more stealth. His closest friend, Sigfrid, gave him a meaningful stare with his one functioning eye.

  “What was the real purpose of this voyage, Ari?”

  What sort of question was that? The entire crew understood his motivation to avenge his brother’s blood, spilled in this deceptively green place—Ireland, some called it. The clan responsible for Egil’s death must feel the wrath of the Northmen, as had so many others on this fair isle.

  Feeling weighted by the heavy, humid air, Ari chose his weapon carefully and did not answer. He was most comfortable with his sword, its name carved in the blade: Peacebreaker. Surely it was an apt name, since peace had been stolen from him with Egil’s untimely death. His brother had only been sixteen when he fell in a raid on this very castle.

  Sigfrid pressed him again. “Are you certain you want to attack?”

  A sudden twinge of doubt reared its head. He had only been ten himself when his brother was slain. His father forced him to stay with his mother on the longship, waiting for the outcome of the struggle. Although he could barely remember the castle his family had raided, he could still close his eyes and smell the pungent blood that had spread across Egil’s chest that day.

  His eyes fixed on the odd mountain backing this castle, its point similar to the beak of one of Odin’s ravens. Strange that he could not recall it from his youth.

  Sigfrid had not been with his family during that raid, so he could not confirm Ari’s memory. But he had followed the course his father had mentioned, and the lines of the castle looked so familiar. This was the one.

  Blond strands of hair escaped their leather binding as Ari nodded forcefully. “Of course we must attack. We did not sail here to trade or explore. We came for vengeance.”

  Sigfrid nodded. “Then take care as you scout for us.”

  Thunder boomed, and he sheathed Peacebreaker, taking his shorter knife in hand. This sharp angled seax would serve him well in close quarters. He hoped to gain access to the castle grounds before anyone could send up an alarm.

  The men had set up camp last night and would soon lose the benefit of surprise. Ari knew they were still exhausted from the long voyage to this Irish inlet. He had to move now that twilight was falling.

  He gave a nod to his men. No words were necessary. If they heard his battle cry, no force on earth could stop them, no matter how exhausted they were. Like a wave of heat and hatred, Vikings would sweep the offensive castle clean.

  The rain moved in heavy sheets, forming deep puddles and loosening Ari’s footing. Creeping cautiously among the wet tangle of berry vines inside the walled garden, he hoped the tightly stitched seams of his leather boots would keep his feet dry. There was nothing he hated more than cold, soaked feet. At home, when he checked traps in the deep snows, there had been several times he’d feared frostbite would take his toes.

  He glanced back at the circuitous route he’d taken to creep up to the rear of the castle. Clambering the stone wall hadn’t been easy in the near dark, but it was surprisingly low. Perhaps the Irish were prepared for shorter invaders, or perhaps they anticipated attacks only on the castle gate in the front. He had spied but a single guard stationed there.

  It was possible that he had timed his attack well, when the castle wasn’t fully manned. And the crashing storm had provided effortless concealment. It was a sign: the gods smiled upon this raid.

  He clenched his jaw. Who was he fooling? The gods hadn’t protected his brother. They hadn’t given him any happiness in the years he had tried to please his father, stepping into the position of heir. They had never even brought him a woman interesting enough to marry.

  He fingered the ancient bronze bottle he kept belted inside his tunic. It was unwieldy, but it was his heritage, and he didn’t want to die without it. It was a trophy from his ancestor, who had bravely sailed west, to this very country, and plundered the holy men who lived here. This bottle and its story had passed to each Thorvaldsson heir. Ari stomached the thought that Egil should have inherited it and pushed on.

  Candlelight flickered in the window then disappeared. This was his chance. He gripped his seax, ready to slash at anyone inside. For Egil, he told himself. For Egil he would bring this castle to its knees.

  Chapter Two

  Spinning her mother’s amber ring on her finger, Britta closed her eyes, picturing Ronan’s intense gaze and how his sleek dark hair matched his neatly trimmed beard. Why had she never thought of him as a suitor? He was surely handsome, turning women’s heads wherever he went.

  Maybe it was because he talked to her as a friend—almost as one of the men. When he spoke with her father about taking animals to trade or building onto the castle, he had a way of pulling her into the conversation. Ronan took her opinions seriously; she was sure of that.

  Florie rapped and opened the door, once again interrupting her musings. She stood just inside the room, awkwardly shifting on her feet. “Apologies if the oatcakes did not please.”

  Britta walked to her side, pulling her into a hug. She could never be angry with such a loyal friend.

  “The oatcakes were tasty. Perhaps I used too much butter. My stomach has settled considerably.”

  Florie brightened.

  Britta continued. “I wondered—has Ronan ever spoken to you about me?”

  The nursemaid’s freckled cheeks flooded with sudden color. “Well, now. I am not certain what you mean.”

  She was blunt. “Does he care for me, as more than just a friend?”

  Florie hedged. “To be sure, he’s never said a peep to me along those lines.” She shot her a shrewd look. “But I’ve noticed he lets you win at the table games, which is contrary to his competitive nature. He also dashes outside the moment you announce you’re taking a walk. And you remember the spring festival? There were so many eligible clansmen there, practically swarmin’ around you. Ronan stayed right by your side, do you recall?”

  She did. She had thought nothing of it at the time, because Ronan knew she was uncomfortable in large crowds and she’d assumed he was trying to set her at ease. Yet the way Florie described it, he had been protecting her from the advances of other men.

  Abruptly, Florie moved toward the clattering shutters, giving a futile tug at the iron bar, which was already secure. “Listen to that driving rain! I’d better feed the guards now. They’ll be soaked to the bone.” She hurried from the room.

  Florie’s observations and her nervous behavior confirmed Britta’s suspicions. Ronan did care for her. And what was wrong with that? He could read Latin. He loved God, as she did. He was well regarded by her father. Indeed, life with Ronan would be comfortable. But was it a comfortable life that God had called her to?

  Stooping, Ari silently rushed the side entry door. The dimming light of an oil lamp on the scullery wall indicated that someone had been here recently. He crept forward, thankful he hadn’t worn the clinking chain mail.

  A sense of echoing spaciousness met him as he passed through the next door. Embers died in a square hearth by the wall, casting long shadows. This must be the great hall. But where were the residents?

  He sensed a movement to his right
, but before he could turn to see if someone was there, a dull thud slammed into his stomach. A muffled cry jolted from his lips. Furious, Ari stabbed into the dark, in the direction of the attacker. Another blow fell, this time crushing his foot. Even as he tried to plunge farther, hot pain stabbed at his toes, driving him to the stone floor.

  Not far away, a woman gave a horrified shout, filling the vaulted space. Ari tried to drag himself back to the doorway, but his long, large limbs would not respond. It was as if his crushed foot pinned his entire body to the ground.

  Candles and lights surged toward him. He could make out the sturdy form of the woman who had screamed. She babbled in her native tongue, waving her hands like birds’ wings. Three men drew closer, their lights forming a circle around him. A dark-haired man stooped to retrieve an object from the floor. Ari felt sick when he recognized the bronze spikes attached to a thick stick. He had been attacked with a mace. It was a wonder he had survived.

  The man seemed to reprimand the older woman, who continued gesturing to the mace. She must have been the one who had flailed it at Ari, with all the ineptitude of a child wielding his first wooden sword. The bronze head of the mace was too heavy for her to handle, and she must have dropped it right on his foot. He realized the family bottle, tucked in his tunic, had deflected her first ill-placed blow to his chest. Otherwise his insides would have been mangled.

  The dark-haired man was in charge, and he seemed to be pondering how to dispose of Ari in the most efficient manner. But the man’s attentions were diverted when a single flickering candle moved down the stairs.

  The golden light barely outlined a distinctly female form. As the woman approached, Ari sensed the power shifting from the dark-haired man to her. The circle of onlookers opened and she stepped forward, her black eyebrows raised in concern.

  Slowly, she knelt by his side. Her feet crushed the lavender and rosemary strewn on the floor, releasing their scent afresh. The dark-haired man took her by the elbow and pulled her back to a standing position.

  The older woman launched into her narrative again, only this time, she spoke slowly enough that Ari understood some of the words. His father owned Irish slaves, and he had listened closely and learned their language so he could converse with them. The woman seemed to be repeating the words Northman and giant. He grinned.

  At this, the young woman with the tumbling black hair leaned in, holding the candle over Ari’s chest. A hot drop of wax spattered onto his tunic, but he did not flinch, even as it burned his stomach.

  The dark-haired man noted Ari’s reaction, his face hardening.

  As pain seared through his foot again, Ari curled up tighter, trying to relieve the pressure. He inwardly cursed himself for being reduced to such a position. Why didn’t the man just run him through with his sword? Perhaps these Irish were torturers.

  When he opened his eyes, a milk-white face hovered close. Fjord-blue eyes met his.

  She spoke only one word, but it was a word he knew.

  Healing.

  Britta could not tear her eyes from the Northman. Even curled into a ball, it took all three guards and Ronan to move him to a pallet in her father’s chamber upstairs. She had never seen a man so tall and large, saving perhaps Crim, son of the swineherd. And Crim was as filthy as his swine most of the time.

  It was puzzling: She had been told that the Vikings were dirty, crawling with bugs and reeking like the corpses of their victims. This man’s clothing was not unkempt, and his skin and hair were not foul. Only the faint scent of smoke clung to him.

  The hulking blond man had remained mostly quiet until one of the guard’s hands accidentally slipped from his shin to his bloody foot. He unleashed a roar that nearly made the guards drop him, and she could not restrain her gasp.

  Ronan’s eyes were steely as he deposited the Viking, none too gently, on the pallet. He had not approved of her suggestion to rehabilitate the man before her father returned to execute judgment. She had to admit, Ronan’s idea of a swift death might be the better plan. The Viking’s eyes flashed with unconcealed hatred, and she knew he brought an unprecedented threat to their peaceful inlet.

  Yet when his pale, blue-silver eyes paused on hers, his candid gaze spoke louder than words. He longed for certainty, as she did. Perhaps even some kind of redemption. This man had a soul, no matter how brutal his culture was.

  Thankfully, Florie knew much about healing, not only because she had nursed many injured clansmen over the years, but because her own husband was an invalid. She would do as Britta asked, despite her fear of the Viking.

  Britta grimaced, imagining Florie swinging Ronan’s mace blindly in the dark. How had she managed to maim the intruder enough to halt his attack? God must have guided her hands.

  The guards nodded at Britta as they took their leave. Ronan walked toward her, placing a light hand on her shoulder and fixing his eyes on hers. She couldn’t be sure if they blazed with desire or fierce protectiveness.

  “You’re certain you want to keep him alive? He seems a beast.”

  “Yes. Father will want to know if there are more Vikings coming to our shores. Perhaps we can find a way to communicate with him.”

  After considering, Ronan finally gave a half nod, as if this were a sound reason. “A guard will stand at his door for the duration of his stay.”

  She knew this would leave them short a guard at the castle gate. She summoned false courage. “I have my own knife, and so does Florie. We will require no extra protection.”

  Ronan laughed softly. “After seeing how Florie handled my mace, I shudder to think what she would do with a knife. Clancy will be posted outside his door.”

  The Viking groaned, his body curled toward the wall. Florie would soon arrive with the herbs and cloths to wrap his foot. Perhaps they could offer him warm broth, if he understood they meant well.

  But if he did not understand…Britta shivered.

  Chapter Three

  It was only a matter of time before his men would come looking. Ari could not decide which would be better: if his crew stormed the castle or if Sigfrid came alone. If they attacked the castle, his mission would be fulfilled because these murdering Irishmen would be dead.

  But his thoughts lurched unwillingly to the beautiful goddess who had devoted herself to his care. The raven-haired, plush-lipped maiden had not ceased trying to coax words from him. Did she suspect how well he understood her language? He had determined to feign ignorance, to be the heathen wild man they seemed to think him. He would not become attached in any way to the family who killed Egil.

  Yet the young woman—Britta is what they called her—would sit and read aloud to him after the nursemaid changed the herbal wraps on his foot. He supposed she was trying to distract him from his continued pain.

  Three days had passed, and his swollen foot had shifted from a deep red to shades of purple and green. The barbed spikes of the mace had left open wounds, but they had begun to heal. The deeper throbbing was what tested his fortitude. But the tea the nursemaid brought regularly—it tasted of willow bark—seemed to ease the pressure.

  Ari finally determined that the book Britta read from was her holy book. She treated the thick leather binding, with its numerous vellum pages, with utmost care. He had heard there was a holy book like this not far from his home in Norway, displayed in a newly built Christian church. He had not seen it, because his family would not approve if he went there. They spat upon the ways of Jesus Christ, determined to cling to Odin, Thor, Freyja, and so many others.

  Even as Britta devoted hours to his care, the dark-haired man—he seemed to be called Ronan—spent most of his time pinning him with blazing looks. There was no doubt the Irishman wanted him dead. Ari closely watched Ronan’s movements and moods. Perhaps he was the one who had killed his brother. Ari could probably overpower him, once he was able to walk.

  Today, Ronan swept into the room, shooing the guard from the door and leaning over Britta as she read. He spoke so rapidly to her, Ari cou
ld only decipher one word: Viking. The book she cradled dropped to her lap. She looked at Ari, then back at Ronan.

  What had the heartless troll told her?

  Ronan’s words tumbled out, unharnessed and unsoftened. “A Viking horde camps by the mouth of our inlet. I have watched them as they sit about, sharpening horrible axes and knives…gleaming swords like the one this fellow had. They are heavily armed, and with so many, they could take this castle in just a few moments. We must either send this man back, kill him, or send an emissary of goodwill.”

  The Bible dropped into her lap with a thud, but Britta barely felt it. So many Vikings already encamped. Ronan had been wrong to trust her judgment. She had failed her O’Shea name. And what now? Would her father even be able to return home with those savages encamped so close by?

  Yet a glance at the Viking told her he was not as savage as Ronan would have her believe. The man had taken food gratefully from her hand and had allowed Florie to place cool cloths and herbs on his wounds. He had watched as she turned pages, slowly sounding out Latin words as she pointed to the symbols.

  But she could understand Ronan’s nervousness, given that the Viking watched his every move like a lion waiting to pounce. His hatred was not veiled as it burned in those sea-colored eyes. Britta suspected that like Ronan, the Viking was a fearsome warrior, and both men sensed a worthy opponent.

  Ronan caught the Viking looking at her. “I can make it easy for him,” he whispered. “A knife to his throat as he sleeps and he would not feel pain.”

  She drew back. As a warrior, Ronan was surely capable of such violence, but he must see it was morally wrong to kill an unarmed man.

  She controlled her voice, lowering it for emphasis. “You have given me three choices—to send him back, to kill him, or to send an emissary. His foot is still weak, and it needs more care than they will be able to provide in a makeshift camp, so he cannot return to them yet. As far as killing him, you know I cannot condone the murder of an injured man who cannot defend himself. So I will choose the last option—sending an emissary to the Vikings.” She paused, forcing herself to say the next words. “And I will be that emissary.”