Florie nodded, taking a moment to kiss James before she hurried out the door.
Britta rubbed her head and looked at Ari through foggy eyes. She took another deep breath. Was this really happening, or had she fallen asleep? Perhaps she was still in the cupboard.
Ari knelt at her side, bringing her hand to his lips. The moment she felt the soft pressure of his kiss, the room sharpened. She knew what she had to do.
“We must go,” she said.
James protested from his cozy corner, but Ari examined her face. “You are certain you can walk? Your legs must be weak after your long confinement.”
“I will walk. Ronan cannot die without knowing of my gratitude, my…” She could not articulate the words, and the tears she’d been holding back flooded her eyes. She vainly swiped at them with her sleeve.
Ari hesitantly used his large thumb to wipe tears from her cheek, his serious gaze meeting hers. “First you must drink something to restore your strength. Then we will go.”
Chapter Sixteen
Even after a cup of tea, Britta’s legs still felt like wobbling jelly. She stretched several times up to her tiptoes, jumped around a bit, and then finally tucked her arm in Ari’s to be sure she wouldn’t collapse along the way.
James reluctantly let her go, but not before he gave Ari a stern lecture on what was expected in terms of gentlemanly behavior when walking alone with a woman.
Once they were halfway through the low grass of a hay field, a heavy sigh finally escaped her lips.
Ari did not probe, but he quirked an eyebrow, willing to listen.
She tried to give voice to her thoughts. “I am stricken that Ronan is hurt. But I am in awe that God has spared our castle.” She turned to him. “I am thankful you fought for us.”
“Were it left to me, all would have been lost.” Irritation filled his voice. “We were outnumbered and underarmed, as we feared we might be.” He squeezed her arm tighter, as if trying to protect her from the horrors he had seen. “Your Ronan saved my life.”
She fell silent. He was not “her” Ronan. But she sensed there was more to the story. “Speak on.”
He paused to sweep his unmanageable hair back into its leather tie. Without thinking, she reached up to help him, gathering handfuls of his blond locks. He stilled as her finger brushed his beard.
His voice was low and husky when he replied. “My men came to our aid. Sigfrid—the one you spoke to—said they had sailed but a short distance and something told him to return. If not for them, nothing could have stopped the slaughter.”
“God must have spoken to his heart,” she mused. Grass tugged at her skirts, beckoning her to sit and rest her weary feet. Releasing Ari’s arm, she plopped down in the field none too daintily. “I need to stop,” she said.
The sound of hooves pounding near the forest’s edge caught her attention. Ari had already spotted the horse and rider. He bent and snatched her up, tossing her easily over his shoulder. He ran toward a rock formation perched atop an ocean inlet at the edge of the field. Placing her carefully in a damp crevice, he drew his sword and turned.
The horseman had not veered from their trail, and even worse, he wore Norman armor. He was shouting, but she could not make out what he said.
Yet the moment he stretched a finger toward her, repeating the same word with increasing vehemence, she knew what he had come for.
He wanted to capture her.
As Ari inexplicably scrounged for something on the ground, she shrank back into the shadows of the rocks. Had the remaining Normans already taken her father? How else would he know to search for a princess?
As the dark horse closed upon them, Ari rammed a long stick into the ground. To avoid it, the Norman flew past her rocky shelter. The horse jerked to a halt, plunging its rider over the edge of the overhang.
She wished she couldn’t hear the man’s groans as he wallowed on the rocks below. Ari turned to her, clasping her hand and pulling her back to her feet.
“I must finish this.” His voice rose above the bloodcurdling sounds.
She nodded mutely.
Ari found an area where he could safely descend. The Norman continued to scream. In fact, the screams grew louder. What was Ari doing to him? Did the Vikings torture people?
Suddenly, Ari topped the overhang, dragging the Norman behind him. With each bounce, the man hurled insults in his language. When they reached Britta, Ari deposited the writhing invader at her feet.
“I thought this straggler could return to his people and share his tale of the Viking force that guards this castle.” He sneered down into the man’s cringing face, shaking his fist for good measure.
“Clever thinking. Thank you.” She looked hopefully at the wide-eyed horse. The terrors of this day had taken their toll. “Perhaps we could ride the horse? You could bind the Norman here, and we could send one of our men out to retrieve him later. We aren’t far from the castle now—it’s just through that wood.”
Ari nodded, removing the belt from his tunic and lashing the man to the trunk of a scraggly tree that had managed to withstand the ocean’s blasts. For good measure, he tore a piece of the Norman’s tunic and stuffed it into his mouth, stifling his continued protests.
Task complete, he took the horse’s face in his hands. The beast started, but when Ari whispered into its face, it seemed to calm.
Ari extended a rock-solid arm to boost her onto the large animal. Instead of taking it, she turned to face him, taking in his dirty clothing, once-again loosened hair, and concerned eyes. His cheeks were reddened in the salty air and his lips had fallen open, revealing surprisingly white teeth.
Propriety vanished as she tipped up into his arms, meeting his lips. She had never kissed a man, but it required no training. Their kiss was as natural as the waves pounding behind them, as the robins singing in the trees.
He pulled back, his soft beard pressing into her cheek as he kissed it. Then he cupped her face in his hands, regret etching his features.
“James has instructed me what I am to do when walking alone with a woman, and this was not mentioned.”
She laughed, and his eyes crinkled in response. He extended his arm again.
“We must not linger.”
Of course. They had to return to Ronan—what if he were lying on his deathbed? How had he slipped her mind, even for a moment? What had possessed her to practically attack Ari?
The overwrought black horse munched grass nearby. Ari walked up to it, again talking in his low voice as he took the reins. But when it gave a sudden rear kick, he sighed.
“We will have to walk. It is not safe for you to ride him. Perhaps after a good watering and brushing, he might tame down.”
She nodded, trying to keep up with Ari as he led the anxious horse to the stables. Even with his slight limp, she had to jog alongside, taking three steps to match just one of his.
When she was near him, the soft linen of his tunic brushed her hand in a gentle rhythm. He glanced down at her often, his gaze soft and unguarded. The truth began to stir and waken in her spirit. Her heart had already chosen who it wanted, and he was not the one her father would approve of.
Ari felt like a fool, his damp leather shoes causing him to stumble along the dirt road. But Britta seemed oblivious to his clumsiness, holding on to his arm as if she floated on a cloud.
What would happen if Ronan woke from his stupor? Would he regret that he had nearly sacrificed his life for a rogue Viking? And what if Ronan did not wake? Britta would never forgive him for costing her faithful friend’s life.
Had Ronan ever been more than a friend to Britta? It seemed he had not, but the desire had been there, at least on his part. It was understandable. She was a woman who was easy to love. She delighted in small things, like books and flowers. She was loyal to her family and friends. She was even willing to crush her royal body into a small cupboard for hours, never demanding a softer hiding place.
Although she was not a trained warrior, she was as r
esourceful as any Viking woman, and that was saying a great deal.
He couldn’t hide his smile, slowing his stride when he realized she was having difficulty matching his pace. She was so small, so vulnerable…. He could not bear to think what the Norman warrior might have done to her. He had heard tales of how they broke their conquests’ arms and legs then threw their limp bodies over cliffs.
Violence for violence’s sake. He had known some older Vikings who lived like this, who had embraced the killing. But his father had given up raiding when his brother died. And now, Ari realized he had no stomach for raiding, either. It was senseless.
As they neared the castle, Sigfrid came to greet them. His eye wandered over the fractious horse, the disheveled princess, and finally met Ari’s weary gaze. He mercifully refrained from asking questions, motioning for a servant boy to stable the horse.
Sigfrid led them into the great hall, where Ari’s men had gathered around the table. “You should eat. We’ve cooked up some of the meat that their healing woman told us to use.”
Britta tugged Ari’s sleeve. “But Ronan? Ask him how he fares. And my father?”
Ari knew she would not rest until she had a report. All thoughts of the Norman attacker flew as he put her questions to Sigfrid then translated his friend’s reply. “With the aid of our Valgerd and Florie, Ronan will live. They watch his arm carefully, to be sure it will not need to be removed.”
Britta let out a small cry. She understood that an armless warrior would not be able to lead, although he could still fight.
Hoping to soften her distress, he continued. “Your father’s leg injury has been wrapped and it will heal. The cut was not deep.”
Relief washed over her features. She glanced at his men, who lunged for their food like bears preparing for hibernation. “You should eat with them. I cannot imagine how weary you are from the battle. I must go to Ronan first.”
“Of course you must,” he said.
But in his deepest, darkest thoughts, some corner of his heart wished that Ronan would have died from that blow.
Chapter Seventeen
Ronan watched Britta’s every move as she flitted about, adjusting his blankets and bringing him fresh tea. The Viking healer had steeped the smelly concoction, and although Ronan looked as if he might gag, he forced himself to swallow it.
“I suppose if they wanted to kill me, this would be an easy way to do it,” he said darkly.
She drew up a stool, covering his cold hand with her own. “They mean us no harm, I am sure of it. Why else would they have returned to fight alongside our men?”
“Yes…I will admit Ari is a remarkable warrior. I suppose your father will place him in charge of his forces now.”
The jealousy in his tone was palpable. “Ronan!” she scolded. “Do not think that way. Of course you will still be Father’s commander.”
“Not if I lose my arm.” He would not meet her eyes.
She twined her fingers into his. “You will not. With the herbal ministrations of two skilled healers, your shoulder is healing quickly! Why, Florie only had to lightly stitch it.”
He attempted to tighten his fingers around hers but could not. “I cannot strengthen my grip.”
She, too, had noticed this but prayed it would be a temporary issue. “We must put our trust in God. He has spared your life.”
He gave her a half smile. “Indeed, but perhaps this makes things more difficult for you.”
“You are indeed surly and ungrateful tonight! I don’t care if you are ailing, Ronan, you must not speak ill of God.”
His dark beard had grown thicker and his hair was unruly on the feather pillow she had brought him. In such a state, he appeared strangely powerless, but she knew it was an illusion. Her father’s best man would still rise and fight, should he have to. She checked a motherly urge to smooth his hair from his forehead.
He dropped his other hand over hers, taking her by surprise. His warm eyes glimmered in the lamplight, revealing an unfettered ardor. “Britta. Perhaps you know…surely you have realized that I have loved you for many years now?”
How should she respond? Her hand grew warm under his. Speaking the truth would not be easy, but she owed that to him.
“Ronan, it is true I care for you, most wholeheartedly. You are as much a part of me as our castle itself.” She bowed her head. “But I cannot return that kind of love. I love you as a brother, Ronan. As a friend.”
She waited a moment then untucked her chin and let her eyes meet his. He looked as if she had just kicked him, but his words were charged with tenderness and wonder.
“You love the Viking.”
She nodded.
“And he loves you.”
She responded quickly. “I am unsure.”
He pulled her in with his eyes, and his grip tightened in urgency. “I must speak with him.”
“Oh, no, I don’t—”
“I will speak with him, now.” Ronan’s voice was firm. “Who can say if I will survive this wound?”
He was teasing her now, but she didn’t like to think of Ronan’s death. Embarrassing tears filled her eyes.
He placed his strong right hand on her cheek. “How I have longed to wipe your tears away, to kiss the pink of your cheeks. So many times I held back from embracing you, because your father’s wishes weighed heavily on me. But it does not fall to me to do such things; I see that now. God has placed me in your life as a protector and friend, but not as a husband.”
She burst into tears, and Ronan sat up and kissed her forehead.
“Now go, sweet child. Send the Viking to me.”
Unable to speak or to decline his command, she left the room.
Sigfrid and his men were in fine form, sharing stories of their victory over the candlelit long table. One man claimed he killed two men with one arrow. One said Odin had smiled upon them from the raven-shaped mountain nearby. Ari leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. The rush of urgency that had driven him in battle had dissipated, leaving him exhausted.
Sigfrid gave him a nudge. “My friend, we must sail tomorrow. You know we are well into planting season and our families will be worried.”
Ari nodded. “Yes, my mother will imagine the worst.” She could not withstand the death of her only remaining son.
“Perhaps you have a special good-bye planned for your Irish maiden.” Sigfrid smiled.
He had no plan, but he knew he should. He could not walk away from Britta without explaining what she meant to him, although he hardly understood it himself. And this was the worst time to leave—when her attentions were focused on Ronan, and when the castle might still be vulnerable to a retributive attack.
In very fact, his desire to sail seemed to have been replaced with a pressing need to spend more time with Britta. They could walk in the gardens—he could imagine tucking sprigs of lavender into her sun-warmed hair. He could hold her small hand in his own. And perhaps he could kiss those generous lips once again….
“Ari?”
Britta’s voice broke into his thoughts. Her eyes were wide with anxiety. Had something happened to Ronan?
“Ronan wishes to speak with you,” she continued. So the Irishman wasn’t dead, but fresh apprehension stirred in Ari’s heart. Perhaps Britta had told Ronan of the kiss, and he wished to issue a challenge on her behalf.
His sword lay in its sheath by the door, but his shorter seax was tucked into a leather sheath on his belt. He had retrieved it before the battle and didn’t intend to give it up again.
His men’s laughter died down as he approached the door to the side room. Pushing it open gently, he could see that Ronan had been transferred to a hay-stuffed cot—not to the board they had forced him to sleep on. It was fitting, of course, that they take better care of their own.
Ronan looked haggard, his face bloodless. Ari’s mother would say the man needed barely cooked meat to restore the blood he had lost. He would suggest that to Florie.
The Irishman motioned him
to sit close by. Ari lowered himself to a creaky stool that could barely support his weight.
“First, I want to give you thanks for joining us. You were admirable and honorable in battle.”
Ari shook his head. “I am not the one to be praised. You were ready to offer your life for mine, and I am a foreigner. Why?”
Ronan’s serious gaze softened in the waning lamplight. “There is no sacrifice greater than the death of Jesus Christ for my sins. It seems a small thing for me to give my life for one man, when He gave His life for all.”
Ari pondered this. One sacrifice, lasting through the ages. One sacrifice that inspired others to give more of themselves, in contrast with the endless pagan sacrifices that were meant to make lives easier.
“I wish to know your Christ,” Ari said.
Ronan smiled. “It is a simple thing, but following Jesus Christ will change your life. We will pray together.”
Ronan prayed first, and then Ari followed the nudge of the quiet voice he had heard so often in his soul. He told the Christ of his bitterness over his brother’s death and asked Him to forgive his blackened heart. He prayed he would be able to follow His leading, even in his native land. He thanked Jesus Christ for dying so he could live eternally.
When he tentatively said, “Amen,” Ronan dropped his hand on Ari’s shoulder. “Now we are truly brothers.”
Ari choked back sudden tears as he realized God had brought him to this land for a reason. It had nothing to do with revenge and everything to do with the restoration of his soul. In the place of his lost brother, God had given him an eternal family.
Ronan gave him a rueful look. “There is something else we must discuss—Britta’s future. I have no claim on her, as you know. And she has no desire to marry me.” He held out a hand to silence any protests from Ari. “‘Tis true. I asked her outright, and we both know she would not lie.”
Ari shifted in his seat, wishing he could encourage the man who had done so much for him. Yet he could barely quell his excitement over Britta’s confession.
The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection Page 8