Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series

by The Defiant Heart

  Tense and silent, Lyting worked apace, raw emotion devouring him. In a trice he unsheathed the knife from his belt, sliced through the lashing that entangled Ailinn’s wrist cuff, and freed her. Scooping her up in his arms, he carried her onto shore and laid her on the bank.

  At once he opened the neck of her gown and pressed his ear against her chest. To his relief, he heard a faint but rapid heartbeat.

  Ailinn moaned, then took a shivery breath. Her lids parted over dark eyes that quickly found Lyting, but a fit of coughing suddenly seized her.

  Lyting braced her up, aiding her as she choked out the congestion from her lungs and throat. A spasm of shaking overtook her, and he pulled her across his lap and enveloped her in his arms.

  Shouts reached Lyting from farther up the bank as members of the convoy appeared — Ragnar, Orm, and a dozen more.

  “Hurry!” Lyting called. “I need blankets, furs, anything to warm her.”

  Continuing to hold her against his body, he began rubbing her arms. Surely something dry could be found within the ship, for the goods had been carefully protected in waterproof ox-hide for the voyage.

  He ignored the cold that seeped into his own bones and examined the wound on Ailinn’s forehead. Fortunately, ‘twas no more than a graze, and the bleeding had stopped. She would have a bruise, but nothing more. Feeling her shiver against him, he dropped a kiss to the top of her head and held her close.

  “Easy, elskan mín. Rest easy.”

  Orm reached them first, quickly doffing his mantle and spreading it over Ailinn before he went to search the boat.

  Ragnar draped Lyting’s shoulders with his own cloak. “How many lives do you have, Lyting Atlison?” He grinned down and moved off.

  Shortly others brought blankets and pelts, then gathered kindling and started a small fire. The majority of the men continued on, down the riverbank, in search of Hakon. Those who remained behind labored to drain the boat and salvage the goods.

  Ragnar returned, his smile still in place. “You are welcome to join Orm and myself. Vifil and Leidolf can take your boat on for you. Doubt if you’re up to more rowing today.” His smile widened. “Is there aught you need before I rejoin the others and begin the portage?”

  “Já.” Lyting nodded. “See if you can find a key or a tool to rid Ailinn of this manacle.”

  Ragnar looked from Lyting to Ailinn, gave a stout nod, and went in search of the key.

  Lyting eased Ailinn onto a blanket. “You cannot remain in these sodden clothes, elskan mín.”

  Ailinn stirred as he brought forth his knife. Their eyes met and held. Realizing his intent, but too weak to protest, she closed her lashes and turned her head aside.

  Without wasting another moment he cut through the fabric. Lyting’s heart thudded in his ears as he peeled away the gown, exposing creamy breasts pebbled with cold, a slender waist and shapely hips that joined long sleek legs and trimly turned ankles. He swallowed against the knot that blocked his throat.

  Quickly he worked to wrap Ailinn in several layers of blankets and lay her atop a thickness of fur, buffering her from the cold earth. Finishing, his gaze lingered over Ailinn’s fragile beauty and found her color much improved, though still pale, and a faint blush stroking her cheeks.

  Ragnar returned with the key. Relieving him of the piece, Lyting fit the key to the lock on Ailinn’s wrist cuff, opened and removed it. Pushing to his feet, he hurled the iron into the river. Never would she be shackled again. He swore it on his life’s blood.

  Even should Hakon be found, Lyting would demand his due by the Law Code. Murder had its fines, even an attempted one gone awry. He would demand Ailinn herself as recompense for Hakon’s cold-blooded treachery. Should Hakon resist, he would demand settling the matter through a combat of arms — to the death.

  The hours slipped past. A small guard remained with Lyting and Ailinn while the vessels were transported and readied for departure. The search party returned after a prolonged quest. Hakon could not be found.

  “ ‘Tis time.” Ragnar indicated they should board.

  “Þakk,” Lyting acknowledged, then looked to where Ailinn slept peacefully by the fire, her glorious auburn hair spread out around her. His heart warmed, momentarily dispelling the great weariness he carried in his bones. And yet, despite his fatigue, he felt much renewed, clothed now in fresh, dry garments and having rested atime.

  He rose, lifting Ailinn in his arms. She snuggled against his chest as he carried her to Ragnar’s boat, and he could not help but smile tenderly upon her.

  A great millstone had been removed from about his neck and shoulders. But he harbored no grievance for having to bear it. The ordeal of the passage to Byzantium, especially that of Leanti, had won him Ailinn.

  With Hakon’s removal there existed no further need for trials or combat. He could claim her forthright and twice over — as expiation for Hakon’s offense, and again as the sole surviving member of the boat’s crew.

  According to the Law Code, Ailinn now belonged rightfully to him.

  Chapter 14

  The air grew drier as the convoy journeyed farther down the Dnieper, making portages around the last of the cataracts before traversing the great ford of Krarion and coming to Saint Gregory’s Island.

  Disembarking, the company went straight away to offer prayer and sacrifice before a gigantic oak tree that dominated the site.

  Lyting and Ailinn stood side by side, looking on but not participating, respecting the observances made by the others while silently lifting their own thanks heavenward.

  A short time later they rejoined Arnór and his family at their ship. Since Leanti, Lyting had chosen to sail with them — for her protection, he had explained. Ailinn knew Lyting worried on those times he would need to leave her alone, such as when he kept watch. He could not, would not, leave her with the women slaves. Of that he was adamant.

  Arnór’s family, especially Jorunn, herself, provided an agreeable solution. Most men treaded with caution about Jorunn, especially where her daughters, Ingered and Ashild, were concerned, recalling her adeptness with an ax at Aïfor.

  At Ailinn’s own suggestion, Lyting had presented Jorunn with the magnificent bridal mantle that was once Rhiannon’s. Jorunn was more than willing to tolerate her presence and keep watch over her for the prize of the cloak. In addition ‘twas solely because of Ailinn that Lyting joined the family. Despite Lyting’s intention to enter the monastic life, ‘twas obvious Jorunn viewed him as a prospect for one of her daughters.

  The daughters expressed their annoyance with Ailinn’s presence more openly, sometimes with looks and gestures, sometimes tittering among themselves in such a way that ‘twas clear they belittled her. Most often they directed her to perform the meanest of tasks in camp. But all this they carried out most cunningly, as though a game, and only when Lyting was not about.

  “Nei, Ailinn.” Lyting’s voice broke through her thoughts as she bent to catch hold of one of the sealskin bags filled with iron cooking implements and drag it. “The hudfat is too heavy for you. Here . . . .”

  He snared a yew bucket filled with onions and a bread trough from among the other supplies that had been set ashore beside the ship. After handing them to her, he then took up the hudfat himself and accompanied her to the chosen campsite which they were to share with Arnór’s family.

  Everyone in the convoy worked long and hard, off-loading provisions from the vessels and busying themselves with the details of establishing the camp. Soon a small village of tents dotted Saint Gregory’s Island.

  As Lyting returned from the ship, bearing a small soapstone caldron that Jorunn had requested, he saw Ailinn pause in her task and look toward the ancient oak. Before it, men marked out a large campfire ring with stones.

  “Tonight there shall be a gathering of all and feasting aplenty,” he said as he joined her and set down the caldron. “ ‘Tis the first time we have been able to relax our guard even a little, but we are beyond the usual range of the Pet
chenegs now and nearing our destination.”

  Ailinn’s brows pulled together, and her gaze strayed to the slaves. “Then, there will be much drinking?”

  Lyting paused, realizing how difficult this was for Ailinn.

  “Já,” he conceded, unable to deny it or the obvious implications.

  She caught her lip between her teeth and gave her attention back to the dough trough, where she continued to measure out flour.

  Lyting returned to where he had earlier erected the frame of the women’s tent. He began to spread the tent cloth over the structure and to secure the bottom edges underneath the sides, all the while thinking on the slaves.

  Would that he could help them, but he knew he could not. There would be much drinking and wenching this eve. ‘Twas inescapable. The journey had been hard and perilous. Now the men would have what they deemed to be their due.

  Another concern crowded in on Lyting. Ailinn’s fiery beauty drew the others as moths to the flame.

  Yestereve — and not for the first time since Leanti — he had been offered a considerable sum for Ailinn. Declining, Lyting reaffirmed that he had released Ailinn from her bondage and considered her free. On hearing this, the man pressed him to take the sum and more, as a bride-price, even though he had three wives already.

  Again, Lyting worried over the course this evening might take with the men in their cups.

  He ducked inside the tent to finish securing the cloth along the sides, beneath the bottom rods, and to hang the curtains over the triangular openings at either end of the structure.

  As he began to emerge from the tent, he observed Arnór’s older daughter, Ingered, step to where Ailinn bent at the trough. Ingered dropped two buckets beside Ailinn and motioned for her to fetch water from the river. When Ailinn upheld her hands to show they were sticky with dough and pleaded for a moment, Ingered assumed a superior stance, pointing to the river, and scolded sharply in Norse, fully aware that Ailinn could not understand her.

  Lyting’s gaze hardened. Although he had not made a formal declaration, Arnór’s family knew beyond question that he had granted Ailinn her freedom and that she now held the rank of a freewoman.

  Lyting started to depart the tent, but just then Ashild moved to join her sister. He waited. Ashild’s tones echoed Ingered’s, as did her gestures.

  Ailinn said nothing. Regarding them each with a measured look and a patient eye, she washed the dough from her hands and rose. Taking up the buckets, she headed toward the river. As she went, Ingered and Ashild stood, side by side, laughing at her back.

  Lyting boiled.

  Only the sight of two men on the bank, abandoning their work to assist Ailinn, stopped him from chastising the sisters forthwith. Instead, he quit the tent and headed for the river. By the time he arrived, three men hovered about Ailinn. Lyting’s black look alone dispersed the group.

  “Moths,” he uttered with disgust.

  Without another word he relieved Ailinn of the buckets, filled them, indicated she should follow him, and with his jaw set rock hard, tread back to the campsite where Ingered and Ashild watched.

  Ailinn hurried to keep pace with him, his stride long, his face set. Never had she seen Lyting angry before. And by the look of him, he was certainly that. She worried as to the reasons, forgetting her own cares of the foregoing moments.

  Lyting halted before Ingered and Ashild and half set, half dropped the buckets to the ground, sloshing the water over the sides. He addressed them in the Nordic tongue — short, crisp words that caused them to pale.

  He left then, a brooding look layered upon his brow as he went to complete the construction of the second tent.

  Throughout the next hour Lyting continued to work, keeping an eye to where Ailinn prepared the meal with Jorunn and her daughters. He mulled the matters concerning her. One thing stood clear. He need proclaim her a freewoman before all. Publicly. ‘Twas something he should have done before now. Tonight there would be a most fitting and “lawful” opportunity — before the full assemblage, convened at the great oak. He would need to make his declaration before his kinsmen drank too deeply of their cups, he added the mental note ruefully.

  ‘Twas a mammoth task to travel with a virgin, especially one of such beauty. Therein lay the problem. Not only did the men hunger for her, but likely they wished to be the first to breach those fair portals. Lyting felt his blood rise from a simmer to a boil all over again.

  A surprising thought birthed itself into his mind. So forceful was the notion that he sat back on his heels. It thoroughly intrigued him. Yet, ‘twas directly opposed to the path he purposed to follow and a veritable cross of temptation that he would inflict upon himself. If the other “moths” fluttered about the “flame,” then he in essence would be throwing himself straight into the fire.

  He rejected the thought outright, thinking it surely to be the Devil’s temptation. And yet . . .

  The thought lay discarded on the floor of his conscience. He stared at it. Pondered it. Picked it up with mental fingers, weighed it and turned it, then viewed it from every conceivable angle.

  On the surface the idea seemed completely counter to the avowals he had made. But beneath, ‘twas a perfect answer, one that could, in a single stroke, grant Ailinn a superior status among his kinsmen, equal to that of his own, and at the same time place her completely under his protection.

  They would need to pledge themselves before the others, true, but the beauty of the design lay in that, while his kindred would recognize and uphold the legality of that plight, Holy Mother Church would not recognize it at all, thus Ailinn’s honor, virtue, and future would not be compromised in any wise. Truly, the plan was God’s own inspiration.

  His decision made, Lyting finished his chore and went directly to the boats. Brimming with energy and purpose, he retrieved additional equipment from among his own stores, carried them to the campsite, and set about erecting a third tent. All the while he continued to turn the plan in his mind, assuring he had considered every aspect and did not embrace this course for any selfish, misguided purpose.

  At last, with everything settled and arranged to his satisfaction; he emerged from the tent and approached Ailinn where she knelt before the fire, removing the last of the bread rounds from the cooking iron.

  Her eyes drew upward to his, then to the yellow-gold fabric, folded and draped neatly over his arm.

  “Come, Ailinn.” He took her by the hand and raised her to her feet, ignoring the looks this brought from Jorunn and her daughters. “ ‘Tis near time to gather with the others. Mayhap you would like to freshen yourself and exchange your gown for one more cheerful.” He reached for the cloth on his arm. “Skallagrim’s trunks yielded a number of garments. This one will become you, I think, and looks to be of a proper size. I hope it is to your liking.”

  Lyting opened out the yellow-gold dress for Ailinn’s approval, aware that Ingered and Ashild bumped each other, straining to see.

  “Oh, Lyting — ” Ailinn’s voice fell softly, her eyes moistening. “ ‘Tis very much to my liking. ‘Tis my own gown, seized from my coffer in Clonmel.”

  Lyting’s brows lifted in surprise. He had chosen it solely for its color, thinking how it would flatter the dark fires of Ailinn’s hair.

  “Then it pleasures me doubly to restore it to you,” he said with heartfelt sincerity and gave it over to her.

  Ailinn’s gaze lingered over the gown, a mixture of joy, wonderment, and distant memories mingling in her expression. She smiled her appreciation, the words catching with emotion in her throat. Receiving the gown from Lyting’s hands, she hastened inside the women’s tent.

  Swiftly Ailinn discarded her worn clothes. Locating the small pitcher of water kept in the corner, she splashed her face, neck, and arms, then took up a clean linen and washed more thoroughly. Her ablutions complete, she slipped the bright gown over her head, savoring the feel of its fine-woven texture. She next loosened her hair and fingered it through. With a final straightening
of her gown, she stepped from the tent.

  Ailinn halted, her heart buffeting her ribs. Lyting awaited, splendidly arrayed in clothes of pearl gray, a scarlet cloak swept about his broad shoulders, fastened over the left with a costly brooch of silver and gemstones.

  On seeing her, he smiled — a generous slash of white that lay siege to her heart. Ailinn felt her bone melt to liquid as he came forward to claim her. In that single moment it seemed the world contained but the two of them, suspended in a droplet in time. Lyting’s eyes never left hers as he placed her hand on his arm and lead her toward the massive oak.

  Heat climbed into Ailinn’s cheeks as they joined the others. Sly smiles and nudges gave her to realize that they were busily pairing Lyting and herself in their minds and in a thoroughly carnal way.

  Did these Norsemen think of naught else when they weren’t warring’? Did they not realize or accept Lyting’s intention to join the Christian brothers in cloister? Of course, such a calling might be unthinkable to a pagan Norseman, and Lyting was one of their own. Likely, they would gladly see him abandon that course and give into fleshly temptations.

  For his part Lyting appeared undisturbed by their misperceptions. Indeed, ‘twould seem he encouraged it, which baffled her further. Ragnar and Orm beckoned them over just then and opened a space on the ground for them to sit. Lyting accepted but made a point of bidding Arnór and his family to join them as well.

  Mildly disappointed, Ailinn assumed he did so out of courtesy, maintaining good relations with Arnór. And yet, as he settled down beside her, so close that their arms brushed, it seemed he intended that the daughters should endure his attentions to herself. Jorunn looked none too happy, either.

  Lyting continued in good cheer, attending to her needs and seeing that she enjoyed her choice and fill of food and drink, despite their limited selection. If his attentiveness perplexed her, then ‘twas like to drive the daughters mad. Ailinn thought she might see their hair burst into flames any instant, so heated were their looks. But even they could not fault Lyting, for he remained congenial to all, including themselves — he, the very soul of courtesy.