His Captive (Historical Viking Romance) Page 3

  She was looking at him.

  Watching him, more like. The way that her eyes were wide, staring. The fury writ-large across her face. She looked at him as if he had done exactly what Valdemar suggested he had done. As if she were going to take the little seax each night and try again and again until it finally stuck.

  Well, good for her. If she could manage it, she should have been commended. Killing him where men had failed, more than Gunnar could easily count any more. There would be plenty of time for her to try killing him.

  But he wouldn't just let her, not like he had before. His mind drifted to other things that he would had gladly let her do, and he had to shake the thoughts from his mind. No. He had little time to concern himself with his cock. He had to keep control of the raid.

  If he needed something from her, then he would be able to deal with it after the raid tomorrow morning, but it would be better still if he could ignore his need. She wasn't his prisoner because she was pretty, after all. He had to remind himself of that more than once.

  If she'd been an old crone, wart-and-pimple covered, then he would have taken her the same, as long as she had the shine of a woman who had touched magic. As long as she could make a wound stick to him, he would have taken a toad.

  Three

  Deirdre had been on the earth for just short of twenty years, and she had long since decided that men weren't for her. There was no chance of her finding a husband when she lived in the swamp, far enough outside of town that they didn't come for her every time a flu went around.

  The way that the Northlander looked at her made shiver. She didn't want him to keep looking at her like that. Did she? She closed her eyes. No, don't think about it. She had to escape, and that was what she had to do.

  But with all these men around, how was that even going to be possible? The leader—she could see from the way that he acted that he led them. The powerful man, then. She tried to figure who was whom from her vision, but she had little information to go on.

  The powerful man, the leader. The weak man, the one who would stop the bloodshed. Perhaps the thin man with the shaven head and tattoos? But the priest, and the other two, she couldn't begin to guess. No one wore a cross, that much was certain at least.

  But that left her with desperately little information.

  She shivered at the thought of what would come next as the sun began to set. They had been given some food, tied all to another post erected in the center of the camp. She took a bite, watched the sun sinking and the shades of pink and purple it cast on the thick clouds as she looked out.

  A stab to the gut like she'd given, particularly the way she'd cut so rough across like she had… the Powerful man should have died from it, an hour or two later. There was no way to close up a wound like that before the rot set in. If they'd had a gifted physician, he would have died slower, but he would have died.

  He certainly shouldn't have been walking around comfortably, leading a band of twenty men or more. Shouting at them loudly. Watching her like a jackal after.

  The Weak man came to get her, his tattooed head reflecting the lights from the setting sun and putting a halo around his head like a church painting. He didn't speak much, just one word as he untied her hands.

  "Come."

  He walked behind her, prodding her past the now-empty wagon that she guessed they must have stolen and to the large tent she had been taken to the night before.

  He pulled the flap aside for her and gestured with his head for her to go inside. The night before had been some sort of fluke. She knew that much to be true. But what he had in store for her tonight she had little to guess.

  She had long-since given up on having a husband, or being part of the town she had once lived near, even thought of as her home in a way. But that did not mean that she was naive in the things that men wanted with women, either, particularly in their tents at night.

  She tried not to think about whether or not she would fight him. She would, but trying to figure out how she would do it when he shrugged off even lethal wounds, that was a question she would need to answer in the moment.

  Her heart beat in her chest like a drum, loud enough that she wondered if he could hear it from where he sat, his legs crossed again. That same expression like a hungry wolf on his face, looking at her from under a heavy brow. He didn't stir as she came inside, but she knew that he could have caught her before she made it a hundred yards, were she to run.

  She struggled to decide. What would she do, then? She had to wait. Had to have the right opportunity, when his attention was on something else. If she just waited long enough, then the opportunity would come… right?

  "Sit," he said softly. He made a wide, sweeping gesture. She saw that the box, the one that she'd imagined to be a makeshift table, was pulled a little away from the wall of the tent. She used it as a makeshift stool, watching him from a distance.

  "What do you want from me?"

  His brow furrowed, his eyes lightly closed. He had understood her, but only just. She thought about running, for a moment. She would have a few moment's head start as he thought through what she had said, but it wouldn't be enough time.

  He would hear the flap, and her advantage would not be near enough. And that was assuming, of course, that no one watched the tent from the outside, which she knew was not a safe assumption by any means. No, she was not done waiting yet.

  His eyes opened and he nodded for a moment, clearly formulating a response.

  "I can not… ah…" his eyes flicked to the corner of the tent, thinking of the word. "Die."

  He stood, lifting his still-stained shirt. A white line marked his stomach, like a years-old wound he'd taken. Where she had cut a ragged line across him only the night before.

  He must have been waiting for a reaction to continue, because as soon as she leaned forward from her perch, her brows furrowed in confusion, he continued.

  "I want to go to heaven, with my brothers. I must fall in battle. You are magic."

  The words came slowly, but Deirdre was only half-listening. She knew nothing about what he was saying. This was so far beyond her capabilities. She was nothing more than a hill witch. She had learned from her teacher before her, little things.

  Herbs to help control her mind. How to read the signs that the earth left for her. How to read weather patterns. This was so much more than anything she had ever seen, or even heard of.

  He took a step toward her, letting his shirt fall to cover his hard, nearly-unmarked body. "You are magic, and you will make me a man."

  She looked up at him, the way that he looked at her no different than it had been before. Uncomfortably close, a reminder that pulled her out of her reverie, reminding her again that she was a woman in a man's bedroom.

  He seemed to be saying that he had taken her because she was a witch. That was what his words said.

  His eyes said that he didn't see her as a witch. He saw her as a woman, and whether he would take advantage of it or not, there was no denying what he saw.

  "I don't know how to fix it. I don't know anything about—"

  He put her hand on his stomach, letting her feel the skin where she had cut, feel the smoothness of it. She couldn't help but feel the hard muscle beneath, a shiver going up her spine. She didn't want to think the thoughts that ran through her head.

  She didn't want to think about the fact that they were much closer to his than he might have realized.

  "You are magic. Find a way."

  The march was another half-hour at double pace, but for Gunnar the march never began until the last thirty paces, when the fury of battle finally started to overtake the cold knowledge of what would come. When they broke out of the loose ranks and picked up the pace.

  Gunnar tried to keep himself in check. Nearing thirty, he was not as young as some of the boys, and he needed to remind himself of that. But as Valdemar started to pass him, and the fever of battle started to rise, he couldn't help speeding up to match, ducking his shoulder b
ehind a shield. He'd topple the first man he came to with the sheer weight behind the tackle.

  That one would live, for a moment, until someone decided to take the kill or he decided to get off his back and rejoin the fight. Whatever man stood behind him would not be so lucky, as Gunnar's practiced arm let the shield slip off to the side and revealed the sharp blade behind it.

  Valdemar had no shield. Never carried one, which Gunnar had to respect from a man who had not been blessed with Gunnar's peculiar talents. The battle madness had already overcome him as they started to hit cobblestone pavement, his great ax swinging back to take off head of the first man to dare stand before him.

  Gunnar pulled his blade free, glancing to the side as they passed by a house, making sure that no ambush lay in wait. He caught the blow of a sword on his shield, turning it aside with the round redoubt, and brought his own sword down on the man's arm, separating it cleanly at the elbow, finishing by putting his shoulder into him and sending him to the ground.

  Something was wrong here. They'd come to a larger village than the last. There had been at least two dozen homes, from what he could see, perhaps more. There must have been more than this, but as he looked around he saw that there were scarce few to be found.

  The sound of an English shout made him turn to face it, just in time to catch an English arrow with his shield, and another with his shoulder. Valdemar would not be so lucky, he realized.

  Gunnar took a long step, turning his back once more on the archers, who hid somewhere in one of the buildings. He would have time to respond, but not while his men were vulnerable.

  The heavy ax came down, splitting a man nearly in half, and Gunnar claimed another with the point of his sword, a boy who had never seen the blow coming. As Valdemar turned to take the last of the three men surrounding him, Gunnar heard a second shout go up, and turned again, the tiniest flash of movement sending his hand out in a futile effort to catch it.

  Instead the arrow hit his blade, hard enough to send it, twisting and tumbling out of his hand, and another caught him through the thigh. Though it stung badly, it was not enough to take him down. He needed to deal with this, though. More than one body lay in the stone floor, pin-cushioned like he was, but they were not continuing to fight like he could.

  He could see where the arrows had come from. The door was barricaded. They would have more than enough time for their arrows to find marks as he tried to dig his way through—Gunnar cursed their good tactics, and started to charge with his shield once more. If you cannot go around, he thought. The easiest way…

  He left his feet and groaned out as his hip hit the window pane, felt the glass cutting through his skin as it failed to shatter cleanly on his shield. But when he tumbled down, it was to a wooden floor, and not to the muck of the small garden outside.

  Another arrow struck him, sending him back to the floor as he tried to stand. The eldest of the five men had a sword in his hand, and he raised it as another arrow hit home. They were not taking chances, Gunnar thought, and they were right not to.

  Through the haze of pain and with his body pinned to the floor he swung wildly for the old man's leg, feeling the blade sink into flesh. The man screamed out his pain and fell to the ground. Gunnar took the advantage, using the man's weight to help him turn over and straddle his chest.

  He wrapped his hands around the man's throat and put his weight down, feeling him struggle. Gunnar's knee came up to pin his sword arm and he watched the light go out of the Englishman's eyes. A pity, he had been clever. Cleverer than most of the English. They were known, and now the English would be prepared, more and more at each town. The danger would increase as they continued.

  As the man stopped fighting Gunnar pulled the sword from the man's hands, pressing himself up even as the arrows thudded into his body with the force of an angry bull. He turned, one sword cleaving through the wooden bow of an archer that stood close by, the second finding a place in his chest. The others died as quickly, until Gunnar finally laid back against the wall, chest heaving with exertion.

  The wounds hurt badly, and with the arrows still in him he could feel them pulling back open every time he moved. He was tired, and he hurt. He should have died a dozen times over. It was a blessing that he was able to survive, but it was important to remember that if he hadn't been here, hadn't been who he was, then it was not impossible that they had all died.

  Ulf stepped through the door, his helm removed and sweat streaming down his face. "Gunnar, there you are."

  The smell of smoke was going up, now. They had finished without him, that much was a strange relief.

  "Here I am, indeed. What is it?"

  "Leif said that he saw a pincushion leaping through this window, I thought perhaps you had gone to see Lord Odin."

  "No," Gunnar answered, breaking off one of the shafts that had caught in his leg and pulling it out with a shout of pain. "Not yet, Ulf."

  He turned to go, leaving Gunnar sitting in the room, his breath struggling. Another broken shaft, another arrow pulled straight through, and his breath started to come back as his lung healed the puncture a moment later.

  No, he would not be going to sit and drink at Valhalla. Not until that damn witch-woman found out how to cure him. She tried to play her tricks, tried to say that she knew nothing about his condition or how to cure it, but he knew better. They were knowledgeable about many things, these witches.

  Maybe she knew nothing at the moment, but she knew more than she let on. That, or taking her had been a waste.

  Not a waste, part of his mind thought. There are more uses for a woman that beautiful than for her magic. He pushed the thought away again. He had to be a leader, had to keep pushing himself harder. Otherwise, he would be overtaken, whenever Valdemar decided that it was time to make his move.

  It would be soon, Gunnar knew. He would have to find his answers before that time came—or be prepared to answer the challenge.

  Four

  There was a cold wind blowing across the hilltop where they had all been left, and it let Deirdre watch the Northlanders take their long, loping strides across the hills toward Malbeck.

  It was the high angle that let her see when they were far enough that they were little more than specs, and then when they went down the last hill, into the basin where the next town over laid.

  Deirdre waited a long moment before she spoke, and when she did she wasn't sure how long they'd let her. After all, the ones who had come from Clifton knew her for what she was. The rest, she supposed, might have guessed. Or perhaps they thought she was something worse still, a woman who tried to buy her freedom with her body.

  "They can't see us any longer. Now's our chance."

  Nobody said anything, nor even moved beyond a slight turn of the head.

  "Come on, now! We can get away, we've got time. Haven't you got any fight left in you?"

  They looked at her again, their expressions tired and disinterested. What on earth were they thinking? They could die at any moment, staying with these men. At least if they were to escape they might live.

  "Well, I'm going," she announced, loudly, and pointedly looking from one face to the next. "Anyone who will come with me is welcome to."

  "And if they have someone watching the camp, just out of sight? What will you do then? Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot. You're their favorite, so naturally you're safe. I'd forgotten." The man glowered at her, his eyes burning like coals. "No, I'll stay right here. I'm not going to risk anything happening. When the chance comes, I'll be safe."

  "You're a fool," Deirdre said softly, but part of her wasn't sure. What if he was right? What if there was someone out of sight? She'd kept watch, but she didn't have eyes in the back of her head, regardless what the villagers thought of her.

  One could have slipped off, circled back. If anyone could stay out of sight, then she supposed that these men could, and she hardly had the advantage of her herbs to make her sight clearer. No way to focus more than she had.

  "T
hen what," she said, at last. "What do you wait for? To be enslaved? Killed?"

  "We wait for an opportunity. A safe opportunity. We want to live, witch." Another had spoken this time, a man she'd seen before in Clifton. She thought he might be a baker.

  How, she wondered, had they captured him? It was hardly as if they were in the business of taking prisoners. They'd killed that boy for little more than giving the leader a nasty look. If he'd been caught with a weapon in hand… he'd be rotting in the mud right now, but he might have taken one of them along. Each of them might have sent one of the northmen to Hell, if they'd only tried. If they'd had the guts to go after one of them with a knife.

  Deirdre stopped speaking abruptly. What was the point of talking to a bunch of cowards, after all? It was just as well if she stayed silent, because with her hands tied behind her back it would take more than a little bit of focus to get herself off of the pole, tied to the lot of cowards that allowed the band of powerful northmen to raid the countryside.

  She could already see the smoke beginning to rise from the beginnings of fire. Whether that meant they were finished, or that they were merely getting started, she couldn't be sure.

  The only thing she was sure of was that she wasn't looking forward to having to tell the leader that she couldn't give him what he wanted, what he needed. She worked her shoulder to loosen it, where it had been stiff from being continually forced behind her.

  Then, once she'd managed that, she started to try to work her hands down, moving the rope down and under her plump bottom, down to her knees…

  Her legs ached with the pain of stretching, her shoulder pulled to its limits, but she continued to lean, bending her knees to relieve the pain. It didn't matter what kind of show she gave to the others, how far down the front of her dress they could see.

  This wasn't about modesty. It was about freedom, and she was going to have hers back. If someone came into her little cottage again, and said they desperately needed her help, then Gods above damn them because she wasn't about to leave it. Never again. She guessed that her cottage, outside Clifton, had survived the northern onslaught, being so far outside.