Chapter Five #2
She shook her head, not listening. “Then why am I still alone?” Heartbreak resonated in the words.
Styr rolled the dice again, taking a sip from his mead. It was clear that love did matter to a woman like Caragh. He was tempted to speak words of reassurance. To tell her that those men were fools not to want her. But he kept silent, not wanting her to suspect his own thoughts.
Her blue eyes watched him, as if trying to discern an answer. To avoid it, Styr took his final piece from the board.
“You win,” Caragh conceded, drawing her knees up beneath her gown. “I suppose I’ll have to return your cloak now.”
“No, the battleaxe,” he corrected. “Put my cloak over the wall I damaged.” If they were staying, he might consider repairing it. But it wouldn’t matter, once they were gone.
Caragh yawned and began to put away the pieces. Styr helped her, and when the game was put away, she turned abruptly and nearly stumbled. He caught her, to prevent a fall, but her hands rested upon his forearms a moment too long.
“Your wife is a fortunate woman,” she murmured, her gaze upon his.
Her violet eyes were studying him in a wistful way that was far too dangerous.
The warmth of her hands upon him was more welcome than it should have been.
Styr felt the touch sinking into him, like a balm. He shut down the thought immediately.
“Caragh, don’t. You’ve had too much to drink.”
She nodded, pursing her lips. “I have, yes. But, for a moment...you looked as lonely as I feel.” She closed her eyes a moment, as if gathering courage. “And I wondered if everything was all right between you and your wife. You looked… sad.”
Styr put her hands aside and walked away.
“What’s between Elena and myself is no concern of yours.
” He didn’t care how harsh his words sounded.
The reason for their estrangement had everything to do with her inability to conceive a child, nothing more.
Once she became pregnant, all would be well again. He believed that.
He didn’t like the direction of his thoughts.
The more time he spent around Caragh, the more he found himself wanting to ensure that she was protected, that she had enough to eat.
If his thoughts toward her were of a sisterly nature, it wouldn’t bother him so much.
But they weren’t. He admitted to himself that he was attracted to her, much as he hated himself for it.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “You’re right. It has nothing to do with me.” With that, she retreated to her pallet and pulled a coverlet over her body.
Styr stoked up the fire, watching the sparks float into the air. The mead had discolored his judgement, and he didn’t like the direction of his thoughts.
He was lonely.
And he would be a liar if he didn’t admit he’d considered ending his marriage.
For all he knew, the fault could be his, and perhaps he had been the one cursed with the inability to have children.
What right did he have to bind Elena into a marriage where she would never have a child when he knew how desperately she wanted one?
The thoughts plagued him as he returned to his own bed, wondering what would happen when he found her once more.
The sound of the door opening awoke him from sleep. Styr stared into the shadows, the faint glow of the peat fire offering the only light.
The intruder didn’t speak but crept toward the food Caragh had preserved in baskets. Styr had a strong suspicion of who the thief was. He watched the man as he took the basket, sneaking outside again.
Without a warning to Caragh, Styr reached for the battleaxe that she’d returned to him last night. Following the intruder, he caught up to the man and saw that it was Kelan, as he’d suspected.
“Drop the basket,” he commanded.
Kelan spun, and the flash of his blade gleamed against the morning fog. He dropped the basket, advancing upon him.
“Are you that dishonorable, that you would steal food from a starving woman?” Styr demanded. “When she shared what she had with you?”
“She shared with you as well,” the man accused. “And you’re nothing but a murderer. That makes her a traitor to us.” He sliced his knife through the clouded air in an open threat as he circled.
Styr dodged the blow, swinging with his own weapon. He heard the sound of a door striking against the frame, Caragh calling out to him.
“Please don’t fight,” she begged, as Kelan moved in with his blade.
“He’s a thief, Caragh,” Styr countered. “I should have killed him when I had the chance.”
She darted forward and seized the basket. Styr blocked another blow with the axe and struck out at the man, his fist connecting with Kelan’s jaw. In his enemy’s eyes, he saw desperation and the mark of a coward.
Caragh came closer again, pleading, “Stop this. I don’t want either of you to be hurt.”
“I suppose you’re sharing his bed, aren’t you, Caragh? Whoring yourself to the enemy.”
She stumbled back, her face flushed. “I’ve done no such thing. He was my prisoner until last night.”
“I suppose he was glad to be chained up, for your use,” Kelan taunted.
When she covered her mouth with her hands, appalled, he backhanded her, sending her to the ground.
Reaching for the basket of fish, he started to flee, but Styr seized him.
He ignored the knife and rolled with his enemy on the ground, determined to protect her.
Fury raged through Styr. Kelan was a dishonorable thief, one who ought to be punished for his deeds.
He raised his battleaxe, prepared to slice the man’s throat, when suddenly, strong arms dragged him backwards. Two men, with strength to equal his own, hauled him away from Kelan. Though Styr tried to break free, they held him back.
“Kelan was trying to steal food from me,” Caragh explained to the men. She stood before them, and from their physical resemblance, Styr guessed who they were.
“Take your belongings and leave the ringfort,” the taller man commanded Kelan. “If you set foot upon Gall Tír again, your life will be the forfeit.”
Kelan’s face was murderous as he stood. But he moved toward his own home within the ringfort. Caragh’s shoulders lowered with relief when he’d gone.
“Let the Lochlannach go, Ronan,” she ordered, reaching past Styr to hug the taller man. “Terence, you, too. He was only defending me.”
Her brothers, he guessed. And from the dark look in their eyes, they were wondering whether or not to kill him. Behind the men, he spied two horses burdened with large bundles that likely contained food and supplies.
Caragh came to stand beside him. “This is Styr Hardrata.” Though her words were steady, Styr caught the warning flash in her eyes. He couldn’t quite tell what she wanted, but held his tongue.
“And why would my sister be harboring a Lochlannach?” Ronan demanded. “Were you attacked?”
Styr gave no answer but nodded to Caragh, letting her give what explanation she would.
“Brendan attacked them when they arrived a few days ago,” she explained. “He and his friends were planning to steal their supplies.”
Styr eyed the two brothers, and the taller man stared back, his face set in a grim line. “Where is he now?”
Caragh shook her head. “I don’t know. We were going to search for him in Father’s boat.”
Ronan expelled a curse, and then his gaze tightened upon his sister. “We?” From the dark look in his eyes, Styr knew what the man was thinking.
“Yes.” Caragh lifted her chin as if to defy her brother. “At first, Styr was my prisoner,” she confessed. “But...now, he is...” She faltered as if searching for a reason.
Desperate, she caught his gaze and abruptly moved her arm around his waist. She managed a smile for her brothers, as if her action were explanation enough.
The touch of her arm around him sent up a flare of warning. Styr didn’t know what her intentions were, but the unexpected touch was far too familiar. She was trying to make her brothers believe that there was more than friendship between them, and the gesture bothered him.
Worse, he was acutely aware of the soft heat from her skin, the scent of her hair. He tensed, as if that could stop him from feeling anything at all. Frustration coiled inside him, but he didn’t push her away. Not until he understood what she was trying to do.
“But now?” Terence repeated, eyeing his sister with distrust. The man rested his hand upon the sword hanging from his scabbard. Though he kept his tone calm, his gray eyes held a warning. “Give me a reason why I should spare the life of a Lochlannach.”
Caragh took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully.
She didn’t look at Styr, but neither did she release him.
“Now, he has come to mean far more to me.” She tightened her grip around Styr’s waist, as if pleading with him not to speak.
“Don’t harm him, Terence. You saw for yourself how he defended me.
” Her hand moved up to rest upon Styr’s heart, her fingers grazing the skin beneath his throat.
That was all it took for his body to respond to her. His heartbeat quickened, and he loathed himself for the involuntary reaction. Gently, he removed her hands and remarked, “I don’t need your protection, Caragh.”
There was a glint of approval in Ronan’s eyes.
Styr suspected he might be the leader of the tribe, from the way he stood back, assessing both of them.
He was tall, with dark hair like his sister.
His beard was sheared close to his skin, and there was a leanness to him, as if he, too, had suffered from the famine.
Even so, from the protective nature of the man, Styr guessed that Ronan wouldn’t take kindly to anyone speaking against Caragh.
“Why did you come here?” Terence demanded. The shorter man was thin, like his brother, but still heavily muscled. There was a hint of darkness to his tone, as if he were trying to provoke a fight.
“We came to trade and to settle here before your brother attacked us.”