Chapter Nine
Ablade grazed the back of his neck.
“I find that I’m not so willing to lend you my hospitality, Hardrata.” Ivar held his knife steady. “Especially when you’re threatening one of my guests.”
Styr said nothing, but lifted his hands up, allowing Caragh to escape. He made no denial of what he’d done, though it was meant to be a warning, not a threat. An innocent like Caragh had no idea what she’d done by kissing the Norseman.
Did she genuinely want the man? Or did she have another motive?
The blade left his neck, and he turned slowly. Caragh stood between them and explained, “He was not threatening me. Styr was warning me about putting myself in a position that could be harmful.”
Her voice remained calm, as if nothing at all had happened. As if they’d never argued. Slowly, she took the knife from Ivar’s hands. “I know he was right. As a woman, I shouldn’t have gone off alone.”
“No one in this house would harm you,” Ivar said quietly. “Did he...bother you?” From the grim tone of the man, it sounded as if Ivar wouldn’t have minded killing him.
The feeling was mutual. Seeing Caragh yield to the Norseman, softening beneath his lips, had evoked a feral sense of possession. Styr couldn’t fathom why it would irritate him.
“I am fine.” She placed her hand upon Ivar’s arm and sent a glance back at Styr as if warning him to stay away.
Throughout the next hour, he said nothing at all while Ivar told Caragh stories of their homeland. The man wove tales of adventure, showing her treasures of silver and gold. Her eyes were bright with interest, and a smile lingered upon her mouth.
Yet each time she glanced at Styr, he saw the unrest behind those violet eyes. She feared what he would do when they found her brother within the city. The truth was, he didn’t know. Instinct forced him towards a path of revenge, but when he thought of causing her anguish, his gut tightened.
The feelings of a woman shouldn’t matter. But he was acutely aware of every movement she made, every word she spoke.
And that was more dangerous than anything else.
When her brothers arrived later that night, Styr withdrew even further, until Ronan approached him.
“What did you find?” Styr asked.
“Your ship was taken by the Danes,” Ronan answered, confirming what he’d learned from Onund. “My brother Brendan and your men were sold into slavery.” He nodded towards Ivar. “I understand you found some of them.”
Styr told him what he’d learned, ending with, “We are still looking for your brother.”
Ronan gave a nod, but his eyes were fixed upon Ivar and Caragh. “What of the Norseman? You seem to be allowing him to spend time with our sister.”
“That is her choice to make.” He turned back to the man, considering whether or not to tell him the truth about Elena. Already he’d allowed the man to draw false conclusions about Caragh and him. Though he’d wanted the use of their ship, it might be wiser to break the alliance.
Before he could say another word, Onund approached them. At his side were three more of Styr’s men.
“There will be a ritual in the morning,” Onund informed him. “There have been sightings of many ships approaching, and the men here intend to summon a volva to predict whether or not to attack the Danes.”
“The women have begun grinding barley for the bread on the morrow,” another said. “Ivar intends to host a feast and offer his own sacrifices.”
“Does he intend to sacrifice any of the thralls?” Though animals were most often sacrificed to the gods, there were sometimes human sacrifices, as well.
Onund glanced at his kinsmen, his face unreadable. “He has not spoken of it.”
Which meant it was possible.
Styr knew that in times of peril, greater sacrifices were demanded. But his men should not be among them. They’d lost their freedom because he’d been unable to guard Elena. He would not allow them to lose their lives, as well.
He rested his hand upon Onund’s shoulder and squeezed it lightly.
“You will be freed in the morning. This I swear, upon the blood of Odin.” He met his kinsman’s gaze steadily, though inwardly, he didn’t know how he would achieve it.
He needed to negotiate with Ivar for their release.
To each of them, he gave one of the silver coins he’d won.
Styr bade the men a good night, and after they’d gone, Ronan confronted him. “You’ve made plans, haven’t you?”
“Plans to free them, yes.” He said nothing more, knowing Ronan had not understood the Norse language.
“And what about our sister? Or have you changed your mind about being her protector?”
Styr evaded the question. “There are dozens of men, Irish even, who would make a better protector.”
Unmarried men, who can give her the kind of life she deserves, he didn’t say.
Ronan’s blue eyes met his own. “I see the way she looks at you. She hasn’t looked at any man in that way, in over a year.”
He had no response to give. It would be far better if Caragh saw him for what he was—a man bent upon vengeance and nothing else.
“You look at her in the same manner,” Ronan commented. “And given all the invasions, I think it would be wise to ally our men. You can live at Gall Tír, and we’ll join our forces together.”
“There can be no alliance between Caragh and myself.” No longer would he give the man false hopes. Ronan deserved the truth. “I’ll help you find your brother while I search for the rest of my men,” Styr told him. “Then we’ll go.”
Ronan’s gaze turned cold. “You’re planning to break her heart, then.”
“She’s always known that there would never be anything between us. I was her captive. I paid my debt when I saved her life. We’re even now.”
“Then you’re nothing but a Lochlannach bastard,” Ronan countered, reaching out toward his throat.
Styr caught the man’s hand and shoved him against the back wall. Already his temper was stretched taut, and he needed no man to tell him what to do.
“Don’t,” Caragh protested, moving between them. When she pushed him back, there was a slight shift in her posture, almost as if she were afraid.
And perhaps she should be. Styr let out a slow breath of air, not regretting what he’d said to Ronan. It was better to leave her be so she could pursue her own future.
Her dark hair was gathered over one shoulder, baring a slight glimpse of pale skin.
In the firelight, he saw the gooseflesh rise upon it.
Whether she was cold or uncomfortable at his presence, he didn’t know.
But he handed her his own cloak and returned to the back of the room.
Caragh dared to glance at him, and when she did, she pulled the cloak tightly around her.
When he reached the far end of the longhouse, he made a sleeping place for himself. In his palm, he gripped his battleaxe, believing that it wasn’t at all safe in this house.
Caragh sat in the darkness with her knees drawn up. She’d been unable to sleep, her mind caught up in worry. From across the room, she heard the whisper of footsteps approaching.
“My lord bids you come to him,” came the low voice of a female thrall. She spoke Irish well, but the command made Caragh’s skin tighten.
“Why?”
“He knows your dreams are troubled. He wishes to speak with you and offer you a spiced wine to help you sleep.”
But Caragh held no trust towards Ivar. If he gave her a rich wine, it would only muddle her decisions more. From across the room, she spied him seated near a bronze oil lamp. Though he was shadowed, she sensed what he wanted from her.
Around her shoulders, she wore Styr’s cloak, fastened with a silver brooch. Upon the heavy wool, she scented his presence, and it gave her comfort. She tightened her grip, knowing she could not obey the summons.
She stood from her pallet, the fear creeping within her veins.
Darkness enveloped the longhouse, but she did not follow the servant.
The woman protested in a soft whisper, but Caragh ignored her.
Instead, she tiptoed across the room, past her sleeping brothers, to the one man who did make her feel safe.
Styr slept in the corner of the far end of the house. A battleaxe rested in one hand, and the moment she knelt down beside him, his eyes flew open.
Caragh touched a finger to her lips, silently willing him not to speak. Without asking permission, she lay down beside him on the cold earth. She unpinned the brooch and loosened the cloak, reaching to place it over him.
He moved towards her, his hard body against her own. “Why are you here, Caragh?”
She turned her lips to his ear. “You were right about Ivar. He tried to summon me to him this night.”
Styr sat up, his hand closing over the battleaxe. “Did he harm you?” He kept his voice just above a whisper, but his tone was fierce.
“No. But I didn’t believe it was safe to stay on the other side.”
“It’s not safe here, either,” he reminded her. “You should have gone to your brothers.”
He was right. Being here wasn’t wise, but she couldn’t say what had drawn her to him. She didn’t understand the forbidden feelings he’d conjured or why she yearned to be at his side. But there had been no question in her mind that she would only find sleep if she lay beside him.
“Do you want me to go?” Her hand rested upon the cool chainmail he hadn’t removed.
Styr said nothing at all but guided her to lie back down. Her heartbeat trembled at his nearness and all the silent reasons why he hadn’t sent her away. Their bodies didn’t touch, but she felt the cold earth against her as she tried to sleep.
“Keep the cloak,” he said. “You’re cold.”
“So are you,” she whispered, ignoring the command.
But a moment later, he dragged her to rest beside him, her back resting against his chest. “Little fool.” With one hand, he adjusted the cloak until it covered both of them.
But closing her eyes didn’t shut out the feelings he evoked inside her. Beneath the cloak, though his skin was cool, she sensed it warming against her. She was torn between moving away from him, and craving the heat of his body.