Jacqueline Navin - The Viking's Heart

The broken-off hilt of a blade was displayed before her.

Her eyes fastened on it, then shifted to his face. He was watching her with dancing eyes. They were very blue, like a cold north sea. Perhaps that was just her fanciful association from the knowledge that he was a Viking.

“And exactly what do you intend to do to me with that?”

She blinked rapidly, trying to think. “It is more weapon than any you can claim,” she said bravely.

“And what makes you think I am in need of a weapon, my gentle woman?” A blur caught the corner of her eye. And then her hand hurt. She looked at it to see what could be causing the pain and was amazed to find it empty.

“Now we are evenly matched,” he said, stepping forward.

“How can you think so? You are twice my size.” She fell back a few paces. He advanced again, closing the gap and then some.

“I would guess three times or more, but what difference does it make when you possess such cunning?”

“What will you do with me?”

“Nothing worse than rescue you, my lady.”

“Ha! You think I will come easily under that pretty lie?”

A great shoulder lifted and fell. “It matters not, for I’ll have the result either way, although it would be less of a bother if you would cooperate.”

His steady advance, and her retreat, had backed her against a log. It caught under her knees and she stumbled. In a trice, he was beside her, his hands at her waist to steady her and pull her upright.

“Safety, my lady,” he said, and his tone was completely changed from the sharp admonishment of only a moment ago.

His touch was unbearably hot, encompassing part of her back and the side of her hip in one broad palm. His breath fanned down against her cheek, whispering across her flesh and making her shiver…from terror, she thought.

“Please do not touch me.” It was a soft, ineffectual plea.

But he complied. He dropped his hands and stepped away. “Will you come willingly with me, or shall I fling you over my shoulder and bear you like a sack of grain to Gastonbury?”

“You are taking me to Gastonbury?” she asked.

“First I must gather your companion and your horses, then find your guard and my other men, but we should clear the castle walls before darkness.”

At her quiet consideration of this news, he asked, “Does that not reassure you, my lady, that what I have pledged is true? ’Tis not harm I intend you, but deliverance to the safety of your cousin’s care.”

She thought good and long before replying, considering her options, and the possibilities. “Aye, sir. You have my trust.”

By his dubious expression, she could see he was not completely reassured.

And well he should not be, she reflected as she followed his lead.

With the highwayman slung over one horse, Rosamund seated on another and Agravar in the lead, they came to the clearing just east of the stream.

Other men were assembled, Rosamund saw; both her soldiers and presumably Gastonbury’s. A great welcome went up at their arrival. A man approached the Viking and he dismounted. She heard the name Agravar. The Viking’s name, she supposed. Yes, he had said it before. Agravar.

The man who approached looked like a demon, with a wild mane of dark hair and eyes that were almost black. He turned to Rosamund and she tensed, causing her horse to shy.

The Viking—Agravar—was beside her in a flash, grabbing the reins and steadying the beast. “Come, this is your cousin’s husband.”

This was the legendary Lucien de Montregnier! He stood beside the Viking and nodded. “I know you have had a trying adventure. We shall rest and refresh ourselves before setting out for home. My wife will be anxious to see you.” He ran his hand through his hair and tried to smile. He was almost handsome when he did so. “And I would be grateful if your nerves were made calmer before we resume your journey, else I be taken to task as it was my tardiness that was at fault.”

“Aye, of course,” she said. Agravar helped her dismount. His nearness was as disconcerting as it had been before. She wriggled away from him once her feet touched the ground. His hands fell to his sides.

A screech split the air and Hilde came charging toward Rosamund from the other side of the glen, arms outflung, skirts flying. Rosamund braced herself.

“You are safe, ah, praise the saints and the sweet Lord in heaven!” Slamming into her mistress, Hilde squeezed until tiny pinpoints of light began to dance on the periphery of Rosamund’s vision.

“Hilde,” she choked, pushing the woman away. Hilde pulled back, took another look at her and swept her to her bosom for a second strangling clinch.

“Come,” Agravar said, wrapping strong fingers about Rosamund’s arm. He managed to get her away from the effusive maid without a struggle, mostly because the woman gaped at him with a mixture of awe and terror that made her grip go lax. As polite as any courtier, Agravar led Rosamund to a good-sized rock. “Take your rest while the men water the horses. It will be but a moment to prepare them for the short ride back to the castle.”

Rosamund kept her eyes averted, fighting a flush of shame at his surprisingly gentle attentions. She stared at his boots and gave a perfunctory nod. The boots turned and she lifted her gaze, watching him walk back to the horses and untether his prisoner.

The man with the red hat—that affectation now stuffed unceremoniously into the top of one battered boot—was awake now. As he was led to the opposite side of the glade, just along the edge of the brush that formed a semicircle behind them, she saw his eyes were on her and they blazed bright and vigilant.

She lowered her lashes again, thinking fast. After a while, she said to Hilde, who was engaged in a manic monologue about the dreadful events that day, “I am thirsting. Please fetch me a tankard of water.”

“Yes, my lady. Oh, certainly, my good lady. How happy I shall be to do it, my sweet, safe lady.”

Agravar gave his report to Lucien as Lady Rosamund’s guards were rounded up, their wounds seen to as best as could be arranged before they got to the castle. Agravar overheard one of them saying, “The man had me down. He could have slain me, but he rode on.”

Stopping, he inquired, “Do you claim these bandits showed mercy?”

“Not to me,” another, older man grumbled, showing three stubs where the fingers had been severed. “Dicky here was lucky enough to get a young one. You get ’em young, an’ they don’ have the taste of blood yet.”

Thinking of the single member of the bandits they had managed to capture, Agravar asked, “What is the significance of that ridiculous hat? Did others wear one?”

“Nah. He’s the only one I saw, bloody cur,” the grizzled soldier said, turning his head to spit, as if to illustrate his opinion of the whole lot of them. “The rest of them scattered, like they knew these woods.”

Agravar frowned. “Local thieves.”

A woman’s voice—an annoyingly familiar woman’s voice—startled Agravar. “Oh, Lord, she’s taken again. Ah! He’s got her!”

Muttering a curse under his breath, Agravar turned to Hilde. “What is the matter now, woman?” he demanded.

“My lady! She’s gone again, and him as well—the bandit. Fine ones you are at protection when an innocent lamb gets stolen out from under your very noses. He took her, I say. They’re gone!”

“God’s breath!” Agravar swore. “That woman has proved to be a great deal of trouble this day. Lucien! She is missing again.”

Hilde leaped up and hung on to his arm, holding him as steadfast as an anchor. “Oh, no, sirrah! She is the most darling, sweet child, she is.”