Michelle Styles - Saved by the Viking Warrior

Surely it would have been better to die a quick death at Narfi’s hands than to suffer this...this torture!

She had been a fool to trust Hagal the Red and his promises in the marriage contract. She had been a fool to flee from her hiding place at the sound of this man’s voice. She had been a fool to try to undo the cloak when it became entangled on the thorn bush.

Time to start using her mind instead of panicking like a scared rabbit! Aefirth would have wanted her to.

‘I belong to no man, particularly not a Norseman.’ Cwenneth brought her hand down sharply and twisted. ‘I will never be a slave. Ever.’

He released her so abruptly that she stumbled backwards and fell on her bottom, revealing more than she would have liked of her legs. Cwenneth hastily smoothed her skirts down.

‘That’s better,’ she said in her most imperious voice, playing for time and ignoring the way her insides did a little flutter at his intense look. ‘Keep your hands to yourself in the future.’

‘If you want a race, so be it, but I will win.’ The planes of his face hardened to pure stone. ‘You are welcome to try. I will catch you before you go ten steps. And my mood will be less generous.’

He reached down and raised her up. His hand lingered lightly on her shoulder, restraining her.

‘Will you strike me down if I run?’ Cwenneth whispered. She’d survived Narfi, only to be killed for sport by this man? Her limbs tensed, poised for renewed flight, but she forced her legs to remain still.

‘Where is the challenge in killing women?’ he responded gravely. ‘I’m a warrior who fights other warriors. Playing games of chase with a beautiful woman will have to wait for another day. I’ve other things to attend to. Give me your word that you will come meekly and I’ll release your arm. Otherwise, I will bind you.’

Cwenneth concentrated on breathing evenly. Playing games of chase, indeed! As if she was some maid flirting with him in the Lingwold physic garden! She was a widow whose heart had been buried with her late husband and son.

She clung on to her temper and did not slap his face. This was about survival until she could return to Lingwold. Once she was safe behind the thick grey-stone walls, she could give in to sarcasm and her temper. Until then, she guarded her tongue and kept her throat whole.

‘Let me go and I’ll give my word,’ she ground out.

‘Satisfied?’ He lifted his hand.

She stared at the large Norseman warrior standing before her. He had released his hold, but the imprint of his hands burnt through the cloth. Large and ferocious with glacial blue eyes, a man who took pride in fighting, and the last sort of person she wanted to see. Who was he? Was it a case of things going from bad to worse? How much worse could it get? At least Thrand Ammundson was in Jorvik. No one could be as bad as that man.

‘You see, I keep my word. Now will you? Will you trust me?’

Cwenneth swallowed hard to wet her throat and keep the tang of panic from invading her mouth. Trust a Norseman? A Norseman warrior? How naive did he think she was?

‘Say the words now.’ He pulled a length of leather from his belt.

‘I’ll come with you...willingly. There is no need to bind me,’ she muttered, despising her weakness, but she hated to think about her wrists being bound and marked. ‘I give you my word. I won’t make a break for my freedom.’

‘And I accept it.’ He refastened the length of leather to his belt. ‘You see I’m willing to trust you, but then I can outrun you.’

‘How do you know how fast I can run?’ she asked, watching the leather sway slightly like a snake.

‘You wear skirts.’ His dark-blue eyes darkened to the colour of a Northumbrian summer’s midnight, but held no humour. ‘Skirts tangle about your legs and catch in thorn bushes and brambles. If I have to chase you or you disobey me, things will go much worse for you.’

Cwenneth lifted her chin. She had to concentrate on small victories. She remained unbound...for the moment. It would be harder to escape if he decided to tie her up. And she planned on escaping when the time was ripe. ‘I will take your word for it. I’ve never worn trousers.’

‘A modicum of sense in your brain. Not my usual experience with Northumbrian women.’ His brows drew together. ‘Why are you here? Why were you left alive? Why was your entourage attacked?’

She knew then he’d found the carnage that lay back there on the road. Silently, she named the six men who had died, thinking they were protecting her. They were seared on her heart. Someday, somehow, Hagal would be made to pay. Even faithless Agatha needed justice. In this darkening glade with the bare trees towering above her, she had half-hoped that it was a dreadful nightmare and she’d wake up to find Agatha softly snoring near here or, better still, in her tapestry-hung room at Lingwold.

‘The attack came from nowhere,’ she began and stopped, unable to continue. A great sob rose up in her throat, and in her mind she saw the images of the bodies where they fell and heard the unholy screams. She forced the sob back down. No Norseman would have the pleasure of seeing her cry. She straightened her spine and looked him directly in the eye. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t speak of it. Not yet. Please don’t make me.’

‘You’re my responsibility, and I want you alive.’ He captured her chin with hard fingers, and his deadened eyes peered into her soul. ‘As long as you do as I say.’

‘My world has changed completely.’ Cwenneth forced her eyes to stare back into his.

She knew she was a tall woman, but her eyes were merely on the same level as his chin. He made her feel tiny and delicate, rather than overgrown as she had in the past. Even Aefirth had been barely taller than her. Absently she rubbed where his hand had encircled her wrist.

‘I give better protection than the men who died, the ones who were supposed to ensure you and the other woman came to no harm.’ He released her chin. ‘Was she your mistress?’

‘My mistress?’ Cwenneth hesitated. He thought her the maid! Her heart leapt. A tiny glimmer of hope filled her. This Norseman had made a fundamental error.

If he knew who she was, he’d return her to Hagal who would surely kill her. A wife, even a solemnly betrothed bride like she was, was a husband’s property. And they were fellow Norsemen. She needed to get back to Lingwold and warn her brother of Hagal’s treachery rather than be delivered with a pretty bow about her neck to that viper.

‘Who was your mistress? Quick now. It is hardly a difficult question.’

‘The Lady of Lingwold. She was on her way to finalise her marriage to Hagal the Red.’ Feverishly Cwenneth prayed that her deception would work. ‘I’m her tire woman. Cwen. I’d left the cart to gather bluebells and hopefully improve the smell. After all the travelling we had done, the cart stank. The herbs in the cart gave my lady a woolly head.’

She gulped a breath of air as the words tripped off her tongue. So far, so good.

He pointed to the gold embroidered hem of her gown. ‘A very fine gown for a maid to be wearing, Cwen.’

‘One of my lady’s cast-offs,’ she said with a curtsy. ‘I had it in honour of her marriage. She had many new gowns and no longer had need of this one. It was from her first marriage and quite out of date.’

He nodded, seeming to accept her word. The tension in Cwenneth’s shoulders eased a little. Cwen had a good ring to it, reminding her of Aefirth’s pet name for her.

How hard could it be to play the maid? It was far safer than being herself—the woman whom everyone wanted dead or believed cursed beyond redemption, destined never to have a family who loved her.

‘And, Cwen, your lady did not wish to get out of the cart and sent you instead. Did she fear bandits?’ His lip curled slightly as if he disapproved of such fine women.