To Tempt a Viking. Michelle Willingham

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      Though it should have made her feel better, the longer she sat by the fire, the more despondent she grew. In the space of a few hours, she’d lost everything—her husband, her people, their ship and even a shelter. Silent tears welled up and spilled over, against her will.

      ‘Come here, Elena.’

      She ignored him, needing a good cry. She deserved it, after all that had happened.

      ‘Are you really going to make a wounded man drag himself across the sand to get to you?’ Although his voice held teasing, there was enough determination that made her aware that he’d do it.

      ‘I’ll be fine.’ But she obeyed, returning to sit beside him. When his arms came around her, she wept in earnest. His kindness was her undoing, for she didn’t know how to gather up the pieces of her life or how to begin anew from here. Her husband, as well as their kinsmen, could be dead. They had no ship and they were stranded in a foreign land, far away from home.

      Ragnar said nothing at all, but held her tightly and his presence did bring her comfort. She wasn’t alone, despite all that had happened. That, at least, was a consolation.

      His skin was warm from the fire and she rested her cheek against him, closing her eyes. ‘Sleep,’ he urged. ‘I’ll just lie here and count the hours until I stop hurting.’

      Although he was trying to make light of the injury, she knew he was in a great deal of discomfort. ‘I wish I had something to take away your pain.’

      An enigmatic smile crossed his face. ‘It would be worse if you were not here at all.’ With a heavy sigh, he added, ‘In the morning we’ll decide how to get to the mainland.’

      She lay beside the fire, but sleep would not come. The heavy weight of her wet clothing was making it difficult to dry off. Elena unfastened the brooches at her shoulders and peeled off the wet outer apron, leaving on the cream-coloured gown. She set it upon the rocks to dry, though she doubted this was possible by morning. Still, she might sleep better without the heavy layers of wetness.

      She huddled upon the sand, leaving the fire between them. Ragnar’s face was as exhausted as hers, his dark green eyes solemn. ‘You can sleep beside me without fear, Elena.’

      She hesitated, for never had she slept beside any man except Styr. But then again, there was no shelter here. Sleeping alone would be uncomfortable for both of them.

      But did she dare sleep beside Ragnar? Her reluctance must have been evident, for he shrugged and leaned up against one of the rocks as if it were no matter.

      With a sigh, she realised that she was being foolish. Sleeping beside Ragnar would mean nothing at all. He would never threaten her marriage, not when her husband was his closest friend. Her apprehensions were groundless.

      Silently, she rose from her place on the sand.

      * * *

      Dawn came far too soon. Ragnar had hardly slept at all, but the warmth of Elena’s body was pressed against his back. His wounds ached, but he didn’t move at all, not wanting to disturb her.

      Her hair was still damp, in a tangled red-and-gold mass around her shoulders. The braids had come undone and the strands held the wildness of bent curls. Her pale gown outlined her slender body with curves and he forced the sinful thoughts away.

      Not yours, he reminded himself.

      Her eyes opened and she yawned, sitting up. ‘Did you sleep?’ Eyeing his wounds, she added, ‘Are you in much pain?’

      He was, but he welcomed the dull ache. To lie beside Elena had been a dream he’d never imagined and his torn flesh had reminded him of the boundaries between them. If he had died last night, he could think of no better place to spend his last hours.

      His leg burned, but he forced himself to answer, ‘I’ll be all right. We need to reach the mainland today.’

      She knelt before him and unwrapped the bandages. At the sight of his wounded flesh, she blanched. ‘It doesn’t look good.’

      He shrugged. ‘I’m alive.’ For now, he thought, but didn’t say so. If he developed a fever, that could slay him quicker than the arrow wound.

      ‘You need a better healer than me,’ she argued. Rising to her feet, she took a deep breath and glanced around her. ‘But it’s too far for both of us to swim to the mainland.’ She stared at the small copse of trees. ‘There may be some fallen wood we could use for a raft.’

      ‘You aren’t strong enough to pull a log into the water,’ he argued. Already Elena appeared exhausted, her green eyes clouded with unspoken fear.

      ‘No, but I can find smaller branches and tie them together. We could hold on and then try to swim.’

      ‘And what are you going to tie the wood with? Grass?’

      In answer, she lifted her skirt, baring her legs to the knees. ‘I’ll cut off more of my dress.’

      The image of her long bared legs was enough to send a sharp flare of heat coursing through him. ‘If you think it will work,’ he said. He’d never seen beyond her ankles, but now she’d revealed shapely calves. He could only imagine the rest of those long legs, for she was a tall woman.

      And another man’s wife.

      His best friend’s wife.

      Ragnar leaned his weight against the stones, pushing his way up to a standing position. The sky was a hazy rose and gold, and mist frosted against the edge of the mainland. His stomach twisted at the thought of food and he hoped they would catch fish or other game.

      But he wasn’t much use to Elena. Not like this. The barest pressure of weight upon his leg was agonising, and he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to limp towards the other side of the island. It was a small outcropping, hardly more than a copse of trees and large boulders. There was no food, no water and their only hope for survival was to make the crossing.

      He glanced at the grey salt water, knowing that it would burn his wounds with unholy fire. Elena’s suggestion, that they bind fallen limbs together, was a sound one. The pain had been bad enough when the arrow was still inside him, but more flesh was exposed now that she’d taken it out.

      * * *

      When Elena emerged from the woods, she dragged four stout branches along the sand, each the thickness of his forearm. She had gathered up her hair, twisting it in a knot and securing it with a small stick while she worked. She used his knife to cut off more material from her skirts. As she bound the limbs together, his traitorous imagination conjured up the vision of her bared legs tangled with his own, his body lying atop hers.

      Ragnar closed his eyes, furious with himself for even thinking such dishonourable thoughts about her.

      ‘Let me help you,’ he said to Elena. He needed the activity to distract him. Anything to keep his gaze away from her bared flesh.

      Limping towards the pile of limbs, he sat down and wove the fabric under and over each branch, securing it tightly. Elena worked opposite him, mirroring his method, until at last it was ready.

      The morning light reflected upon her skin and, though СКАЧАТЬ