In Bed With The Viking Warrior. Harper George St.

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      She ignored the casual endearment and the fact that she liked it. ‘My name is Aisly. And I fear you won’t be going anywhere for a while in your condition.’ Whether he realised it or not, his wound was grievous. She was amazed that he’d made it two whole days without falling into the deep sleep that could sometimes claim people after such an injury. That sleep usually led to death and it would happen to him soon if she couldn’t figure out how to get nourishment into him quickly. Even that might not be enough. If only the warriors would see things her way and allow her to care for him before they tried to determine if he was a threat to the village.

      ‘I just need a short rest. I’ll recover quickly.’ He grinned at her.

      Typical warrior, refusing to admit to his weakness even when it was to his detriment. Even through the layers of his tunic and undershirt, the heat from his body had been unnatural and a touch to his temple confirmed her fears. He was feverish and wouldn’t last more than another day on his own, and that was if more of those rebel Danes weren’t after him.

      ‘You need sleep and a meal. Stay here. I’ll go and get you some food and a dressing for your wound.’

      He agreed and reached for the sword strapped to his back. When his face twisted in pain, she reached around to unfasten the scabbard so that he could lie back. He smiled at her again as he sat back against a tree trunk and held the sword tight to his chest with both hands. The way he looked at her, so intense, so admiring, made something flutter deep in her belly.

      ‘Many thanks, fair one.’

      She opened her mouth to remind him again that her name was Aisly but decided to let it pass. Rising to her feet, she gave him one last lingering glance. ‘Please stay here. Don’t try to go.’

      ‘You have my vow.’ His eyes were already half-lidded, making her wonder if that deep sleep would claim him before she could get back to him.

      Turning abruptly, she hurried through the woods so that she could approach the gate from the front. It wouldn’t do to have anyone wondering why she was meandering around behind the village, just in case someone got suspicious. She’d tell them about the stranger later, after she had done the minimum to help him.

      Pausing a moment at the tree line, she smoothed a hand down her headrail and then her skirt to make sure she didn’t look as harried as she felt. A quick glance at the sun confirmed it was nearing midday. A glance to the left showed movement in the fields. Men and women would still be there for a bit, so it’d be less likely for anyone to question her coming and going. Taking a breath, she took off at a sedate pace across the field towards the open gates. A warrior leaned back against one of the doors that had been blackened from a skirmish with the rebel Danes. He’d been one of the men who had served under Godric but hadn’t been at the settlement that deadly day just over two months ago. She gave him a smile and he nodded before turning back to the warrior at his side.

      No one was loitering about just inside the shadow of the walls. The autumn harvest required almost everyone to work, which was a great help to her just then. She breathed easier as she skirted around behind the row of small houses that lined the wall. In the small spaces separating each one, she could see Cuthbert’s hall in the centre of the village. Though most of the warriors were helping in the fields, some of the warriors were sparring. They wouldn’t bother her, but she didn’t want to chance drawing their notice, either, so she stayed mostly hidden until she made her way past the hall and the expanse of land around it.

      The blacksmith’s shop was also in the centre of the village; the constant fire meant it needed to be away from the wall. Once she passed it, she was sure the stone forge would help hide her from view of the hall, so she moved back on to the path. She was just in time to see the tow-headed curls of her best apprentice, Bryn, disappearing around a corner. Squeals of children’s laughter followed. It seemed her apprentices had run off, but she was glad of it for once.

      Now that she was close to home and didn’t feel like such an interloper, she hurried her pace. Her home was one of the larger houses situated in the western section of the village. Her plot of land was large enough for a small garden, the corral for the few sheep she kept and the structure that held her wool. The thought of it empty now still made her angry. The Danes had come close to ruining all hope of her gaining her independence.

      But there was still a sliver of hope. If nothing else, she could ask Lord Oswine for help. There was always hope.

      Hurrying inside, she found her home empty. The girls had finished the pieces they had been embroidering and left them neatly folded on the table in front. Resolving to check their work later, she rushed past the hearth in the centre of the house and placed the pack with the plants on the table where she prepared her meals to be dealt with later. The day was turning unseasonably warm, but the plaster walls still held in the cold of the previous night, so she added two pieces of wood to the fire. Then she filled a large bowl with stew simmering in the pot over the fire and placed it inside the basket she used in the garden. She covered it with another bowl to help contain any spills and grabbed a long length of linen, before grabbing her flagon of water and adding it to the basket.

      The entire walk back to the stranger, she said prayers that she would find him alive. People were starting to trickle in from the fields, but she kept her gaze averted in the hopes that none of them would offer more than a greeting. The warriors at the gate were so accustomed to her coming and going that they barely gave her a glance. She still waited until she crossed the field and reached the forest before turning in the stranger’s direction.

      She walked as fast as she could without sloshing the stew all over the basket. When she finally saw his form in much the same position as she’d left him propped beneath a fir, she sent up a prayer of thanks. He wasn’t asleep as she’d anticipated and he hadn’t left. He was watching her through slitted eyes, a faint smile on his lips despite his pallor. He looked horrible. A fine sheen of sweat now dotted his forehead and his skin seemed even paler than before. But, somehow, he was still striking.

      Sinking to her knees beside him, she opened her basket. ‘I’ve brought some food.’

      His eyes widened as she lifted out the bowl and his nostrils flared as he caught the scent. ‘The gods have sent you to save me.’ The soft smile lingered on his lips.

      Gods? She’d heard the Northmen believed in gods. Her heart pounded, but she didn’t comment on it as she brought the bowl to his mouth for him to drink. It wasn’t until he’d taken a fair amount and leaned his head back to take a breath that she asked, ‘What do you know of gods?’

      He shook his head, wincing and stopping, because he’d forgotten the pain it caused. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know of any gods. I spoke before I thought.’

      He seemed genuinely unaware. Keeping her hands on the outside of his, she guided the bowl back to his mouth so he could drink down a bit more. She used the opportunity to get a closer look at the ugly gash on his head. It had definitely festered and was pink and swollen at the edges. It should have been sewn up, but it was probably too late for that now.

      ‘I’ve brought some linen and water to clean your wound, but it needs a poultice.’

      He pulled back after taking a healthy drink. ‘I told you, I’ll not stay.’

      She bit the inside of her lip to keep from pointing out that he didn’t have much of a choice. She’d wager he wouldn’t be able to make it more than a handful of steps. ‘Then I should at least attempt to clean the grime from your wound before you go.’

      His deep brown gaze caught hers again, warming СКАЧАТЬ