To Tempt a Viking. Michelle Willingham

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ they’d wanted him dead, they wouldn’t have taken him prisoner,’ Ragnar pointed out. ‘They’ll try to use him as a hostage. But we’ll return before any harm can come to him.’

      She didn’t know what to believe. For all she knew, they might torture Styr or kill him as an act of vengeance. ‘What if you’re wrong?’ she murmured.

      ‘I’m not. Trust me.’

      She locked her eyes with his, silently pleading with him to strike sooner. ‘You can’t abandon him.’

      His demeanour shifted into a man who resented her accusations. There was no softness, no mercy upon his face at all. ‘I swore to him that I would guard you with my life. And so I have.’ He leaned in, his dark green eyes demanding her attention. ‘We’re going to take back the ship, this night.’

      ‘Your hands are bound,’ she argued.

      ‘Are they?’ His voice held such indifference, she began to wonder if she was wrong to doubt him. Upon her face, she felt the warmth of his breath. His long brown hair held hints of gold, his face rigid like a conqueror’s. The look had returned to his eyes, one that made her falter. It reached beneath her desperate fear, sliding through her veins until he held her captive.

      Trust me, he’d demanded. She wanted to believe in him, for he was their best hope of returning to the ringfort. But once again, he was watching her in a way that made her pulse quicken. It only deepened her discomfort.

      A moment later, one of the Irishmen grasped him and shoved him back. Though his words were incomprehensible, she couldn’t tear her gaze from Ragnar. If he had somehow freed himself, he’d done a good job of disguising it.

      The winds had swelled again, the skies growing darker. She was growing hungry, but no one offered food or water. When the Irishmen explored the ship, they quickly found Styr’s store of supplies below deck. They devoured the food savagely, eating every bite of dried meat and preserved fish without offering them a single morsel. Only the bag of grain remained. Glancing at the Irish, Elena suddenly noticed how thin they were. It was as if they had been starving, their faces were so gaunt.

      For the second time, she wondered if it had been wise to surrender. These men had not the strength of the Norsemen. But in their eyes, she saw that they were bent upon survival now, as if all traces of humanity were gone. Like animals, they fought amongst themselves for the choicest pieces of food.

      Her earlier frustration with Ragnar diminished. Men who cared for nothing but their own lives would do anything. They would kill with no remorse.

      Their leader, Brendan, was hardly more than an adolescent. But in his eyes, she saw determination. Whatever he planned to do with them, he would not be swayed from his course.

      Though it had been hours since she’d been dragged back to the ship, she’d been unable to get warm. Her body was freezing, while her wet hair was clammy against her skin. Fear magnified the discomfort and her mouth grew dry with thirst.

      ‘Could I have some water?’ she asked Brendan, even knowing he did not understand her words. She glanced over at the men, who were drinking wine, nodding to them to convey the meaning.

      His mouth closed in a grim line and he ignored her question, adjusting the mainsail instead. When she studied her friends and kinsmen, she watched to see if Ragnar was right. Had they managed to free themselves? They sat motionless, their arms behind their backs. None would look at her.

      Perhaps...

      Ragnar spoke to the men, his voice a calm echo against the sea. ‘At moonrise.’

      She took a breath, glancing at the Irish to see if they’d understood him. They were too busy gorging on food, but Brendan’s brow furrowed. Without a word, he unsheathed his blade and crossed the boat until he sat behind her. She felt the kiss of the blade upon her throat, and the young man stared back at Ragnar in a silent challenge.

      * * *

      Ragnar intended to gut the Irishman, before the night was over, for daring to touch Elena. He’d sliced through his bonds, using a hidden blade that he’d passed to his kinsmen, one by one. Now, the blade was his again and he was waiting for the right moment to strike.

      They had been sailing for hours and several of the Irish had fallen asleep—all, save the man holding Elena captive. Brendan seemed to sense that the moment he let her go, his life would be the forfeit.

      The sun had descended below the horizon, and the moon was beginning to rise. Ragnar eyed the other men, silently warning them to be ready. He kept his gaze fixed upon Elena, watching for the moment to seize her. She appeared tense and, upon her throat, he saw the barest trace of blood.

      His fist clenched upon the dagger, while he vowed his own vengeance upon the man who kept her captive. Elena’s shoulders were held back, her body stiff as if she didn’t dare move.

      Ragnar needed a distraction, a way of diverting Brendan’s attention away. Taking a hostage or possibly attacking without warning. His brain went through a dozen possibilities, all of which were feasible, but held an inherent risk.

      Gods above, why couldn’t this be any other hostage but Elena? If it were, he’d simply drag her away, slicing her attacker’s throat. But the threat was too strong. Elena meant everything to him and he would do nothing to endanger her life.

      He saw her glance up at the crescent moon, which had slid out from behind a cloud. At the sight of it, her face went white. Ragnar wanted to say something, to reassure her that all would be well.

      ‘Elena.’ He couldn’t stop himself from speaking her name, despite the risk. Don’t be afraid. I’ll free you.

      The Irishman spoke words that sounded like another warning, but his voice cracked at the end, undermining the threat. Reminding him that he was hardly more than a boy.

      ‘The ship is moving closer to the shore,’ Ragnar told her.

      ‘I—I can’t swim very well.’ Her fear was tangible, but she cast a look at the dark water. The wind was strong now, pulling the vessel east. Ahead, he spied a large outcropping of rock, a tiny island not far away. She could reach it, if she tried.

      ‘I won’t let you drown,’ he swore.

      She seemed to consider it, seeking reassurance from him. Though he knew she belonged to Styr, he wished in that moment that he could hold her. Give her the comfort she needed.

      And then, as if the gods had willed it to be so, he spied the perfect diversion.

      * * *

      Brendan Ó Brannon had never been so terrified in all his life. He held the knife to the Lochlannach woman’s throat, all the while wishing he’d never left the shores of his homeland. At the time, he’d believed he was protecting his sister Caragh. He’d thought he could force the invaders to leave, bringing their ship miles away from home before he and his friends could abandon the ship at night, swimming to shore.

      But these men hadn’t slept. They’d never taken their eyes off him or the woman he held hostage. With every minute that passed, his impending death came closer.

      A hollow sorrow filled him up, with the knowledge that he’d never see his sister or brothers again. All because he’d tried to be a hero. What did he know of defending them against СКАЧАТЬ