Rescued By The Viking. Meriel Fuller

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СКАЧАТЬ here to help you,’ he said in English, trying to keep his voice gentle. He reached out to touch her shoulder.

      ‘Get your hands off me!’ the maid squawked at him. Knocking his arm sideways, she struggled to sit up. His cloak fell forward, pillowing in her lap as she brought herself upright. She threw his garment irritably to one side, digging her palms and heels into the shingle, rocking her hips, struggling to shift her body backwards, away from him.

      ‘Easy, maid,’ Ragnar said, sitting back on his heels. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ Despite her efforts, she hadn’t managed to move very far.

      ‘I know that, you blundering lump!’ The maid stopped, seemingly frustrated by her lack of movement. She touched a finger to the brooch at her neck, as if reassuring herself that the silver pin remained in place. ‘Why would you bother to pull me out of the mud, if you were going to kill me?’

      Ragnar bit his lip to stop himself laughing out loud. Where on earth had she learned her English? From an army camp? Her cursing was on a level with any common knave. He grinned, rapidly adjusting his original opinion of her. Out there on the mudflats, she had been a forlorn, helpless figure, her diminutive frame and finely honed, angelic face denoting a benign, docile character. How wrong he had been. She was worse than feisty, a regular termagant. He folded his arms across his wide chest, almost as if he prepared to do battle with her. Curiously, he relished the thought.

      * * *

      What, in heaven’s name, was he smiling at? The man hulked over her, great shoulders blocking out the darkening sky, his green gaze intense, flaring over her with bold scrutiny. Her eyes ran rapidly across his leather-strapped torso, his calf-length boots stained with salt water. Was he a Saxon? Or worse...one of the men from the longships. A Viking? Despite her truculent bravado, anxiety gripped Gisela’s chest; she knew she had to stand up and walk away, but at the moment, the task seemed impossible. A horrible weakness engulfed her, sapping the strength in her legs, numbing her arms and hands.

      ‘Who are you?’ Her blunt question, hard-edged, accused him.

      He tilted his head to one side. ‘I’m a Dane,’ he replied. ‘We have just landed here, on the shore.’

      Oh Lord, he was a Viking, after all! They were even worse than the Saxons with their bloodthirsty reputation for merciless fighting, laying waste to whole villages without a hint of remorse. ‘But you...you can’t be.’ A wary light entered Gisela’s eyes. ‘You...you’re speaking English!’

      He laughed. ‘English is very close to our Norse language. It’s easy for us to change from one to the other.’

      Her thoughts tumbled, fuzzy and confused. What was happening to her? She felt caught, trapped in some nightmare for which she couldn’t find a way out, despite the way her mind twisted and turned. She had no memory of how she had arrived back at the beach. ‘Did you carry me?’ Her tone was brittle, sharp.

      He lifted one shoulder, then let it drop, unconcerned. ‘Yes. You fainted. I’m not surprised. You probably thought you were going to die out there.’

      Gisela stared rigidly at the shingle, the slick of green algae across white stone, remembering the slosh of water around her thighs. Her throat was raw from shouting. Yes, she had truly thought she would die. But why had he come out to rescue her, this man, this stranger, of all people? Beneath the intense scrutiny of his emerald-green eyes, she shuffled her hips uncomfortably, glowering at his hands, loose fists curled against his brawny thighs. Hands that had moved over her insensible body, hoisting her high. How could she not remember his touch? Her cheeks flushed suddenly, a livid stain dusting her high cheekbones. Lord, he could have done anything! She would have been at his mercy, him, a Dane! Her eyes flashed blue fire. She crossed her arms over her bosom, jutting her chin forward. ‘What did you do to me?’

      Ragnar drew his dark-blond brows together in a deep frown. What on earth was the woman talking about? Her expression was stony, openly challenging him, as she waited for his answer. What was she expecting him to say? His eyes traced the curving top line of her lip, the fierce, determined set of her mouth. Tipping his head to one side, he recalled the soft weight against his chest, the sensual roll of her breast as she folded against him.

      ‘Er... I carried you from the mud to the beach. That’s it.’ His speech was a low burr, rumbling up from his ribcage.

      ‘What else?’ she fired back at him. Her hands dropped to her sides, balling into fists against the pebbles.

      He followed their movement, wanting to laugh. What was she about to do? Clout him around the jaw? Beat him senseless? It was as if... His mouth parted slightly as the line of her questioning became clear. Of course, he was a Dane and she would judge him as such. ‘Nothing else, maid. What were you expecting? That I would rape you midway between the river and the beach? How low your judgement is of me.’

      An angry flush tore across her pale cheeks. ‘It wouldn’t have surprised me. Your reputation is notorious.’

      ‘Not to the Saxons,’ he replied curtly. ‘We’ve come here to help, after all. The town is welcoming us with open arms.’

      The maid’s head knocked back as if he had hit her; she bit her lip as if she had made a mistake. ‘Yes, of course, I forgot myself.’

      He wondered whether she had forgotten speaking to him in French. He would keep her secret; it made no difference to him whether she was Norman or Saxon. She had been a maid who needed help and that was the end to it. Her agitated fingers played with the ragged filaments of her scarf fringe in her lap. The damp fabric of her gown moulded to her thighs, revealing their curving, slender contours. ‘Can I take you home?’ he offered.

      She threw the fringe of her scarf aside, raised her huge blue eyes to his. ‘No. But...thank you for coming out to me,’ she said. ‘You can leave me now. Please, go.’

      He nodded, acknowledging her grudging thanks, hearing the dismissal in her voice. She wanted to be rid of him, that much was obvious. He thought of Eirik, and the rest of the men, slugging ale down their throats in the nearest inn. The lusty singing would have started by now. He was reluctant to join them. ‘And what are you going to do?’ he asked. ‘Sit here on the beach all night?’

      Her magnificent eyes gleamed up at him. ‘It’s no concern of yours,’ she said tightly, sliding her knees up to her chest, hugging them. ‘I told you to go.’ Her voice held a hard edge, disdainful.

      She was ordering him about as if he were some common foot soldier! He raised his eyebrows at her rudeness, hips rocking back on his heels. Pins and needles started to prick the soles of his feet. ‘And I’m telling you that you should mind your manners. I’ve just saved your skin.’ A warning lilt entered his voice. ‘A little humility wouldn’t go amiss. You would have died if I hadn’t come along.’

      She flinched at the sudden harshness in his tone. ‘Someone would have come eventually.’

      ‘No,’ Ragnar said. ‘No one was going to help you. Your master was prepared to leave you out there to drown. Care to tell me why?’

      ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ Placing her palms flat on the stones, she levered herself upwards. As she rose, she tottered forward unsteadily. Rising with her, Ragnar grabbed her upper arm, fingers pincering her flesh, preventing her from falling.

      ‘C’est possible parce-que tu est Normande? Maybe because you’re a Norman,’ he murmured close to her ear.

      She СКАЧАТЬ