for a ride, do you think?”
“Probably.” Lucien squinted. “But I do not recognize them. Of course, it is some distance.”
“We should make certain. I shall go after them,” Agravar said with a nod in the direction where the riders had disappeared. “You best take the others and investigate that caterwauling.”
Lucien scowled at having drawn this duty, but he pulled his destrier around as Agravar kicked his into action and raced across the meadow.
Chapter Three
Agravar came upon them at the stream by Fenman’s forge. He spotted a flash of color through the trees. They had stopped, perhaps watering the horses. Reining his destrier, he slid onto the ground and crept up on foot, staying close to the thicket. Quietly, he unsheathed the new sword from his scabbard and held it low lest some of the sunlight filtering in through the canopy catch the steel.
They were just ahead, the man and woman. She was bent over by the stream. Her hair, the color of dark honey strewn with sunlight, was loose and thick, left unbound in the maidenly fashion. Her face, in profile, was striking in its clean lines—straight nose, strong chin, generous mouth and deep-set eyes under a delicate pale brow.
A noblewoman. Could this be Rosamund Clavier? Agravar wondered, for she was no one he had seen before in these lands. If so, what had happened to her traveling party? And who was this man with her?
The man in question watched the woods as the woman bent over the shallow waters to ladle water with her cupped hands. He wore a jaunty red hat with a ridiculous plume stuck in it. It appeared he was nervous, but he allowed her to linger long enough for Agravar to move closer.
“Come,” the man said, touching the woman on the arm. “We must make haste.” When she didn’t respond, he said more insistently, “Lady Rosamund.”
Her head snapped up. She stood. And Agravar stood.
First he caught her eyes, bright, rounded orbs of pale honey brown. Agravar cleared three long steps before anyone moved. Raising his weapon, he crept up behind the man in the red hat. That one finally realized someone was coming up behind him and whirled about.
“Step away. I am Agravar the Viking and have come to fetch the lady to safety.”
The look of horror on Rosamund’s face, her single, reflexive step backward as if in recoil, stung him. He was used to people reacting to his Nordic looks, his size, his heavily muscled frame, but the stark fear in those grave eyes slipped under his defenses like a stiletto wheedling inside the links of mail.
His gaze snapped back to her companion, who had drawn his sword. Agravar raised his own blade to meet the challenge and issue a silent threat. The damnable thing felt like a feather. Agravar wished for the comfort of his old familiar broadsword.
He spoke. “Be reasonable, wretch. You cannot hope to best me. Your ransom is lost, if that was your aim.”
The man with the ridiculous headgear advanced nonetheless, holding his weapon in front of him as if it were a cross wielded to ward off evil spirits. “You’ll not take her whilst I stand.”
“Fool—the game is lost.”
The man’s dark eyes glittered. “I will not leave behind my gain, sir!”
But the gain left without him. The lady in question whirled in a gentle swirl of hair and skirts and fled without a sound.
Agravar decided he had tarried long enough with this nonsense. He struck. The jab of his weapon was lightning quick but lacking in substance. Unused to the lighter weight, he felt off balance, cursing under his breath. Mentally correcting for the difference, his next try made more of a threat as it sliced a neat little gash across the man’s tunic.
The man brought the hilt of his dagger down in an unskilled move, hoping only to deflect the blow. A strange sound split the air as the fine, gleaming steel—imported from Spain for its superior quality—snapped off!
It fell into the dirt with an inauspicious ping. Amazed, Agravar held up the hilt and its paltry stub of steel.
“You broke my sword,” he bellowed in an accusing voice.
The man seemed horrified to see what he had done. “Sir, I am sorry. I—”
He said no more, for Agravar took advantage of his consternation to close the gap between them in two quick strides and lay a crushing blow to the man’s jaw. His red hat flew off in one direction, the feather in the other, and the brave fool crumpled into a heap.
Agravar shoved his embarrassingly damaged weapon into his belt and set off after the woman.
If she reached the horses, she might have a chance, Rosamund thought, hiking her skirts up and running as hard as she could. Not since she was a child, romping in the forests of Hallscroft with the peasant children from the nearby farms, had she pushed her body this hard.
She would never outrun that terrifying Viking. The thought pushed her harder, her legs pumped faster. The horses—if she made it to them, freedom was hers.
The need to know if he was behind her was hard to resist, but she was not about to lose one precious second in glancing back. Wait! She skidded, caught her balance and turned. This was not the way to the horses. This path didn’t look familiar at all. She circled again, panic rising.
A loud, splintering crash sounded from up on her right, where a slight ridge ran parallel to the path she had just come down. Whirling, she saw him as he leaped into the air, his face grim, teeth bared in a bone-chilling snarl that drained the blood out of her body in a single heartbeat. His hair streamed out behind him, pale and shiny, catching dappled sunlight and throwing it back into the forest.
She was so shocked she didn’t think to get out of his way. He landed in front of her, squarely on two feet, but his momentum carried him into her. His hands clutched her waist as they fell, twisting them both so that when they struck the loamy turf, it was he who landed on his back. She fell on top of him, cushioned nicely on his great chest.
He let out a sound that was half grunt, half sigh as the hard ground and her slight weight compressed his mighty form from either side. His arms held her, but loosely. She waited only a moment to catch her breath before pushing herself up and away.
The thick arms tightened immediately, making her struggles impossible. But her hands were free. They struck something solid and cold, giving her an idea. Stilling her body’s movements, she stretched out her fingers, grazing their tips against her boon. Nimbly she worked her hand forward and closed her grip.
He rolled, bringing her under him. She found herself trapped by his arms on either side of her and the broad-shouldered mass of him overhead. As neatly caged as a prisoner, she peered up at the face that hovered only inches from hers.
“Are you the Lady Rosamund Clavier?”
His voice was deep, and at this proximity, the rich tone reverberated throughout her whole body. He smelled vaguely of sweat and a faint hint of soap, perhaps from his shave, for his chin and cheeks were bare.
She nodded, not wanting to try her voice.
“I am sent by your cousin,
