caught enough. Though there were only a dozen, they would provide sustenance. She smiled with relief, covering the basket to protect her catch.
It was late, but she was so hungry, she hardly cared. Right now, she wanted to boil some of the crabs for food. Hurrying back, she opened the door and saw the Viking exactly where she’d left him. When he spied her, his eyes seemed to say: I told you so.
‘You were right,’ she admitted, revealing the crabs she’d caught. But she hardly cared what he thought. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling. ‘I’ll boil these and make a soup.’
The Lochlannach shook his head. ‘Don’t. You’ll catch fish if you bait lines with the crab tonight. Put them where the tide comes in and you’ll have bass or flounder in the morning.’ He gave her further instructions about the kind of fishing lines she needed and the hooks.
Caragh put up her hands, not listening. ‘No. We should eat now. I know you must be as hungry as I am.’
‘We’ll eat the grain tonight,’ he corrected. ‘Fish in the morning.’
‘If there are any fish.’
‘There will be,’ he promised. ‘I was right about the crabs, wasn’t I?’
She eyed her basket in dismay, wanting so badly to eat them. But they were no bigger than the palm of her hand…and the promise of large fish made her mouth water.
‘I’m afraid of losing the crabs,’ she confessed. ‘What if I bait the lines and get nothing for my trouble?’
‘It’s possible,’ he told her. ‘But I’ve spent my life living off the sea. I know how to catch fish.’
Caragh regarded him. If so, then it might be their salvation. She’d never been able to catch anything but small fish in the shallow water.
She pulled out some of the fishing lines belonging to her brother and Styr repeated his instructions, explaining how she should pierce the shell with the hook.
‘Set out the lines,’ he said. ‘And in the morning, you’ll see.’
He appeared confident that it would work, but Caragh wasn’t so certain. The sea was unpredictable, and more often than not, she’d caught nothing.
She placed the bait and the fishing lines in her basket, walking slowly past Styr. His demeanour was stoic, almost arrogant in his belief that she could not fail in this. But when he turned to look at her, there was a slight shift in his expression, almost as if he held empathy towards her.
His dark eyes held a steadiness, willing her to believe in this. A tightness seized up in her chest, for she desperately wanted to hope. Her gaze passed over his wounds. The cut upon his leg didn’t seem to be bleeding any more, but his head wound was still swollen.
‘Thank you for helping me,’ she said. ‘I pray that this will work.’
In the dim light of her house, she noticed a difference in his posture. There was something unusual about the way he was sitting.
Frowning, she started to approach, but he said, ‘Go and set the lines before your torch dies out.’
‘All right.’ She reached for her basket and the torch, adding, ‘If I do catch any fish, I promise I’ll free you in the morning.’
He sobered, giving a single nod. Though she didn’t know if it was safe to make such a vow, she was a woman of her word. And their lives depended on catching these fish.
Styr crept outside, shadowing Caragh. Immediately, he noticed that she was choosing the wrong location for her lines. No fish of any size would swim near the pools where she’d set the bait. He remained hidden, watching as she moved from one line to the other. In all, she set out a dozen, in various locations along the shallow waters. He waited until she was further away and then knelt down, using his shackled hands to pick up the first line, moving it out into deeper water.
Thor’s blood, he shouldn’t be interfering like this. But there was no choice. He needed supplies and food before he could go after Elena.
The tide was going out, and Styr crouched down, searching for a place where the line would lure larger fish. Though his hose grew soaked, he waded towards a sandbar. He gripped the baited line behind him, searching until he found the right place. Luck was with him, and his foot pressed against a stone, one large enough to hold the line. Kneeling down in the water, he manoeuvred his hands until he was able to secure the line with the stone.
When he turned back, he was startled to glimpse the outline of a boat, anchored near the shore. Caragh had said nothing about it, claiming that the fishermen had taken their boats with them. This one was set apart from the settlement, almost as if someone had tried to hide it.
But now, he had a means of leaving this place. A way of retracing the path of his wife and kinsmen. Thank the gods.
With a quick glance, he saw that Caragh was starting to return. Styr rose from the water and hurried towards the shore. He melted back into the shadows, running towards her hut. Though a close glance would reveal that he was no longer bound to the post, he hoped he could feign sleep. His clothing might dry by morning, though it was doubtful. He leaned against the post, curling his body to hide his chains.
Within minutes, the door creaked open. ‘Styr?’ Caragh whispered.
He didn’t answer, hoping she would go to sleep and leave him alone. The wind blew against his back, making his wet clothing more uncomfortable.
With his eyes shut tightly, he ignored the footsteps approaching, willing her to leave him alone. Before he realised what was happening, she had laid his cloak over him. The wool was warm from where she’d set it by the fire.
Her scent clung to the cloak, and it rendered him motionless. No one had ever done anything like this for him. He doubted if she’d even realised the significance. Kindness came to Caragh as naturally as breathing.
He closed his eyes, damning himself for a fool. There was no way he could leave her behind now, even if they did catch fish. It would haunt him for the rest of his life if she starved to death.
Whether or not she wanted it, he was going to take Caragh with him when he went in search of his wife.
Someone had to look after her.
There were no fish. Caragh cursed and stared at the empty hook on the seventh line she’d checked. Seven crabs…all gone. Her mind bordered on hysteria, for if she hadn’t listened to the Lochlannach, she could have had crab meat last night, instead of cooked grain. Furious tears rose up, but she refused to weep. It would do no good at all.
The eighth and ninth lines were empty, as well. When she reached the tenth, she sat down upon the rock, almost trembling with the knowledge of what she would find. Or wouldn’t find, in this case.
‘Did you catch anything, a chara?’ An elderly female voice broke the stillness and she spied frail Iona, standing on the beach.
‘No.’ She picked up the tenth line, and saw a crab still dangling
