gooseflesh rise upon it. Whether she was cold or uncomfortable at his presence, he didn’t know. But he handed her his own cloak and returned to the back of the room. Caragh dared to glance at him, and when she did, she pulled the cloak tightly around her.
When he reached the far end of the longhouse, he made a sleeping place for himself. In his palm, he gripped his battleaxe, believing that it wasn’t at all safe in this house.
Caragh sat in the darkness with her knees drawn up. She’d been unable to sleep, her mind caught up in worry. From across the room, she heard the whisper of footsteps approaching.
‘My lord bids you come to him,’ came the low voice of a female thrall. She spoke Irish well, but the command made Caragh’s skin tighten.
‘Why?’
‘He knows your dreams are troubled. He wishes to speak with you and offer you a spiced wine to help you sleep.’
But Caragh held no trust towards Ivar. If he gave her a rich wine, it would only muddle her decisions more. From across the room, she spied him seated near a bronze oil lamp. Though he was shadowed, she sensed what he wanted from her.
Around her shoulders, she wore Styr’s cloak, fastened with a silver brooch. Upon the heavy wool, she scented his presence, and it lent her comfort. She tightened her grip, knowing she could not obey the summons.
She stood from her pallet, the fear creeping within her veins. Darkness enveloped the longhouse, but she did not follow the servant. The woman protested in a soft whisper, but Caragh ignored her. Instead, she tiptoed across the room, past her sleeping brothers, to the one man who did make her feel safe.
Styr slept in the corner of the far end of the house. A battleaxe rested in one hand, and the moment she knelt down beside him, his eyes flew open.
Caragh touched a finger to her lips, silently willing him not to speak. Without asking permission, she lay down beside him on the cold earth. She unpinned the brooch and loosened the cloak, reaching to place it over him.
He moved towards her, his hard body against her own. ‘Why are you here, Caragh?’
She turned her lips to his ear. ‘You were right about Ivar. He tried to summon me to him this night.’
Styr sat up, his hand closing over the battleaxe. ‘Did he harm you?’ He kept his voice just above a whisper, but his tone was fierce.
‘No. But I didn’t believe it was safe to stay on the other side.’
‘It’s not safe here, either,’ he reminded her. ‘You should have gone to your brothers.’
He was right. Being here wasn’t wise, but she couldn’t say what had drawn her to him. She didn’t understand the forbidden feelings he’d conjured or why she yearned to be at his side. But there had been no question in her mind that she would only find sleep if she lay beside him.
‘Do you want me to go?’ her hand rested upon the cool chainmail he hadn’t removed.
Styr said nothing at all, but guided her to lie back down. Her heartbeat trebled at his nearness and all the silent reasons why he hadn’t sent her away. Their bodies didn’t touch, but she felt the cold earth against her as she tried to sleep.
‘Keep the cloak,’ he said. ‘You’re cold.’
‘So are you,’ she whispered, ignoring the command.
But a moment later, he dragged her to rest beside him, her back resting against his chest. ‘Little fool.’ With one hand, he adjusted the cloak until it covered both of them.
But closing her eyes didn’t shut out the feelings he evoked inside her. Beneath the cloak, though his skin was cool, she sensed it warming against her. She was torn between moving away from him, and craving the heat of his body.
Go to sleep, she ordered herself. She’d come to him only for sanctuary. Not to awaken any dangerous, forbidden feelings.
As she lay against him, she relived the moment of Ivar’s kiss. It had been sensual, yes. But it had not taken possession of her, the way Styr’s had. With this man, she’d lost sight of herself. She’d been unable to think or breathe.
Rolling over to her side, she saw that he was not sleeping, either. His dark eyes were staring at her with an expression she didn’t understand. In the softest whisper, she murmured, ‘This was a mistake, wasn’t it?’
Styr didn’t answer. Time hung between them, the seconds passing into a minute. In the end, he sat up and tucked the cloak around her before rising to his feet. He stood against the wall, watching over her like a silent sentry.
The gathering was a blend of Norse and the Irish, led by a council of men. Caragh remained at the side of her brothers, though she felt the gaze of Styr upon her.
He had kept vigil over her for the rest of the night, though her dreams had been troubled. She’d woken up once in a silent scream, imagining her brother lying dead, blood spilling from his throat. Her heart had pounded, and Styr had laid a hand over her shoulder to reassure her that it was nothing. But she refused to tell him of the vision.
Her mind was torn apart, wanting desperately to find Brendan…and fearing what had become of him.
They moved closer, but as they walked, she caught the glint of mail armour from beneath a cloak. She frowned, for why would anyone hide his armour? Styr wore his openly, his weapons hanging from his belt. But when she turned away, the man was gone, hidden among the hundreds of others.
A merchant was selling loaves of barley, and Styr paid for one with a coin, handing it to her. Whether he recognised it or not, he seemed to be continually finding ways to give her food. It was nothing but a small gesture, and yet, her foolish heart warmed to it.
Caragh broke the loaf open, steam rising from the crust, and she handed him half. They ate in silence, before Ivar approached her from the opposite side. His face held no emotion, but he greeted her, saying, ‘Will you walk with me a moment, Caragh?’
She glanced over at her brothers, but they were busy speaking to a merchant, asking about Brendan. Styr said nothing at all, but his eyes followed her as she agreed.
‘What is it?’
Ivar led her towards a man selling lengths of delicate cloth. ‘I am a man of great wealth,’ he began. ‘If you wanted anything at all in this market, I could buy it for you.’
His emphasis on wealth did nothing to impress her. Though she nodded that she’d heard him, he reached out and brought her hand to touch the silken fabric.
‘Nor am I a man who will allow himself to be used,’ Ivar said. ‘And I can see that you’re using me to try and make Styr jealous.’
‘He has no interest in me,’ she responded, denying his claim.
‘But you want him,’ he contradicted. He threaded his fingers with hers, lifting her hand up. ‘I saw you sleeping beside him. You think to pit us against one another.’ His hand tightened, his gaze darkening. ‘I won’t play that game.’
She tried to pull back from his grasp, but he held her steady. ‘Hardrata’s men are my slaves now. Their lives belong to me.’
