willed them not to fall. Instead, she drank in the sight of him, trying to remember every line of his face, every feature.
She gripped her hands together, willing herself to meet his last look.
‘He is a fool, kjære, if he does not see the woman before him.’ With a dark smile, Ivar bent down and brushed his lips against hers. ‘You will soon learn, that I can give you far more than Hardrata ever could. Perhaps that might one day be enough to win a smile.’
She said nothing, turning all of her attention to the fight. In the morning sun, Styr’s hard body revealed his battle skills. Upon his torso were carved the deep lines of muscle. Not only in his strong arms, but also in his abdomen.
He moved like a predator, attacking his opponent with a skill she’d never imagined. His long blond hair hung over his shoulders, and upon one upper arm, she saw the gleam of a golden armband.
The enemy Norseman slashed his blade towards Styr, and he blocked it with his shield, his battleaxe arcing towards the man’s head.
Ronan and Terence stood by her brother Brendan, who was still chained. His dark hair was matted with blood, his bones showing against his pale skin. Before Caragh could take another step forwards, Ivar held her back. He kept one arm around her waist, the other just above her breasts. ‘No closer,’ he warned.
In his arms, she watched as Styr dived to the ground, narrowly avoiding the sword. The tip of the blade caught his arm, drawing blood. At the sight of it, the people began to shout, calling out for more blood.
A cry caught in her mouth, though she pushed it back. She couldn’t understand what terrible Fate had led her to love this man. But the thought of Styr dying sent a phantom pain into her own body.
The drumbeat intensified, mirroring her heart. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, and when his enemy let out a roar, plunging his sword, she gripped Ivar’s arm, her nails digging into his skin.
Styr raised his shield, and his enemy’s blade embedded within the wood. He ripped back the shield, disarming the man, and within seconds, his enemy lay upon the ground.
Her knees went weak, and when Ivar let her go, she couldn’t stop herself from running. Not to her brother, who was already unchained and guarded by Ronan.
But to Styr.
Blood ran freely down one arm, and perspiration gleamed upon his skin. But Caragh ignored all of that and embraced him hard, not bothering to hide her tears.
‘Thank you for saving him,’ she whispered.
His arms came around her in a tight embrace, a shocking response. She’d expected him to push her away, or to turn cold. Instead, she rested her cheek against his chest, shutting out the world for a moment in his arms. She blocked out the sounds of death and sacrifice, finding sanctuary in him.
Let go, her mind commanded. He is not yours.
Dimly, she was aware of him taking her away, of her brother speaking. And of Ivar’s silent reproach.
‘Thank you,’ she breathed. ‘I don’t know how I can ever repay you for what you’ve done for us.’
‘Go with them,’ he commanded, guiding her towards her brothers.
‘What about you?’
He cleaned and sheathed his blade, saying nothing at all. In his brown eyes, Caragh saw the promise of farewell. She guarded her heart, refusing to beg for more than he could give. For she knew already that their paths would soon part.
Her gaze met Ivar’s, and she knew that there was one way to settle the debt with Styr. With one nod, she gave the promise the Norseman wanted. She would offer herself, in return for Styr’s men. And the gleam in Ivar’s eyes revealed his satisfaction.
She tried once more to prolong this moment with Styr. ‘What about your arm?’
He simply reached for his padded tunic and ignored the minor wound, lifting his chainmail armour over it. ‘Go,’ he repeated.
With one last look at him, she obeyed.
It was late afternoon by the time Styr returned to Ivar’s house. Though he’d located his ship, he lacked the men to take it back again. And he still had a score to settle with the Norseman.
As he walked past the rows of longhouses, a strange sense of danger descended upon him. Though he could see nothing out of the ordinary, he kept one hand upon his battleaxe. His eyes moved over each of the people, though he tried to dispel the suspicions.
He saw a woman wearing the Norse garb of his homeland, and a trace of homesickness caught him. Already he missed the snow-capped mountains And the dark blue fjords that spanned between them. He half-wondered if he would ever go home. And whether Elena would be with him.
He tried to envision his wife’s face…but instead, he kept thinking of Caragh. She had thrown herself into his arms, repeating her gratitude to him. And like a fool, he’d held her.
Gods, but he was weak. Like a man starved for affection, he’d stood there and gripped her slight body against his own. It was wrong, in the very deepest sense. And were it not for his men and her brother Brendan, he would stay far away from the house of Ivar Nikolasson. Only temptation awaited him within the walls.
He needed to find Elena and mend his broken marriage. Perhaps the distance over the past sennight would make her fly into his embrace, the way Caragh had done.
But he couldn’t imagine it. Elena was cool towards him, not at all affectionate. If he found her, she would be grateful. She might even smile. But he couldn’t fool himself into thinking she would want his touch.
Styr let out a breath of air, and walked towards the door of Ivar’s house. He entered and saw half a dozen of his men waiting. Though he’d promised to free them earlier, when Caragh’s brother had been found, he’d been unable to keep that vow.
That would change today. ‘Gather any of your belongings. We leave this night,’ he said to Onund. Though he wasn’t certain how he would coerce Ivar into agreeing to it, there had to be something he could do.
But Onund only bowed in agreement. ‘We have been granted our freedom already. Because of her.’ He nodded towards a table at the far end of the room.
Several female slaves were lined up before Caragh, holding lengths of silk and golden armbands. Gifts from Ivar, no doubt.
A tightness rose up in his chest at the sight of her. She wore a gown he’d never seen before, a deep green that rivalled the hills surrounding Hordafylke. The slaves had bound back her brown hair in braids, leaving some to fall across her shoulders. Upon her fingers, she wore silver rings and they had pierced her ears to wear more jewellery.
When she lifted her eyes to his, there was nothing but sadness within them. She knew, as he did, that soon enough he’d never lay eyes on her again. By wearing Ivar’s offerings, she had given her unspoken agreement to the man’s courtship.
Styr knew why his men were now freed and anger prickled his scalp, at the thought of the price she must have paid. Striding across the room, he came to stand before them. To Caragh, he spoke only one word. ‘Why?’
‘Because
