behind his back, around a thick beam on the opposite wall. He guessed the circumference of the beam was the width of his thigh, for when he leaned his weight against it, it did not budge.
‘Let me go,’ he demanded, still using the Norse language. To emphasise his words, he strained against the chains.
When the woman stepped into the light, he was shocked by what he saw. Her face was terribly thin, her eyes sunken from lack of food. The bones of her wrists were narrow, and though he recognised her as the one who had struck him down, he couldn’t imagine how she’d done it.
There was no possible way she’d had the strength to move him here and put him in chains. She looked as if a strong wind would knock her over.
Her eyes were a strange blue, so dark, they were almost violet. Her brown hair hung to her waist, unbound except for a small braided section at her temples.
She might have been beautiful, if she’d had enough to eat.
He found himself comparing her to Elena. His wife was nearly as tall as he was, with long reddish-blonde hair and eyes the colour of seawater. Their families had arranged the marriage in order to ally their two tribes together. Although she was a quiet woman, the first few years had been good between them.
A chill took hold within him as he wondered what they’d done with her. Was she alive?
But demanding questions of this waif would accomplish nothing. Better to bide his time and gain her trust. Perhaps then he could get her to unlock his chains, and he’d slip away into the night.
‘I can’t understand your language,’ she admitted, drawing nearer. She was far shorter than Elena, and the top of her head only reached his shoulders. ‘But I’m sorry for all of this. I just…wanted to protect my brother.’
He said nothing, staring at her. The young woman’s voice revealed her fear, but there was also a sweetness to it, as if she were trying to soothe a wounded beast.
‘My name is Caragh Ó Brannon,’ she informed him. Touching her chest, she repeated, ‘Caragh.’
Styr said nothing at all. If she wanted his name, then she’d have to set him free first. He sent her a hard look, willing her to release him.
‘If you’ll allow it, I can tend your wound,’ she offered. ‘I truly am sorry for hitting you. I was afraid I’d killed you for a moment.’ She lowered her gaze, wringing her hands together. ‘That’s not the sort of woman I am.’ Her mouth tightened, and she sighed. ‘I don’t know why I’m even speaking to you, for you can’t understand a single word.’
It didn’t seem to stop her, though. Caragh began talking in a stream of conversation, and Styr was so taken aback by her ceaseless speech, he had trouble following some of her words. She kept apologising while she found a basin of water and a bowl of soup. Then he came to understand that it was her way of hiding her fear. By talking her enemy to death.
When she stood an arm’s length from him, Caragh stopped mid-word. Her eyes stared at him with regret, and she set down the bowl of soup at his feet, along with another basin, presumably for his personal needs.
‘I’m sorry to keep you like this,’ she said quietly. ‘But if I let you go, you’ll kill my family.’ Her eyes drifted downward again. ‘Possibly me, as well.’ She dipped the linen cloth into the water and hesitated. Water dripped down into the bowl, and she admitted, ‘I probably shouldn’t have taken you prisoner. But if I hadn’t, you’d have gone after my brother again.’
It disconcerted him that he’d been captured at all. If he and his men had been at their full strength, it never would have happened. The lack of sleep had slowed their reflexes, making it difficult for them to respond to the surprise attack.
Caragh reached out and touched the cloth to his temple, washing away the dried blood. The gentle gesture was so unexpected, he gaped at her. She was intent upon her work, though from the slight tremor in her fingers, he sensed her fear of him. The cool water soothed the swelling, but he spoke no words.
Why would she bother tending his wound? He was her enemy, not her friend. No one had ever touched him in this manner, and he couldn’t understand why this waif would attempt it. Either she had a greater courage than he’d guessed, or she was too foolish to understand that a man like him didn’t deserve mercy.
‘I wish you could understand me,’ she murmured, while a water droplet slid down his cheek. She was staring at him intently, her blue eyes so dark, he found himself spellbound. When her fingers touched the drop of water, an unbidden response flared inside him. Styr moved forwards, stretching the chains taut.
Forcing her to be afraid.
She jerked back, stammering, ‘I—I’m sorry. I must have hurt you again.’ She pointed towards the bowl of soup on the ground. ‘I haven’t much I can feed you, but it’s all there is.’ She shrugged and retreated again, nodding for him to eat.
Styr eyed the bowl of watery soup and then sent her a questioning look. Exactly how did she expect him to eat with his hands bound behind his back?
She waited for a moment, ladling a bowl for herself. With a spoon, she began to eat slowly, as if savouring the broth. ‘Don’t you want—?’ Her words broke off as it dawned on her that she would have to feed him if he was going to eat at all.
A slow breath released from her. ‘I should have thought about this.’ She stood and reached for another wooden spoon. For a moment, she studied him. Her mouth twisted with worry, but she picked up the bowl again.
Styr could hardly believe any of this. Not only had she treated his wounds, she’d offered food and was about to feed it to him.
For a captor, she was entirely too merciful. And it enraged him that he was trapped here with a soft-hearted woman attempting to make the best of the situation while Elena was out there somewhere. He had to escape these chains and find his wife.
Regret stung his conscience, for he’d failed to protect Elena. He didn’t know if she was alive or dead, and guilt weighed upon him. What if another man had violated her? What if she was suffering, her body ravaged with pain?
Styr ignored the soup and called out in a hoarse voice, ‘Elena!’ There was no reply. Again and again, he shouted her name, hoping she would hear him if she was within the ringfort. Then he called out to Ragnar and each of his kinsmen as he tried to determine if he was the only hostage. Or the only one left alive.
‘They’re gone,’ Caragh interrupted when he took another breath. ‘I don’t know where, but the ship isn’t there any more.’ Her face flushed and she admitted, ‘Brendan took the woman hostage. I saw your men lay down their weapons, but I don’t know what happened after that.’
Her gaze dropped to the ground, and he suspected she was withholding more information. He turned his gaze from her, so she would not know that he’d understood her words.
Turbulent thoughts roiled within him, igniting another surge of rage. Where was his wife? Was she still alive? And what of his men?
When Caragh dared to touch a spoonful of broth to his lips, he used his head like a battering ram, sending the bowl flying. She paled and retrieved the bowl, wiping up the spilled soup.
In fury, he kicked at the wall, smashing the wattle and daub frame until he’d created a hole in the wicker frame.
