he pulled at the chains, trying to break them.
And when he’d failed to free himself, he cast another look at Caragh. She’d picked up the remains of his soup and added it to her own bowl. When he stared at her, she showed no fear at all. Only a defiant look of her own, as if he ought to be ashamed of himself.
Caragh slept fitfully, awakening several times during the night. Dear God in Heaven, what had she done? Imprisoning the Viking had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now, she regretted it. She shouldn’t have saved his life. He was planning to kill Brendan and had already killed two others. He didn’t deserve to live.
It was several hours before dawn, but she rose from her pallet and tiptoed over to the fire, adding another peat brick. A flicker of sparks rose up, and she stoked the flames to heat the cool interior. In the faint amber light, she studied the Lochlannach man who lay upon the earth.
She had removed his cloak and brooch, not wanting him to use the pin as a weapon. He wore a rough linen tunic beneath the mail corselet protecting his chest, while his fair hair was tied back in a cord. His face was strangely compelling, even in sleep. She sat upon a footstool and studied him.
Though he was harsh, his body strong from years of battle, she couldn’t deny that he was handsome, like a fallen angel. None of the men she’d met over the years even compared to this man’s features.
He was the sort of man to carry a woman off and claim her. Without warning, her mind conjured the image of kissing a man like this. He would not be gentle but would capture her mouth, consuming her. A hard shiver passed over her, for she’d never before imagined such a thing. It was madness to even consider it.
But she’d glimpsed the fury on his face when the woman was taken. He’d fought hard for her, striking down any man who threatened her.
Caragh studied his profile in the firelight, wondering what sort of man he was. Was he a fierce barbarian who would kill her as soon as she freed him? Or did he possess any honour at all?
In his sleep, he moved restlessly, and she realised he was exposed to cool air from the wall segment he’d broken. Though it was summer, the nights were often cold, and no doubt he was feeling the chill. The practical side of her decided that he ought to be uncomfortable for smashing the wall.
Wouldn’t you have done the same thing, if you were a captive? her conscience argued. Wouldn’t you have done anything to escape?
She might have. But he’d killed her kinsmen. He deserved to suffer for it.
They took his woman. He was trying to pro tect her.
He’d called out the woman’s name, Elena, for a long time. Likely she was his wife or possibly his sister.
That was what plagued her most. If their situations were reversed, and she had been captured, her brothers would have slaughtered anyone who dared to harm her. She couldn’t fault this man from trying to guard a family member.
But if she hadn’t intervened, he would have killed Brendan. And if she released this man now, he would hunt her brother down and exact his revenge.
Worry knotted her stomach, for she didn’t know where Brendan was. Her last fleeting vision of him was when he’d kept his blade at the woman’s throat, dragging her backwards towards the ship. Caragh had been so busy securing her own prisoner, she’d only caught glimpses of what was happening around her.
One of the older men had helped her to drag the prisoner away from the others, for she’d been too weak to do it herself. After she’d chained the Viking, she’d returned outside, only to find the man’s body cut down by a sword. Her stomach wrenched to think that he’d died because he’d tried to help her.
In her mind, she reconstructed bits and pieces of what she remembered. Brendan with his hostage…and the Lochlannach had dropped their weapons on the sand before they’d waded into the water.
Though a few of Brendan’s friends had joined him, they were outnumbered. Even weaponless, Caragh didn’t doubt that their enemy intended to ambush her brother, reclaiming the ship and the woman. They needed no blades to kill Brendan.
It had been impossible to help him, without drawing the Lochlannach back on herself and the others.
Why had he lured them away from Gall Tír? It was reckless and dangerous.
Unless Brendan was trying to lead the enemy away in a desperate act of bravery.
She closed her eyes, steeling herself against the possibility that her brother was already dead. Hours had passed, but he hadn’t returned at all. She could only pray that he was still alive.
Disbelief and fear welled up inside her. All of her brothers had abandoned her. She hadn’t argued when Terence and Ronan had gone, confident that they would return with the promised supplies. But now, it had been nearly a fortnight, and there was no sign of them.
What if none of her brothers returned? What if all of them were dead?
The idea of being alone, with no one to protect her, was terrifying.
With a heavy heart, she searched inside for the right decision about what to do now. She couldn’t release her prisoner. If she did, she had no doubt he would strike her down. His dark, callous eyes bespoke a ruthless nature. There was nothing tame about him, and she saw no alternative except to keep him chained until her older brothers returned.
If they returned.
She closed her eyes, forcing away the thoughts of doubt. No, Terence and Ronan would come back. They had to.
Caragh picked up a woollen brat that she used as a winter wrap and tiptoed over to the section of the wall that the man had destroyed. She reached up to secure it over the hole, using it to block the wind.
When she turned around, she saw him staring at her. She pressed her back against the broken wall, just as he rose to his feet. His eyes were a dark brown, and she couldn’t read the expression on his face. But she wouldn’t make the mistake of trusting him. She inched further away until he spoke a word she didn’t understand.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
His gaze followed her, and he paused a moment. ‘Water.’
It startled her to hear her language spoken by this man. ‘You know Irish?’
But he only repeated, ‘Water.’
Caragh went to fill a wooden cup with water, and she felt his eyes watching every move. When she drew close, she hesitated, not wanting to be so close to him after he’d already spurned the bowl of soup. But with his hands chained behind his back, there was no other alternative.
She swallowed back her apprehension and raised the cup to his lips, tilting it slightly. He drank, and in the shadowed light, she saw the rough stubble of facial hair. It was the same light blond colour as his hair, and when she lowered the cup, her eyes were drawn to his mouth. His lips were firm, a slash of a mouth that she doubted had ever smiled. In his dark eyes, she saw a worry that mirrored her own.
‘Where is she?’ he demanded in her language.
Caragh stepped back from him. ‘So you do know Irish.’ It meant he’d understood
