rebel Dane moved in a clumsy, lumbering manner, while the stranger appeared graceful, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground as he moved in a circle around his opponent, putting himself between her and danger. But just as the Dane growled again and reached for his sword, the stranger lunged forward. The growl turned into a great bellow as the Dane’s eyes widened in pain and he crumpled to the ground.
Keeping a tight grip on her sword, she let her gaze dart to the stranger, uncertain if he was now an enemy instead of her saviour. He watched the Dane until it was clear he wasn’t an immediate threat, then stared back at her with deep brown eyes, bloody sword at his side. Despite the fact that he wasn’t making a move towards her, she couldn’t decide if he meant her any harm. There was no menace in his gaze. But then, Godric had taught her how that could change in an instant.
‘Nay! Don’t come any closer,’ she warned when he took a tentative step forward.
Tilting his head a bit and furrowing his brow, he stared back at her. He still didn’t say a word as he gestured to the man at his feet. Aisly stepped back to put even more space between them and gave him a nod, watching him disarm the fallen Dane. A wave of nausea threatened now that the danger was past and her arms began to shake from holding the sword for so long. He glanced at her as he gently tossed the man’s sword up on to the forest floor, away from them both. His own sword rested on the muddy bank of the stream at his feet. The Dane’s knife quickly followed and then the man held his hands aloft to show her that he held no weapons.
Finally able to take a steady breath, she lowered her arms but kept the sword in front of her and allowed herself a careful study of the man. He wasn’t a Dane. Or at least she didn’t think he was. He was tall, big like them, but his hair was odd. It was dark blond but had been cut in awkward tufts as if he’d taken to it himself with a knife. His beard was barely there, just mere scruff on the lower half of what was a very handsome face. A gash crusted over with blood ran from the centre of his forehead and disappeared into his hair above his ear. It looked to be a few days old and in need of attention. It was angry and pink around the edges and swollen badly. The flesh around his eye on that side was puffy and discoloured.
He wore no chain mail and his brown tunic was rather plain except for a bit of embroidery around the top and an emblem that might have been a bird on the shoulder that seemed vaguely familiar. It wasn’t a Dane’s tunic. She’d seen something similar on a mercenary once, but this man didn’t seem Frankish. Of course, there were other lands.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
His brow furrowed again as he studied her mouth, making her think he didn’t understand her words. ‘What is your name?’ she asked again, keeping her voice steady.
When he still didn’t answer, she worried that perhaps she’d been wrong and he wasn’t a mercenary at all. She’d seen them before and they knew her language. They had to know it if they were to earn a living. If he didn’t know her language, then he was truly a foreigner and one who had no business here. She scanned the edges of the forest looking for others like him and tightened her grip on the sword, raising it again. He wouldn’t be alone if he was here for nefarious reasons.
‘Nay.’ He reached out towards her but stopped short of putting himself any closer to her. ‘I won’t hurt you.’ His voice was rough as if his throat had been damaged and he spoke in a halting accent. A quick glance showed his neck appeared fine and uninjured. ‘I don’t know who I am.’ He gestured to his head injury.
He did appear badly injured. Aside from the gash and swelling, now that she studied him closer, his flesh held an unnatural pallor and a fine sheen of sweat beaded on his skin. She’d once heard of a man who had been kicked by an ox and had forgotten how to talk, but could such a blow make someone forget his identity completely? ‘You don’t know your own name?’
He swallowed once before giving a quick shake of his head that caused him to close his eyes as if in pain and his whole body to waver. When he opened them again, their intensity caught her gaze and held tight. ‘I only know that this man was going to kill me and you gave me an advantage. Thank you.’
Satisfied that he wasn’t a threat, she lowered the sword and said, ‘You saved me. I should be thanking you.’
‘He wouldn’t have been a danger to you had I not led him here.’ The husk of his injured voice was not entirely unpleasant as it raked across her senses. ‘I’ll be on my way. There could be others following me and I don’t want to put you in more danger.’
He retrieved his sword and took a few wary steps backwards before giving her a nod and turning away. As he walked back the way he had come, she noticed that his graceful steps had deserted him. He walked heavily as if he was exhausted and stumbled once, though he caught himself quickly. He meant to continue on his way as if he hadn’t just saved her life. Despite herself, she admired his shoulders as he slung the sword into the scabbard strapped between his shoulder blades. They were broad under his tunic and thick like a warrior’s. And his hand around the sword’s grip was large and strong. A warrior’s hand, marked with small white scars near the knuckles.
‘Wait!’
He paused and turned only his head to look at her, giving her a view of his uninjured profile. It was a fine profile. She didn’t want to think about why the sight of his handsome brow and strong nose made her stomach clench pleasurably.
‘You should rest before moving on.’
‘I’ll be fine. I’d be in your debt if you could tell me where I am.’
How could such a strong warrior not know where he was? The idea was baffling. ‘The stream leads to the River Tyne, a few leagues down the way, I assume. We are near my village, Heiraford.’ She’d never been further than the few miles it took to reach Lord Oswine’s manor and the occasional visit to the abbey. The Danish settlement was just south of that, where the Tyne forked with another river, but she wasn’t sure it was necessary to mention that to the stranger, as he’d been headed north. When the man only nodded his thanks, she continued, ‘Did that Dane harm you? You’re badly injured.’
But he ignored her question and swayed a bit when he turned forward, his feet slipping on the rocks. Fearing that he’d fall and injure himself even worse, she pushed her sword into its short scabbard at her waist and ran forward to his side, slipping an arm around his lower back. The muscle there was solid and dense.
‘When did you last eat?’
He exhaled roughly. A laugh? ‘I’m uncertain,’ he admitted. ‘I awoke two evenings past after having been injured. I can only assume I ate that day.’
‘And you have no memory of that man? No idea why he would want you dead?’
He gave her a wry grin, flashing white teeth. ‘One would think I’d remember the brute, but there’s nothing familiar about him.’
She took a deep breath and pondered for a moment the wisdom of inviting him into her home. He was injured and he had saved her. But everyone had been wary of strangers since the attacks had begun. Helping him was the right thing to do—he clearly needed it—but the village elders wouldn’t agree. She couldn’t afford to stir up any trouble with them.
Nay, it was best to do what was right. ‘Come with me. You saved me. A meal is the least I can do.’
Before she realised what he meant to do, his hand came up so that his fingers very lightly touched her jaw. A pleasurable heat prickled through her from the simple touch. ‘I refuse to put you in further danger, fair one.’
So
