sadness and shame more than disdain. It was as if she had already been cut from their lives.
She hadn’t even been able to say goodbye to Sempa, her old nursemaid, who had been out in the forest. If only Alfred hadn’t been called away. He would have protected her. But she couldn’t stop herself from wondering if he would be angry with his wife or if he would agree with her actions. Yesterday she would have thought he’d feel sorrow, but now that her world had been turned on its head, she didn’t know what to think. He had seen the bruises left from Blythe’s blows before and done nothing.
For the thousandth time she wondered what could have made the woman so quick to give her away. Had the loss of grain really meant starvation? Nay, it would be more than the grain. A sick thought, one that she had tried to banish, bloomed inside her and began to twist its bitter roots through her heart. Alythe was approaching the age of betrothal. Getting rid of Merewyn would eliminate competition, would make it that much easier to ensure she had the pick of bridegrooms and a sizeable dowry. Just before he’d left, Alfred had promised to see Merewyn married in the New Year. Had Blythe been so desperate to secure her daughter’s future? Had she been such an impediment to that plan?
A bitter laugh threatened to escape, but it brought about tears that she forced herself to blink back. Despite Alfred’s intention, Merewyn didn’t care about finding a match that would see her in the king’s company. She didn’t want that life. She wanted the quiet life of running a manor; she wanted the care of an attentive husband and the time to devote to her family. Blythe would have known that if she hadn’t spent her days thinking up ways to make life miserable for her.
A shrill whistle drew her attention across the water until it fell on the red-haired Northman who had carried her from the cellar. He was hard to miss standing near the prow of his ship, with his hair glistening in the sun. He was staring at her with a furrowed brow and sharp eyes. Though he was at least the width of five ships away with no hope of immediately reaching her, those eyes still had the power to ignite a chill within her. She remembered how he’d looked at her when he’d pulled her out of the cellar.
She jerked her face away before anyone could see the tear that had slipped down her cheek. She refused to cry before these heathens, no matter how much they frightened her. Her gaze landed directly on the giant who had taken her, the one the men called Eirik. The chain mail he’d worn was gone now, but his size hadn’t diminished for the lack of it. His was a brawny strength, not the sinewy slimness she was used to in the men of her acquaintance.
Eirik’s eyes narrowed, and he glared at her as he made his way down the narrow aisle between the men on his way to her. Her heart threatened to thrum out of her chest, and with the fear came anger. What had she done to deserve such a look? Why had she gone with him so easily?
* * *
Eirik dropped into a squat in front of the girl. Her eyes were seething with anger as she watched him, but her cheeks were pale from fear. He was glad to see it. That terror would do her well on their journey. It would make her less likely to fight or do something equally stupid. He’d learned from his years of fighting that fear was the finest binding, far more effective than hemp or sealskin. It kept men in their place and he assumed it would work on women. The girl needed to hang on to a healthy dose of it in order to stay safe on the crossing.
‘What is your name, girl?’ He slipped into her native Northumbrian tongue.
She spat in his face instead of answering.
It was an admirable and unexpected gesture. A corner of his mouth twitched up in what might have become a smile of appreciation had he not been so irritated at her exchange with Gunnar. His brother had been a rival since birth, and he knew the whole ship speculated that a fight between them was imminent. But it would happen after their father’s death, when the next jarl would be decided. Eirik refused to allow it to happen over something as paltry as a woman, and a slave at that.
He let her stew while he wiped the spittle away with the back of his hand. She chewed her bottom lip, possibly regretting her impulsive response. The girl should be reprimanded for her disrespect, but Eirik knew it for the distress it was. There would be time for punishment if she didn’t come to heel on her own. ‘Without a name, I’ll have to call you slave.’
‘You could return me and we wouldn’t have to bother with social niceties.’
He had to swallow back the urge to smile again. Amazing, given that just moments ago he’d been ready to toss her back to shore with the strength of his anger. If only Gunnar didn’t want her, too. She was too pretty. She had the delicate face of a woman who had been taken care of. Her skin wasn’t creased or roughened from working in the sun or the dry, winter wind. Her brow was finely formed above eyes as wide and dark as chestnuts. Ivory skin was smooth over defined cheekbones and a narrow chin. But it was her lips that ultimately held his gaze. Whether they were red from the cold or if it was their natural colour, he didn’t know. But they were lush and soft and he had the peculiar urge to know their taste.
He took a deep breath and forced his mind away from such thoughts. His instincts had won on land, but on the sea, he had to maintain control. He grabbed her bound wrists harsher than he intended, but she only winced without muttering a sound.
‘My brother is the lord of that manor. He’ll pay you for me if you take me back now.’
He’d guessed that she was of noble blood, given her hiding spot with the family and the clothes she wore. The dark blue gown was of a fine-spun wool no peasant could afford, and he guessed the amber piping along the hem of the sleeve and shoulder to be silken velvet. It was no surprise her brother was lord.
‘And what would he buy you back with, slave? I’ve taken everything.’ Eirik didn’t even bother to point out that if the man’s own wife had given her away, he’d be unlikely to bargain for her.
He didn’t have to. The doubt was written clearly on her face. Just before she looked away, Eirik got a glimpse into those deep eyes and saw just how hurt and alone she felt. The knowledge twisted something deep inside him and made him angry in a way he couldn’t grasp. He cursed it as he withdrew his knife from the sheath at his boot. She gasped then and tried to pull away, but his fingers tightened and held her immobile.
‘The sea is there.’ He pointed with the knife. ‘And Gunnar is there.’ Her wide eyes darted in his brother’s direction before settling again on Eirik. ‘If the water or a sea monster doesn’t claim you first, he will.’ He paused, allowing the significance of those words to sink in before continuing, ‘If you attempt to harm one of the men, you’ll be at their mercy. Do you understand? There is no escape.’
‘Aye.’ The word came out harsh between her clenched teeth. Eirik welcomed the fire that had returned to burn fierce in her eyes. Her anger, he could understand.
When her hands relaxed, he set the knife to the hemp binding and began to saw through it. His pace was fast and efficient, because already her close proximity was beginning to weaken him. The air was being squeezed from his chest, causing his breaths to become more frequent, and his limbs felt wrong. Heavy near the ends and alive with sensation. She unbalanced him—a dangerous state for a warrior—and it made him angry that someone so insignificant could hold so much power over him.
He was Eirik, son of the jarl Hegard. He had amassed a fortune raiding and trading while leading his men to victories in the lands south of the North Sea. He would one day be called jarl in place of his father. When the day came that he, too, went to take his place in Asgard, the skalds would write verses of his heroic deeds.
Who was this girl? She was no one. She’d probably never been more than two leagues from her home
