It shamed her that this man thought of her as nothing but a thief, when she wasn’t.
‘Let me go, Caragh.’
‘Not yet, Lochlannach,’ she countered. Frowning, she added, ‘I don’t even know your name.’
‘I am Styr Hardrata. My wife is Elena.’
‘I saw her with the others. She’s beautiful.’ Caragh returned to the cold pot of soup and moved it closer to the hearth to warm. ‘Be assured, my brother doesn’t plan to hurt her. He’s only seventeen…and thoughtless, I’m afraid.’
‘He plans to ransom them or sell them as slaves, doesn’t he?’
She hadn’t thought of that, but it was doubtful. ‘I don’t know what he plans to do.’ Truthfully, she doubted if he’d considered any of his actions, it had all happened so fast. ‘All I know is that I can’t free you until my older brothers are here. Once they are, then you can go as it pleases you.’
‘And I’m supposed to stay here and ignore what’s happening to the rest of my family? You expect me to wait and do nothing?’
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. ‘I won’t let you hurt my brother.’
His dark eyes gleamed in the stillness. ‘If she’s harmed because of what he did, I’ll kill him. Be assured of it.’
She believed him. There was a darkness in this man, a soulless being who wouldn’t falter when it came to retribution. It didn’t matter that Brendan was young and foolish. In the Viking’s eyes, she saw the promise of vengeance.
Her hands were trembling as she ladled more soup into a bowl. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’
‘What I want is to be released.’ He glared at her, and she tightened the hold upon her fear.
Ignoring his demand, she said, ‘I have very little food. If you want to eat, I will share what there is. But if you’re going to push it away, tell me now, and I’ll keep it for myself.’
He said nothing for a time, staring towards the fire. ‘I suppose I’ll have to keep up my strength for the day when you set me free.’
‘I regret hurting you. But I had no choice.’ She picked up the bowl with both hands, steam rising from the soup. It felt as if she were nearing a dragon as she approached the warrior.
He waited, and when she stood before him, he said, ‘You look as if you haven’t eaten well in weeks.’
She hadn’t but didn’t say so. ‘There was a drought, and we lost a good deal of our harvest last summer. Many died during the winter, and it’s too early to harvest this year’s crops.’
Caragh raised the bowl to his lips, and this time, he drank. The soup wasn’t good, watery with only a bit of seaweed. But there was nothing else.
‘What of your animals?’ he asked. ‘Sheep or cattle?’
She shook her head. ‘They’re gone. My brothers went to trade for more food.’ To him, it might seem that they’d done little, but she knew the truth. They’d given up most of their possessions for food. ‘Believe me when I say there is nothing to eat,’ she continued. ‘I’ve looked everywhere.’
‘You live near the sea,’ he pointed out. ‘There’s no reason for you to starve.’
But it wasn’t that easy. ‘The fishermen left, months ago, and took their boats with them,’ she explained. ‘We can only get the smaller fish near the shore. It’s not enough.’ She didn’t mention her father’s boat, for they had not touched it in months. The others, too, had left it alone.
Styr’s hard gaze fastened upon her. ‘There is no reason to starve if you know the ways of the sea.’
When she took the bowl away, she noticed that the side of his face was swollen red and would likely be bruised black and blue by morning. Seeing his wound bothered her, for it was her fault he’d been hurt.
Caragh went to fetch a linen cloth, soaking it in more cool water. Without asking his leave, she went and touched the sore spot, bathing it to prevent the swelling from growing worse.
He stared at her in disbelief. ‘Do you always strike your enemy and then tend his wounds?’ His eyes held suspicion, as if he weren’t accustomed to anyone taking care of him. It made her feel foolish, and she pulled the cloth away.
‘I’ve never taken a man prisoner before.’ Her cheeks burned, and she retreated, wishing she’d never dared to touch him. Everything about this man threatened her, from his fiercely handsome face, to his raw strength. It was like chaining a predator, and she needed to remember that he was not to be trusted.
‘How long before your brothers return?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘They’ve been gone a fortnight. I have no way of knowing when they’ll be back.’
‘And if they don’t return?’
Caragh shook her head, not wanting to imagine it. Inwardly, she tightened the invisible bands around her fear and frustration. Ronan and Terence had sworn to return, and she believed they would.
But it was Brendan who gave her the greatest cause to fear. Her younger brother hadn’t considered the consequences of his actions, and he might pay the price with his life.
Returning to the far side of the hut, she washed out the bowl and set it to dry. Her voice was quiet, but she admitted, ‘If they don’t return, I’ll let you go. It would be more merciful for you to kill me than to starve to death.’
He sat down, leaning back against the post. and though she was desperately tired, Caragh sat beside the fire. Absently, She picked up a comb and began to run it through the long dark strands, hoping to calm herself. She was aware of him watching her, but she tried to ignore his gaze.
‘Why did they leave you here?’ he asked. ‘Don’t your brothers believe in protecting their women?’
She pulled at the comb, not looking at him. Aye, she did feel uncertainty at her future and a sense of hurt that they’d gone off without her. But she wouldn’t reveal it to him. ‘I can care for myself.’
‘Can you?’ He eyed her, and beneath his gaze, she felt embarrassment at her thinness.
‘I haven’t given up hope. My brothers will return, and—’
‘—and you’ll starve in the meantime.’ His scorn irritated her, for he behaved as if she weren’t lifting a finger. ‘The women of my country would be out hunting for food, scouring the land instead of waiting at home.’ He gave a shrug, and his diffidence infuriated her. ‘But then, you’re Irish.’
How did he dare to mock her, when she’d given up her own share of food on his behalf?
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ she demanded.
He only sent her a sardonic look, as if she could guess which insult he’d implied. Aye, she might not be a sword-wielding warrior, but she wasn’t weak. Not by half.
She glared hard
