shriek as she saw the jet-black knife handle.
With an evil snicking sound, the slim, deadly blade sprang out. The Viking bent close—and cut the rope that held her hands and ankles together.
The relief was a fine and shining thing. She straightened her legs, the cramp in her thigh subsiding completely. And then, though she knew it was foolish in the extreme, she flung out her bound feet and tried to kick him.
He simply stepped to the side, collapsing the knife and kneeling in a smooth, swift motion to stow it in his boot. Then he stood to his height again.
“I am sorry to have bound you, Princess.” He actually managed to sound regretful. “But your father’s instructions are to bring you to him, whether you are willing or not. I can’t have you trying to run away all the time—or shouting for help.”
She made a series of urgent grunting sounds, shaking her head with each one.
He got the message. Reluctantly, he suggested, “You wish me to remove the gag.”
“Umn, uhgh, umngh.” She nodded madly.
“If I remove the gag, you must swear on your honor as a descendant of kings not to cry out or make any loud sounds.”
She nodded again—that time sharply and firmly.
He was silent, regarding her. She stared right back at him, unmoving now, willing him with her eyes to take off the gag.
At last, he spoke. “You are a princess of the House of Thor. To you, honor should be all.” His doubting expression was distinctly unflattering. “But you have been raised in…this.” He gestured toward the glass door that led out to her small balcony. The sun was lowering now. A massive oak grew beyond the balcony and the sunlight shone through its branches, creating enchanting patterns of shadow and light.
The Viking sneered. “This California is an easy, warm place, far from the hard snows and misty fjords of our island home. You know nothing of the endless nights of winter. The frost giants, harbingers of Ragnarok, do not stalk your dreams. Perhaps you do not hold your honor precious above all else as you should.”
Elli knew the Norse myths. She understood his references. Still, what he said sounded like something out of Lord of the Rings. She should have found such talk ridiculous. But she didn’t. His meaning was crystal clear. He believed she wouldn’t keep her word, that she’d scream her head off the second he took the gag away.
A minute ago, she had planned to do exactly that. But not anymore. Now, she would not scream if her life depended on it. Now, she was madder, even, than a minute ago. She was utterly, bone-shatteringly furious—which was thoroughly unreasonable, as he only suspected what she had planned to do.
But this was far from a reasonable situation. And Elli Thorson boiled with rage. She didn’t move, she didn’t breathe. She simply stared at him, her gaze burning through him, wishing she could sear him to a cinder where he stood.
Evidently, the hot fury in her eyes was the answer he sought. He stepped in front of her once more and knelt opposite her head. They shared another long look. And then he reached out and untied the gag. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I want you to be comfortable, but I must know that I can trust you.”
“I don’t forgive you,” she muttered in a dry croak. “So stop asking me to.” Elli pressed her lips together, ran her tongue over her dried-out teeth and swallowed repeatedly to soothe her parched throat. Finally, she said in a low voice, “Water. Please.”
He dropped the gag on the couch arm and went to the kitchen, returning quickly with a full glass. He set the glass on the coffee table and helped her to sit. Her skirt was halfway up her thighs. He smoothed it down so it covered her tied-together knees. She had a powerful urge to snap at him to get his big, rude hands off her, but she pressed her lips together over the self-defeating words. She did want her skirt pulled down and since her own hands were tied, his would have to do.
Once she was upright, with her skirt where it was supposed to be, he held the glass to her lips. Oh, it was heaven, that lovely, wet water sliding down her dry throat. She drank the whole thing.
“More?” he asked. She shook her head. He was very close, his bulging hard shoulder brushing against her. She realized she could smell him. His skin gave off a scent both spicy and fresh. Like cloves and green, newly cut cedar boughs. Every Christmas, her mother decked the mantels and stair rails with cedar boughs. Elli had always loved the smell of them….
And what was the matter with her? Had she lost her mind?
He had drugged her and tied her up and as soon as dark came, he was dragging her out of here, hauling her off to God knew where. The last thing she should be thinking about was how good he smelled.
She scooted as far away from him as she could, given her hobbled state, and hugged the couch arm.
Without another word, he set the empty glass on the coffee table, stood and crossed the room to sit again in the easy chair—as if he found it uncomfortable or distasteful to be anywhere near her. Fine. She felt the same way. On both counts.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. The Viking was still. Elli fidgeted a little, pulling at the ropes that bound her, unable to resist a need to test them. Unlike the rope he had cut, the ones that were left pulled no tighter when she tugged on them. They didn’t loosen, either.
It occurred to her that the only weapon she had at her disposal right then was her voice. Shouting for help was out. She’d sworn she wouldn’t do that, and for some insane reason she felt bound to stick by her word. However, she’d never promised she wouldn’t speak. And words, if used right, could serve as weapons.
She straightened her shoulders and let out a long breath. “This is kidnapping, do you realize that? In America, what you’re doing is a capital crime.”
He looked away, toward the kitchen, where both of her cats—Doodles and Diablo—sat side by side, waiting for the dinner that was so long in coming. Elli began to wonder if the Viking would reply to her.
And then that gray-blue gaze swung her way again. “You will not be harmed. I will take you to your father. He will explain all.”
A shriek of rage and frustration rose in her throat. She had to swallow to banish it. She spoke with measured care. “None of that is the point. The point is—”
He raised that tattooed palm. “Enough. I have told you what will happen. Make your peace with it.”
Not in a hundred million years. “Untie me. I have to feed my cats.”
He just looked at her, reproach in those watchful eyes.
Though it galled like burning acid to do it, she gave him the oath he required. “I will not try to escape—not while we’re here, in my apartment. You have my word of honor on that.”
He studied her some more in that probing, intense way he had, as if he knew how to look through her skull, to see into her real thoughts and know for certain if she told the truth or if she lied. Finally, he bent to his boot and removed the black knife. Snick. The blade appeared, gleaming.
He rose and came toward her again. She wriggled sideways, twisting from the waist, presenting her bound wrists.
He
