The Viking warrior

In her cellar…

Lady Annis must stop Viking Rurik Sigurdsson from discovering the truth about his family’s death. Her only solution is to imprison him. But as the ruggedly handsome Viking starts to charm his way out of his cell and into her heart, can she be sure he’s not still intent on vengeance—or perhaps an unexpected alliance is the solution?

HARPER ST GEORGE was raised in rural Alabama and along the tranquil coast of Northwest Florida. It was this setting, filled with stories of the old days, that instilled in her a love of history, romance and adventure. At high school she discovered the romance novel, which combined all those elements into one perfect package. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband and two young children. Visit her website: harperstgeorge.com.

Also by Harper St George

To Wed a Viking miniseries

Marrying Her Viking Enemy

Longing for Her Forbidden Viking

Sons of Sigurd collection

Stolen by the Viking by Michelle Willingham

Falling for Her Viking Captive by Harper St George

And look out for:

Conveniently Wed to the Viking by Michelle Styles

Redeeming Her Viking Warrior by Jenni Fletcher

Tempted by Her Viking Enemy by Terri Brisbin

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Falling for Her Viking Captive

Harper St. George

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90142-4

FALLING FOR HER VIKING CAPTIVE

© 2020 Harper St. George

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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For Michelle Willingham, Michelle Styles,

Jenni Fletcher and Terri Brisbin.

It was a pleasure creating the characters

in Sons of Sigurd with you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Prologue
The Kingdom of Maerr, NorwayAD 874

They were meant to have arrived at a wedding, but they were greeted by the remnants of a massacre. The smell of smoke had been heavy in the air long before Rurik drew his horse up at the highest point of the rise and stared in disbelief at the valley below. Maerr was in chaos. It was as if a vǫlva had spread her dark magic, transforming his home from a place of beauty and celebration to a scene of death and agony in the mere hours since they had left.

His oldest half-brother, Brandt, drew to a stop beside him. ‘What madness is this?’ he whispered with a stunned reverence that could only be summoned when the horror of a situation eclipsed belief.

The air in the valley was filled with smoke and ash. From this distance, only the sounds of wailing reached them. Bodies lay scattered across the clearing, but Rurik could not tell whether they were living or dead. Weak afternoon sunlight reflected off the blue-grey waters of the fjord, drawing his attention to the stark emptiness. The murderers had fled, leaving his brother Alarr’s wedding a bloodbath.

Were his brothers alive? Alarr, Sandulf and Danr had been left behind while Rurik rode north with Brandt to quell a disturbance in a neighbouring village. Had they been left to face their deaths alone or were they among the living?

As his heart resumed its beating, pumping his blood in a fierce rhythm, Rurik roared his outrage and fear as he followed Brandt towards Maerr, their handful of warriors trailing behind them. A rush of anger prickled over his skin and, with no other adversary in sight, it focused on their father. Advisors had warned him against the recklessness of inviting so many warriors, some of them old enemies turned new allies, to the wedding. Having that many strangers about, many of them unknown to their family, invited danger.

King Sigurd had not listened. He had been too caught up in his grand scheme for power to take well-meaning advice from his trusted men. If he could organise co-operation between the diverse group, he could elevate himself from a minor king to someone whose influence would rival that of King Harald Finehair himself, or so he had reasoned.

Father was nothing if not ambitious and it might have killed him.

The need to fight coursed through Rurik’s blood like a second heartbeat, urging him to take action. He had inherited that impetuous need for action from Sigurd and it was not easily tamed. Gritting his teeth, he urged his horse faster and made it into the clearing at the same time as Brandt. His gaze immediately sought out his brothers among the chaos.

‘Where is Ingrid?’ Brandt shouted for his wife as their youngest brother Sandulf ran to meet them. The boy who was barely out of adolescence had blood on his clothing, but Rurik could not tell if it was his own or if it belonged to someone else.

Vaulting down from his horse, he made it over to them in time to hear Sandulf whisper, ‘Brandt, there’s something you must know.’ His voice held a slight waver.

Their older brother was not listening. His eyes were wide and on something in the distance. Rurik turned to see several bodies lined up on the ground. His gaze skimmed over them, unwilling to linger on a face, afraid that he might see one precious to him. On the end, a cascade of golden hair spread across the dirt, somehow saved from the dark red blood that marred the wearer’s gown and puddled next to her. Rurik did not have to see her face to know that his brother’s pregnant wife lay dead. Nausea turned his stomach as Brandt let out a howl of pain so terrifying in its sorrow that Rurik’s limbs went cold.

In his mind’s eye, he saw Ingrid’s smiling face and gentle eyes as she had been mere hours ago. He saw Brandt lean over her, pressing her back to the wall as he grinned and stole a kiss… Their final kiss. Her voice had been high and clear like music as she had called out to them to be safe. No one had thought to repeat the warning back to her. She had been home, surrounded by their father’s warriors. She was supposed to have been safe.

Sandulf made to go after Brandt when he went to her, so Rurik put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Leave him.’ His voice sounded raw and jagged. He existed in a void where numbness and rage struggled for control.

Sandulf paused and up close Rurik could tell that he had minor wounds. He favoured one shoulder while blood and soot crusted over a gash on his head. Though he was young, Sandulf had seen battle before. Rurik could not help but wonder how his wounds were not worse if he had been involved in this battle. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

Sandulf was pale and visibly shaken. ‘They went into the hall and locked the doors. I tried to…’ He swallowed as if the very telling of it was trying. ‘Father is dead, Rurik.’

Rurik’s gaze jerked back to the line of bodies at the edge of the clearing, searching for their father. If Sigurd was dead, then Rurik had no chance of ever reconciling with him. The man had never been easy and Rurik had always felt at odds with him, but never had he thought there would not be enough time. The bulk of a man lying at the other end, opposite Ingrid, drew his gaze. There was a familiarity in the breadth of the man’s shoulders. Pain swelled in Rurik’s chest, drawing his lungs tight as it forced its way up through the numbness.

Sandulf grabbed his arm in a near-desperate grip. ‘I tried to stop this. I marked one of them.’

Rurik should have been here, but instead he had been sent north. He should have stopped this. Instead, Ingrid’s life had been entrusted to this boy. It was unfair, but Rurik could not stop the words that tore out of him. ‘Only marked? Were you not able to kill one of them?’

He left before Sandulf could answer him. Rurik needed to find his twin Danr, and Alarr. They were the only real family he had left. The only ones who mattered to him. He found Alarr lying in his own blood.

Rurik hurried to his side and knelt beside him. ‘Where are you wounded, Brother?’

‘Gilla.’ Alarr’s voice was a harsh rasp as if his throat was raw from yelling for his bride. He seemed only half-aware of what was going on around them, his eyes unfocused and wary. Someone had already tied cloths around both of Alarr’s calves to stem the flow of blood from his wounds. There was so much of it, Rurik could only guess if his brother would ever walk again.

‘Who did this to you? Tell me and I swear to you that I will hunt the coward and cut him down.’ He did not know if Gilla was alive or dead, but the fact that he had not seen her among the living did not bode well for her.

‘Feann,’ Alarr whispered. ‘Feann and his men.’ He closed his eyes as Hilda, Alarr’s mother, brought a cool cloth to his face. She deftly ignored Rurik, much as she had for all his life, unwilling to acknowledge the living proof of her husband’s unfaithfulness.

It was no surprise the Irish King had turned on them. Rurik had been suspicious of the man’s cunning eyes and arrogant smiles from the start. Feann would be taken care of. ‘I will find him. I promise you.’

But now he had to find out if Danr lived. Rurik was close to all his brothers, but Danr was his twin. The only full-blooded brother he had. The only connection left to his mother. If Danr had died… He forced himself to swallow the ache in his throat and stared at Hilda.

Her hands were eerily calm in the face of what had happened. That had always been her way. She faced all that Sigurd and life had thrown at her with a calm efficiency that might have brooked respect in Rurik if she had bothered to offer him a tiny scrap of the affection she held for her own children. Hilda had never liked him and Danr, for they represented a time when she had lost Sigurd’s affection to the twins’ mother.

‘Have you seen Danr?’ he forced himself to ask Hilda. ‘Does he live?’

Her shoulders tightened and she did not look at him, but she did answer. ‘I do not know.’

His breath rushed out in frustration as he raised his gaze to the devastation. The living rushed around them, hurrying to put out errant flames and to tend the wounded. He wanted to scream out the rage and sorrow building within him. Danr had to be alive. He wouldn’t allow himself to believe otherwise. Finally, his gaze dropped to a lone man standing near the line of fallen bodies, near the bulk of the warrior he knew was their father.

‘He’s dead,’ Danr whispered when Rurik hurried up to him.

Rurik drew his brother into an embrace and thanked the gods he was alive. ‘Are you injured?’ He could see no wound, but Danr was covered with soot as if he had been helping with the fires.

Danr shook his head and faced him. His eyes were stricken and filled with pain. Though they were similar in build, his twin’s hair was blond instead of dark like Rurik’s. In many ways Danr was light to Rurik’s dark. He was often quick with a jest when the moment called for levity, while Rurik would rather brood in his thoughts. Nevertheless, the bond between them was unbreakable.

‘I wasn’t here,’ Danr said with disgust in his voice.

‘Why? Where were you?’

‘I… I meant to come later.’ He took in a long wavering breath. ‘There was a woman.’

Rurik turned as a sharp ache seized his throat. There was always a woman when it came to Danr.

‘Alarr says it was King Feann,’ Rurik said.

‘There were others. I do not know who they were, but the whole place burst open with violence,’ said Danr.

Rurik finally allowed his gaze to come to rest on the bodies at their feet. Their father, Alarr’s bride and her parents, with Ingrid on the end. So much senseless death. He might have understood their father’s murder, but why the others? Why did Ingrid and her unborn child have to die? He stared down at the face of Sigurd, his father. He looked strangely peaceful, yet no less severe for the fact that death had claimed him. His arms were crossed over his chest and his formidable brow was as intimidating as ever.

A swell of tenderness and fury for the man rose in his chest. As a bastard, Rurik had always felt as if a void existed between him and his father. The man had claimed him and Danr, but there had lingered a resentment in Rurik that his own mother had never belonged here. She had been treated as little better than a slave. Now that void would always be there.

His gaze sought the fjord, now empty of ships except the burned-out hulls that had been left behind. Sandulf and Alarr had been the only ones here to face those murderers. With Rurik and Brandt sent north and Danr off with a woman, the attack could not have been planned any better. It was almost as if someone had known they would be caught unawares.

‘No one regrets that I wasn’t here more than I,’ Danr said into the silence.

There was a solemnity in his eyes that Rurik had never seen there before. This day had likely changed them all in ways they could not yet determine. In that moment, the rage burst through, overshadowing the sadness and pain.

How dare anyone come here and destroy them? His gaze moved from Sigurd to Alarr’s bride. She should be preparing to dance on her wedding night. Then he looked at Ingrid. She should have been a mother in only a few weeks. Brandt should be looking forward to welcoming his child into the world. Whatever Sigurd had done to deserve his death, these innocents should not have suffered his fate.

Revenge became more important than his own life. It was the only tangible way to deal with the well of anger opening up inside him.

‘We will find who did this,’ he said to Danr. ‘All of them.’

Chapter One
Glannoventa, NorthumbriaTwo years later

Sins of the past were never forgotten. Father Cuthbert had spent the greater part of Annis’s early childhood trying to make her understand that. To her eternal shame, Annis of Glannoventa had never paid the old man much attention. He had lectured and made her stand primly against the wall of the abbey to listen. Her legs had gone stiff and her back had ached, but none of his efforts had made her truly understand. She had happily continued to wreak havoc on his sense of order and decorum at each lecture’s conclusion.

It was not until this very night, standing in the shadows of a seedy tavern near the sea, that Annis finally appreciated the sentiment. With a dagger she was prepared to use sitting heavy in the belt at her waist, she wasn’t in any position to ask for divine guidance. Nevertheless, Annis sent up a prayer as she checked one last time to make certain the blade was hidden in the folds of her cloak. The cool metal greeted her hand, the filigree work on the hilt threatening to cut into the soft flesh of her palm if she squeezed it too hard. Though it was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, it was meant for protection. It had proven its worth many times over, most recently two years past.

She closed her eyes against the memory of that long-ago day in Maerr. There had been more blood than she had ever seen in her life. So much blood that the smell had haunted her for months and she had locked the dagger away in the armoury, never to be seen again.

Until tonight.

Tonight, she had taken it out in the hope she would not be forced to use it. If only her target would co-operate. The Norseman stood ten paces across the tavern from her. A tankard of ale sat before him on the table as he looked out across the crowded room. The fur cloak fastened at his shoulders was thrown back, intentionally revealing a malicious-looking pair of blades at his hips. She had no doubt that a longer blade would be found strapped to his back. They were harsh reminders of her fate should she fail.

The tavern was filled to overflowing with men from the ship that had arrived earlier. The same ship that had brought the Norseman to their shore. She was forced to brush against a few as she went past. This garnered her looks, because she clearly was not a serving girl. Biting the inside of her lip to keep her nerves at bay, she kept her eyes on the man.

His profile was strong, showing a straight nose and moderately square jaw. He was broad shouldered with dark hair that shimmered gold where the firelight touched it. Up close, he was larger than she had originally believed him to be. It wasn’t a burly strength as much as one forged in battle, with lean muscle and solid brawn, which made it all the more dangerous. This was a man who knew how to fight.

She was a few steps away from him when she caught his eye and he turned his head to look at her, stopping her on the spot. His eyes were blue with a quiet intensity that seemed to see her for what she was: a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A deep groove formed between his brows in a way that made her think he did not smile very often. Thank goodness there was no cruelty lurking in his features, only a solemnity that said he was not one to suffer fools. She might have liked him for it had she not been there to imprison him.

His rugged handsomeness made it easier than she had expected to give him a smile she hoped was sensual and inviting, her ruse to get close to him. Fighting to control the trembling in her hands, Annis pushed her hood back far enough that he could clearly see her features while hoping to keep the rest of her hidden from the crowd. There was always the chance that someone would recognise the auburn of her hair.

‘Good evening,’ she said, and pushed her way to his side, her hip brushing his as she rested an elbow on the time-worn wood of the high table. The Norseman shifted backwards, but not far enough to put any real space between them.

His movement made his scent waft over to her and she was surprised at how appealing she found it. It was a combination of clean male sweat laced with woodsmoke and an undercurrent she couldn’t quite name. Soap of some kind, she would guess. A quick glance confirmed that the short hairs at the nape of his neck curled with dampness from a recent bath. Catching his eye again, she gave him a small smile and tried to think of something witty to say.

Now that she was here and this was happening, she found herself faltering. He was staring at her profile and she could feel his gaze on her. It was like standing before a serpent and waiting to see if it would strike. Her breath threatened to lodge in her throat, but she pushed it out and took another one in. All the while she reminded herself that the Norseman did not know that she was his enemy. She could not appear meek or he would never follow her outside.

With that in mind, she forced her hand to move to his forearm as she leaned closer to him to be heard over the din of the conversations going on around them. The solid strength under her palm caused a flicker of unease in her belly.

‘The road was quite dusty and I am parched. I would be ever so grateful for an ale.’ She grimaced internally at the words. They came across as needy. He would never follow that sort of woman outside.

His frown didn’t ease, but he raised a hand and signalled to the barmaid. The girl had been awaiting the signal, perhaps a bit too obviously for Annis’s comfort, and hurried over to place a tankard down with a murmured reply. Annis drew a coin from her drawstring purse, but the Norseman was faster and tossed a coin on to the counter.

‘Thank you.’ She smiled up at him as she wrapped a hand around the tankard, letting her gaze linger on his eyes before dropping to his lips in a rehearsed move. She was surprised to find them well formed and lush, neither too thick nor too thin for her liking. They made a perfect bow. Strange how she had never noticed male lips before. Had Grim’s mouth been thin or wide? She was ashamed that she didn’t know. Certainly, a few years should not be enough to make her forget her own husband?

‘I have a seat for you if you want it,’ said one particularly crude man from a nearby table as he gestured to his lap. The salt encrusting his patchy beard and thinning hair marked him as a sailor, but his wiry frame had her wondering how the first strong gale did not send him hurtling into the sea.

‘You are too kind, but I prefer my seats to have more brawn.’ She turned her back on the table as the men broke out into a roar of inebriated laughter.

The Norseman’s lips twitched as he brought his ale up for a drink. She found herself relaxing the tiniest bit at his approval. Giving him an amused look, she said, ‘You can understand why I chose a place at your side.’ To be fair, at his side was the only place she could have gone had she truly been a traveller passing through. He gave off such a feeling of danger that the crowd naturally gave him a wider berth, leaving the space next to him free.

‘Are you travelling alone?’ he asked. His voice was pleasantly low and smooth for someone who was supposed to be her enemy.

She pretended to take a drink of her ale, letting a little of the bitterness touch her tongue. The ale had been laced with poppy and valerian, as had his ale which he had nearly finished. Her plan had been to press him to drink hers after he had finished his own. To her chagrin, he didn’t seem to be particularly affected by the combination of herbs, yet.

‘If you mean to ask if I am with a man, I am a widow.’ She had decided she would do better with lying if she could stay as close to the truth as possible. ‘I do have servants with me.’

He glanced at the door, then back at her. ‘Perhaps you should have sent one in here in your stead.’

Her natural indignation made her bristle. ‘I can take care of myself.’

It was the wrong thing to say. She had come in here expecting to play a ruse, to pretend to be a seductress to lure him outside into an assignation. Barring that, she would play the helpless widow in need of his help. Antagonising him would not get her far. She smiled at him to soften the words.

‘That is obvious.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the man she had offended. The sailor had made a move to rise, but one of his friends had pulled him back into his seat. Whether he meant to come over and make her sorry for embarrassing him in front of his friends, or if he was simply attempting to totter off into the night, she did not know.

Turning his attention back to her, the Norseman asked, ‘Do you often travel alone, taking care of yourself?’

‘You ask many questions for a man whose name I do not know. Do you travel alone?’

His gaze touched her face, stroking over her brow and then down to her mouth before settling on her eyes again. It was reminiscent of the seductive way she had looked at him just moments before and it made something exciting flicker to life in her belly.

‘Sometimes,’ he said and it was a moment more before she realised he was answering her question.

How was she so terrible at this? Before she could gather her thoughts, he threw back the last of his ale and said, ‘Be careful who you allow to purchase your ale. He might expect some sort of repayment.’ The tankard echoed with a hollow thump when he set it down.

She tensed, certain that he was about to walk away and she would miss her opportunity. They had failed in their attempt to find out where he had secured lodgings. It was entirely possible he would go upstairs or bed down in the common room and she would not get him alone. Her mind swirling with the possibility of failure, she placed her hand on his arm again. ‘Were my answers repayment enough or were you expecting more?’

Annis had never played the seductress in her life, not even with her husband, but she had to do it. Her thumb stroked against the inside of his wrist. She allowed her gaze to trace lazily across his features, as if she were anticipating him asking for more.

Leaning down to be closer to her, the Norseman spoke and his breath brushed across her cheek. ‘Finish your ale, woman, before you take on more than you can handle.’

‘You never answered my question.’ When he raised a brow, she asked again. ‘Are you alone?’ It was a valid question. She needed to know if anyone would miss him. Cedric and his men hadn’t yet been able to figure out if he was travelling with companions.

‘Am I with a woman?’ He tossed her response back at her with a teasing gleam in his eyes. ‘There is no woman.’

‘Not even at home?’

The glimmer of dark humour flickered out. ‘I have no home.’

‘Then you’ve come to Glannoventa to stay?’

He shook his head and glanced to the table where the men’s voices had grown louder. ‘Passing through.’

Before she could respond to that, someone dragged the hood down off her head. She turned to face a man she did not recognise. He was likely a fisherman. The stench of fish rose off him and a few scales clung to his shirt sleeve. Instead of letting her go, he twisted the fabric of the hood in his fist. Her palm itched to grab the dagger at her hip, but she didn’t want to reveal its presence.

Towering over her while giving her a lascivious grin, he asked, ‘You alone, wench?’

‘Release my cloak.’ Her words came out with the full authority she had accumulated over her years as the Lady of Mulcasterhas.

Both the fisherman and the Norseman paused in obvious shock. Her assailant recovered quickly and gave her a crude grin as he realised she must be alone since no one had stood up to challenge him. He opened his mouth to speak, but that was as far as he got before the Norseman stepped forward and grabbed him by his throat. A choking sound was the only thing she heard. She gasped at how quickly the Norseman had moved and she jumped back, dropping her ale on to the straw-covered floor.

Across the room, Alder, her most trusted warrior, stood, but she quickly shook her head to warn him away. The Norseman had things under control. The fisherman had released her and was now grabbing the Norseman’s arm with both hands to loosen his grip. The tips of his toes worked for purchase on the floor, but it was clearly a fight he was losing.

‘Leave here.’ The Norseman spoke with a calmness that belied the fact that he was in the process of strangling a man.

The man gave a jerky nod as well as he was able and found himself immediately released. He sank to the floor, gasping for breath, before finding his feet and disappearing through the crowd.

‘We need to go, too.’ The Norseman’s gaze took in the room, as if expecting the man’s friends to make themselves known.

She nodded and stepped over her fallen tankard as he took her arm to lead her outside. This was not how she had planned to get him to leave with her, but she would not argue if it got him out the door.

‘Where are you staying the night?’ he asked once they were outside. The tavern’s door closed behind them with a hearty thud, muffling the voices inside. He showed no intention of releasing her and she didn’t care. This was playing right into her plans of getting him alone.

The cold air caressing her face was a welcome change from the almost stifling heat inside. Her breath made a cloud of mist as she said, ‘I am not certain I should tell you.’

Tilting his head down, he asked, ‘Do you think I would save you inside the tavern only to ravish you now?’

‘Perhaps you simply do not like to share.’ Despite her words, she started walking down the cobblestone path that led through the village and past the docks and shops. A few of her men were waiting there where it was darker and no one could see them overtake him. A twinge of guilt pulled at the edge of her mind. It didn’t help that she was starting to like him a little.

‘Besides,’ she added with a smirk when he fell into step beside her, ‘you did not save me. I told you I was perfectly capable of handling myself.’

‘Yes, I heard your strongly worded request. It was terrifying.’

Despite herself, she laughed out loud at his dry tone. He spoke as if he was in on their game and more than happy to spar with her. ‘It was an order and a warning. Had he not listened, I would have followed up with a well-placed knee to his groin.’

‘He would have blocked you,’ he said as his gaze moved from one shadow to the next, alert to the possibility of an attacker. This man was a seasoned warrior and she would do well to not underestimate him.

To keep him talking and hopefully distract him from the fact that Alder almost certainly followed them, she asked, ‘Why do you think so?’

His hand tightened gently on her arm, careful not to hurt her, and he gestured to her clothing with his other one. ‘The wool of your skirts. They’re too heavy. He would have likely brought his own knee up faster than yours and, on the chance he could not due to his inebriated state, the blow would have been far less effective than you intended.’

Annis had lived in the household of her father-in-law since the age of eight. Having no surviving daughters of his own and a wife who had died soon after Annis’s arrival, Wilfrid had been at a loss as to how to raise a girl. But he was not a man given to defeat or neglect, so he had more or less raised her as one of his own sons. She had been allowed lessons in combat which had included blade skills and fighting. She had grown up confident in her ability to protect herself. Perhaps too confident, because she had never once considered that her heavier winter wool might be a hindrance.

‘I really do not think—’ Her words broke off as he grabbed her about the waist and whirled. She ended up with her back against the plaster wall of a shop that had long been closed for the night with him towering over her.

‘Try it.’ One corner of his mouth tilted in a dare.

She was suddenly very glad for the full moon above him. Though there was some cloud cover, the light that did break through was enough to allow her to see him. Her stomach gave a little flip of excitement at the way he looked at her. His gaze was hot and alive with excitement. Whether it was from his game or his interest in her, she didn’t know. ‘I cannot.’

‘Do it.’

‘I could hurt you.’

He gave a quick shake of his head and said with an infuriating grin, ‘You could never hurt me.’

It was a taunt, plain and simple, said to spur her into action. Part of her despised how easily she rose to the bait, while the other part of her simply wanted to prove him wrong. That turned out to be the stronger part, because she reared back and brought her knee up. He blocked her and twisted her so that her back was against his front, her hands pressed against the wall.

‘Do you see?’ he said against her ear.

A pleasant shiver ran down her neck. ‘I see.’ She gave a jerky nod as much to dislodge the unfamiliar feeling as to acknowledge him.

‘You would do much better to use your weapon straight away in situations like those.’

‘What if I don’t carry a weapon?’

She swallowed a gasp when his hand moved over her hip and to her waist. ‘But you do,’ he said, his fingers touching the hilt of the dagger.

Despite her misstep tonight, she was still confident that she could have levelled that man had she been pressed to do so. Instead of saying that, she turned in his arms to face him. A little surprised when he didn’t immediately release her, her words came out slightly breathlessly. ‘Why do you care?’

He stared down at her. ‘I don’t.’

She smiled as he was obviously lying. ‘I think you do.’

Her smile faded when his gaze slipped down to her mouth. The air between them changed immediately, as if even it was aware of what was happening between them and had slowed down to take notice, thickening and pressing in close. His grip had somehow softened at her waist even though he still held her quite firmly. And while his eyes were alert, there was a slumberous quality about them now as if he were thinking of what it would be like to kiss her.

Her lips parted as his head tilted the tiniest bit. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware of the echo of boots on cobblestone, but it hardly signified. Her mind went dim as he leaned closer, easily consuming her attention, unexpectedly wanting his kiss more than she had wanted anything in a very long time. Except at that moment, the clatter of swords and boots became too loud to ignore.

The Norseman whirled, keeping her at his back to face the men. A small part of her sighed in relief when she saw Alder and his men spread out before them in a half circle. A larger part of her bemoaned the fact that they had come at precisely the wrong time. A moment sooner and that almost kiss would not have happened. A moment later and she would at least know the pressure of his lips on hers.

‘Draw your dagger,’ the Norseman commanded without looking back at her. The whisper of his own twin blades being pulled from their leather sheaths accompanied his words.

She drew it slowly, as guilt once more made itself known. He didn’t know. He was bent on protecting her still, not even realising that she was about to betray him.

‘These men are not friends of that man at the tavern,’ she said.

He turned his head partially towards her while keeping them in his sight. ‘Thieves, then?’

She slipped away before he could react, moving towards the group. ‘Not thieves,’ she said, turning to face him.

He understood then. For one moment before the fury took over, the hurt of betrayal flashed in his eyes.

Alder took advantage of his distraction and cracked him across the back of his skull with the hilt of his blade. The Norseman crumbled to a heap on the stones.

Despite the fact that she told herself she did this to protect them all from him, watching him fall very nearly broke her heart.

Chapter Two

Rurik opened his eyes to blackness. The complete absence of light was like waking up in the dark, rank depths of the earth. He blinked, wondering briefly if he had gone blind, but it did not help. The air was heavy and still, the silence so complete that it gave rise to a roaring in his ears. Had he died and been condemned to this fate of nothing? The idea brought with it a swell of panic that tightened his lungs and made the air too heavy to breathe.

He tightened his fists and the tips of his short fingernails bit into the heel of his hand, the pain bringing back rational thought. No, he was not dead. Captured, but not dead. He had awakened several times in the back of a wagon, but had almost immediately fallen back into unconsciousness. Anger at the turn of events threatened to overtake him, but he managed to keep a hold on it. Fear and rash impulses would not help him. His father’s blood ran strong in his veins and it often urged him to act on his fury. He’d had years to practise keeping it contained and he would continue to control it in death if need be.

Taking several deep breaths, he dared not move until he knew exactly what he was up against. Subtle shapes and shadows incrementally revealed themselves to him as he lay still. The sweet scent of fresh straw met his nose while he became aware of a few pieces poking him in his back. The pleasing smell could not, however, cover up the rank and stagnant air of the mysterious place. There was no way to be certain of how long he had lain there, but already a chill had settled deep into his bones. Now that the panic and roaring had subsided somewhat, he could hear that there was a constant dripping of water in the near distance. He must be underground.

Had the Saxons buried him alive in the depths of a crypt?

As his eyes slowly adjusted to the near absence of light, the craggy nooks and jagged points of the stone wall at his side came into focus and he knew that he was right. This was not one of the wattle-and-daub buildings he had seen in the village. He was underground.

He sat up and lifted a hand to the pounding at the back of his head. The clanging of the chain registered almost as quickly as the weight of the cuff pulling at his wrist. Letting out a low curse that seemed overly loud in the deathly silence of the chamber, he switched to his other hand. The place where he had been struck on his head was tender, but thank the gods his fingers did not come back sticky with blood. There was no open wound to contend with.

Reasonably certain that he would live, though for how long he had no idea, Rurik rose. His bare feet encountered the cold floor as a wave of dizziness overcame him, so he put a hand out to the slimy wall to keep himself upright. His stomach churned and his mouth tasted bitter. In the moments before he had been attacked, he had felt off balance and nearly giddy. Some part of him had worried that those reactions had been because of the woman. Now he understood that he had been poisoned. The sweet and bitter taste of the ale had included an elixir meant to unsettle him.

It had made him lower his guard so well that he had nearly kissed the wench against the wall where anyone could have overtaken him—and had. It was a relief to know that it wasn’t she who had made him forget himself, but the potion. The knowledge still rankled, but it was better than the alternative. Rurik was not Danr, who had a habit of forgetting himself where women were concerned.

There came a scraping sound, like iron being dragged over stone, followed by the brisk scrape of a boot. He immediately reached for his knife, habit overcoming the knowledge that it had been taken from him. He cursed inwardly at its absence. The bone-handled knife had been handed down to him from his mother, the only remnant of his Irish heritage he had. Drawing himself up, Rurik waited for his jailer to approach, even his toes tensed in anticipation against the cold floor. Though the large clasps holding his fur to his tunic at the shoulders were missing, his fur had been left for him. He soundlessly dropped it to the ground, wanting his arms and hands free should he need to defend himself.

The flickering glow from an oil lamp revealed the vertical bars keeping him inside moments before the woman appeared. He recognised the wench from the tavern immediately. She wore the same violet cloak as before, only the hood was pushed down so it lay on her back. The tavern’s light had been dim at best, revealing what he had thought to be highlights of russet in her hair, but with the full light of the lamp upon it, he could see that she was auburn haired. The tresses were nearly as bright as the flame.

The moments before he had been hit were a blur and he hadn’t been certain if the memory of her walking to join the men had been a true one. He had a particular dislike of liars. He had been surrounded by liars his entire life. His own father was one of the best he had ever known, never telling his twin sons the truth of their birthright, that King Feann was indeed their uncle. He’d had to learn that bit of information from King Feann himself after confronting him about the massacre. In the years since the wedding, Rurik had added betrayers to his list of dislikes. To arrive as a friend only to wreak destruction was a cowardly act.

This woman was both a liar and a betrayer. She had pretended to be a seductress to lure him outside all while she had been plotting his destruction. She had known his attackers. She had moved to join their ranks just before their leader had delivered the blow that had sent him hurtling into darkness.

‘I am glad to see you awake,’ the woman said, with no hint of her earlier friendliness.

‘You might have ordered your men not to bash my head if you wanted me awake.’ His voice was low and hardly able to contain his anger. She gave a slight wince at his words, but it might just as easily have been an effect of the flickering light.

‘It was necessary to get you here,’ she said.

A quick survey revealed that he was surrounded by stones on three sides. The width was barely enough to allow him to lie down. The iron bars made up the fourth side and they were placed close together so he had no hope of ever squeezing through them. The ceiling was so low that had he been any taller he would have had to stoop to stand upright. It was a cage for an animal and he was the animal trapped inside.

‘How long have I been here?’ Low-burning fury gave his voice a smoky rasp that fairly trembled with his effort to keep it under control.

‘Not very long. It’s not yet morning.’ Her voice was strong as her gaze held his. She seemed unaffected by the anger in his.

He hoped the fact that he was nearly recovered meant his head injury was not severe. ‘You would do well to let me go.’

‘If you answer my questions truthfully, then perhaps I will have no reason to keep you.’

He stalked closer to the bars, hoping to intimidate her by his larger size. ‘You don’t think I’ve come alone, do you? My men will know that you have taken me. They will come for me.’

It was not even remotely true. His misguided pride had sent him out on this quest alone and now he was paying the price for such a brash decision. King Feann had offered to send men with him in an effort to assuage his own guilt for his part in the massacre. Rurik had not been prepared to accept his help. The sting of Sigurd’s impulsiveness running in his blood had never been felt as strongly as it did now.

She shrugged, appearing unconcerned. ‘Your men are not a problem.’

Changing tactics, he asked, ‘Where am I?’

‘Mulcasterhas.’ Giving him a little smile, she added, ‘Isn’t that where you wanted to be? I’m told you were asking many questions about my home.’

Mulcasterhas was the home of Wilfrid, the Lord of Glannoventa. Rurik and Alarr had spent the past months in Éireann, getting close to King Feann of Killcobar to question him about leading the attack on their family. While the King had admitted his part—that he had gone to Maerr to avenge his sister who had been taken years ago by Sigurd—he had not been the one to deliver the death blow to their father. His confession had revealed that this man named Wilfrid had been involved. Alarr had stayed behind in Éireann with his new wife, Feann’s foster daughter, while Rurik had come alone to seek vengeance against Wilfrid, a man he did not know but already despised immensely.

‘You are Annis.’ Since arriving earlier that day, he had learned from the villagers that Wilfrid’s only son had long been dead, but that he had a daughter.

‘Lady Annis.’

It might have been unintentional, but her chin moved up a notch and her eyes flashed with indignation. Her eyes were dark and striking against her pale skin. With finely arched cheekbones and a delicate chin, she was as lovely as he had thought her to be at the tavern, but now she seemed to have a thread of iron running through her, where before she had been more yielding. A ruse, no doubt, to lure him in for her scheme. She was anything but yielding.

Anger simmered to the surface at the look she gave him. How dare she appear so arrogant when her own father had likely been the one to kill his father? ‘I have no trouble with you, Lady Annis. My trouble is with your father. Send him to me!’ It was impossible to keep his voice from rising on that last demand.

‘Wilfrid is my father-in-law and I will not simply turn him over to you. You are a prisoner and are in no position to make demands, Norseman.’ Her voice cracked like a whip through the heavy air.

The chain bound to his right arm stopped him from reaching the bars, but if he angled his body just right he could reach them with his left. So that was what he did. His fist curved around the cold bar and he pulled himself as close to her as he could get. To her credit, she didn’t back away. Whether she had done this standoff a number of times with other prisoners, or if she simply knew he had no hope of reaching her no matter how hard he tried, he didn’t know. But his grudging respect for her moved up a notch. There were many men who had crumpled beneath the withering heat of his anger. It was the one trick he had learned from his father that he found useful.

‘Any man who would send a woman to fight his battles for him is no man at all. I demand to see Wilfrid. Send him to me or kill me now, because I will not resort to using a woman as my messenger.’

If it was possible, the fire in her eyes turned into a full blaze. ‘Then you are free to rot down here as long as it takes for you to lower yourself to speak to a woman. There is a bucket of water and a bucket for your necessaries. Enjoy the rest of your day.’

To his utter astonishment, she set the lamp down on the ground and left, her footsteps echoing down the walkway. He counted ten footfalls before she made her way up the steps leading out of the cellar. There were twelve of those. The door scraped across the stone step as it clanged shut behind her.

Letting out a curse, he banged the heel of his hand against the bars until pain vibrated up his arm. His gaze fell on to the buckets she had mentioned that he had not noticed before. Indeed, one was filled with water and the other was empty. Gingerly picking up the one with water, he moved it across the cell and sat down on the straw to take a long drink and cure his parched throat. It tasted of oak, but was otherwise clean.

The only good thing to come of the exchange was that he was fairly certain Wilfrid was here. His initial questions for the villagers in Glannoventa had produced troubling answers. It seemed that no one had seen Wilfrid for quite some time. One shopkeeper had told him that he was off travelling and spent most of his time in the company of the Northumbrian King. Another had told him that Wilfrid was visiting the Dane, Jarl Eirik, in the east. A fisherman’s wife had overheard and laughed, saying that he was chasing a ghost. Wilfrid had not been seen since early summer. There were rumours that he had died. It seemed that no one knew the whereabouts of their lord.

At least now Rurik knew he was close. Annis had not said he was not here, only that Rurik should send his message through her. But then, she had not said Wilfrid was here either. Rurik had allowed his anger to take control, knowing that anger would not serve him well in this. Perhaps he had used the wrong tactic to deal with her. She was obviously proud and given to righteous indignation. It would have been better to attempt to charm her and remind her of how easy things had been between them earlier in the tavern than to attack her with his words.

The problem was that he did not know how to go about it. He had never worried about charming a woman. The women in his past had made it known that they were interested in a quick tumble and he had obliged them. He had no immediate interest in marriage so he had never had the need to speak pretty words. He cursed again and fell back on his straw bed. If only Danr were here, he would have already found a way to charm her into the cell.

The scrape of the door above the steps woke him. Rurik sat up, surprised to find he had slept. The herbs must have lingered in his blood, luring him to sleep as he had lain on his bed of straw wondering how to proceed. He felt much better this morning. There was still an ache in his head, but it no longer throbbed. Whatever had been put into his ale had passed so he felt like himself again. The steady scrape of boots on stone told him Annis returned even before the light from the oil lamp lit up her hair.

She stood before him in a finely made gown of blue wool, embroidered with amber-coloured thread at the sleeves. A cloak in a deeper shade of blue clung to her shoulders, this one without a hood. She looked every bit the Lady of Glannoventa and he wondered how he could ever have mistaken her for a common wench at the tavern. It wasn’t simply her clothing or the way she held herself that made her appear noble. There was something in her face, her eyes as she gave him a cool, superior look, that placed her in that class.

Something akin to attraction swirled in his belly. Akin, because had it been mere attraction, he could have identified it as such. Last night he would have called it something as base as desire. This was more. It was admiration and awe mixed with temptation. The effect was staggering. He could see himself clearly for the fool he had been at their previous meeting. Matching words with her would not get him what he wanted.

‘Lady Annis.’ He was sure to keep his tone even, though fury still burned through his veins.

The quirk of one eyebrow was the only acknowledgement of her surprise. ‘Norseman.’

Hoping that he adequately disguised his anger, he asked, ‘Are you here because you’ve reconsidered letting me out? Because if so, I accept your offering of peace.’ It was a horrible jest, but it seemed to work.

Her lips twitched in the beginnings of a smile and he breathed a little easier. This would go much faster if he could rekindle their ease from the tavern.

‘I am sorry to say that I cannot.’ She looked down at the food she had brought, a bowl of some sort of stew in a thin broth. ‘Here. I do not intend for you to go hungry.’

The bowl was just small enough to fit between the bars. She did not seem to worry that he might grab her hand or otherwise harm her. Whether that was from sheer arrogance, or inexperience, he did not know. Though harming her while still being locked inside would hardly get him anywhere, so perhaps she merely took him for a reasonable man.

A memory came to him from several years ago, long before the massacre. He and his twin had been sent on a mission by their father to a kingdom in the south. The purpose of the voyage had been so minor that Rurik could not recall the specific details, but one of their stops along the way had been at a farm where they had spent the night. The home had been crowded with several families living there and several of the various daughters had taken a liking to them. Danr, however, had only wanted the haughty one who also happened to be the most beautiful. Likely because of her disinterest, she had been sent to serve them their meal and Danr had set about charming her. The girl had stood little chance and, before the night was over, she had figured out a way to disappear with him outside.

Rurik stared into Annis’s eyes and, when he reached forward, he allowed his fingertips to brush over the tender inside of her wrist. It was a gentle touch, but it was enough. Just as the haughty daughter had reacted to Danr’s touch, so Annis did to his. Her lips parted silently and she dropped her gaze to his touch. Most tellingly, she stepped back as he took the bowl from her. Rurik found himself swallowing the tiny flame of awareness that warmed his own hand. Disgust at himself mingled with that attraction and he did not know what to do with the competing notions.

‘I need you to tell me why you demand to see Wilfrid.’ She spoke as if the moment had not happened.

Shaking his head, he said, ‘I must talk to him myself. I misspoke last night. It has nothing to do with you being a woman and more to do with the fact that the matter is private. I would determine whether he is the Wilfrid I seek before casting public accusations.’ He did intend to verify the man had been at the wedding before killing him. He had resolved not to involve any more innocents if it could be avoided.

‘I am his only relation and a trusted advisor. You can tell me and I can assure you it will not become public.’

Rurik shook his head. ‘I will not speak to anyone but Wilfrid.’

If he spoke about the massacre to anyone, Rurik was certain he wouldn’t live to draw his next breath. His only hope was to try to talk himself out of this somehow.

‘As you will. Enjoy your day.’ She turned on her heel and stormed out, much as she had before.

Rurik lingered at the bars, gratified the touch had worked. It would be like chipping away at the stone of a mountain to make a path through, but she would soften towards him. He need not seduce her. Merely making her see him as a man and not an enemy would be enough to assure his survival…for a while.

The difficult part would be not falling under her spell as he did so. She was beautiful and there was something in her eyes that he had never seen before. It called to him to match wits with her. However, that was a dangerous proposition. He did not believe that she had knowledge of the events in Maerr and Wilfrid’s hand in them—he hoped she was not involved—but the fact that she was a relation of Wilfrid’s was enough. His sham of a flirtation could not lead to more.

Letting out a curse that was absorbed into the damp stone walls, Rurik evaluated his options. Unfortunately, he was left with the same conclusion he had already come to. He had to befriend the woman. It was the only way he could think to get himself out of this. The very idea of befriending anyone related to Wilfrid set his teeth on edge. The bastard had led men into Maerr with the intention of killing Sigurd, or so Rurik was left to assume, except Ingrid and Gilla and many other innocents had died alongside his father. They had done nothing to deserve their fate and yet Wilfrid had delivered it to them regardless.

Many would say he would be justified in visiting vengeance upon Wilfrid in kind. If his father had lived, he would have led men to Glannoventa’s shores and burned the whole village, slaughtering all who stood between him and revenge. Rurik could not condone the slaughter of innocents, so he would use Annis and whomever else he needed to get to the men who had committed the unforgivable crimes.

Chapter Three

‘Annis?’

The sharp sound of her name caught her off guard as she locked the door to the cellar behind her. Letting the key fall back in place on the ring at her waist, she took in a breath and turned to face Cedric, the man in charge of Wilfrid’s warriors. His old and dear face was lined with concern as he approached her.

Her parents had sent her to be raised by Wilfrid at the age of eight after their home had been invaded by Danes. They had deemed it safer in the west and, since she had been betrothed to Wilfrid’s son, Grim, moving here had been a logical measure. As a result, Cedric had been a great source of comfort and support to her for more than half of her life. Even more so when Wilfrid’s health had begun to decline in recent years after Grim’s death, leaving the weight of Glannoventa to land on her capable shoulders.

Cedric was a dear friend and advisor and she longed to have his guidance in this. Yet, however much she trusted him, it would be best if he kept away from the Norseman. He was the only one who was truly innocent in this entire tragedy, and she hoped that it would stay that way.

‘So it is true. You took the Norseman.’ His brow was furrowed in both anger and concern as he closed the distance between them.

‘Alder told you?’ While she had not expected the events of the previous night to stay secret, she had hoped to break the news to Cedric herself.

‘Is it true?’

Nodding, she said, ‘I took him his morning meal. He’s fine.’ Ready to spit fire because he was so angry, but otherwise fine.

‘You should allow someone else to deal with him.’

It would suit her if no one knew that the Norseman was down there, but, unfortunately, that was impossible. While no one had seen them load him into the cart and they had kept him covered on the short drive from the village, she had no doubt that a vigilant servant would have seen them taking him downstairs and she could not hide the fact that she took him food. Servants would eventually begin to talk.

‘He is my responsibility,’ she said.

Losing her unborn child so soon after her husband’s death had left Annis with a well of grief so deep it seemed she would never be whole again. The need for revenge had filled the empty spaces they had left behind in her heart. This was her mission. She wanted to limit the involvement of the others as much as possible.

Cedric’s scowl deepened. Something in his face had always reminded her of a handsome falcon. His nose was prominent and blade straight with well-shaped nostrils. That, combined with a lean face and high cheekbones, would have been enough. But his eyes completed the impression, since they were dark and observant, always taking in what was happening. In her childhood, he was often the one who would catch her in some mischief before she had scarcely started it.

‘The danger to you is too great to allow—’ He abruptly broke off at the sound of footfalls. Gently taking hold of her arm, he led her down the wide corridor.

Their home occupied the ruins of the praetorium in the old Roman fort. Wilfrid and his ancestors had prided themselves on caring for the structure. Most of the walls had been maintained with new stone and plaster over the centuries, as had the roof. As the original commander’s home, it was built in the Roman style with rooms surrounding an atrium and a courtyard. This was where Cedric led her now. It was the one place no one would disturb them and had been the setting for many of her childhood lectures. Once she had come to live with Wilfrid, Cedric had wasted no time in picking up those lectures where Father Cuthbert had left off. She nearly rolled her eyes as she might have years ago.

Closing the great wooden double doors behind them, Cedric turned to face her. ‘You must not see to the prisoner, Annis. Let someone else do it.’

‘You do not understand. I must do it myself.’

‘I do not understand?’ He waved his hands in agitation before settling them on his hips. ‘If he were to escape, he would harm you.’

She inclined her head in acknowledgement of his concern for her. ‘Please trust that you and Grim taught me well. I can use the dagger at my hip and am fast when speed is needed.’

His sharp gaze caught on the dagger at her hip. ‘It’s not your skill that I question, child, but your experience with this particular type of beast. You have never faced an opponent with nothing to lose. He is trapped down there and would harm even himself if it meant any hope of escape.’

Suddenly, things did not seem quite so clear to her. Even though there was a peal of truth to his words, she said, ‘That is a bit of an exaggeration. He’s hardly a beast.’

‘He is,’ Cedric said without hesitation. ‘For all that he is a man, he is chained and kept in a cage. Soon the animal will win out and he’ll be acting on instinct. He is a heathen Norse. They cannot be trusted to take into account refinements.’

‘What refinements?’

‘That you are a woman. That you are the lady of this household.’

Her heart pounded in response to the vision that brought to mind, causing her to place a hand on her breast to attempt to settle it. She did not particularly like it that she might be the one responsible for turning a man into an animal. She also did not think that any man, Norse or otherwise, would take into account that she was a woman if he escaped. She had learned to fight because she would be treated as a warrior.

Deciding to ignore that, she said, ‘He is being cared for. He is chained, but he can move about freely. He has food and water.’

‘Food and water, but the threat of death hangs over his head.’

Pain beat behind her temple. Cedric was right. The scene he described was very accurate. She had put that man in a cage and he would soon turn into a raving beast. Guilt and self-loathing ate at her from the inside. She had taken a terrible turn of events—the fact that he had come here seeking vengeance—and made them even worse. If anyone should be in a cage it should be her and that Gael assassin who had gone to Maerr and killed with Wilfrid’s coin in his purse.

But what could she have done differently? She could not allow the Norseman to wander free, not when he wanted them dead. Not when the pain of her own loss was sometimes so keen it still had the power to take her breath away.

‘Annis?’ She did not realise that she had been pacing until Cedric touched her shoulder to stop her. His eyes were kind with concern as he said, ‘Tell me who this man is.’

‘I—I am not certain.’ She regretted the lie as soon as it was spoken. It sat like ash on her tongue.

His knowing gaze combined with her guilt stripped away the layers of her reluctance. ‘Then tell me who you suspect him to be. I cannot help you if I do not understand what we might be up against.’

He was right. Again. He was nearly always right, yet she could not bear to tell him. Or perhaps it was more that she could not bear him to know what she had done. She could hardly face the truth these last two years, much less confess her crime to him.

Stifling a groan of protest, she turned away and sat down on one of the many benches that lined the courtyard. In spring and summer, she planted flowers in the beds that filled the gaps between them, but they were dormant now with winter upon them. She had been too caught up in her own anguish to notice the cold, but she felt it now as it seeped from the wood of the bench through her clothing. As if her cloak were a bandage that could bind her hidden pain, she pulled it tight around her.

Cedric sat quietly beside her, his strong presence as calm and reassuring as always. Annis knew she had to tell him what she had done. If this Norseman was from Maerr as she suspected, then more would follow. Cedric deserved to know why.

Despite how strong she claimed to be, Annis had always suspected that she was very weak on the inside where it counted. After her Aunt Merewyn had been kidnapped by Danes, her parents had not wanted to chance another raid, so they had sent her to Wilfrid’s home. Annis had pretended to be glad. Without Merewyn there to care for her, she had not wanted to stay with them anyway. Her father was so busy she wondered sometimes if he even remembered her name, while her mother had never shown much interest in her. It had been easier to believe that she welcomed the move than to acknowledge the pain she harboured from their ease at ridding themselves of her. It did not mean the pain did not exist, it simply meant that she could not face it.

It was the same now. She had been sent to Wilfrid’s household with the understanding that she would marry Grim when she was old enough. She had not chosen Grim, but she had loved him. At first like a much older, distant cousin, but that had slowly begun to deepen after their marriage. It had hurt her when he had been killed and even more so when the babe in her womb had soon followed. While she had acknowledged that pain to an extent, it had been easier to plan revenge. When Wilfrid had nurtured that anger, it had been no problem at all to watch it grow until it had been all-consuming, driving out any thoughts of pain, of vulnerability.

She was not strong at all. Pain was something she carried around with her constantly. If she were a strong person, that pain would not hurt nearly as bad as it did. Perhaps if she wasn’t fighting against that pain, she might have made better choices.

‘Annis.’ Cedric took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze in silent encouragement.

She could not meet his eyes as she spoke, so she set her gaze to the silver and black hair at his temple. ‘Do you remember when I left two summers ago to go to Merewyn’s bedside?’

Merewyn had returned from the Norse lands with her Dane husband years ago and had taken up residence on the eastern coast. Her husband, Jarl Eirik, oversaw the Dane relations in the area Annis had called home as a small child. Annis had a fondness for her aunt and had spent time with her over the years, even if it did mean spending time with the Danes as well. ‘She was bedridden during the final months of carrying her last child?’

Cedric nodded. ‘I remember.’

‘Going to her bedside was merely an excuse to get away. I never saw her. Instead, I went to Maerr.’

‘Where the devil is Maerr?’

‘The Norse lands to the east. The home of Sigurd, the King of Maerr.’

Recognition dawned in his eyes at that name. Several years ago, before the killing in Maerr, Wilfrid had been part of a plan to assassinate Sigurd. Since Danes were scarce in the area, the Norse had come with the intent of staying. The Danes were already squeezing Glannoventa from the east, so Wilfrid wanted to stop this potential invasion by more outsiders. He had recruited Grim in his failed plan to kill Sigurd. Not only had they not assassinated Sigurd, but they had both received extensive injuries from the attack. It had taken many weeks, but Grim had died a gruesome, agonising death. Annis had tended him faithfully, but she hadn’t been able to help him. Unfortunately, she had lost the child she had been carrying soon after Grim’s death. The boy would have been their first child.

‘Sigurd…the one who wanted to take over Glannoventa,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘The same man. After he caused Grim’s death, Wilfrid became more determined than ever to kill him. Around two years ago, the hired men Wilfrid and Grim had used in their first attempt came for a visit. They had heard about an upcoming wedding in Maerr for one of Sigurd’s sons. It was an excellent opportunity to get close to the King, as many guests had been invited from all over. They wanted to know if Wilfrid wanted to be a part of another attempt.’

‘And of course Wilfrid wanted a part.’ The bitterness in Cedric’s tone was not lost on her. Wilfrid had not shared this with even his most trusted man.

Squeezing his hand gently, she said, ‘He did, but was too ill to go.’ A huff of air escaped Cedric, so she touched his shoulder to offer him some solace. ‘Wilfrid did not want you to know, because he knew you would not approve. He did not want you to be a part of it in case it went badly again.’

‘But you were a part of it? You went in Wilfrid’s place?’ He could not keep his disbelief from his voice.

Shaking her head, she said, ‘Wilfrid does not know that I went. I overheard a bit of their conversation, so I knew he paid them some up front. I approached the assassins secretly and demanded to be a part of it. I did not trust them not to run off with the coin and never set foot in Maerr.’ She looked down at her lap. Her voice lowered when she added, ‘The truth is that I also wanted revenge for Grim and our child. I wanted to see Sigurd dead myself to know that he was punished for their deaths.’ She also felt that by losing her babe, she had failed to give Wilfrid the only part of his beloved son that was left. It was only right that she participate to help bring some sort of justice for their family’s losses.

Cedric rose to his feet as the implications of her words settled over him. ‘Then this Norseman—the one who arrived yesterday—is from Maerr?’

‘I believe that he may be.’

‘Do you recognise him? Does he recognise you?’

She shook her head and rose to stand before him, hurrying to explain. ‘We have learned that his name is Rurik and he arrived yesterday on a ship looking for Wilfrid. I believe that he might be one of Sigurd’s many sons. As we were waiting for the wedding to begin, I learned all their names in case something like this came to pass. However, I never saw the one named Rurik. He was away.’

Though she had met one of them up close. Sandulf. He had been barely more than a boy, but he had marked her. The scar he had left on her lower back throbbed with her guilt.

‘And your mission was a success. Sigurd was killed,’ Cedric concluded. Word had reached them of Sigurd’s death months later.

‘He was killed, but not because of me or the assassins.’ When she closed her eyes, she could relive the mad fury that had broken out in the hall. The whole place had erupted into a battle. ‘We did not know it, but there were others there who had come with the same intentions. Someone else killed Sigurd.’

And the others. So many others had died when it was only supposed to be Sigurd. The men Wilfrid had hired had battled for their lives against the other warriors. The Gael, their leader, was the one who had broken from the plan. He had attacked a pregnant Norse woman, a wife of one of the sons, and brutally killed her. Annis had tried to stop him, but she had been too late to intervene.

‘Then why has Rurik come?’ Cedric asked, breaking up her thoughts.

Annis shrugged. ‘The longhouse was chaos. It is possible that no one knows who drew the blade on Sigurd. And there were other deaths that he would want to avenge.’ The blonde woman, her belly swollen with child, had met a gruesome end beneath the Gael’s sword. The memory of her death was burned into Annis’s mind. She had relived it so many times that she could recall the exact pitch of the woman’s scream and how she had reached out into the empty air in the end, hoping to be saved.

The memory was too painful to share with anyone. Instead, she said, ‘Perhaps he has come to exact vengeance on anyone involved. He would likely think Wilfrid was involved because that idiot Gael insisted on calling me by that name. It is possible that someone heard it and made the connection.’

She had disguised herself and had even contrived a new name, but the Gael had surprised her by using the name Wilfrid. It was as if he had delighted in using Wilfrid’s name in front of others. Perhaps he had wanted this to happen all along. If someone came for the group of assassins, they would seek a man named Wilfrid because he would be easier to find. Had she been smarter, she would have made certain that everyone knew the Gael’s name. She was not smart. She was not even strong.

‘Is it possible that the assassins have been found and betrayed you?’

‘Anything is possible, but the Norseman asks for Wilfrid.’

Cedric nodded and hung his head in a look that suspiciously resembled defeat. It tore at her heart.

‘I am sorry, Cedric. I have led us to this fate and I will accept responsibility. Wilfrid need never know that the Norseman is here.’

Cedric stared down at her, all kindness wiped from his features, but his voice was not harsh when he said, ‘Wilfrid paid them and he agreed to be a part of the first assassination attempt, so he bears the brunt of the responsibility.’

‘It is kind of you to say so, but if anything, we share responsibility. The Norseman would not be here now had I not gone to Maerr.’

‘He paid the assassin. It is possible the Gael would have used Wilfrid’s name while there.’

Annis inclined her head in acknowledgement. That was true; there was no telling how the assassin might have betrayed them. However, it did not relieve her of any responsibility for her own actions. She had chosen to go. She would have to face the consequences of that decision.

‘We have to kill him.’ Cedric’s words were so abrupt and unexpected that Annis jolted with them.

‘We will not!’

‘We have no choice. He cannot be allowed to let others know where we are.’

Her mind raced with some way to convince Cedric that he was wrong. Killing the Norseman would not be the right course of action. Her heart would not allow her to be responsible for another death. ‘They will know already. He claims that he has men out there. That he arrived with some and they will even now be wondering where he is. Perhaps they even know that he was taken.’

‘Do you believe his claim?’ he asked.

‘I have doubts. I have had the men looking all night and they found no one.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then no one is here. Even if men do come later, they can prove nothing without the Norseman’s corpse.’

It was Cedric’s duty to evaluate threats and snuff them out. Perhaps that was the best thing to do in this case, but she could not allow it to happen.

‘Cedric, I cannot have another death on my head. Besides, I am certain he must have told someone—perhaps his brothers—where he was heading. Someone knows he is here.’

Cedric paused. He turned from his pacing where he had possibly been playing out ways to kill the Norseman and dispose of his corpse in secret.

‘Another death?’ he finally asked. She was so concerned with the Norseman’s fate that she had not realised what she had said.

She gave him a jerky nod, but found that she could not tell him about the Norsewoman’s death. It had been too horrific, too painful. There was no way that she could speak of it. ‘It was chaos. We had to fight our way out.’

Cedric raised a brow, but he did not ask again. ‘We cannot keep him down there indefinitely.’

‘I know.’ The words came so softly that she did not know if he had heard her until she felt his warm hand on her back.

‘I wish you would have confided in me earlier. I would have forbidden you to go to Maerr and none of this would have happened.’

She forced a smile in an attempt to return to normal. ‘You would have forbidden me to go and I would have left anyway.’ She had been so determined to avenge Grim, and so lost in grief for the child that was never to be, that nothing could have stopped her.

He gave a mirthless chuckle and put his arm around her shoulders. Warmth spread through her chest. Despite the heartache of her past, she was very lucky to have Cedric and Wilfrid in her life. The men had both filled the role of father for her in very different ways. Cedric was the one who listened and guided, while Wilfrid had always been the playful one. The one who had urged her to learn to fight and hold a dagger.

‘Death is the only way to end this, but since this is your mistake, you get to decide. But decide quickly what is to be done,’ he said after a moment. ‘We do not have much time.’

The thought sobered her instantly. Death was not something she would consider, but what other option was there? The Norseman was here and she did not foresee him leaving until his vengeance was satisfied. What could she offer him instead that would gratify him?

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