Captive Heart (7 page)

It was not yet dawn when a piercing cry of alarm brought Mylan swiftly from his slumber. He looked down at Celiese for one brief moment, then sprang from his bed and reached for the clothing he’d discarded so carelessly upon the floor. “Stay here, Olgrethe, bolt the door and do not open it to anyone until I return.”

Celiese sat up, clutching a soft fur robe to her breast as she watched her husband dress with considerable haste before he withdrew a sharp, double-edged sword from the wooden chest beside the hearth. “Mylan, what is it? I heard someone call—a scream—what could be wrong? What terrible thing could have happened?”

“Perhaps nothing.” Mylan turned to smile reassuringly as he reached the door. “It may be no more than a guest rousing from a drunken stupor, but I will make certain all is well.”

As he slipped through the door Celiese saw only the ease with which he carried his weapon, as if it were an extension of his arm, and she brought her hand to her lips to stifle her own cry of alarm. Dear God, why had she not understood what he was? Did his mother truly believe her sons traveled the world as honest traders and merchants rather than as the bloodthirsty pirates Vikings always were? She sprang from the ample bed and dressed quickly, cursing her own folly as the sounds from the great hall below continued to increase in volume. She was frightened by the suddenness of the activity that had awakened them so rudely, and despite Mylan’s command she opened the door, hoping to discover what had happened. The sounds of battle surrounded her with a sudden horror. The clang of steel as swords clashed with brutal blows echoed up the stairway with a deafening roar, followed by the screams of both male and female voices. Smoke from fires set below stung her eyes and she had to draw back into the safety of her husband’s room.

Celiese slammed the door shut and threw the bolt, then began to pace distractedly, up and down. Blood-drenched scenes of battle and death raged through her mind with the indelible memory of her own people and how quickly they had died under Raktor’s sword. Who could have attacked on this of all nights? Surely Aldred’s forces combined with Raktor’s could defeat any intruders, but the noise of the fighting continued until the rising sun spread crimson flames as vivid as blood across the morning sky.

When the door flew open with a mighty crash Celiese sprang back, ready to face her assailant, certain of what a beautiful young woman’s fate would surely be at the hands of any enemy warrior. “Raktor!” Her voice filled with hope. “Have you beaten off the intruders’ assault?”

The husky man threw back his head and howled with laughter. “It is my own attack, Celiese. Did you not understand why I brought you rather than Olgrethe?”

“It was a trap?” Horrified by that revelation, Celiese ran toward the door in an effort to slip past the despicable brute. “Where’s Mylan? Where is my husband?”

“Husband? You fooled him then?” Raktor’s face filled with glee. “We may do this again and again, Celiese, as my enemies are many. I may marry you off a hundred times, since it allows me such easy access to my foe’s home.”

“You coward! What have you done with Mylan?” Celiese slapped the villain’s face viciously, but he grabbed her hand and twisted her arm cruelly behind her back to force her down the steep flight of stairs in front of him.

“There is your husband, girl, bound with the other captives. Keep him alive if you can. I plan to demand a high ransom for his return, for him or his body, whichever I have!”

Celiese rushed to the young man’s side. His tunic was torn and bloody, but whether the blood was his own or that of his adversaries she could not tell. “Mylan!” She whispered a desperate vow: “I will save you, but you must help me, my dearest.”

Mylan opened his pain-filled eyes and hissed a venomous reply. “I’ll see you dead first, you traitorous bitch!”

Raktor gave a hearty chuckle as he approached. “Well, Celiese, your husband seems displeased with you for some reason.” As he drew back his foot to kick the helpless man, Celiese dove between them, taking the full force of his vicious blow in her ribs, and she heard the bones crack with a loud snap as she fainted across Mylan’s lap, the excruciating pain too great for her to bear.

More than an hour elapsed before a forceful shove jarred Celiese to consciousness. They had all been taken aboard Raktor’s ship, where she was lying wedged between Mylan and another prisoner she couldn’t name. They’d not thought to bind her hands and feet as they had the others. She tried to adjust her position to become more comfortable, but the pain that shot through her chest stopped her effort instantly. The sea had grown rough, the cloud cover low and dense, and a light rain splashed down upon the huddled group of captives, making their confinement all the more miserable. Mylan was asleep or unconscious, Celiese could not tell which, but she moved slowly, just ahead of the pain, to untie his feet before she reached for his hands. The guards were laughing amongst themselves, drunk with beer as well as with the ease of their surprise victory, and they paid no attention as she freed her husband and then drew him into her arms as the storm worsened, sending heavy cascades of water upon them as the graceful ship continued across the fjord toward Raktor’s land.

Lightning burned fierce arcs through the clouds, illuminating the red dragon emblazoned upon the white sail seconds before the icy waves again crashed down upon the ship, this time shearing off the mast and sending the heavy sail down upon the hapless prisoners. The next wave covered them with a sudden rush of water that carried away the debris, and Mylan was swept from his bride’s arms, but she grabbed for the edge of his tunic with a desperate clutch and held on as they were hurled over the side of the ship and were plunged headlong into the storm-ravaged sea. Now fully awake, Mylan grabbed a length of the shattered mast and thrust it into Celiese’s hands to keep her afloat in the mounting waves. They drifted together, unseen in the mist as the ship sailed on, her crew straining at the oars to control the vessel through the giant swells of the storm.

Celiese clung to the wood until she was so cold her fingers could no longer grasp, but Mylan reached out to catch her as she slipped away. He drew her back and held her head above the bone-chilling water until he could see nothing but the grim face of death hovering before his eyes.

Drenched by the rain, battered by the waves that had tossed her upon the rock-littered shore, Celiese had never been in such agonizing pain. She retched repeatedly, gagging again and again until all the salt water had poured from her shaking body. She crawled along the jagged shoreline until she found Mylan sprawled upon the sand, blood streaming from a slash above his left eyebrow. But his pulse was strong, and she was elated to find him alive. She pressed her palm against his forehead until the flow of blood had been stemmed, then lay down beside him and drew him close so they might share what little warmth their bodies still possessed. Exhausted by her ordeal, Celiese sank into a deep, dreamless sleep, but even then she did not let her husband go.

The sun broke through the thick gray clouds by late afternoon, and Celiese awoke to find Mylan’s amber gaze intent upon her face. He was furious with her still, his anger undisguised, and she pushed herself up slowly into a sitting position while she tried to think of some way to make him understand she was not his enemy.

“What did Raktor call you? You are most certainly not his daughter, Olgrethe.” Mylan was glad to see the young woman awaken, as he was filled with questions to which he intended to demand honest answers.

“I am Lady Celiese d’Loganville, a Frenchwoman of noble birth. The Torgvalds slaughtered my parents and kidnapped me five years ago.”

“A slave?” Mylan’s finely shaped mouth curled into an accusing sneer. “Were you Raktor’s mistress?”

“No!” Celiese shouted angrily. She straightened her shoulders proudly, disgusted he’d even suggest such a revolting alliance. She longed to make him understand that her plight was every bit as desperate as his. She’d never forget what she’d suffered at that monster’s hands, and she explained in a breathless whisper, “Just as they did in your house, the Torgvalds and the band of rogues who run with them attacked my family before dawn. The fighting was so fierce the bodies of those who had fallen littered each passageway, their innocent blood splattered upon every wall. Raktor himself carried me screaming from my bed, and because he thought me amusing I survived that terrible night.” After taking a deep breath Celiese continued, determined to relate the whole disgusting tale now that she had begun. “The Torgvalds camped at the mouth of the Seine for more than a month and used the river to raid ever deeper into my homeland. The single advantage of my youth was that it was an impossibility for me to conceive a child that summer, for I was still a child myself, no matter how often they used me as though I were a woman. In the fall Raktor took me home as a present for Olgrethe, as if I were some exotic pet he’d captured simply to provide entertainment for her.” After pausing a moment, Celiese continued in a soft, lilting voice, “I had been very gently raised, Mylan, and provided a far more suitable companion for Olgrethe than I had for Raktor and his vile offspring. I did my best to avoid all contact with those hateful men and they soon forgot me, although the only time I ever felt truly safe in that accursed house was in the summer, when they took to the sea to pursue their bloody thievery. I have been no man’s mistress, for that term implies a knowledge of pleasure, and I did not even know such a possibility existed between a man and a woman until I married you.”

“Married me!” Mylan scoffed contemptuously. He had listened with rapt attention to her story and found himself thoroughly confused, for she spoke with such obvious conviction that he knew she was either exactly who she claimed to be or the most talented actress ever born. He was inclined to believe the latter and snarled bitterly, “I have heard enough of your ridiculous lies. What did you hope to gain by telling me that pathetic tale? That the Torgvalds would rape children is no surprise, but how can you expect me to believe you are French?” Mylan laced his fingers in Celiese’s tangled curls to draw her near. “Although I have no interest in setting foot upon the shores of France, I have seen enough of your countrymen to know they are dark, the women petite. You, however are tall and fair, obviously one of our own, most probably one of Raktor’s many bastards! Your blood is no more French than mine!”

Celiese yanked her hair from his grasp as she hastened to argue. “You are the one speaking lies—for I know who I am! You may have seen French peasants, poor country folk brought here as slaves to work the farms, but you know nothing of the d’Loganvilles and how we look!”

Mylan was astonished by her show of spirit, for no woman, least of all a slave, had ever dared raise her voice to him. “You have more courage than the French king, for it is said Charles will soon give away a portion of his land as appeasement, since Vikings cannot be defeated by so meager a defense as he is able to raise!”

“Never! The King of France would never be so weak as that. He would not give pirates so much as an inch of soil in the name of peace!” Celiese found his arguments as ridiculous as he found hers, and could not believe they could possibly be true.

Mylan sat back and stared at the bedraggled young woman before him. She had fared no better than he on their perilous voyage, but he found her beauty not in the least diminished by her disheveled state, and it was with considerable difficulty that he returned to their present discussion. “The king will soon give the land to one of my countrymen, a Dane by the name of Hrolf, and whether or not you believe it will happen does not matter, for it surely will. Now as to your tale, if any of what you say were true about how badly Raktor had mistreated you, you would have warned me last night to save me and my family from the same gruesome fate yours suffered. Your silence shows clearly where your loyalty lies.”

Celiese clenched her fists in frustration as she responded with an anguished plea, “Had I known he planned an attack, I would have told you when first we met. I would have warned you immediately and helped you in every way I could, but I knew nothing of his evil plot. I was never told what was planned, and I am as shocked as you are by what has happened.”

Realizing further argument would be pointless when she was being so obstinate, Mylan rose slowly to his feet. After stretching to work off his stiffness, he looked down at Celiese; “Can you rise, are you able to walk? We can prove nothing here, and I have wasted enough time listening to your endless lies.”

Celiese waited for his hand, but he did not offer it, and when she tried to stand alone she could not. Her side was too sore, and she slipped back upon the damp sand, shaking with the sharpness of the pain her exertions had brought.

Mylan swore in a long string of bitter oaths, damning Raktor to the bitterest of fates. “Why did you let him kick you? That was lunacy, and now you’re too badly hurt to be of any help to me. What possessed you to be so foolish?”

“He meant to kick
you!”
Celiese’s pretty green eyes filled with disbelief. Her action to protect him had been instinctive. Why did he not understand that her devotion to him was real?

“So what? I am a grown man, and I do not need the protection of some lying female slave! That won’t make up for your treachery. Had you wanted to help me you would have warned me of Raktor’s true plans instead of deceiving me as you did.” Mylan’s expression was bitter. She was a rare beauty, but he was thoroughly disgusted with himself for falling so swiftly under her spell. It was a mistake he’d not make again, not ever.

“But I knew nothing of Raktor’s scheme!” Celiese insisted once again, imploring him to believe her.