Surrender My Love (12 page)

“Very well, but I like it not. And you lie back. Rest is as important for you as food just now. Do not let me see you ignoring either one again.”

Selig took one more look at his slender, slim-hipped tormentor, huddled in the dirt, and smiled, or tried to. Even that was too much of an effort for him, and he dropped back onto the pallet with a groan.

Kristen gnashed her teeth together. Her rage was on his behalf, yet he was the one denying her an outlet for it, and it was so strong, she really did need to do something. Yet she could see his point. Had she been abused thusly, she wouldn’t want her family taking revenge for it if she were capable of taking her own. And Selig would be capable of it once he was recovered—he had
better
recover.

She glanced once more toward the Dane, staring hard at her for a long moment before she approached again. Erika was still on the ground, though sitting up now, and she didn’t rise. Kristen’s expression was no less wrathful than it had been. Erika’s was wary.

But it was to Thorolf whom Kristen looked
when she reached them, to ask, “Has she eaten?”

“She does not deserve it,” was his curt opinion.

Much as she agreed with him, she grudgingly admitted, “Though it seemed otherwise, Selig was not denied food by her or her people. And you heard him,” she added with disgust. “She is to be kept hale and hearty for the time he can deal with her himself.”

“
You
mean to restrain yourself?”

It was said to calm her ire somewhat, and to a degree it did just that. His sister Tyra had been her closest friend during her growing years, and Thorolf had taken his sister’s place for Kristen in her new home. In fact, he could tease her as her brothers did and get away with it, whereas others could not.

That he teased her now made her look at herself critically and brought a sigh. “I will content myself with imagining what Selig will eventually do to her.”

“Boiling in oil?”

“At the very least.”

Neither noticed that Erika had gone chalk-white, unaware that they were both teasing. Panic rose, and bile that she had to swallow down. And if they had not gone on to talk of camp and sentries and plans for the morrow, she would never have been able to compose herself before those light aqua eyes of the Norsewoman fell on her again.

“Feed her, Thorolf,” Kristen ordered, her tone sharp once more. “Then bring her to
me to secure for the night. I will need rope. If we have none, send someone to the village for it.”

She turned to leave. Erika stopped her. She had just been treated like an object, talked about, not spoken to. It was enough to make her lose her temper entirely, though she merely noted it, was too dejected and frightened still to have room for anger. Which was a good thing, for it would be stupid indeed to further antagonize these people.

“You may as well secure me now, for I cannot eat.”

“You will—”

“I cannot chew, Lady Kristen.”

It was no lie. The inside of Erika’s cheek had gone numb and would as like be eaten as any food. Nor did she add that the very thought of food made her nauseous.

She said instead, “Mayhap in the morn.”

Kristen said nothing for a moment, debating whether to force the issue, but finally conceded with a nod and a final word to Thorolf. “Fetch the rope now.” Then she yanked Erika to her feet and dragged her back to the wagon.

Erika was not returned to the wagon bed as she had half expected. She was shoved back to sitting on the ground, with one of the wagon wheels at her back. Kristen stood beside her, tapping her foot impatiently while she waited for the rope. Still, no word had been said to Erika directly, and none seemed forthcoming.

As the minutes passed, Erika began to
squirm. She knew she was going to be bound and ignored for the rest of the night, and the thought recalled to her that she had not…

Her face was already heating, but she had to ask, “Could you?—I need to—that is—”

A frown came with the blunt interruption. “Was Thorolf so lax that he did not take you to the bushes?”

Erika’s face was now flaming, but she got out, “Nay, but I could not—with him. You told him not to let me out of his sight.”

“Nor would he have, but a prisoner cannot afford to be missish.”

“Please. I am asking you, woman to woman. If you would but put yourself in my place—”

“I
have
been in your place, Dane. I was a prisoner, with most of these Vikings you see here in chains alongside me, and most of these very Saxons guarding us. Think you I had any privacy?”

So that had been true also, what Selig had said about his sister marrying her captor. And those previous prisoners and previous guards now rode together as comrades-in-arms? Erika still could not fathom how that could come about; she wanted to ask, but did not dare.

She said only, “Please!”

But it was said with enough desperation that Kristen growled, “Bah,” and jerked her to her feet. “If I did not feel the need myself…”

Erika felt only relief, not even caring how Kristen’s fingers, nigh as strong as a man’s, bit into her arm as she was pulled behind her long stride. Yet Kristen halted just short of the
concealing shrubbery, her eyes scanning the shadows beyond, and Erika groaned inwardly, thinking the woman had changed her mind.

So it came as a surprise to merely hear, “The giant, is he your husband?”

Erika didn’t think to lie. “He is my shadow, has been since the day I saved his life when I was yet a child. I am as a daughter to him.”

“And you believe he is out there?”

Now she did think to lie, but couldn’t see much point in it after what she had said earlier. “I would be surprised if he is not,” she admitted. “’Tis rarely that I am ever beyond his hearing or sight.”

“Hearing and sight will do him no good,” Kristen replied. “What you are is beyond his reach, even should he follow all the way to Wessex.”

So saying, she called to one of the men who was near and told him to gather five others and spread out beyond the area she intended to enter. She was taking no chances with her prisoner, and her prisoner’s cheeks were flaming again.

Kristen, seeing that, mumbled contemptuously, “Too missish by half.”

Erika heard her and stiffened in reflex. “I cannot help it.”

“Then you would be wise to get over it,” Kristen shot back. “When my brother is done with you, embarrassment will be the least of your woes.”

It sounded like a promise to Erika’s ears. The Norsewoman might content herself, imag
ining what her brother was going to do, but Erika was going to drive herself mad with those same imaginings. She had to escape. She
had
to. But how, when one or more pairs of eyes would always be on her?

Chapter 14

E
RIKA COULDN’T SAY
what had roused her from her sleep, but when she opened her eyes the next morn, it was to see a pair of legs standing near her right shoulder. They were long legs, thickly male in mesh chausses and calf-length boots of finely worked leather. Trying to see what else went with them was a mistake, however, that brought a wince and a sharp gasp of pain.

She had forgotten her position, tied tight to the large wagon wheel at her back, with thick rope wrapped round and round her waist, chest, and throat to make sure she would still be sitting there come morn, and so she was. She remembered trying to keep her head straight, but it must have rolled to the side once she slept, and now her neck muscles were screaming in complaint.

For that matter, she detected no feeling in her hands and lower arms, which were secured at her back. But that was mayhap a blessing, for she also recalled trying to work her hands loose of the thinner rope that bound them. It had been a much coarser rope, to discourage
just such an attempt, yet she had still tried to pull loose of it, and had scraped her skin raw in the attempt. Her feet were also numb, the thin hose on one ankle torn by the rope where she had tried the same loosening effort on her feet, without success.

The man was forgotten for the moment while she took stock of all her discomforts. She kept her tongue away from the raw meat on the inside of her cheek, fearing what pain that would bring with the numbness worn off there. And she twisted her head around slowly, working out the kinks until she could turn it without wincing. That, at least, she could manage, and finally tilted her head back far enough to look up at the silent man next to her.

He hadn’t moved once from his wide-legged stance. She saw the sword still in its scabbard, the short, single-edged knife called the
scramasax
that Saxons used to finish off a felled opponent. It was tucked into a wide, metal-studded belt with a single garnet at the center of its buckle. A green tunic ended at his wrists, but was covered by a short-sleeved mail shirt with thicker chain links than the chausses. The shoulders were very wide for the narrowness shown by the tightly cinched belt at his waist.

Powerful arms were crossed over his chest. Dark brown hair fell a ways over his shoulders. Deepest green eyes were looking down at her, and not without expression. She was not sure what emotion rode his features, but whatever it was, it was close to violence.

That alone did not bring her second gasp when her gaze rose far enough to see it. Some of her surprise came from how very handsome he was—and so tall. She would have taken him for a Saxon if not for his height, which surely topped her own brother’s by a half foot. And she didn’t recognize him, for she had made a point of looking over all the men in the camp yesterday, in the hopes of finding at least one with a kindly face. She had had no luck there, but she would have remembered this man had she seen him.

Though he looked down on her, he was not facing her, he was facing the wagon. And although she knew he could not see inside it with the hide cover pulled over it, he could see partially under it, to where the Norsewoman slept on, blissfully unaware of him.

Erika remembered how annoyed she had been that the other woman was going to sleep so near to her, just on the other side of the wheel, so she would hear Erika’s slightest stirring. Even with men set to sentry duty and told to keep their eyes on Erika the while they also watched for the giant, Kristen had still remained close with her dagger in hand.

Just now the warrior sister was twisted about, with her unbound hair spread out on the ground beyond the edge of the wagon, making her impossible to miss. And, in fact, one of the man’s boots was planted firmly on that tawny length of hair, by accident or…Not by accident. He was patiently waiting for the Norsewoman to move, thereby pulling her own
hair, which would be certain to wake her.

Erika’s eyes widened when she saw that, and brought her third gasp with the conclusion she drew. Sweet Freya, the man was an enemy of these people, could be no other thing with the rage so clearly writ across his handsome face, not just for her, not even for her, but definitely for the sister. And if he could have come into the camp without being stopped, why hadn’t Turgeis tried it?

The camp? She looked out to see if all were dead, but none were. In fact, the men were all stirring, some eating, some seeing to the horses, a great many looking toward the wagon. The man was no enemy, then, was one of them, but whence came the anger? And why didn’t it disturb the others to see it directed at their lady?

“Ouch!”

Kristen had finally moved enough that she pulled her hair. Her head turned to see what she was caught on, saw the foot, and followed it up to see who would dare. Aqua eyes flared wide, but in the next instant, her dagger flashed out to swipe at the leg within reach.

The man jumped back, almost as if he were expecting just such an attack. With her hair free now, Kristen immediately rolled out from beneath the wagon, but on the other side of it, where Erika could no longer see her. The man still could, both of them tall enough to see easily over the bed, and both were now glaring at each other.

“I knew I would rue the day your father gave you that,” he said.

He spoke of the dagger, Erika realized, though she had not understood every word. Anglo-Saxon was his tongue, and although she had learned it by necessity when she first came to this land, she had not learned it in depth, preferring to teach Ragnar’s people Danish instead.

But the Norsewoman spoke it fluently and with the same unfamiliar accent the man used. “Give me a moment and I will fetch the sword
you
gave me, Saxon.”

His brows came together, his frown had grown so dark. “I am going to beat you till you cannot walk, Viking. I can do no other thing,” he shouted.

“Who is going to help you manage that?” Kristen shouted right back.

Erika was amazed at that provoking response on top of the other one. And it hit the mark. The Saxon bellowed and started to climb over the wagon to get to her. He was certainly big enough to do it.

But Kristen cried out, “Nay, you will shake Selig. I will come around.”

Come around and put herself within his reach again? Erika wouldn’t have dared, would be running in the opposite direction right quickly. And Kristen did appear on Erika’s left, not even noticing her except to step over her outstretched legs to get to the man. Reaching him, she actually punched him squarely in the chest. He didn’t budge, but didn’t raise a
hand to strike her back either. His expression hadn’t changed, though, was still furious. So was hers.

“You could at least keep your voice down, you great lout,” Kristen hissed at him. “They are laughing their blasted heads off.”

Quite a few of the men were doing just that, Erika noted. It went a ways toward easing her own anxiety, with the two furious people right next to her.

“They will laugh even more when I put you across my knee,” was his gritted reply.

Kristen took a step back at that. Another and she would have tripped over Erika’s legs, but she only needed the one to separate her from the man. Possibility of a spanking had intimidated her, whereas a beating had not. Erika found that fascinating.

With considerably less heat, Kristen told him, “I can explain, Royce.”