The Viking's Captive (21 page)

“You are probably correct,” he conceded, to her surprise, “but I can think of still other ways that I am riddled with contradictions. I mislike your mannish ways, and yet I like you. I do not want a permanent relationship with you, or any woman, and yet I sniff after you like a randy dog. I try my best to focus on your illmannered,
masculine characteristics, but all I can see is the woman in you. Can you understand that?”

She could not.

But the woman in her did, and she exulted.

Tyra was walking away from him, and he was enjoying the event immensely.

In her tunic and tight
braies,
her hips swayed from side to side in the most enticing way. Did females have any idea how sensual their arses could be when viewed by the male from this angle? If they did, they would probably always back away from their men. He couldn’t stop gaping.

“Tyra,” he called out. “Why are you walking like that?”

She halted and looked back at him over his shoulder. “How?”

“Like … like you have a brick on your head.”

“A brick?” she choked out, and turned to face him directly, though she was some distance away. He still sat on the bench. “That’s ridiculous. A brick? Ha, ha, ha.” Her face bloomed a lovely shade of pink, as if she were guilty of some wrongdoing.

A wrongdoing involving her walk? Nay, that could not be.

“It must be the chain mail I am wearing,” she explained, still blushing profusely.

“Chain mail? Why are you wearing chain mail?” he asked, alarm ringing in his voice.

“I am off to check our borders with my men. Some Danish outlaws have been pillaging the area.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Of course it’s dangerous.”

“Don’t go,” he urged before he could bite his hasty tongue.

“Don’t go? Are you demented? I must go. It is my job
as chieftain to lead my soldiers. How could you think otherwise?”

“I don’t know.” He just knew that he wanted her safe. He did not want to picture her lying on the ground covered with blood. He wanted her close by so that he could help her, if necessary. He wanted her … well, suffice it to say, he wanted her.

“What is that look you are giving me?”

“A look? What look?” He tried to recall what expression might have been on his face.

“A hot look.”

He smiled then, especially when he remembered that Tykir and Bolthor and Rafn and Rashid had advised him to give Tyra just that—hot looks.

She was scowling at him, waiting for an answer.

Well, a hell of a lot of good their advice had done. Hot looks, indeed!

“Methinks I will go with you,” he announced, again without thinking.

“You … will … not. Besides, what about the people who come to you for your services?”

“They can wait. Father Efrid is here … and Rashid.”

“And my father?”

“He is getting better by the hour.
Surprisingly
better.”

“You are not coming with me.”

“I just want to protect you.” Another hasty, blurted mistake, he realized immediately.

Now her scowling face was replaced with an angry face. “Dost question my competence, Saxon?”

“That is not what I meant.” He stood and walked toward her.

“I know what this is about. You think because I showed a woman’s weakness last night that suddenly I am less of a warrior. Well, think again.” She was backing
away from him as he approached. Putting up a hand, she said, “Don’t come any closer. No more of your seduction ploys will you use on me.”

“Ploys? What ploys?” Now he was offended. “Go! Go play your man-role, if you must. But do not dare get yourself killed, my lady, because … because …” He was so furious, he could not complete his sentence.

She tilted her head in question, and when he refused to finish, she turned and walked stiffly toward the groups of men and horses waiting for her. He noticed that there was not even the tiniest bit of sway to her walk now.
Damn it.

Too late, he completed his sentence, but only to himself: “… because I care.”

The news was not good.

When Tyra and her troops arrived at the small outpost village of Fagrfjord, the Danish outlaws had already come and gone. Apparently, news of her father’s impending death had spread to their enemy camps, and the scurvy lot, led by Ejnar the Evil, had attacked, sensing an opportunity. They’d burned some timber long-houses, stolen cattle and sheep, taken a few women and children who were unable to run to the mountains, and killed a half dozen fighting men.

“Unless my father awakens soon and begins to show his face in public, this will be the first of many such strikes, and not just by Ejnar, either,” Tyra told Rafn. “Every malcontent from here to Birka will be on the move, sniffing out any weakness in our flanks.”

“You are correct, of course,” Rafn said. “But we caught this raid early on. Now that we are forewarned, we will send reinforcements to man all of our vulnerable border lines. And, my lady, do not be fearful about
your father’s return to leadership. I
know
that he will recover and resume his overlordship of his land and his troops.”

“Is there something you know and have not told me?” she asked, suddenly alert to the tone of his voice.

He shook his head quickly … too quickly … but Tyra had no time to ponder that now.

“Are you not concerned about Dragonstead?” Tyra asked Tykir, who had ridden along with them.

“Nay. Not really. I left two hundred soldiers back on my estate. The likes of Ejnar only attack where they sense weakness.”

While Rafn and a small troop rode out in search of the culprits, she and Tykir and the other men-at-arms spent the next few hours putting out fires, setting up guards, feeding the poor cotters who had been under siege for more than a day, and tending to the wounded … some of whom would have to be brought back to Stoneheim for more expert ministrations.

It was late that night when they rode slowly back to Stoneheim, exhausted and somber of mood. Fagrfjord would be safe for now, but there was much to ponder regarding Stoneheim and its vast holdings. Ironically, outlaw Norsemen had no interest in the land itself, not this far north, because it was wild and much too difficult to cultivate, especially for lazy sluggards such as these malcontents. They were more interested in treasure, or animals, or people to trade into slavery, all of which Stoneheim had aplenty.

There was a full moon out tonight, and when the long line of her retinue made its way home, over the drawbridge and into the courtyard, she saw one thing clearly.

Adam.

He was waiting for her.

The wench was a constant worry …

It was close to midnight when Tyra’s troop returned to Stoneheim.

Adam had been standing near the gate for more than three hours. He wasn’t sure if he was more worried or angry.

There were wounded, he noticed, slung over saddles or lying in quickly constructed pole litters which trailed behind the horses. None of the men appeared to be Stoneheim warriors, as far as he could tell. More work for him, though, he presumed.

But where was Tyra? His heart beat frantically with panic. Was she left behind, too wounded to be moved? Or dead?

Please, God, not again!

Just then the line of troops parted and Tyra rode forward through the ranks. Tears of relief misted his eyes.

I should not care so much,
he told himself. Then,
Thank you, God.

When she started to dismount, her knees gave way—no doubt from the exhaustion of the long day—but he was there to catch her in his arms.

“Are you all right?” he whispered against her ear, still holding her upright in his arms. “Have you been hurt?”

She shook her head slowly from side to side, dazed.

“You will never do this to me again, that I swear.”

“Do what?” She cocked her head with confusion.

“Leave me behind to worry, like a … like a …”

“Husband?” Tykir offered with a laugh as he rode his horse up next to them.

Adam knew he was acting foolishly, but his emotions were roiling out of control. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he told Tyra, “We will discuss this later,”
and went off to join Father Efrid, who was already examining the wounded.

Almost immediately, he turned around, came back, and kissed her soundly on the lips. Then he was off again.

“Has he lost his mind?” he heard Tyra ask Tykir.

“Undoubtedly,” Tykir said. “Either that, or his heart.”

James Bond, he was not …

Even though it was not quite dawn, Alrek was humming a bawdy tune he’d heard some
drukkinn
soldiers sing one night. He was in the process of carrying a bucket of fresh drinking water into King Thorvald’s bedchamber.

“Good day to you, boy,” a rumbly voice said.

Alrek almost wet his
braies,
so frighted was he. Setting the bucket down on a bench, he glanced right and left, searching the room. He was the only person about, aside from the king, who was still in a deep sleep from his head wound.

Tentatively, he approached the bed.

The king’s eyes shot wide open, and he winked at Alrek.

Alrek nigh jumped out of his skin.

“Yer highness!” he exclaimed. “Let me go call yer daughters and the physician. Thanks be to Odin, ye are back from the dead.”

The king raised a halting hand. “Nay, I want no one to know that I am awake. Come here, boy, and help me.”

When Alrek was next to the bed, the king threw the linens back, exposing a trencher made of manchet bread. On it sat two roast chicken legs, several hunks of hard cheese, and some slices of pickled reindeer tongue. Held between his knees was a huge wooden goblet of ale. “Are you as hungry as I am, Alrek?”

Alrek nodded. He was always hungry.

So at the king’s bidding, Alrek locked the bedchamber door, then crawled up onto the bed with his king, and they both broke their fast together.

While they ate, the king remarked, “I owe you a coin about now, do I not, boy?”

He shook his head. “Yer daughter Tyra paid me. She denied it, but methinks Adam the Healer reminded her to pay me in yer stead. He is a good fellow, Adam is. Me hero, actually.”

The king nodded, even as he chomped away on the ample, tasty fare. “That Ingrith of mine is a mighty fine cook. It will be a sad day when she weds and leaves Stoneheim … not that that will be happening anytime soon, the way Tyra dawdles in the marriage market. But that is going to change, if I have my way.” The king was speaking more to himself than Alrek, who was too stunned by his circumstances to speak anyhow.

“So, Alrek, tell me everything that has been going on in my castle.”

And Alrek did, leaving nothing out. The king was especially engrossed by the events surrounding Tyra and Adam, but he was also more than interested in the outlaws who’d attacked his holdings the night before. Alrek thought he heard the king mumble, “Rafn did not tell of this yet. Where is the man? Has he become a slugabed now?”

Alrek wasn’t sure he’d heard right, so he withheld comment.

“I need your help, Alrek.”

Alrek sat up straighter.

“Can I trust you?”

“With me life.” Oh, this was the best day of Alrek’s life. To think his king was going to trust him with some special assignment. “Shall I tell the smithy to make me
a sword? Even the lowest knight needs his own sword to slit his enemy’s gullet, or cut out his heart, or lop off his head. I do so want to lop off a head or two.”

“Uh, I do not think a sword will be necessary just yet,” the king said. A weak smile slashed his still ashen face. Mayhap the king was not as well yet as Adam had thought. “The task I would set for you requires a sharp mind, not a sharp blade.”

Alrek tried to look intelligent and alert, but he feared he just looked bug-eyed.

“Firstly, you must tell no one
—no one
—that I have awakened.”

He nodded his understanding.

“You must be my eyes and ears about the castle. Report everything to me, no matter how insignificant it might seem. Can you do that?”

“Yea, I can that. Am I to be yer spy, then?”

“Exactly.”

Alrek stepped off the bed and rose to his full height, which wasn’t all that much.
A spy! I am to be a spy. Praise the Gods! ‘Tis just as Adam predicted back on the longship. Mayhap he made this miracle come true fer me. I should thank him, but nay, I cannot thank him properly because it is a secret. Still … me, a spy!
Alrek wiped the smile of pure joy from his face and tried to appear somber and responsible. “I will not let ye down, Yer Highness. Even if they torture me with burning splinters. Even if they chop off me ear. Even if they shave me head. Even if—”

“I don’t think it will come to that,” Thorvald said with lips that twitched oddly, as if he were suppressing a smile.

“Now, Alrek, summon Rafn for me. Do not tell him I called for him, especially if others are about. Just say
that you must go to the garderobe or some such thing, and that you hate to leave your king alone.”

Alrek kept nodding at each of the king’s orders.

“And remember, this is
our
secret.”

A hole in the head and a harem, too …