The maid was shivering now; a blue caste tinged her face. Unpinning his cloak, Ragnar dropped to his knees, the shingle poking through his braies into his muscled shins. His sword hilt jabbed upwards as the tip of the leather scabbard hit the beach; he shoved it to one side so that the weapon rested against his hip. He frowned, drawing thick coppery brows together. Was Eirik right? Despite Ragnar’s vicious reputation on the battlefield, his skill with an axe and sword, he had no wish to scare any woman, let alone this delicate effigy lying on the stones. She lay so still, like one of those statues in the new church in Ribe, her cheek as smooth as marble, unblemished. Hulking over her slight figure, he felt like a cumbersome idiot, awkward and unwieldy, his body too big to tend to a woman so slight. He spread his cloak over her chest, then, sliding his hands beneath her, he raised her carefully so he could tuck the woollen cloth around her back.
The fragile knobs of her spine pushed against his fingers. As he laid her back down, the faintest smell of roses lifted from her skin; his solar plexus gripped, then released with the sensual onslaught. His senses jolted, quickening suddenly. When was the last time he had been this close to a woman? Close enough to smell her perfume? He couldn’t remember. His sister’s desperate situation had consumed his days and haunted his nights. Any desire had been crippled by guilt, his couplings with women rare, and, if they occurred, tended to be swift, joyless affairs in which he took little pleasure.
Impatient with his memories, Ragnar swept his gaze around the beach. He needed to rid himself of this girl and concentrate on finding the man who had bullied his sister into a ghostly shadow of her former self. But now the shingle was deserted, save for a lonesome gull, orange-beaked, stalking along the foaming edge of the incoming tide. Strange that no one wanted to help her. But then, these were troubled times—trust had to be earned. He wondered whether the townspeople had sensed the maid’s difference, her foreign ways, without actually putting a name to them.
A slight moan made Ragnar look down. A whimper of returning sensibility. The girl’s long eyelashes fluttered rapidly against her pallid cheeks, mouth parting fractionally. Her lips were full, plump, stained a luscious rose-pink. Inexplicably, he yearned to see the colour of her hair, fingers itching to pluck at the constricting headscarf, unfasten the silver brooch and cast the voluminous length of material aside. Sweat prickled on his palms; he rubbed his hands down his braies.
Her eyes sprung open. Huge pools of deep blue dominated her face, sparkling like sapphires. The inky depths of the ocean on a bright summer’s day. In the fading light, he drank in the magnificent colour, devoured it, nerves spiralling round and round in increasing excitement, pushing his heart to a faster beat. What was happening? Inconceivable that such a dull little maid should have such an effect on him, bundled up as she was like a nun in her drab, mud-stained garments, every inch of skin hidden from view apart from the white terrified circle of her face.
Wait. Nay, not terrified. Ragnar read the flare of anger in her eyes, the lips compressed in tight rebellion. The mutinous clenching of her fists by her side. ‘I’m here to help you,’ he said in English, trying to keep his voice gentle. He reached out to touch her shoulder.
‘Get your hands off me!’ the maid squawked at him. Knocking his arm sideways, she struggled to sit up. His cloak fell forward, pillowing in her lap as she brought herself upright. She threw his garment irritably to one side, digging her palms and heels into the shingle, rocking her hips, struggling to shift her body backwards, away from him.
‘Easy, maid,’ Ragnar said, sitting back on his heels. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ Despite her efforts, she hadn’t managed to move very far.
‘I know that, you blundering lump!’ The maid stopped, seemingly frustrated by her lack of movement. She touched a finger to the brooch at her neck, as if reassuring herself that the silver pin remained in place. ‘Why would you bother to pull me out of the mud, if you were going to kill me?’
Ragnar bit his lip to stop himself laughing out loud. Where on earth had she learned her English? From an army camp? Her cursing was on a level with any common knave. He grinned, rapidly adjusting his original opinion of her. Out there on the mudflats, she had been a forlorn, helpless figure, her diminutive frame and finely honed, angelic face denoting a benign, docile character. How wrong he had been. She was worse than feisty, a regular termagant. He folded his arms across his wide chest, almost as if he prepared to do battle with her. Curiously, he relished the thought.
* * *
What, in heaven’s name, was he smiling at? The man hulked over her, great shoulders blocking out the darkening sky, his green gaze intense, flaring over her with bold scrutiny. Her eyes ran rapidly across his leather-strapped torso, his calf-length boots stained with salt water. Was he a Saxon? Or worse...one of the men from the longships. A Viking? Despite her truculent bravado, anxiety gripped Gisela’s chest; she knew she had to stand up and walk away, but at the moment, the task seemed impossible. A horrible weakness engulfed her, sapping the strength in her legs, numbing her arms and hands.
‘Who are you?’ Her blunt question, hard-edged, accused him.
He tilted his head to one side. ‘I’m a Dane,’ he replied. ‘We have just landed here, on the shore.’
Oh Lord, he was a Viking, after all! They were even worse than the Saxons with their bloodthirsty reputation for merciless fighting, laying waste to whole villages without a hint of remorse. ‘But you...you can’t be.’ A wary light entered Gisela’s eyes. ‘You...you’re speaking English!’
He laughed. ‘English is very close to our Norse language. It’s easy for us to change from one to the other.’
Her thoughts tumbled, fuzzy and confused. What was happening to her? She felt caught, trapped in some nightmare for which she couldn’t find a way out, despite the way her mind twisted and turned. She had no memory of how she had arrived back at the beach. ‘Did you carry me?’ Her tone was brittle, sharp.
He lifted one shoulder, then let it drop, unconcerned. ‘Yes. You fainted. I’m not surprised. You probably thought you were going to die out there.’
Gisela stared rigidly at the shingle, the slick of green algae across white stone, remembering the slosh of water around her thighs. Her throat was raw from shouting. Yes, she had truly thought she would die. But why had he come out to rescue her, this man, this stranger, of all people? Beneath the intense scrutiny of his emerald-green eyes, she shuffled her hips uncomfortably, glowering at his hands, loose fists curled against his brawny thighs. Hands that had moved over her insensible body, hoisting her high. How could she not remember his touch? Her cheeks flushed suddenly, a livid stain dusting her high cheekbones. Lord, he could have done anything! She would have been at his mercy, him, a Dane! Her eyes flashed blue fire. She crossed her arms over her bosom, jutting her chin forward. ‘What did you do to me?’
Ragnar drew his dark-blond brows together in a deep frown. What on earth was the woman talking about? Her expression was stony, openly challenging him, as she waited for his answer. What was she expecting him to say? His eyes traced the curving top line of her lip, the fierce, determined set of her mouth. Tipping his head to one side, he recalled the soft weight against his chest, the sensual roll of her breast as she folded against him.
‘Er... I carried you from the mud to the beach. That’s it.’ His speech was a low burr, rumbling up from his ribcage.
‘What else?’ she fired back at him. Her hands dropped to her sides, balling into fists against the pebbles.
He followed their movement, wanting to laugh. What was she about to do? Clout him around the jaw? Beat him senseless? It was as if... His mouth parted slightly as the line of her questioning became clear. Of course, he was a Dane and she would judge him as such. ‘Nothing else, maid. What were you expecting? That I would rape you midway between the river and the beach? How low your judgement is of me.’