The maid’s head knocked back as if he had hit her; she bit her lip as if she had made a mistake. ‘Yes, of course, I forgot myself.’
He wondered whether she had forgotten speaking to him in French. He would keep her secret; it made no difference to him whether she was Norman or Saxon. She had been a maid who needed help and that was the end to it. Her agitated fingers played with the ragged filaments of her scarf fringe in her lap. The damp fabric of her gown moulded to her thighs, revealing their curving, slender contours. ‘Can I take you home?’ he offered.
She threw the fringe of her scarf aside, raised her huge blue eyes to his. ‘No. But...thank you for coming out to me,’ she said. ‘You can leave me now. Please, go.’
He nodded, acknowledging her grudging thanks, hearing the dismissal in her voice. She wanted to be rid of him, that much was obvious. He thought of Eirik, and the rest of the men, slugging ale down their throats in the nearest inn. The lusty singing would have started by now. He was reluctant to join them. ‘And what are you going to do?’ he asked. ‘Sit here on the beach all night?’
Her magnificent eyes gleamed up at him. ‘It’s no concern of yours,’ she said tightly, sliding her knees up to her chest, hugging them. ‘I told you to go.’ Her voice held a hard edge, disdainful.
She was ordering him about as if he were some common foot soldier! He raised his eyebrows at her rudeness, hips rocking back on his heels. Pins and needles started to prick the soles of his feet. ‘And I’m telling you that you should mind your manners. I’ve just saved your skin.’ A warning lilt entered his voice. ‘A little humility wouldn’t go amiss. You would have died if I hadn’t come along.’
She flinched at the sudden harshness in his tone. ‘Someone would have come eventually.’
‘No,’ Ragnar said. ‘No one was going to help you. Your master was prepared to leave you out there to drown. Care to tell me why?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ Placing her palms flat on the stones, she levered herself upwards. As she rose, she tottered forward unsteadily. Rising with her, Ragnar grabbed her upper arm, fingers pincering her flesh, preventing her from falling.
‘C’est possible parce-que tu est Normande? Maybe because you’re a Norman,’ he murmured close to her ear.
She lurched away from him in shock, but he held her fast. ‘I don’t understand you,’ she replied in English. ‘What are you saying to me?’ She rolled her arm forward in a circular motion, tugging downwards, trying to release his fearsome grip.
But Ragnar had seen the terror strike her gaze. He tugged at her sharply, forcing her to stagger closer, the startled oval of her face mere inches from his own. Her skin was like pouring cream, a polished lustre of silk. ‘You do understand me,’ he continued in English. Her delicious rose scent curled around him. ‘You understand me very well. What are you doing here, a Norman maid, living in the middle of all these Saxons? Don’t you realise they would kill you if they had any idea?’
* * *
God in Heaven, what had she done out there on the mudflats? What had she said? She wanted to weep with the thought of her own stupidity. How had she managed to give herself away so easily, to this man of all people? This tall broad-shouldered Dane, with his flare of bright gold hair and eyes of green who had come to help the Saxons. Was he going to kill her now?
‘Let me go!’ Gisela cried, struggling in his grip. ‘Otherwise I’ll...’ Her voice faded away as she realised the futility of what she had been about to say. Her fiery anger leached away, her spirits exhausted.
‘What...otherwise you’ll scream?’ His tone was sarcastic, grating. ‘And that will do a lot of good, won’t it? For we both know that no one will come. And we both know why.’
Her shoulders caved forward, as if his words had delivered a physical blow. She stopped fighting his grip, her slight body drooping. ‘Let me go, will you, please?’ Gisela said quietly, the breeze whipping away the end of her sentence. His glittering gaze moved over her, stripping away her courage, leaving her exposed, as if her inner thoughts were stretched out on the ground for all to see. ‘I’m none of your concern.’
She was right. She was none of his concern...and yet, Christ, she intrigued him. He knew that if she had been anyone else, he would have walked away and left her on the beach. But some small part of him urged him to linger at her side. ‘I will take you back to where you live,’ he offered. ‘The town’s not safe.’
‘You said it,’ she said, her tone faintly mocking. ‘But do you really think anyone would bother with the likes of me?
‘I only have to go down that alley over there,’ she explained, pointing to a shadowed gap in the distance. ‘And my family will be waiting for me.’
Relinquishing his grip on the soft muscle of her upper arm, the Dane gave her a little push, sending her staggering off across the shingle. ‘Go then,’ he said bluntly. ‘Have it your way.’
Gisela walked quickly along the alley, away from the beach, away from him, eager to reach the safety of her lodgings. The shadowed light made her step disjointed, uncertain; a couple of times she stumbled and her hands flew out to check her fall, scraping against rough exterior walls. Her hem, weighed down with thick, drying mud, clagged unhelpfully around her ankles, hampering her gait. Tears wobbled in her chest. She had only needed a few more days of working on the salt pans to earn enough money for them all to cross the river and be out of this place. Why, oh, why had she agreed to go out on to the mudflats with those children?
Desolation rolled over her, the air catching in her lungs. She had had no choice. The master had told her to go out there. If she hadn’t followed his orders, then she would have had no work at all. But, because of what had happened out on the salt marsh, they would have to leave this place as soon as possible. Tonight, at least. A pair of sparkling green eyes punctured her vision. The Dane. Because of that man, they would have to leave. It wouldn’t take him long to tell others of his suspicions about her. She whipped her head around, checking that no one followed her, disquiet threading her nerves, making her increase her pace.
The foul smell of the town’s midden, stinking and sour, washed over her as she approached the tiny cottage that served as their lodgings. Wrinkling her nose, she pushed against the wooden door, stepping down on to the earth-packed floor. Thick smoke hazed the chamber. She coughed, waving her hand in front of her, trying to clear the smoke so she could see. A fire burned feebly, smoke coiling up to the hole in the rafters, a chimney of sorts. Marie, her older sister, sat on a low stool, poking a stick fretfully into the damp, smouldering wood. Her golden braids, long plaits falling to her waist-belt, shone out in the gloom. She stared miserably across to Gisela, her face streaked with tears.
‘Where is he?’ Gisela’s heart filled with trepidation. A swift glance around the chamber told her that her father was not there. ‘Where’s he gone, Marie? Tell me!’ A rising fear laced her voice.
‘Oh, Gisela, he wanted to do something! Something to help you. He hated the way you were working so hard to make coin, while we sat around all day!’
‘But he can’t work...’ Gisela spluttered. ‘His leg...’
‘He felt so useless. Surely you can see that?’ Marie’s voice pleaded with her. ‘As I do, Sister. This is all because of me! I feel so guilty, I should have... I should have married...’ Her eyes, a stunning turquoise colour, wavered with tears as her sentence trailed away to a desperate silence.
‘No! Don’t say it!’ Gisela responded angrily. ‘Don’t ever say such things again! We did the right thing, Marie, even if our brother was taken.’ She crouched down, taking her sister’s hands into