She closed her eyes against the pain of his words, more tears escaping down her cheeks. ‘You know I don’t.’
‘Then marry Baldr. He has promised to care for you and the child.’
‘Nay, Father. He is a cruel man. He frightens me.’
The anger completely left him then to be replaced by something that was even worse. Pity. He cupped her face with both hands and placed a kiss on her forehead. ‘I would do anything to spare you from this pain. If he were here now, I would kill Gunnar myself for leaving you to face this alone. It only proves that I was right about him.’ Taking a deep breath, he ploughed ahead. ‘You will be married now. You have no choice.’
She trembled as a deep, wrenching sob struggled to find purchase in her throat. Her father’s words hinted at a truth she had tried so hard to deny. Gunnar must have known that a child was possible. He must have known that she loved him. He must have known how his leaving would destroy her. But she had to make a choice for her child now. ‘I’ll marry Dagan, but not Baldr.’ Dagan was a childhood friend she had known almost as long as Gunnar. He was kind and good, a fine warrior who planned to leave for the Saxon lands before winter. Though the thought of marrying anyone except Gunnar tore out her heart, if she would marry anyone else it would be Dagan. He would understand that she needed time before...before she could truly be a wife to him. The very thought of it caused another tear to leak down her cheek.
‘Dagan?’ Her father looked pensive and then nodded. ‘He’s from a strong family. He will agree to this?’
‘Aye,’ she whispered. Dagan had hinted at the idea of marriage before and she had turned him down gently.
Her father nodded. ‘Before the next moon you will be married.’
Two years later
Gunnar squinted into the grey dawn and tried to make out the figure he was sure he had seen just over the ridge. It had been a quick movement, but too large for a small animal. Though the signs of spring were all around—the frost losing its grip on the earth, the small white flowers peeking out of the dead foliage on the forest floor—it was too early in the season for the larger animals to be out. It must have been a Saxon. The smell of their unwashed bodies wafted across the distance.
It was time for battle. Absently, his fingers reached into his tunic to stroke the lock of silvery-blonde hair he kept tied on a leather thong around his neck. It had become a habit before battle, one that he couldn’t break, even though he had determined to stop thinking of her. More than once, he’d found himself doing it and resolved to cast the lock into the nearest fire, but he never could bring himself to do it. As paltry as it was, the memento was his only link to Kadlin—the only link he would ever have. Stroking it never failed to make him remember how good it had felt to become a part of her that night, to claim her and make her his. Or how her scent, like sunshine mixed with wildflowers, had stayed on his skin for days afterward; and how in summer, when the afternoon sun shone through the clouds after a rain, it reminded him of her scent and would never fail to arouse him.
One night would never be enough with her, nor would a lifetime. He could touch her every day for the rest of his life and it would never be enough. She was the only light able to penetrate the coldness inside him. He’d willingly warm himself for an eternity in her light.
He wanted her. By the gods, he wanted her with him more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Her absence left a gaping wound inside that no one could see and it festered worse every day. But she wasn’t meant to be his.
Leaving her after taking her body, after hearing the sweet words she’d whispered in his ear, had been the hardest thing that he’d ever done. He’d lain with many women, but he’d never experienced the overwhelming wave of possessiveness that had overcome him when he’d risen to dress and looked down at her. With his seed glistening on the tender flesh of her inner thighs, he’d felt as if he’d branded her, marked her as his in a primal ritual as old as man. It had taken every ounce of will he possessed to walk away.
He’d only been able to do it because he’d convinced himself that leaving was best for her. She deserved a life where she would be surrounded by those she loved. She was meant to be a jarl’s wife, not the wife of an unwanted bastard. Not the wife of someone incapable of loving and protecting her as she deserved. It was only that memory of how he had failed in the past that had given him strength to ignore the darkness within him that urged him to take her away with him, to leave her to her peaceful life without him.
When his ship had set sail, he’d known that he was entering some of the darkest days of his life. The years away from her had been black; he had no reason to believe that the ones ahead of him would be any better.
The soft crunch of dry twigs alerted Gunnar to his friend’s presence behind him just before Magnus spoke. ‘What do you see?’
Gunnar opened his eyes and tried to shake thoughts of Kadlin away. If he wanted to live, he couldn’t afford distractions. That was the very reason he needed to get rid of that bloody lock of hair; it was a distraction. Nodding to the small break in the trees, he spoke softly. ‘I saw a Saxon. Just there.’ They were both silent, waiting for another movement. After a few minutes, they were rewarded as the figure of a man darted across the opening.
Magnus grumbled in disgust. ‘They should come fight us like men instead of hiding in the trees.’
‘They already tried that and realised they couldn’t win,’ Gunnar muttered as he scanned the treeline, looking for more. Earlier in the week, he and his men had come across a ragtag group of Saxon men. There had been a fight, and when it had become apparent that his men were the stronger warriors, the Saxons had scattered. His men had found some of them, but the rest had escaped and had regrouped and followed them. He didn’t like their cowardice in hiding and his blood pumped furiously at the thought of crushing them. ‘They won’t approach. They’re waiting. We’ll have to root them out.’
Magnus nodded his agreement. ‘There are at least two score. If they met with others, there could be more.’
‘I’ll take some men and ride in behind them. Drive them out into the open.’
‘Why not wait them out? We can handle them.’
Gunnar shook his head, the need to fight outweighing his patience. ‘Nay, we’ll fight them now.’ He turned to go back to camp. They needed to strike fast.
‘Wait, brother,’ Magnus said as he put a hand on his arm. ‘Let us wait. We don’t know how many men are hiding. We don’t need to fight now.’ He paused and when Gunnar seemed unmoved by his logic, he added, ‘It could be suicide.’
‘I know,’ Gunnar replied and kept walking the path back to camp. It could be suicide, but not in the way Magnus suspected. He’d never risk the lives of his men. He intended to go alone, to figure out what they were dealing with before leading his men in. He’d gained a reputation for recklessness, but every chance he’d ever taken had paid off. It was why the men under his command had quadrupled in size. They wanted the treasures and accolades those fighting beneath his command had accumulated over the years.
The truth was that he no longer cared if he lived or died. He could have stopped fighting. Eirik had offered him numerous opportunities to take over command posts. He could have become a jarl in this new land in his own right by now, commanding the battle from afar at times. And while that idea had originally held some allure, it had come too late. He’d learned that Kadlin was married to someone else now.
The night he had come face to face with her husband was the night he realised