He had never once taken his gaze from her. The hard look in his eyes spoke of a man determined to get her back. Her mind flashed to the strange way he’d stared at her earlier. It had shaken her senses, for his look had held desire. As if he wanted her...intimately.
The memory of it made her heart pound faster, for she’d never seen him look at her that way before. His green eyes permeated her defences, reaching deep within. She didn’t understand her own reaction to him and her skin prickled from more than the frigid water.
A horrifying thought occurred to her. Ragnar didn’t want Styr to die, did he? Her husband was now a prisoner of the Irish and somehow they had to rescue him.
But what if Ragnar wasn’t intending to save him? What if he turned his back on Styr?
Never could she imagine Ragnar as a traitor, but she couldn’t let go of the unbidden fear.
At last, the others followed his lead, setting down their shields and returning to the water. One by one, they followed, while the Irish closed in behind them.
‘Some of you should stay behind for Styr,’ she called out in warning.
But the instant she spoke, the Irishman plunged her head beneath the icy water. In shock, she lost her breath, her hands clawing at the surface. He jerked her from the water, her hair sodden and blinding her. Harsh words were spoken, his voice issuing warnings she didn’t understand. And before she realised what was happening, he’d hauled her back on to their ship. She never had the chance to fight back, for the cold had penetrated her body, seizing her with shock.
Her consciousness grew hazy and she was only dimly aware of the blade at her throat while he gripped her wrists and found a length of rope to bind her. At last, he secured her to the front of the boat.
Before long, her kinsmen emerged from the water, four Irishmen behind them. They didn’t try to fight, but allowed themselves to be taken. She strongly suspected they would wait for the right element of surprise.
And yet there was no one to help Styr. With a sinking heart, she stared back at the shoreline. Her husband was already gone and there was no way to know if she’d see him again. Although they’d grown distant over the past few months, she knew it was her own fault for turning him away. He was a good man, a warrior who deserved better than a barren wife like herself.
The knife of self-pity slid into her and she forced it back. It would do her no good now. She needed to gather her courage and do what was necessary to survive. It was their only hope.
When Ragnar climbed aboard, he kept his eyes upon her as they bound him. She couldn’t guess his plans, but the message was clear. He had every intention of freeing them from captivity.
The Irish had taken the oars, but with only four of them, the ship didn’t move very fast. Her captor, whose name she learned was Brendan, took command of the sails, letting the wind pull them far away from land.
Only when Ragnar was shoved a few feet away from her did she dare to whisper at him, ‘What will become of Styr? You left him behind with no one. He could already be dead.’ A chill crossed her at the thought and hot tears rose to her eyes.
‘If they’d wanted him dead, they wouldn’t have taken him prisoner,’ Ragnar pointed out. ‘They’ll try to use him as a hostage. But we’ll return before any harm can come to him.’
She didn’t know what to believe. For all she knew, they might torture Styr or kill him as an act of vengeance. ‘What if you’re wrong?’ she murmured.
‘I’m not. Trust me.’
She locked her eyes with his, silently pleading with him to strike sooner. ‘You can’t abandon him.’
His demeanour shifted into a man who resented her accusations. There was no softness, no mercy upon his face at all. ‘I swore to him that I would guard you with my life. And so I have.’ He leaned in, his dark green eyes demanding her attention. ‘We’re going to take back the ship, this night.’
‘Your hands are bound,’ she argued.
‘Are they?’ His voice held such indifference, she began to wonder if she was wrong to doubt him. Upon her face, she felt the warmth of his breath. His long brown hair held hints of gold, his face rigid like a conqueror’s. The look had returned to his eyes, one that made her falter. It reached beneath her desperate fear, sliding through her veins until he held her captive.
Trust me, he’d demanded. She wanted to believe in him, for he was their best hope of returning to the ringfort. But once again, he was watching her in a way that made her pulse quicken. It only deepened her discomfort.
A moment later, one of the Irishmen grasped him and shoved him back. Though his words were incomprehensible, she couldn’t tear her gaze from Ragnar. If he had somehow freed himself, he’d done a good job of disguising it.
The winds had swelled again, the skies growing darker. She was growing hungry, but no one offered food or water. When the Irishmen explored the ship, they quickly found Styr’s store of supplies below deck. They devoured the food savagely, eating every bite of dried meat and preserved fish without offering them a single morsel. Only the bag of grain remained. Glancing at the Irish, Elena suddenly noticed how thin they were. It was as if they had been starving, their faces were so gaunt.
For the second time, she wondered if it had been wise to surrender. These men had not the strength of the Norsemen. But in their eyes, she saw that they were bent upon survival now, as if all traces of humanity were gone. Like animals, they fought amongst themselves for the choicest pieces of food.
Her earlier frustration with Ragnar diminished. Men who cared for nothing but their own lives would do anything. They would kill with no remorse.
Their leader, Brendan, was hardly more than an adolescent. But in his eyes, she saw determination. Whatever he planned to do with them, he would not be swayed from his course.
Though it had been hours since she’d been dragged back to the ship, she’d been unable to get warm. Her body was freezing, while her wet hair was clammy against her skin. Fear magnified the discomfort and her mouth grew dry with thirst.
‘Could I have some water?’ she asked Brendan, even knowing he did not understand her words. She glanced over at the men, who were drinking wine, nodding to them to convey the meaning.
His mouth closed in a grim line and he ignored her question, adjusting the mainsail instead. When she studied her friends and kinsmen, she watched to see if Ragnar was right. Had they managed to free themselves? They sat motionless, their arms behind their backs. None would look at her.
Perhaps...
Ragnar spoke to the men, his voice a calm echo against the sea. ‘At moonrise.’
She took a breath, glancing at the Irish to see if they’d understood him. They were too busy gorging on food, but Brendan’s brow furrowed. Without a word, he unsheathed his blade and crossed the boat until he sat behind her. She felt the kiss of the blade upon her throat, and the young man stared back at Ragnar in a silent challenge.
* * *
Ragnar intended to gut the Irishman, before the night was over, for daring to touch Elena. He’d sliced through his bonds, using a hidden blade that he’d passed to his kinsmen, one by one. Now, the blade was his again and he was waiting for the right moment to strike.
They had been sailing for hours and several of the Irish had fallen asleep—all, save the man holding Elena captive. Brendan seemed to sense that the moment he let her go, his life would be the forfeit.
The sun had descended below the horizon, and the moon was beginning to rise. Ragnar eyed the other men, silently warning them to be ready. He kept his gaze fixed upon Elena, watching for