She closed her eyes tightly, her blood pulsing so hard, she felt faint. Although the Norseman was outnumbered, the young men’s efforts would come to naught. They would die for this—Brendan among them.
She couldn’t stand aside and let it happen. Caragh slipped back into the blacksmith’s hut, searching for a weapon she was strong enough to wield. Precious time slid away and she tried to lift her father’s hammer, without success.
Something. Anything. She whirled around, and this time, she saw a wooden staff in the corner. Although it was heavy and thick, at least she could lift it.
She rushed out of the hut, only to find that several more of her kinsmen had returned from their hiding places, and had surrounded the Lochlannach. Older men charged forwards with their own weapons, and several lay dead. Others had managed to subdue several of the enemy men, tying them up as hostages.
But it was the Viking leader who held her attention now. He’d torn his way free of the people and was running after the woman, blood lust in his eyes.
Straight towards her brother.
Caragh didn’t think, but raced after him, her lungs burning as she ran. She didn’t know what she could possibly do to stop the warrior, but she gripped the wooden staff in her hands, praying for strength she didn’t have. Her terror seemed to slow, magnified by the need to save Brendan. Her brother had seized the woman with both hands, leaving him powerless to defend himself.
‘Brendan, let her go!’ she shouted, but he didn’t. The Viking raised the battleaxe above his head, prepared to strike.
Without knowing where her strength came from, Caragh swung the staff at his head. The man turned at the last second and the staff caught him across the ear. He dropped hard, the axe falling from his hand. The woman screamed, reaching towards him as she cried out words in an unfamiliar language.
Caragh felt the woman’s pain, and she met the woman’s eyes with her own, wishing she could make her understand. She’d had no choice in this.
Styr awakened, feeling as if someone had crushed his head. When he tried to sit up, a rush of pain poured through him.
It was eerily quiet, and it took him a moment to reassemble what had happened. He smelled a peat fire, and when He tried to sit up, he realised that his wrists were chained behind his back, around a thick post. He was now a prisoner.
Where was Elena? Had they taken her, too? His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he struggled to stand. There was only a woman standing on the far end of the room, watching him with wariness. He listened hard for the sound of his language, for any evidence that his kinsmen were alive. But there was nothing.
He knew the Irish language, after his father had taught him many foreign tongues. As a voyager, Styr knew how valuable it was, and he’d mastered several languages as a boy. But he asked the woman no questions, not revealing his ability to understand her words. He might learn more about Elena and Ragnar, if he pretended he knew nothing.
‘Where have you taken the others?’ he barked out, using a Norse dialect he knew she wouldn’t understand.
She flinched at his tone and remained far away. Good. In the shadowed light, he couldn’t quite make out her features, but it surprised him that her family had left her here alone with him. Where were the other men? Why was there no one else to guard him?
He began examining his bonds more closely. They had chained his arms behind his back, around a thick beam on the opposite wall. He guessed the circumference of the beam was the width of his thigh, for when he leaned his weight against it, it did not budge.
‘Let me go,’ he demanded, still using the Norse language. To emphasise his words, he strained against the chains.
When the woman stepped into the light, he was shocked by what he saw. Her face was terribly thin, her eyes sunken from lack of food. The bones of her wrists were narrow, and though he recognised her as the one who had struck him down, he couldn’t imagine how she’d done it.
There was no possible way she’d had the strength to move him here and put him in chains. She looked as if a strong wind would knock her over.
Her eyes were a strange blue, so dark, they were almost violet. Her brown hair hung to her waist, unbound except for a small braided section at her temples.
She might have been beautiful, if she’d had enough to eat.
He found himself comparing her to Elena. His wife was nearly as tall as he was, with long reddish-blonde hair and eyes the colour of seawater. Their families had arranged the marriage in order to ally their two tribes together. Although she was a quiet woman, the first few years had been good between them.
A chill took hold within him as he wondered what they’d done with her. Was she alive?
But demanding questions of this waif would accomplish nothing. Better to bide his time and gain her trust. Perhaps then he could get her to unlock his chains, and he’d slip away into the night.
‘I can’t understand your language,’ she admitted, drawing nearer. She was far shorter than Elena, and the top of her head only reached his shoulders. ‘But I’m sorry for all of this. I just…wanted to protect my brother.’
He said nothing, staring at her. The young woman’s voice revealed her fear, but there was also a sweetness to it, as if she were trying to soothe a wounded beast.
‘My name is Caragh Ó Brannon,’ she informed him. Touching her chest, she repeated, ‘Caragh.’
Styr said nothing at all. If she wanted his name, then she’d have to set him free first. He sent her a hard look, willing her to release him.
‘If you’ll allow it, I can tend your wound,’ she offered. ‘I truly am sorry for hitting you. I was afraid I’d killed you for a moment.’ She lowered her gaze, wringing her hands together. ‘That’s not the sort of woman I am.’ Her mouth tightened, and she sighed. ‘I don’t know why I’m even speaking to you, for you can’t understand a single word.’
It didn’t seem to stop her, though. Caragh began talking in a stream of conversation, and Styr was so taken aback by her ceaseless speech, he had trouble following some of her words. She kept apologising while she found a basin of water and a bowl of soup. Then he came to understand that it was her way of hiding her fear. By talking her enemy to death.
When she stood an arm’s length from him, Caragh stopped mid-word. Her eyes stared at him with regret, and she set down the bowl of soup at his feet, along with another basin, presumably for his personal needs.
‘I’m sorry to keep you like this,’ she said quietly. ‘But if I let you go, you’ll kill my family.’ Her eyes drifted downward again. ‘Possibly me, as well.’ She dipped the linen cloth into the water and hesitated. Water dripped down into the bowl, and she admitted, ‘I probably shouldn’t have taken you prisoner. But if I hadn’t, you’d have gone after my brother again.’
It disconcerted him that he’d been captured at all. If he and his men had been at their full strength, it never would have happened. The lack of sleep had slowed their reflexes, making it difficult for them to respond to the surprise attack.
Caragh reached out and touched the cloth to his temple, washing away the dried blood. The gentle gesture was so unexpected, he gaped at her. She was intent upon her work, though from the slight tremor in her fingers, he sensed her fear of him. The cool water soothed the swelling, but he spoke no words.
Why would she bother tending his wound? He was her enemy, not her friend. No one had ever touched him in this manner, and he couldn’t understand