Surrender My Love

  The swelling on her cheek was, of course, quite noticeable. Besides the tightness of the swelling, she could actually see it when she looked down. She wondered if it had bruised as well. She wasn’t going to ask anyone.

  “Your wife,” she said in answer.

  His expression didn’t change. “She sees to her own quite fiercely.”

  Fiercely indeed. Erika doubted she would ever forget the dagger at her throat. “I was expecting it.”

  “Were you? Why?”

  She glanced up at him, wondering if he was merely curious, or if there was another reason for these questions. Hesitantly, she gave him the truth. “I suspected she had not seen her brother’s back yet.”

  “Ah, the lashing. Why did you do it?”

  She was surprised that he would ask that. Had his wife told him nothing?

  “He was an accused spy. His answers did not ring true when he was put to questioning.” That wasn’t the whole of it, wasn’t even the why of it, he had insulted her, asked for her bed, but she wanted to know, “Why does everyone here find that lashing so unusual? I doubt me you would have done differently.”

  “Possibly, but then, I am a man and his angel’s face would have no effect on me.”

  “I do not see what difference—” she said defensively.

  “Do you not? Women dote on him. They adore him. They do not abuse him.”

  Nor would she have, Erika realized, if circumstances hadn’t interfered. It began to annoy her considerably, that Selig the Blessed could likely get away with just about anything—if a woman was to judge him. These people thought so. His sister thought so. And remembering his insult to her, she knew he undoubtedly thought so.

  “So you wanted a confession?”

  “What?” She glanced at him again, bemused, until she recalled he had asked of the lashing. “Nay—I—he insulted me and I lost my temper.”

  Royce threw back his head and laughed. Erika gritted her teeth. She never should have owned up to that truth.

  “’Tis not funny,” she said.

  “God’s truth, it is just that. Your temper? Now does this absurdity make sense.”

  He was implying that no less could be expected of a woman, and Erika resented that. Hers had been only a momentary loss, her control returned right quickly. If she hadn’t been distracted by Thurston’s accident…

  Selig watched them through narrowed eyes. He didn’t like it that Royce was showing an interest in his prisoner, particularly since he couldn’t hear what was being said between them. He liked it even less that Royce could, if he chose, release the woman, and there was nothing Selig could do about it in his present condition, short of starting a war between their two groups, which he would not do.

  But it would be a close thing, something he did not want to put to the test. She was not going to be released, not by him, not until he had exacted a full measure of revenge against her, and that could take years, considering the way he was feeling.

  He watched them, and knew to the second when she became angry and thereafter ignored Royce until he rode off. Selig had an uncanny ability for reading women’s emotions—even those women he hated. Nay, not those, just this one, for he had never hated a woman before, and was in fact having difficulty adjusting to it. Especially one as shapely as this Dane. As when his sister had come by just a few hours after they had set off that morn, to casually suggest that Erika had been walking long enough.

  His first reaction had been concern, and he had been immediately appalled by it. He still could not believe he had felt it. He had had to remind himself that this was no ordinary woman to him, that he was nowise going to treat her as he would any other woman. It would help if he could forget she was a woman, but that was not possible.

  He had refused Kristen’s suggestion, though typically, she had thought to argue with him. “Do you mean her to drop and be dragged? It makes no difference to me, but she may break something—” his sister added.

  He had been unwilling to argue about it. “She is stronger than that. Leave her. When she is near exhaustion will be soon enough to let her ride.”

  He was still annoyed with himself for those few seconds of concern. It might have been a natural reaction for him, but it was one he meant to ignore henceforth. In fact, he now hoped she would fall. He decided he would not have her put into the wagon until she did.

  And it shouldn’t be much longer. Where before the rope had been lax and she had found it necessary to carry it to keep from tripping on it, it now dragged her. He felt exhausted just watching her. But he didn’t stop. Not once had he stopped watching since she had fallen back to where he could see her.

  He lay on his pallet, slowly going through the mountainous pile of food Kristen had left for him, enjoying every moment of the Danish woman’s difficulty. His own pain was ignored by dent of will, aided by having Erika No Heart to concentrate on. In return, she was ignoring him completely, had not returned his gaze even once, which was no easy feat, considering she was facing him.

  When she did trip, her eyes came immediately to him, telling him that she was not so unaware of his perusal as she would have him think. She didn’t fall, caught herself in time, but it was a near thing, close enough for Selig.

  He beckoned her toward the wagon. Her chin went up, giving him her refusal. He stiffened, which set off a number of twinges and aches throughout his body. It absolutely infuriated him that he couldn’t immediately get to her, pick her up, and toss her into the wagon. She knew he couldn’t, which was why she had the nerve to defy him. But he had other options available to him, not as satisfying as seeing to the matter himself, but adequate to see his will met.

  He sat up to catch Ivarr’s attention—Ivarr was riding to the rear of the wagon—and called him forward to say simply, “Bring her.”

  Ivarr did, without comment, but Erika shrieked at his method. Without dismounting, he picked her up by a fistful of her gown at the back of her neck and literally dropped her into the wagon. She landed on her knees first, but her hands, tied wrist to wrist, were useless to prevent her full collapse forward.

  Belly-down, she lay there for a moment, thankful that her face hadn’t scraped the wood, but not the least bit thankful to be back in the wagon with her nemesis again. She had endured enough this morning. She would prefer the physical discomforts to the mental ones he could inflict, and determined to have her own choice in at least that.

  Fully intent on resuming her walking, she rolled to sit up, but got no farther than that when she heard his curt order. “Stay, or I will have you bound tight again.”

  Had he read her mind? He did sound angry. Because she had ignored his summons? Too bad for him. She was not here willingly, was not going to obey his every command. And if he wanted to make an issue of it, wanted to get the tortures started sooner because of it, well, he could do that very thing and be damned to him.

  But Erika didn’t act on her rebellious thoughts except to turn around and give him her back. She was his prisoner. That had been well established. To defy him further would only assuage her pride. It wouldn’t help her predicament. But that was not the only reason she stayed in the wagon.

  Even as weak and incapacitated as he was, she was frightened of him on some deep, primitive level that she didn’t begin to understand. It wasn’t even the mental tortures he could inflict, it was him, being near him like this, so aware, so close she could touch…and wanting to touch. Sweet Freya, what an insane thought.

  The sudden yank on her left braid brought her prone again, and the steady tugging that followed forced her to scoot back with elbows and feet. Her heart had picked up its beat by the time the pulling ended, and not from the exertion. She was now lying right next to him, though several inches lower, since the pallet he was on was only wide enough to accommodate him. Because of that, she didn’t have to turn her head very far to see that he had wrapped her braid around his fist, and didn’t unwrap it now that she was where he wanted her.

  He could have just a
sked, or ordered. Either way, she would probably have complied, knowing he could force the matter—as he had just done. She thought to tell him so, but didn’t, caught once more by that face of his that was so mesmerizing. He had sounded angry, but he didn’t look it. Satisfied was how he looked.

  “Not so pretty now, are you, wench?” he said in his low voice, though it was a lie. Somehow, her bedraggled state gave her an earthy quality that he found incredibly sexy. And a little dirt couldn’t detract from her lush beauty, which was becoming more and more difficult for him to ignore. But she wasn’t going to know that, so for good measure, he added, “Nor so high and mighty.”

  For some unaccountable reason, she blushed. It was nothing to her how she looked, shouldn’t have been anyway, since it usually wasn’t, but she knew she likely had never looked worse. Enough of her hair had come loose from her braids that it was straggled around her face and stuck in places from her sweat. The dust of the road coated her and had been smeared the few times she had tried to wipe her face on her arms. She had smelled her stench long enough that she no longer smelled it, but he undoubtedly did, and that mortified her the most.

  Ravaged, with dark circles beneath his eyes, he still looked magnificent. She had wilted to drab and knew it. That he wanted her to know it showed what she could expect from this newest exchange between them.

  She decided not to play his game this time. “Just kill me and be done with it.”

  He didn’t know any woman of his acquaintance with that kind of spunk—besides his mother and sister. He was surprised, though he didn’t show it. He smiled at her instead.

  She really wished he wouldn’t do that. It made him so much more handsome—and frightening.

  “Nay, no death for you,” he said. “No ransom either. Just endless torment such as you gave to me.”

  “Yours was not endless,” she dared to point out.

  “Three days in your pit was endless, lady. ’Tis a shame I have nothing like it to offer you.”

  Her mouth was suddenly dry, but she found the nerve to ask, “What do you mean to do with me?”

  “Besides enslave you?”

  The sharply drawn breath escaped her. “You cannot enslave me.”

  “I already have.”

  “But my brother will come for me,” she said frantically. “He will pay whatever man-price you are worth.”

  “I am no Saxon, nor do I accept their wergild price for damages. A Viking will have revenge. You should know that—Viking.”

  But he lived in Wessex. His sister was wed to a Saxon lord. He had to obey their laws. She had to believe this could be settled and ended by the paying of fines, or she would have no hope to sustain her.

  A slave? He could not do it. She had not been captured in battle, she had been stolen from her own home. Ransom he could demand. Wergild he could demand. Her life he could take, though Ragnar would see he died for it. But enslavement, when her own kin lived not so many leagues away?

  Though her emotions were now in turmoil, she tried to sound reasonable. “My brother will never let you keep me. You must consider a price for when he comes.”

  “Must I?”

  He was smiling again, but the sudden pull on her braid proved his anger was back. He had merely clenched his fist around her braid. She doubted he realized it tugged against her scalp.

  “Your brother is not at issue,” he added. “If he does come, I will have to kill him. And whose fault will that ultimately be?”

  She closed her eyes. He was going to make her cry yet. He was likely determined to see it. It was choking her to deny him that.

  “Have I found something that matters to you?” His voice was softer yet.

  “Aye,” she said in a mere whisper.

  “How much will you beg me to spare his life?”

  She stiffened and met his eyes again. “My brother is no weakling. He can see to himself.”

  “So you will not beg?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then you have some pride? Good. Crushing it will be one of my priorities. You will make it challenging for me, will you not?”

  She wished she knew the strategies of his game. Or were there any besides terrifying her?

  “Not if I can help it,” she replied cautiously.

  “Then you plan to grovel so quickly?”

  “’Tis not what I meant.”

  “I know. You think to deny me my revenge, but I will have it despite your efforts. By Odin do I swear it.”

  That his eyes had dropped to her lips as he spoke made her stiffen again. He saw it and laughed. The laughter sounded forced.

  “You do not have that to fear—from me,” he said. “I am in high enough demand to not have to stoop to the likes of you.”

  She hoped he meant what she thought, that rape was not in his list of tortures for her. Then again, with his devious mental games, it could be a hope he wanted her to have just so he could crush it.

  Chapter 16

  BRENNA HAARDRAD LAY back on the grassy bank, letting the sun and warm breeze dry her raven locks and ease the worry from her brow. It was still a smooth brow for a woman of two score and five years. As active as she had always been and still was, her body was as firm as a much younger woman’s. Four pregnancies had left only a few marks on it.

  A splash drew her attention back to the small lake where her husband still swam. Her warm gray eyes watched Garrick shake his golden head, sending sparkling drops of water in every direction. He had aged well himself, this Viking of hers. He still wielded a sword in practice, though he rarely found the opportunity for its use anymore. The few streaks of gray in his hair that he had attained lately took nothing from his strength or his handsomeness. The man could still make her sigh most pleasantly—and often.

  As usual, he was loath to leave the cool water. Brenna sympathized. She had been raised in Wales, not so far north of here, but she had spent more than half her life in Norway, and the heat of southern Wessex took getting used to. But they never stayed long enough to adjust to it, and she knew the heat bothered Garrick much more than it did her. Which was why she never objected when he brought her to the lake so near to Wyndhurst.

  Half the time they would find Royce and Kristen there first, or Selig and whichever woman he currently favored, or both, for their children likewise still complained of the hottest part of Wessex summers, though they lived here now. Hell, Brenna still complained of the coldest part of Norway’s winters, so she understood perfectly.

  She called out to Garrick. “You have been in there so long, you are going to melt.”

  He looked toward the sun, still high, before he started toward the bank, grumbling. “I do not know why I let you drag me here.”

  She was aware that he meant Wessex, not the cool lake he so enjoyed. “You were the one so eager to see your grandchildren this summer,” she pointed out, as if she hadn’t been just as eager.

  “And I needs must suffer for it in this god’s-cursed heat. I am of a mind to take them back to Norway with us.”

  “I doubt me Royce will agree to that.”

  “I was not thinking of asking him.”

  She laughed. He liked his son-in-law, he truly did, but there was still that part of him that would never admit any man was good enough for his only daughter. And it had not really helped that he and Royce began their relationship with a fight to the death. Fortunately, it had not come down to actual killing, and a wedding had quickly followed. But Garrick still, on occasion, gave Royce a hard time. Brenna suspected he did it apurpose, on general principle. She also suspected he enjoyed doing so.

  Just now, though, he was seriously annoyed with Royce for allowing Selig to get involved in something that had led to his capture and imprisonment, and allowing Kristen to ride off alone to gain his release. As if the Saxon could have prevented either occurrence.

  Brenna had tried to point that out, but Garrick had been too upset to listen. He would have ridden off immediately to go after them if there had been enough ho
rses left at Wyndhurst for him and his men. He was going to go anyway if they did not return by the morrow.

  Brenna had kept her own worry to herself. She did not fear so much for Kristen. The girl had a small army with her, a husband fast on her heels, and Brenna had taught her all she knew of weapons, which was considerable. But Selig, imprisoned, helpless among strangers—that caused her a definite mother’s dread.

  Everyone knew how women reacted to her oldest son, but not everyone noticed how men reacted, men who did not know him, how he frequently stirred sour emotions in them in one form or another. It was a manly thing, she supposed, comprised mainly of jealousy and envy because of his extreme handsomeness, something strangers tried hard not to show. And it rarely amounted to anything, because Selig was, after all, foremost a warrior, with the strength and skill to give most men a healthy caution. But it was something that could turn ugly if Selig was at the mercy of such unrestrained emotions.

  If her children did not return by the morrow, she would be riding with her husband to see what was keeping them, whether he liked it or not, and heaven help anyone who got in her way of finding them. But for the moment, with the warm breezes caressing sensually and the man she loved standing beside her in no more than his braies, and those plastered to him, she put her worry aside.

  Her eyes ran appreciatively up and down the length of him. Her Viking was all chest, deep, wide; how often she lost herself beneath that chest. He noted her perusal, and the change in her expression, now sultry. The light appeared in. his aqua eyes, the one she could always ignite.

  “Now that you have cooled off, do you hope to stay that way?” she asked.

  It was a provoking question that got her the answer she wanted. He dropped to his knees, and further, stretching out to half cover her body with his. She started to laugh, because he was still wet, his hair dripping on her, but her laughter was cut off by his kiss, and a moan soon followed. It amazed her sometimes that the passion that had started their lives together had never lessened. It could flare just as fiercely as it had in their youth, or smolder to savor, but it was always there, and always shared.