Surrender My Love

She didn’t meet his eyes. “He was not there for me to tell him my intentions.”

  Selig digested that for a moment, then said simply, “He will be angry.”

  She tried to appear unconcerned, shrugging. “I suppose he will.”

  “Very angry.”

  She glared at him now. “I know, brother, so belabor the point no further. ’Tis my worry, not yours. Now tell me all that ails you so I can apprise the healer—”

  “Nay—if you love me, no more healers,” he cut in and actually shuddered. “The one just done with me called herself such, but all she did was force poison on me that let no food reach my belly.”

  “Then you were given food?”

  “Aye, but none that would stay down me long enough to do any good, thanks to that old witch.”

  Kristen nodded thoughtfully. “The Dane said you were purged to rid you of the fever, and it must have worked, for you are cool to the touch now.”

  “My fever was not so great—” He paused, those long hours of confusion and pain such a muddle in his mind. The delirium, the poison, the laughter. “At least not the last I recall of it,” he amended.

  “You had it the whole three days you were at Gronwood?” she asked.

  “Three?”

  He choked on the spoonful she had managed to get by him while asking her questions. His movements were so slow that, if he did not know her so well to anticipate her reactions, he would not have had the time to put up a hand to stop her when she thoughtlessly leaned forward to pound on him. Now he simply scowled at her for the pain she would have inflicted by trying to help.

  Defensively, Kristen scowled right back and said huffily, “I have never pretended to a great skill in tending the ill or wounded, Brother.”

  “Or even a small skill,” he agreed. “You are more apt at inflicting wounds than fixing them.”

  She ignored that, continuing. “But you are stuck with me for the nonce, so you will just have to bear with me.”

  He was grinning at her after that, and willing to accept another mouthful of food, saying around it, “Somehow I will manage—to survive your tender—nay, you cannot box my ears just now.”

  She sat back, smiling. “A shame. They need it.”

  He was no longer grinning, but was eyeing her with chagrin. “I suppose the very day I am recovered—?”

  “Aye.”

  “Verily do I wish your memory were not so long.” He sighed. “Actually, I could wish mine were not so lacking now. Explain to me that ‘three’ days.”

  “’Tis how long you were imprisoned.”

  “I do not remember it being so long.”

  “What do you remember?”

  His expression altered drastically, became fraught with deep anger. “The pain…and her laughter. Always her laughter. I never knew a woman could find pleasure in another’s suffering.”

  Kristen gritted her teeth upon hearing that. “I was not going to tax you, but mayhap you had better tell me all of it.”

  That brought a sigh from him, draining some of the anger. “It will not tax me, Kris, there is so little to tell. We were attacked whilst still in Wessex; thieves, I suppose. They fell from the trees, and so many of them.”

  “Aye, the rumor finally reached us that you might all be dead. ’Twas where Royce went, to investigate. And you took a blow to your head?”

  “From behind. Clubbed, likely, since there was no blood that I could find. It felled me instantly. When I woke, I was alone, in clothes not mine, and with such pain in my head I could barely move. Also, I was puking for no reason, and seeing two of single things, and as weak as a babe. Thor! I have never felt so wretched.”

  She cringed, feeling wretched for him. “The blow had to have been severe,” she speculated. “I have felt the small lump you still bear. Likely ’twas thrice that size or more, if received so long ago.”

  “Likely,” he agreed. “But when I woke, I thought myself still in Wessex, that only a day or so had passed, since I had no beard to account for longer. Yet I was in East Anglia, as I learned that very day to my regret, and have no memory of how I came to be there.”

  “Nigh a fortnight with no memory?”

  “Aye.”

  “And no beard?”

  “Aye.”

  She was thoughtful for only a moment. “’Tis obvious someone took you with them to East Anglia and cared for you the while, though you slept through the whole of it. I wonder why they then abandoned you.”

  “I merely wonder who they were and why they bothered with me at all. I cannot imagine Saxon thieves hiding out in East Anglia.”

  “Nay, so mayhap they were East Anglian thieves come down to Wessex.”

  “And decided I was worth ransoming?”

  She nodded. “But they gave up waiting for you to wake up and tell them who to send their demands to.”

  “Possibly,” he allowed.

  Kristen sighed. “Most like we will never know. But if you never woke during that time, ’tis doubtful they got much food into you, if they even bothered to try. That at least explains the lack of flesh on your bones. And I take it your head still pains you?”

  “Aye, but not as constant, and not as severe. If I am completely still, it even goes away for a short time. But now I have that other ache to contend with.”

  “Where?”

  “My back.”

  She had not seen his back. He was without a tunic, but he had been placed on his back in the wagon and hadn’t stirred from that position. Even now, to feed him, she had merely called for her sack of extra clothes to place under his head so he was lifted enough to swallow more easily.

  “Another wound?”

  Again his expression altered to a mask of pure rage. “Ask that Danish bitch.”

  Kristen didn’t wait that long. She pushed his shoulder until he slowly turned for her onto his stomach. She heard his hiss of pain and saw why. What scabs had formed had stuck to the pallet and just been ripped off. And that solid mass of blue and blister-puffed skin, now oozing blood…

  It was too much for Kristen to grasp. Falsely accused of spying and then tortured for a confession? And a woman had ordered it? A woman?

  Selig couldn’t see the wound, could only feel it, so she made light of it, though she was seething. “’Tis not as bad as it looks.”

  “It feels worse.”

  “Most like because you are so weak.” She tried to make him forget it, though she could not. “Have you had any sustenance at all in all this time?”

  “The day I awoke, before I reached Gronwood.”

  Briskly now, she said, “Well, you are going to finish this stew—and more, I hope. I want you eating constantly, as often as you can, as much as you can.” She set the bowl down on the pallet, next to his face. “You can manage the rest of this yourself, I think, with not so far to reach it. I am going to go and fetch that healer now, and not a word against it. She will have salves to apply, and something to ease your pain, and no purges, I swear it.”

  She gave him no opportunity to argue, not that it would have done him any good. She left the wagon, careful not to jar it and so jar him. But it was not the healer she was seeking—not yet. She looked for and found the Dane, sitting with Thorolf not so many feet away.

  Erika had been watching the wagon for Kristen’s appearance. She jumped to her feet, causing Thorolf to scramble hastily to his, thinking she was bolting, until he, too, saw Kristen approaching.

  Erika didn’t run, stood her ground, though she was trembling. She has seen his back, seen what I did in anger, no excuse, no excuse, no matter the provocation…

  “I asked you before,” Kristen said, reaching them, her voice calm, surprising Erika with that calmness. “I will have an answer this time. If Selig came to Gronwood injured, as Turgeis Ten Feet claimed, then he was seeking help. How did you aid him?”

  “I had him lashed.”

  It was the worst time for Erika’s guilt to make such a vocal appearance, but then, she had been wallowing in
it all day. Kristen heard not the guilt, though, merely the words confirming the conclusions she had reached, and she released her rage with a backhanded fist.

  It was a powerful blow, coming from a woman her size, a woman no longer holding her anger in check. It knocked Erika to the ground, where she sprawled at Thorolf’s feet, her golden hair puddled in the dirt. He didn’t try to stop her fall. He could have, but he merely moved aside.

  Erika’s cheek felt afire. It had been smashed against the edges of her teeth, slicing the inside open. Blood pooled in the bottom of her mouth, so much that some trickled out of the corners, and she was forced to spit it out or choke on it.

  Kristen stood over her, both fists clenched, arms rigid, shouting at her to get up, that she was not done with her. She was going to beat her senseless, Erika was sure of it, and there wasn’t a single man there who would stop her—Turgeis. Ah, sweet Freya, nay. If he was near, if he was somehow watching, he would abandon all caution and come forward to help her. Nothing would stop him from trying, and he would die in the attempt. And Kristen was still shouting at her to get up.

  “Lady, please, not where he can see.”

  If pleas had been anticipated, that was not one of them. Kristen scoffed. “Do you delude yourself into thinking someone here cares what happens to you?”

  “Turgeis does.” The blue eyes were deep with meaning.

  The mere mention of the name caused a half-dozen swords to be drawn by those near enough to have heard her. But Kristen was not daunted by the prospect of that hulking giant’s possible appearance. She was too angry.

  “Then let him come. I doubt me you and I will even notice. Now get up—”

  She was cut off, and by a voice that was least expected. “Nay, Kris. Feed her. Keep her well. What she suffers is to come from me.”

  Kristen made a furious sound of frustration and marched back to the wagon. Selig had actually pulled himself to a sitting position and now clung to the side of the wagon to remain that way.

  “Let me—” she began.

  “Nay. She owes me, not you.”

  His voice was not as strong now, but no less stubborn. It had cost him to make the effort to stop her, and he would argue further if she insisted. She could see that plainly, which was why she conceded, though with ill grace.

  “Very well, but I like it not. And you lie back. Rest is as important for you as food just now. Do not let me see you ignoring either one again.”

  Selig took one more look at his slender, slim-hipped tormentor, huddled in the dirt, and smiled, or tried to. Even that was too much of an effort for him, and he dropped back onto the pallet with a groan.

  Kristen gnashed her teeth together. Her rage was on his behalf, yet he was the one denying her an outlet for it, and it was so strong, she really did need to do something. Yet she could see his point. Had she been abused thusly, she wouldn’t want her family taking revenge for it if she were capable of taking her own. And Selig would be capable of it once he was recovered—he had better recover.

  She glanced once more toward the Dane, staring hard at her for a long moment before she approached again. Erika was still on the ground, though sitting up now, and she didn’t rise. Kristen’s expression was no less wrathful than it had been. Erika’s was wary.

  But it was to Thorolf whom Kristen looked when she reached them, to ask, “Has she eaten?”

  “She does not deserve it,” was his curt opinion.

  Much as she agreed with him, she grudgingly admitted, “Though it seemed otherwise, Selig was not denied food by her or her people. And you heard him,” she added with disgust. “She is to be kept hale and hearty for the time he can deal with her himself.”

  “You mean to restrain yourself?”

  It was said to calm her ire somewhat, and to a degree it did just that. His sister Tyra had been her closest friend during her growing years, and Thorolf had taken his sister’s place for Kristen in her new home. In fact, he could tease her as her brothers did and get away with it, whereas others could not.

  That he teased her now made her look at herself critically and brought a sigh. “I will content myself with imagining what Selig will eventually do to her.”

  “Boiling in oil?”

  “At the very least.”

  Neither noticed that Erika had gone chalk-white, unaware that they were both teasing. Panic rose, and bile that she had to swallow down. And if they had not gone on to talk of camp and sentries and plans for the morrow, she would never have been able to compose herself before those light aqua eyes of the Norsewoman fell on her again.

  “Feed her, Thorolf,” Kristen ordered, her tone sharp once more. “Then bring her to me to secure for the night. I will need rope. If we have none, send someone to the village for it.”

  She turned to leave. Erika stopped her. She had just been treated like an object, talked about, not spoken to. It was enough to make her lose her temper entirely, though she merely noted it, was too dejected and frightened still to have room for anger. Which was a good thing, for it would be stupid indeed to further antagonize these people.

  “You may as well secure me now, for I cannot eat.”

  “You will—”

  “I cannot chew, Lady Kristen.”

  It was no lie. The inside of Erika’s cheek had gone numb and would as like be eaten as any food. Nor did she add that the very thought of food made her nauseous.

  She said instead, “Mayhap in the morn.”

  Kristen said nothing for a moment, debating whether to force the issue, but finally conceded with a nod and a final word to Thorolf. “Fetch the rope now.” Then she yanked Erika to her feet and dragged her back to the wagon.

  Erika was not returned to the wagon bed as she had half expected. She was shoved back to sitting on the ground, with one of the wagon wheels at her back. Kristen stood beside her, tapping her foot impatiently while she waited for the rope. Still, no word had been said to Erika directly, and none seemed forthcoming.

  As the minutes passed, Erika began to squirm. She knew she was going to be bound and ignored for the rest of the night, and the thought recalled to her that she had not…

  Her face was already heating, but she had to ask, “Could you?—I need to—that is—”

  A frown came with the blunt interruption. “Was Thorolf so lax that he did not take you to the bushes?”

  Erika’s face was now flaming, but she got out, “Nay, but I could not—with him. You told him not to let me out of his sight.”

  “Nor would he have, but a prisoner cannot afford to be missish.”

  “Please. I am asking you, woman to woman. If you would but put yourself in my place—”

  “I have been in your place, Dane. I was a prisoner, with most of these Vikings you see here in chains alongside me, and most of these very Saxons guarding us. Think you I had any privacy?”

  So that had been true also, what Selig had said about his sister marrying her captor. And those previous prisoners and previous guards now rode together as comrades-in-arms? Erika still could not fathom how that could come about; she wanted to ask, but did not dare.

  She said only, “Please!”

  But it was said with enough desperation that Kristen growled, “Bah,” and jerked her to her feet. “If I did not feel the need myself…”

  Erika felt only relief, not even caring how Kristen’s fingers, nigh as strong as a man’s, bit into her arm as she was pulled behind her long stride. Yet Kristen halted just short of the concealing shrubbery, her eyes scanning the shadows beyond, and Erika groaned inwardly, thinking the woman had changed her mind.

  So it came as a surprise to merely hear, “The giant, is he your husband?”

  Erika didn’t think to lie. “He is my shadow, has been since the day I saved his life when I was yet a child. I am as a daughter to him.”

  “And you believe he is out there?”

  Now she did think to lie, but couldn’t see much point in it after what she had said earlier. “I would be surprised
if he is not,” she admitted. “’Tis rarely that I am ever beyond his hearing or sight.”

  “Hearing and sight will do him no good,” Kristen replied. “What you are is beyond his reach, even should he follow all the way to Wessex.”

  So saying, she called to one of the men who was near and told him to gather five others and spread out beyond the area she intended to enter. She was taking no chances with her prisoner, and her prisoner’s cheeks were flaming again.

  Kristen, seeing that, mumbled contemptuously, “Too missish by half.”

  Erika heard her and stiffened in reflex. “I cannot help it.”

  “Then you would be wise to get over it,” Kristen shot back. “When my brother is done with you, embarrassment will be the least of your woes.”

  It sounded like a promise to Erika’s ears. The Norsewoman might content herself, imagining what her brother was going to do, but Erika was going to drive herself mad with those same imaginings. She had to escape. She had to. But how, when one or more pairs of eyes would always be on her?

  Chapter 14

  ERIKA COULDN’T SAY what had roused her from her sleep, but when she opened her eyes the next morn, it was to see a pair of legs standing near her right shoulder. They were long legs, thickly male in mesh chausses and calf-length boots of finely worked leather. Trying to see what else went with them was a mistake, however, that brought a wince and a sharp gasp of pain.

  She had forgotten her position, tied tight to the large wagon wheel at her back, with thick rope wrapped round and round her waist, chest, and throat to make sure she would still be sitting there come morn, and so she was. She remembered trying to keep her head straight, but it must have rolled to the side once she slept, and now her neck muscles were screaming in complaint.

  For that matter, she detected no feeling in her hands and lower arms, which were secured at her back. But that was mayhap a blessing, for she also recalled trying to work her hands loose of the thinner rope that bound them. It had been a much coarser rope, to discourage just such an attempt, yet she had still tried to pull loose of it, and had scraped her skin raw in the attempt. Her feet were also numb, the thin hose on one ankle torn by the rope where she had tried the same loosening effort on her feet, without success.