His Captive Bride Page 6

  Or sacrificed in some kind of midnight, pagan religious ceremony?

  All the blood drained from her face. For a moment, only Valbrand’s firm grip on her arm kept her standing. Her mind reeling, she clung madly to the promise he had made earlier. No one is going to hurt you, he had said. No one is going to hurt you.

  Even the Italian girl fell silent as the elders arrayed themselves in an impressive, solemn line at the base of the wall of rock. There were fourteen of them. All garbed in richly embroidered, silk-lined mantles fastened by huge gold brooches. Oddly enough, none looked particularly old.

  In fact, most appeared to be as young as Valbrand, whom she guessed was no more than thirty.

  When the last of the fourteen took his place, every man present bowed to them, almost as one. Silence reigned, broken only by the splashing of the waterfall a few yards away.

  Then one of the elders stepped forward and addressed the gathering. From his tone, it sounded like a most serious, solemn speech. Avril’s pulse slowed a bit. She even managed to take a deep breath.

  All of this formality and ceremony seemed a bit excessive—not to mention unnecessary—if it was truly rape they intended. And none of the elders carried weapons of any kind.

  She struggled to make sense of his words, frustrated that she could not understand what was being said and what it had to do with her and the other captives. This language was so foreign to her ear, she could not begin to even guess its roots. It was rough, guttural, yet it had a regular, almost musical cadence. Was it Germanic? Slavic?

  The first man finished his address and stepped back, and another came forward, this one holding a sparkling silver chalice. Lifting his arms, he spoke in an impassioned tone, his voice booming up to the night sky. He used the cup to gesture to the waterfall, to the moon, then to each woman in turn. Reaching into his cloak with his free hand, he withdrew a handful of grain that he sprinkled across the ground.

  Avril’s heart kept skipping beats. “What is—”

  “Silence,” Valbrand whispered harshly.

  The man with the chalice returned to his place and a third elder came forward, from the center of the fourteen. This one had cropped blond hair and a full beard, and carried himself with the assured, dignified air of a lord, mayhap even a king. A chain of gold encircled his neck, its massive links supporting a huge jewel of midnight blue.

  Not saying a word, he strode to the far end of the line of captors and women, studying each pair in turn, his face set in harsh lines. The men in the clearing fell so silent that Avril could hear the beating wings of a bird taking flight in the forest.

  He paused only briefly, before the English girl, then continued down the row—until he reached her and Valbrand. His gaze fastened on her for a moment, his eyes a clear, pale blue that made Avril gasp. With his sky-colored eyes, chiseled features, and golden hair, this man bore a striking resemblance to her captor.

  She returned his probing stare in full measure, not glancing away or even blinking. She did not care who he was; she would not bow down to him or any man here. Lifting her chin, she steeled herself to face whatever might come.

  But to her surprise, one corner of his mouth curved upward—so slightly that if she had not been standing only inches away, she would not have noticed—and the look in his eyes softened almost imperceptibly.

  For an instant, his mien could only be described as... approving.

  Almost kindly.

  The impression lasted but a heartbeat, for he glanced at Hauk and the two regarded each other with cool expressions, the air between them all but freezing with iciness. Then Hauk lowered his gaze and bowed his head. A muscle flexed in his tanned cheek. His entire body seemed rigid, with some emotion Avril could not puzzle out.

  If the two men were indeed related, she thought, it seemed there was little love lost between them.

  Turning on his heel, the blue-eyed elder motioned for one of the other fourteen to join him. The man he had summoned came forth carrying a small, ancient-looking chest, and the two walked to the far end of the line of couples.

  Standing before the first pair—a flaxen-haired young warrior and the frightened Moorish girl, who was still crying—the leader intoned what sounded like yet another serious, solemn speech. Someone from the crowd stepped up behind the pair, bending to speak to the girl in low tones.

  After a moment, she stopped crying.

  Avril’s brow furrowed. Was he translating for her? What had been said that could stop the girl’s tears? From her place midway down the line, Josette leaned over and glanced back at Avril with a bewildered look. Avril could only shrug and shake her head.

  As the speech continued, the Moorish girl’s face brightened considerably—and Avril’s confusion deepened. With everyone’s attention focused on the pair, she seized the opportunity to look at the men gathered around, studying the inhabitants of this island in detail for the first time, struggling to discern who and what—and, more important, where—they were.

  Their spare, simple garments offered few clues. And though many were fair-haired, others looked as dark as Spaniards. Most left their hair long and unbound, and several had beards, some so full they wore them forked or braided. They also seemed fond of jewelry, though it was simple as well. Arm rings. Brooches. Neck rings. Dangling pendants.

  Those caught her eye, for many of the men wore the same device: a pendant in the shape of an upside-down ax or hammer.

  Her heart started to pound. By all the saints, it looked almost like... but nay, that could not be. Not Thor’s hammer. That symbol had not been seen in the world for centuries.

  With a gasp of disbelief, she returned her gaze to her captor, studying his profile. Suddenly it all started to make sense, as she remembered the frightening tales passed down from the time before her grandmother’s grandmother.

  Tales of fierce raiders who came by sea.

  Blond, bearded warriors who attacked with speed and daring, pillaging towns large and small. Ransacking churches. Burning homes. By the thousands, they had swept across the continent. They had even conquered Paris by sailing up the Seine.

  In their dragon-headed longships.

  An image of the dragon-headed posts on Hauk’s bed seared Avril’s memory. All at once the forest and night sky whirled in her vision. The words the elder was speaking struck her like icy rain. Little wonder she had not recognized their strange language.

  The tongue they were speaking was Norse. Old Norse. This band must have been hiding here for centuries. Since the time when their kind had been driven from the continent. An uncharted island would make the perfect place of concealment for a hated, hunted people. They built their longhouses in the old way. Wore the sort of clothing favored by their ancestors. Worshipped the old gods.

  And lived as pirates of the seas, raiding along the coasts.

  Stealing women to warm their beds.

  “By sweet, Holy Mary. You are Vikings,” she choked out, trying to wrest her arm from Valbrand’s grasp. “You are Vikings!”

  ~ ~ ~

  “You have discovered our secret,” Hauk said in a hushed whisper.

  He tried to sound convincing.

  “Did you think I would not?” The surprisingly strong little demoiselle tried unsuccessfully to wrench free of his grasp. “I will not be made some kind of bond slave to warm your bed, Norseman—”

  “Indeed you will not,” he agreed readily. “That is not our purpose here.” He wondered again whether he should have taken the time to explain the truth earlier, regardless of the fact that they were late. But she had been convinced her stay on Asgard would be short. Telling her she would spend the rest of her life here—as his bride—would have made her utterly impossible to manage.

  At the moment, all he wanted was for her to be silent. They stood last in line. Once the ceremony was finished, he could scoop her up and make a swift retreat before she caused too much trouble.

  She continued to struggle, cursing him. His uncle—Erik Valbrand, highest
of all the eldrer—shot him a disapproving look from where he stood addressing young Svein and his Moorish captive.

  Hauk tugged Avril closer, pressing his lips to her ear. “Mayhap I should have gagged and blindfolded you as well as tying your hands. I will remedy the oversight at once, if you wish.”

  He had no patience left to deal with the demoiselle’s unruly temper. Not after the day he had endured. But the threat and a slight shifting of his grip on her arm were sufficient to quiet her for the moment—though she looked furious enough to murder him and every man here, even unarmed and with her hands tied.

  By great Thor’s bearded goats, he thought with a rueful glance up at the night sky, what had he done to merit such a female in his life? Never had he met a woman so headstrong and spirited and reckless... and bewitching.

  Whoever had named her had chosen well. Avril. French for April. Springtime. She was every bit as fair and tempestuous as that most unpredictable of all seasons.

  Unfortunately for him, she was also intelligent. It usually took newly arrived captives days or even weeks to guess that their abductors were Norsemen. Avril had unraveled the mystery in less than two hours.

  Odin help him if she proved equally quick at discovering the true nature of Asgard Island and its people. If he thought she was difficult to control now, he did not wish to imagine...

  His uncle’s deep growl of a voice reclaimed his attention. The elders and their translator had finished their explanations to the Moorish girl.

  Svein took his bride’s hand while Erik intoned the traditional closing words of the ritual.

  “Svein, you have risked all to bring this woman to Asgard, and we now recognize her as yours. On your oath of honor, do you accept her life and her safety as your responsibility? Will you see to her needs and her happiness, and protect and care for her all the days of her life?”

  “Ja,” the young groom replied solemnly. “Jeg gjor. I will.”

  The second elder, Storr, opened the ancient horde that he cradled in his hands, reaching inside to withdraw a silver brooch encrusted with pearls. He lifted it toward the night sky and then toward the waterfall. As it glittered in the moonlight, it drew soft sounds of wonder from a few of the women—those who were not still crying, or cursing like the unruly Italian.

  After accepting the brooch, Svein pinned it to his bride’s gown, his movements gentle, almost tentative, as if he feared that his delicate, fawn-eyed beauty might break. “Let it be known to all that this is Fadilah,” he announced, smiling at her, “wife of Svein.”

  A cheer went up from the crowd. Erik and Storr moved on to the second man in line, who eagerly stepped forward to take his vows.

  “What is happening?” Avril asked in an impatient whisper, watching as the ritual was repeated, clearly not understanding a word of what was being said. “What sort of ceremony is this? I do not—”

  “Silence.”

  His tone was enough to make her bite her lip and hold back whatever reply she wanted to make. She returned her attention to the ritual, brow furrowed.

  Hauk only wished he did not understand what was happening.

  He glanced away into the darkness, wishing he could escape the sound of his uncle’s voice. Wishing he were anywhere but here.

  Here in this sacred grove that he hated so much.

  His every nerve felt raw. And he knew that the uncommon heat smoldering between him and the lady at his side was only partly to blame. By all the earth goddesses, she seemed to burn his very fingers, even through the fabric of her sleeve.

  If only he had been able to steal a few hours’ sleep, this place and this woman and this ceremony would not affect him so strongly. He was certain of it. But he had rested only fitfully during the voyage home and not at all since depositing Avril in his bed this morn. While she had dozed peacefully within the walls of his vaningshus, and the other raiders slept after their long absence from Asgard, he had gone to face his uncle. To report the events of the journey. And the loss of two men.

  Two men who had been under his command. Under his protection. The eager would-be warriors had known the risks when they left Asgard, but their safety had been entrusted to him.

  As his uncle had been swift to point out.

  Erik Valbrand had ordered him to arrange their funeral, since few on Asgard were familiar with the ancient rites anymore. Hauk had spent the day preparing the bodies, with their families’ help, then set them out to sea after nightfall, in the very longship that had carried them to their fate, set ablaze.

  He had had no time to mourn—and less than an hour to gather necessities for this bride he did not want, return to his vaningshus and collect her without getting a blade in his gullet, and bring her here to the althing.

  Hauk stared up at the towering wall of stone before him. He had not attended an althing, had not even set foot in this part of the forest, in years. Everyone believed his absence was due to his well-known opinion that this custom, like so many others, should be changed. That it was a waste of breath to gather here at midnight on the night of the raiders’ return, offering toasts to the gods and listening to the elders’ endless speeches about the old ways and ancestral traditions.

  No one knew the true reason he stayed away.

  He resisted the tightening in his throat, the ache that filled his chest. But as he listened to the men in line taking their vows, one after another, he felt something inside him tearing open. Felt the memories rising from the deep, black place inside where he kept them locked away.

  Karolina.

  The thought of her name made the feelings spill through him.

  How excited he had been, standing here beside his first bride. How proud and pleased with himself—just as young Svein and the others were now. Grinning like a witless fool, as eager as a stag in rut.

  Utterly unaware of how soon it would all end.

  He swallowed hard as the memories flashed across his mind, each one sweeter than honey and more bitter than the last dregs of spoiled wine. The gentleness of her voice. Her silhouette at the window in the mornings, her every movement so serene as she combed her long blond hair. The softness of her palm pressing his hand against her belly, so he could feel their baby kick.

  The sound of her screams as she died.

  Hauk shut his eyes. She had called out his name with her last breath.

  And taken their unborn son with her.

  He clenched his jaw, trying to force the unwanted emotions away. In command of himself after a moment, he opened his eyes and glanced up at the waterfall.

  Only to be assaulted by memories of the second time he had stood here, years later. Beside Maeve.

  Maeve, whose laughter had brightened his life like the sun. She had been so entranced by the moonlit waterfall, she barely uttered a sound during the ceremony. His cheerful, Celtic lass had been happy to leave behind her life of poverty in Ireland, had quickly fallen in love with Asgard’s beauty... and with him.

  And for a time, he had known hope. Had allowed himself to believe that this time, it would be different. That she could heal the emptiness inside him, the loneliness that had been with him since he was a boy.

  He could still see the look on her face when she found the first gray hair in her ebony tresses, how she had made a jest over it...

  And when he lost her, as well, the emptiness inside him had widened and deepened, and his life was all the darker for having known even a brief touch of the sun.

  Hauk dropped his gaze to the trampled earth beneath his boots, trying to shrug off the memories as Avril had tried to shrug off his hand earlier. None of it mattered any longer. He had learned his lesson: ’Twas better to be alone than to be left alone.

  Better not to hope for a life different from the one the gods had given him.

  In the years since he had lost Maeve, he had allowed every feeling, every desire, every dream inside him to cool and harden into ice. Blessed, numbing ice. Until he wanted nothing, felt nothing. Most of the time it was not even a s
truggle anymore.

  Except here, in this place.

  “Ja,” another young groom was saying happily. “Jeg gjor. I will.”

  Nei, Hauk wanted to say. Nay, I will not. He had vowed never to allow another utlending woman—an outsider—into his life, his home. His heart. They were too fragile. Too rare and precious, like delicate blooms he could hold in his hands for only an instant of time. He preferred the occasional liaisons he enjoyed with Asgard women, which lasted however long he and the lady might wish.

  Women like his last mistress, Nina, who had kept him company and shared his nights and asked naught more. She had shed no tears when they parted a few months ago. Mayhap because she understood that the only thing that endured in this world was time itself.

  Understood that he needed to devote his attention to what mattered most: his duty. To protect this island and its people.

  And its secret.

  The elders came to the sixth place in line, where the red-haired English girl stood alone, and Hauk raised his head, bracing himself.

  Thorolf stepped forward from the crowd.

  He heard Avril’s small gasp of recognition and fear as Thorolf cast a cold look their way before shifting his attention to the elders.

  “Mine eldrer,” he said, addressing the council in a determined, purposeful tone, “I wish to claim this female, taken by Bjarn. She will replace the woman who was to have been mine.” He pointed to Keldan’s lady. “That woman was in my possession before Keldan interfered and stole her from me.”

  Exclamations of shock rippled through the crowd. Even to touch another man’s claimed female was a serious offense.

  Hauk swore under his breath, but he had been expecting this. “Nei, mine eldrer. Thorolf does not tell the full truth.”

  He was speaking out of turn, before the elders could talk to Thorolf—and his impertinence earned him an annoyed glance from his uncle.

  But Hauk would not be silenced. Not even by that look, well remembered from boyhood, from this man who had raised him.