Surrender My Love by Johanna Lindsey
The man was forgotten for the moment while she took stock of all her discomforts. She kept her tongue away from the raw meat on the inside of her cheek, fearing what pain that would bring with the numbness worn off there. And she twisted her head around slowly, working out the kinks until she could turn it without wincing. That, at least, she could manage, and finally tilted her head back far enough to look up at the silent man next to her.
He hadn’t moved once from his wide-legged stance. She saw the sword still in its scabbard, the short, single-edged knife called the scramasax that Saxons used to finish off a felled opponent. It was tucked into a wide, metal-studded belt with a single garnet at the center of its buckle. A green tunic ended at his wrists, but was covered by a short-sleeved mail shirt with thicker chain links than the chausses. The shoulders were very wide for the narrowness shown by the tightly cinched belt at his waist.
Powerful arms were crossed over his chest. Dark brown hair fell a ways over his shoulders. Deepest green eyes were looking down at her, and not without expression. She was not sure what emotion rode his features, but whatever it was, it was close to violence.
That alone did not bring her second gasp when her gaze rose far enough to see it. Some of her surprise came from how very handsome he was—and so tall. She would have taken him for a Saxon if not for his height, which surely topped her own brother’s by a half foot. And she didn’t recognize him, for she had made a point of looking over all the men in the camp yesterday, in the hopes of finding at least one with a kindly face. She had had no luck there, but she would have remembered this man had she seen him.
Though he looked down on her, he was not facing her, he was facing the wagon. And although she knew he could not see inside it with the hide cover pulled over it, he could see partially under it, to where the Norsewoman slept on, blissfully unaware of him.
Erika remembered how annoyed she had been that the other woman was going to sleep so near to her, just on the other side of the wheel, so she would hear Erika’s slightest stirring. Even with men set to sentry duty and told to keep their eyes on Erika the while they also watched for the giant, Kristen had still remained close with her dagger in hand.
Just now the warrior sister was twisted about, with her unbound hair spread out on the ground beyond the edge of the wagon, making her impossible to miss. And, in fact, one of the man’s boots was planted firmly on that tawny length of hair, by accident or…Not by accident. He was patiently waiting for the Norsewoman to move, thereby pulling her own hair, which would be certain to wake her.
Erika’s eyes widened when she saw that, and brought her third gasp with the conclusion she drew. Sweet Freya, the man was an enemy of these people, could be no other thing with the rage so clearly writ across his handsome face, not just for her, not even for her, but definitely for the sister. And if he could have come into the camp without being stopped, why hadn’t Turgeis tried it?
The camp? She looked out to see if all were dead, but none were. In fact, the men were all stirring, some eating, some seeing to the horses, a great many looking toward the wagon. The man was no enemy, then, was one of them, but whence came the anger? And why didn’t it disturb the others to see it directed at their lady?
“Ouch!”
Kristen had finally moved enough that she pulled her hair. Her head turned to see what she was caught on, saw the foot, and followed it up to see who would dare. Aqua eyes flared wide, but in the next instant, her dagger flashed out to swipe at the leg within reach.
The man jumped back, almost as if he were expecting just such an attack. With her hair free now, Kristen immediately rolled out from beneath the wagon, but on the other side of it, where Erika could no longer see her. The man still could, both of them tall enough to see easily over the bed, and both were now glaring at each other.
“I knew I would rue the day your father gave you that,” he said.
He spoke of the dagger, Erika realized, though she had not understood every word. Anglo-Saxon was his tongue, and although she had learned it by necessity when she first came to this land, she had not learned it in depth, preferring to teach Ragnar’s people Danish instead.
But the Norsewoman spoke it fluently and with the same unfamiliar accent the man used. “Give me a moment and I will fetch the sword you gave me, Saxon.”
His brows came together, his frown had grown so dark. “I am going to beat you till you cannot walk, Viking. I can do no other thing,” he shouted.
“Who is going to help you manage that?” Kristen shouted right back.
Erika was amazed at that provoking response on top of the other one. And it hit the mark. The Saxon bellowed and started to climb over the wagon to get to her. He was certainly big enough to do it.
But Kristen cried out, “Nay, you will shake Selig. I will come around.”
Come around and put herself within his reach again? Erika wouldn’t have dared, would be running in the opposite direction right quickly. And Kristen did appear on Erika’s left, not even noticing her except to step over her outstretched legs to get to the man. Reaching him, she actually punched him squarely in the chest. He didn’t budge, but didn’t raise a hand to strike her back either. His expression hadn’t changed, though, was still furious. So was hers.
“You could at least keep your voice down, you great lout,” Kristen hissed at him. “They are laughing their blasted heads off.”
Quite a few of the men were doing just that, Erika noted. It went a ways toward easing her own anxiety, with the two furious people right next to her.
“They will laugh even more when I put you across my knee,” was his gritted reply.
Kristen took a step back at that. Another and she would have tripped over Erika’s legs, but she only needed the one to separate her from the man. Possibility of a spanking had intimidated her, whereas a beating had not. Erika found that fascinating.
With considerably less heat, Kristen told him, “I can explain, Royce.”
Obviously, he was not interested. “You can explain after I beat you.”
“Oh, unfair!”
“You ride off with my men—!”
“And Selig’s,” she cut in to point out. “Combined, naught but a great army could cause us harm, and all the great armies are disbanded.”
That didn’t pacify him either. “You willfully disobeyed me, woman. Never would I have allowed you to come here, and well you know it.”
That had the Norsewoman’s back stiffening again. “Had you returned when you said you would return, you would have been there to hear the messenger claiming Selig was being held prisoner. Think you I could have remained home knowing that? And ’tis well I did not wait for you. He is nigh dead from what was done to him. Another day at Gronwood could well have killed him.”
Erika winced at that prejudiced opinion. The man’s anger drained, however, and in fact, he pulled Kristen into his arms. It was comfort he was intent on giving, and comfort the Norsewoman gladly took. Watching them brought Erika’s dejection a mite lower.
“Where is he?” Royce asked after a few moments of mutual squeezing.
“In the wagon, and likely awake from all the noise you were making. ’Tis a good thing he cannot understand us, or he would be crawling out here to protect me, and doing himself more damage.”
Royce grunted. “He knows better than to try to protect you from me, wife. And you will be getting that beating for the fright you gave me, but I will wait until we are home to see to it.”
“You are so kind,” she retorted with a grimace and pushed away from him.
The movement brought Erika to his notice again, and this time his frown was just for her, though his remark was for his wife. “I believe you have more explaining to do.”
Kristen followed his look and her own frown was back, as well as the contempt in her voice that Erika was now quite familiar with. “Lady Erika of Gronwood—now Selig’s prisoner.”
“Nigh dead and he captured her?” Royce asked, one brow lifted dou
“So I did it for him. He would have if he were able, but thanks to her, he can barely feed himself just now, let alone exact his revenge.”
After a moment, the Saxon’s frown turned implacable. “You will send her back.”
Erika’s heart leapt at those words, but her hopes were as quickly dashed by Kristen’s reply. “I will not. Selig cannot fight you on this now, so I will have to for him. She stays.”
He was not expecting an argument. “A Danish prisoner?” he exploded. “We are at peace!”
Kristen yelled back at him. “She did not consider that when she falsely accused him, imprisoned him, and had him lashed! He had a severe head injury, was already starved and burning with fever. He came to Gronwood for help, and she had him chained and whipped instead. Look at him and tell me he does not warrant revenge!”
So that he could do that very thing, Kristen tossed back the hide cover. Royce stepped closer to the wagon to look over the edge. Erika could not bear to see his expression of horror. His whispered “God’s mercy” was bad enough.
She closed her eyes. If she could have sunk into the ground, she would have. Selig said something in a light, teasing tone, possibly to put his brother-in-law at ease, but she had no understanding of the Celtic tongue he used. And whatever he had said had no effect on the tall Saxon.
Royce pulled his wife away from the wagon to say reasonably, “There is a mistake here, Kristen. There must be. Women do not treat your brother so.”
“Normal women would not, but this is a heartless bitch who takes pleasure in others’ pain. It came from her own lips, what she did to him, and his men know it. If you order her released, they will kill her, doubt it not.”
His expression was rife with frustration. “Alfred will have my hide if he learns I am party to this.”
“Not if he also learns what she did,” Kristen countered. “But if it bothers you, take your men and go. What I do for my kin has no bearing on you.”
“Does it not?” he growled, taking a step toward her that had her backing up. “I believe I will change my mind about the time and place of your beating.”
The dagger was at Kristen’s hip, but she didn’t draw it. Her chin came up, though, and she warned him, “If you want to end up with as many bruises, go ahead. I do not come meekly when I am in the right.”
“When do you ever come meekly?” he replied, but his expression now said the urge for immediate violence had passed. “And you were not in the right in coming here without me, when it would have cost you no more than an hour to ride northeast to find me. ’Tis because you knew I would have sent you home that you did not bother, and that is why you will still get that beating.”
At which point Kristen laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I can make you forget the scare I gave you,” she said confidently.
“’Tis doubtful, but I will give you the opportunity to try.”
Erika watched them move off to speak with others where she could no longer hear what was said. She was forgotten for the moment, and just as well, with bitterness starting to rise in her.
How close freedom had just come! Only to be snatched away by a stronger will. Or was it only that? Nay, she could have wished the Saxon had been more insistent, but knew why he had given in. The sight of Selig had done it, a sight clearly recalled to her own mind, and her bitterness was gone that quickly.
“Could you understand them?”
She had heard the wagon move, felt it even, but had not guessed Selig was moving to the end of it. She quickly glanced up to the left to see him sitting at the end, tall enough to lean over the side to look down at her, his arms holding to the wood to keep him steady.
Even with his face ravaged from fever and pain, he was still too handsome for words, the perfectly molded cheekbones perhaps more prominent than normal due to his weight loss, the longest lashes she had ever seen on a man, lips so sensual they promised—Erika shook such disturbing thoughts from her mind, though she still stared at him, amazed that he was not scowling at her this time, amazed that he had spoken to her at all, so amazed it was a while before she thought to answer him.
“Mostly,” she said in the same casual tone he had used, though with a degree of caution. “Could you not?”
“Nay,” he said. “With Royce and a goodly number of his people knowing Celtic, I never bothered to learn. Do you know Celtic?”
“Nay.”
“Then ’tis well you and I know the northern tongues. What were they arguing about?”
Erika could not believe she was having this conversation. What she suffers will come from me. She had heard those words clearly, did not doubt them. Yet he spoke to her now as if they did not have that between them.
Should she apologize while he was in this strange, almost amiable mood? Should she beg his forgiveness? Explain about Wulnoth?
With those bright gray eyes so directly on her, all she could manage was to answer his question. “They are in disagreement about my presence.”
He considered that for a moment before saying, “Aye, Royce hates Danes with a passion. He would not want to be near one—for whatever the reason.”
Allusions to her predicament, no matter how mildly stated. The bitterness came back. She couldn’t help it.
“Have no fear, your sister won.”
He nodded, as if he expected no other answer. “Should you be released without my leave, or escape, I will come after you. There is nowhere in this land or any other that you can hide from me.”
His expression had not changed, was no more than it had been, which was no expression at all. She began to tremble, though he couldn’t see it. How easily he could catch her off guard. How easily he could move in for the kill whilst she was least suspecting. How did he do it? Why had he done it?
“You mean to toy with me,” she accused, no other reason coming to mind.
“Certainly—until I am able to do more than that.” And he smiled, an absolutely beautiful smile that made her catch her breath. “The ropes becomes you, lady,” he added in a pleasant tone, staring at her throat. “I particularly like the one around your neck.”
Erika blanched. He meant to hang her. He was letting her know so she could think about it, dread it, so the fear would eat away at her sanity. What she suffers will come from me. She closed her eyes, fighting tears.
Selig watched her, pleased by her reaction. She was so damned beautiful, so damned desirable—even now, hating her, he acknowledged her ability to stir his senses—yet so damned cruel. He had never known a woman to be like that. Was it the power her brother gave her that made it so? His mother and sister held such power, yet they did not abuse it as this Dane did. She’d had him lashed, and for what? Because he had offered to share her bed. When any other woman would have leapt at the chance.
Lashed…and she had stood there and laughed the while, a coldhearted, malicious—beautiful—witch. But she was going to pay for what she’d done. He was going to enjoy seeing to it. Before he was through with her, she would beg for mercy, and he would be the one to laugh and deny it.
“I like that rope around your neck so well,” he continued, “I think I will have an iron collar made for you, with a ring attached. I am sure I can think of many things to do with that ring.”
Erika looked up to see that he was still smiling, but the hate was in his eyes again, deeply smoldering. No hanging, then, but the fear remained, as he had intended. Toy with her? He meant to drive her mad.
“You did not find that amusing?” he asked.
Words failed her at that point. She could only shake her head.
“Good,” he said, his tone positively chilling now. “Because I mean to see you never laugh again.”
That sounded significant, as if there were more to those words than threat or promise. But Erika was too shaken to question him, and he moved away from the side of the wagon until she could no longer see him. Sweet Freya, if only she might never see him again.
Chapter 15
THE DAY PROGRESSED as Erika might have expected. Kristen mounted and rode beside her husband, which meant the terrible Dane could not be left alone in the wagon with the defenseless Selig. Defenseless? The man might still be weak as a babe, but he had weapons aplenty in his words.
Erika was grateful she would not be forced to endure his close company, even though what was left to her was to walk. The walking she wouldn’t have minded at all, except her shoes had not been returned to her.
She wasn’t even sure if it was a deliberate oversight, for Kristen hadn’t been the one to tie her wrists before her with a long length of rope attached to the wagon. Thorolf had done that, and she doubted he had noticed she was without shoes, her under chainse was so long. The Norsewoman could merely have forgotten that she had removed the shoes the day before, or, as was more likely the case and a common enough practice, it was hoped her feet would suffer enough damage that she would be in no condition to escape by foot if the opportunity should present itself.
Erika had noticed the oversight immediately, but for some ridiculous reason, probably because Selig had been watching whilst she was being tied to the back of the wagon, her pride had reared its head and she refused to ask for her shoes. The wagon didn’t move so swiftly that she couldn’t keep up with it, but her hose were no protection from the rough ground.
She had begun by walking beside the wagon, where she couldn’t see inside it, nor could the man inside it see her. But as the hours passed, she fell behind. She didn’t once fall, but the exertion, coupled with the rising heat of the day, had the sweat pouring from her.
The sun was high when the Saxon lord drew his horse next to her and offered her a skin of water. He hated Danes, according to his brother-in-law, but she saw no hate in his eyes. Curiosity, disturbance, but no animosity like she experienced from everyone else.
She handed back the skin, expecting him to leave, but he spoke instead. “Who hit you?”