The Viking's Heart Page 2

  In the stables, Lucien was working up a fine temper. “Why do you not simply bed those wenches and give us some peace?”

  “All at once or one at a time?” Agravar asked innocently.

  “It makes no difference to me as long as they cease their annoying simpering.”

  “You shall have to get used to it because they do not interest me.”

  Lucien grumbled something intelligible.

  “Is my lady in good health?” Agravar asked with studied nonchalance. “I have noticed your normally disagreeable nature even more trying of late.”

  Lucien gave one shake of his head. “Agravar, by the blood of Christ and all that is holy, the woman is more precious to me than my own life, but I fear I will go mad before this babe is brought into the world. She is not herself. Never content, fickle to the extreme, and apt to spring into tears at the slightest frustration of her whims. She is fast becoming a tyrant.”

  “She will be restored when the babe is born,” Agravar said blandly. He was a great admirer of the Lady Alayna and knew her to be a gentle lady with a heart as fierce as her husband’s, but never petty. And though Agravar could understand his friend’s impatience at Alayna’s uncharacteristic moodiness, he had no tolerance for any complaint Lucien might make.

  For, as Agravar knew, the kindness of the Fates was fickle. Lucien had been gifted with the miracle of a peerless love. It was something the Viking had never known in any form. And he had, at the advanced age of thirty and four, resigned himself to the disappointment that he never would.

  These thoughts kept him in sour company as he threw the saddle over his destrier and tightened the cinch. When Lucien spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “I cannot think straight until she is delivered safely of the babe. Her restlessness…it has given me a bad premonition. I am…I…” He bowed his head.

  Chagrined, Agravar said nothing to his friend’s mangled confession. He had been thinking Lucien consumed with self-pity when it had been worry that tore at him.

  Recovering quickly, Lucien asked, “Tell me where you learned that maneuver you used back there? It might be useful, if one is unlucky—or unskilled—enough to find oneself on one’s back in battle.”

  “I learned it from the gypsies.” To Lucien’s incredulous look, Agravar shrugged as they mounted their horses and kicked them into action. “I gather techniques wherever I can.”

  Lucien grunted, pointing up ahead. “Pass yonder, Agravar. As we speak of techniques to be tried, it has reminded me that I had the smithy forge finer, lighter weapons from the steel I had imported from Spain. I am told it is far superior to our domestic blends.”

  “Impossible,” Agravar scoffed, but he was happy to oblige the change of direction when he noticed the three women lying in wait who would be avoided by a diversion to the forge.

  “Garron!” Lucien called, and the smithy shuffled out to see to his lord’s bidding. “Show my captain the new swords you have fashioned.”

  “Oh, lovely beauties, they are, sir,” Garron exclaimed, fetching one of the blades.

  Despite himself, Agravar was impressed. The weapon was sleek and quick, cutting through the air like a whisper. “I doubt it would cleave a man in two as deftly as this,” he said, tapping the heavy broadsword resting at his hip. “But it feels extraordinarily clever in one’s hand, almost as if it has a life of its own.” He passed it to Lucien, who made a few swipes with it and gave it back.

  Untouched in Lucien’s scabbard was his father’s sword. There was no question of him relinquishing that blade, even for an exceptional weapon. It was a symbol of what he had come back from hell to recover, along with his lands, his life, his soul.

  That quest had given Agravar something to believe in for the first time in his lost, uncharted life. He had become Lucien’s right arm. Good God, he had even committed one of the most heinous acts known to mankind in order to save the friend he counted as brother.

  But now, in this time of peace, he would gladly trade his bloodletting broadsword for this delicate instrument, a weapon as elegant as the soft, peaceful life it bespoke. Aye, he’d once told Lucien he’d be content to mount his weapons upon the walls as monuments to his bloody past, and it was true enough.

  True enough.

  “I shall test the weapon,” Agravar said. Tossing his broadsword to the smithy, he ordered, “Give it a good sharpening while I test this and I’ll tell you what I think of this new steel.”

  The soldiers took the short but roughly cut route through the woods as they were dreadfully late. Lucien, anxious not to further upset his disgruntled wife, had assured Alayna that he and his men would beat a quick path to see her cousin escorted from the edges of his lands to inside the castle gates.

  They were just about to clear a scruffy copse into a meadow when, to their astonishment, two riders appeared, a man and a woman, cutting across to disappear into the woods.

  “Strange,” Lucien said in a low voice.

  Agravar exchanged glances with him. Then a sound from behind caught their attention. Twisting in his saddle, Agravar listened. Was that weeping?

  Casting a glance back at the two riders, he saw they were at the other end of the meadow, just entering the forest that extended all the way to the north road.

  “Out for a ride, do you think?”

  “Probably.” Lucien squinted. “But I do not recognize them. Of course, it is some distance.”

  “We should make certain. I shall go after them,” Agravar said with a nod in the direction where the riders had disappeared. “You best take the others and investigate that caterwauling.”

  Lucien scowled at having drawn this duty, but he pulled his destrier around as Agravar kicked his into action and raced across the meadow.

  Chapter Three

  Agravar came upon them at the stream by Fenman’s forge. He spotted a flash of color through the trees. They had stopped, perhaps watering the horses. Reining his destrier, he slid onto the ground and crept up on foot, staying close to the thicket. Quietly, he unsheathed the new sword from his scabbard and held it low lest some of the sunlight filtering in through the canopy catch the steel.

  They were just ahead, the man and woman. She was bent over by the stream. Her hair, the color of dark honey strewn with sunlight, was loose and thick, left unbound in the maidenly fashion. Her face, in profile, was striking in its clean lines—straight nose, strong chin, generous mouth and deep-set eyes under a delicate pale brow.

  A noblewoman. Could this be Rosamund Clavier? Agravar wondered, for she was no one he had seen before in these lands. If so, what had happened to her traveling party? And who was this man with her?

  The man in question watched the woods as the woman bent over the shallow waters to ladle water with her cupped hands. He wore a jaunty red hat with a ridiculous plume stuck in it. It appeared he was nervous, but he allowed her to linger long enough for Agravar to move closer.

  “Come,” the man said, touching the woman on the arm. “We must make haste.” When she didn’t respond, he said more insistently, “Lady Rosamund.”

  Her head snapped up. She stood. And Agravar stood.

  First he caught her eyes, bright, rounded orbs of pale honey brown. Agravar cleared three long steps before anyone moved. Raising his weapon, he crept up behind the man in the red hat. That one finally realized someone was coming up behind him and whirled about.

  “Step away. I am Agravar the Viking and have come to fetch the lady to safety.”

  The look of horror on Rosamund’s face, her single, reflexive step backward as if in recoil, stung him. He was used to people reacting to his Nordic looks, his size, his heavily muscled frame, but the stark fear in those grave eyes slipped under his defenses like a stiletto wheedling inside the links of mail.

  His gaze snapped back to her companion, who had drawn his sword. Agravar raised his own blade to meet the challenge and issue a silent threat. The damnable thing felt like a feather. Agravar wished for the comfort of his old familiar broadswor
d.

  He spoke. “Be reasonable, wretch. You cannot hope to best me. Your ransom is lost, if that was your aim.”

  The man with the ridiculous headgear advanced nonetheless, holding his weapon in front of him as if it were a cross wielded to ward off evil spirits. “You’ll not take her whilst I stand.”

  “Fool—the game is lost.”

  The man’s dark eyes glittered. “I will not leave behind my gain, sir!”

  But the gain left without him. The lady in question whirled in a gentle swirl of hair and skirts and fled without a sound.

  Agravar decided he had tarried long enough with this nonsense. He struck. The jab of his weapon was lightning quick but lacking in substance. Unused to the lighter weight, he felt off balance, cursing under his breath. Mentally correcting for the difference, his next try made more of a threat as it sliced a neat little gash across the man’s tunic.

  The man brought the hilt of his dagger down in an unskilled move, hoping only to deflect the blow. A strange sound split the air as the fine, gleaming steel—imported from Spain for its superior quality—snapped off!

  It fell into the dirt with an inauspicious ping. Amazed, Agravar held up the hilt and its paltry stub of steel.

  “You broke my sword,” he bellowed in an accusing voice.

  The man seemed horrified to see what he had done. “Sir, I am sorry. I—”

  He said no more, for Agravar took advantage of his consternation to close the gap between them in two quick strides and lay a crushing blow to the man’s jaw. His red hat flew off in one direction, the feather in the other, and the brave fool crumpled into a heap.

  Agravar shoved his embarrassingly damaged weapon into his belt and set off after the woman.

  If she reached the horses, she might have a chance, Rosamund thought, hiking her skirts up and running as hard as she could. Not since she was a child, romping in the forests of Hallscroft with the peasant children from the nearby farms, had she pushed her body this hard.

  She would never outrun that terrifying Viking. The thought pushed her harder, her legs pumped faster. The horses—if she made it to them, freedom was hers.

  The need to know if he was behind her was hard to resist, but she was not about to lose one precious second in glancing back. Wait! She skidded, caught her balance and turned. This was not the way to the horses. This path didn’t look familiar at all. She circled again, panic rising.

  A loud, splintering crash sounded from up on her right, where a slight ridge ran parallel to the path she had just come down. Whirling, she saw him as he leaped into the air, his face grim, teeth bared in a bone-chilling snarl that drained the blood out of her body in a single heartbeat. His hair streamed out behind him, pale and shiny, catching dappled sunlight and throwing it back into the forest.

  She was so shocked she didn’t think to get out of his way. He landed in front of her, squarely on two feet, but his momentum carried him into her. His hands clutched her waist as they fell, twisting them both so that when they struck the loamy turf, it was he who landed on his back. She fell on top of him, cushioned nicely on his great chest.

  He let out a sound that was half grunt, half sigh as the hard ground and her slight weight compressed his mighty form from either side. His arms held her, but loosely. She waited only a moment to catch her breath before pushing herself up and away.

  The thick arms tightened immediately, making her struggles impossible. But her hands were free. They struck something solid and cold, giving her an idea. Stilling her body’s movements, she stretched out her fingers, grazing their tips against her boon. Nimbly she worked her hand forward and closed her grip.

  He rolled, bringing her under him. She found herself trapped by his arms on either side of her and the broad-shouldered mass of him overhead. As neatly caged as a prisoner, she peered up at the face that hovered only inches from hers.

  “Are you the Lady Rosamund Clavier?”

  His voice was deep, and at this proximity, the rich tone reverberated throughout her whole body. He smelled vaguely of sweat and a faint hint of soap, perhaps from his shave, for his chin and cheeks were bare.

  She nodded, not wanting to try her voice.

  “I am sent by your cousin, the Lady Alayna. Be easy, my lady, for I mean you no harm. If I allow you up, will you listen to what I have to say?”

  Again she bobbed her head.

  He hauled himself up, moving quickly and with surprising agility for one so large. She slipped her hand behind the long panel of her surcoat as she climbed slowly to her knees and then to her feet, her back to him.

  “Lady Rosamund, I—”

  In one giddy, unpracticed motion, she whirled and brought up what she thought was his dagger in both her hands. “Let me be!” she cried, and jabbed the weapon out at him in a threatening gesture meant to ward him off.

  The broken-off hilt of a blade was displayed before her.

  Her eyes fastened on it, then shifted to his face. He was watching her with dancing eyes. They were very blue, like a cold north sea. Perhaps that was just her fanciful association from the knowledge that he was a Viking.

  “And exactly what do you intend to do to me with that?”

  She blinked rapidly, trying to think. “It is more weapon than any you can claim,” she said bravely.

  “And what makes you think I am in need of a weapon, my gentle woman?” A blur caught the corner of her eye. And then her hand hurt. She looked at it to see what could be causing the pain and was amazed to find it empty.

  “Now we are evenly matched,” he said, stepping forward.

  “How can you think so? You are twice my size.” She fell back a few paces. He advanced again, closing the gap and then some.

  “I would guess three times or more, but what difference does it make when you possess such cunning?”

  “What will you do with me?”

  “Nothing worse than rescue you, my lady.”

  “Ha! You think I will come easily under that pretty lie?”

  A great shoulder lifted and fell. “It matters not, for I’ll have the result either way, although it would be less of a bother if you would cooperate.”

  His steady advance, and her retreat, had backed her against a log. It caught under her knees and she stumbled. In a trice, he was beside her, his hands at her waist to steady her and pull her upright.

  “Safety, my lady,” he said, and his tone was completely changed from the sharp admonishment of only a moment ago.

  His touch was unbearably hot, encompassing part of her back and the side of her hip in one broad palm. His breath fanned down against her cheek, whispering across her flesh and making her shiver…from terror, she thought.

  “Please do not touch me.” It was a soft, ineffectual plea.

  But he complied. He dropped his hands and stepped away. “Will you come willingly with me, or shall I fling you over my shoulder and bear you like a sack of grain to Gastonbury?”

  “You are taking me to Gastonbury?” she asked.

  “First I must gather your companion and your horses, then find your guard and my other men, but we should clear the castle walls before darkness.”

  At her quiet consideration of this news, he asked, “Does that not reassure you, my lady, that what I have pledged is true? ’Tis not harm I intend you, but deliverance to the safety of your cousin’s care.”

  She thought good and long before replying, considering her options, and the possibilities. “Aye, sir. You have my trust.”

  By his dubious expression, she could see he was not completely reassured.

  And well he should not be, she reflected as she followed his lead.

  Chapter Four

  With the highwayman slung over one horse, Rosamund seated on another and Agravar in the lead, they came to the clearing just east of the stream.

  Other men were assembled, Rosamund saw; both her soldiers and presumably Gastonbury’s. A great welcome went up at their arrival. A man approached the Viking and he dismounted. She h
eard the name Agravar. The Viking’s name, she supposed. Yes, he had said it before. Agravar.

  The man who approached looked like a demon, with a wild mane of dark hair and eyes that were almost black. He turned to Rosamund and she tensed, causing her horse to shy.

  The Viking—Agravar—was beside her in a flash, grabbing the reins and steadying the beast. “Come, this is your cousin’s husband.”

  This was the legendary Lucien de Montregnier! He stood beside the Viking and nodded. “I know you have had a trying adventure. We shall rest and refresh ourselves before setting out for home. My wife will be anxious to see you.” He ran his hand through his hair and tried to smile. He was almost handsome when he did so. “And I would be grateful if your nerves were made calmer before we resume your journey, else I be taken to task as it was my tardiness that was at fault.”

  “Aye, of course,” she said. Agravar helped her dismount. His nearness was as disconcerting as it had been before. She wriggled away from him once her feet touched the ground. His hands fell to his sides.

  A screech split the air and Hilde came charging toward Rosamund from the other side of the glen, arms outflung, skirts flying. Rosamund braced herself.

  “You are safe, ah, praise the saints and the sweet Lord in heaven!” Slamming into her mistress, Hilde squeezed until tiny pinpoints of light began to dance on the periphery of Rosamund’s vision.

  “Hilde,” she choked, pushing the woman away. Hilde pulled back, took another look at her and swept her to her bosom for a second strangling clinch.

  “Come,” Agravar said, wrapping strong fingers about Rosamund’s arm. He managed to get her away from the effusive maid without a struggle, mostly because the woman gaped at him with a mixture of awe and terror that made her grip go lax. As polite as any courtier, Agravar led Rosamund to a good-sized rock. “Take your rest while the men water the horses. It will be but a moment to prepare them for the short ride back to the castle.”

  Rosamund kept her eyes averted, fighting a flush of shame at his surprisingly gentle attentions. She stared at his boots and gave a perfunctory nod. The boots turned and she lifted her gaze, watching him walk back to the horses and untether his prisoner.