Gisela’s mind hazed, stumbling along, grasping at fragments that made no sense. As she gradually regained consciousness, she realised that Ragnar carried her. His rugged forearm pressed intimately against the back of her thighs, her hip nudged against his chest. For one delicious moment, she allowed herself to luxuriate in the feeling of weightlessness, the feeling that...someone else cared enough to carry her away from trouble. Then slowly, Ragnar turned her upright, letting her slide down to her feet. The hard ground outside the gatehouse jabbed against her heels, sending juddering waves through her shins. Her ankles ached.
‘Oh!’ she gasped, clutching at Ragnar’s borrowed tunic for support.
‘Steady,’ he said. ‘You need to ride now, Gisela.’
‘But... Richard?’ She peered around in desperation, searching for the brother who was not there: the wooden palisade, the stretch of sparse grass around the stronghold, the watery marshland beyond. The place was deserted. Even the Saxon men who Ragnar had talked to when they first arrived had disappeared; the large wooden gate was firmly shut.
‘Richard isn’t there, Gisela.’
Reality crashed down around her. She had no wish to remember, to hear de Pagenal’s cruel, triumphant words echo around her head like a tolling bell. Her belly hollowed out with grief, as if a great stone had lodged there. Numbly, she allowed Ragnar to boost her up into the saddle; the mare lurched sideways as she settled into the hard, curved leather seat. She swayed forward, reaching out for the reins, holding the worn straps loosely between her fingers, then dropped them, letting them fall across the horse’s neck. ‘I need to go back in there, Ragnar,’ she said slowly, fastening her eyes on the palisade, the roof of the timbered hall peeking above the sharpened posts ‘I have to persuade de Pagenal to tell me where Richard is.’ She took a deep, shaky breath. ‘Even if he’s...if he’s dead.’
Sighing, Ragnar pulled the borrowed Saxon tunic over his head. Folding the cloth, he laid it by the palisade; the owner would return to collect it at some point. Extracting his own cloak from the saddlebag, he fastened the heavy woollen fabric around his shoulders. The embroidered hem swung down in a half-circle around his slim hips as he gripped both sides of his saddle. ‘Not now, Gisela. De Pagenal’s too drunk to think straight.’ He glanced up at the darkening sky. ‘We can come back on the morrow.’ He swung himself up on to his horse.
Gisela kicked her foot out from the stirrup and brought her leg over the horse’s neck, aiming to dismount. She would go back in there and have a sensible conversation with de Pagenal.
‘Don’t you dare!’ growled Ragnar, budging his horse up against hers, flank to flank, so that her left leg was effectively pinned against the horse’s side.
Anger drove through her misery. ‘Let me go!’ she demanded. ‘Why not let me try to speak to him again?’ She wriggled violently in the saddle, swinging from side to side, trying to manoeuvre her mare away from Ragnar, but to no avail. She was well and truly stuck.
‘I am not going to let you go back in there and make a fool of yourself.’ Ragnar’s voice was low, but held the thread of steel. ‘De Pagenal has nearly killed you once already! Do you want him to try again? He might just succeed if you rile him enough!’
Her eyes traced the carved lines of his tanned face, the generous mouth tilted up at the corners, the semblance of a smile. A deep shuddery breath gripped her lungs, her throat. ‘I know you’re right, Ragnar—’ her voice was wretched ‘—but I wish you were not. I have to keep trying. I can’t bear the thought of going back to my father and sister without Richard. They will be devastated.’
‘We will find out what happened to him,’ Ragnar replied gently. Leaning across, he touched her cheek.
His warm fingers danced against her skin, the briefest touch, like spider silk. Spirals of desire whipped through her chest, her belly; her face bloomed with heat. She jerked away, staring in desolation at the frothing plume of her horse’s mane.
Ragnar glanced at the gathering clouds on the horizon and frowned. ‘We need to leave and find a place to sleep tonight.’ He tapped his heels into his horse’s flank, wheeling the animal around. ‘Shall we go?’
Her heart cleaved with wretchedness, but she yanked on the reins, turning her animal to follow Ragnar up the zig-zag path to the copse of oaks at the top of the ridge. The stench of the stronghold clung to her clothes, even now, as she rode away in the strengthening breeze: the sour smell of tallow, the sweat and rancid fat of the food. Her whole journey north had been a waste. She wished she could erase everything, every last bitter detail, and start again, the three of them back with her father in their castle in the south.
And yet, as her horse picked its way carefully up the loose stones of the track and she watched the graceful ease with which Ragnar rode, the sinewy flex of his spine, the breadth of his shoulders blocking out the trail beyond, she realised that she had no wish to forget everything. Certainly not this great Dane, who made her heart dance with treacherous need, whose casual glance drove stabs of desire deep into her loins. Nay, despite everything that had happened, she had no wish to forget him.
Crows, black wings curved like knife blades, flapped wildly in the grey air, trying to control their flight in the savage gusts of wind. The long day was lengthening into evening, a day that had started with her sister on the shore at Bertune and ended with her old enemy, de Pagenal. Yet the day wasn’t over. There was still enough light to ride, despite the massive clouds rolling in and obscuring the bright disc of sun that lowered slowly towards the horizon. Leaves whirled down from the towering oaks to their right, littering the air, skipping along the track before them. The line of oaks ended abruptly, the track heading off over open fields. Ragnar pulled on his reins.
‘Down there,’ he said, pointing towards a small copse of trees in the valley. ‘We will be able to shelter there for the night.’ He eyed the clouds to the north, bunching ominously into grey florets of blossoming rain.
‘How can you be so sure?’ she asked, nudging her horse alongside his.
He extracted the leather flagon from his saddlebag and yanked out the stopper, offering it to Gisela. She shook her head. He tipped the bottle up to his mouth, gulping down the refreshing mead. A droplet of liquid shone on his bottom lip and he wiped it away with his sleeve, banging the stopper back into place. ‘Instinct,’ he said. His mouth twitched.
‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ Gisela shot back at him. ‘You have no idea.’
‘Correct.’ He grinned back at her, stupidly pleased that the colour had returned to her cheeks after what had happened with de Pagenal. The cruel words that Norman lord had flung at her. Her eyes sparkled, a curious sapphire colour in the strange stormy light. If he could make her laugh, then all would be well, he thought.
A large drop of rain hit his head, the water creeping down, cold, against his scalp. Then another. A squall was heading straight for them, a hazy band that stretched from land to sky, sweeping the ground like a curtain. ‘Follow me into the forest,’ he shouted. Kicking his horse sharply, he took off down the slope. Gisela set her own horse in motion, albeit at a slightly slower speed, galloping down the hill after him.
Breathing heavily from the exertion of the ride, they reached the boundary of the forest, slowing the animals to a walk. The rain had soaked through the layers of Gisela’s headscarf and into her hair, rivulets washing over her face. As they picked their way through the trees, the spreading canopy of branches staved off the worst of the deluge, with only a sprinkling of drops working their way down to the forest floor.
They reached a place where the trees grew low and stunted, jagged branches contorted against the monotonous grey sky. Leaves curled inwards, their edges frayed brown; with every squall of wind, a few more detached, spiralling to the spongy forest floor. Squinting through the undergrowth, Gisela pointed to a series of planks, some tilting sideways. ‘Is that something?’ she asked.
Ragnar jumped down, handing Gisela the reins to his horse, and strode over the sodden ground towards the structure. With every step he took, brown peaty water sloshed over the toes of his boots; a sour, marshy odour filled the air. Reaching the moss-covered planks, he peered into what looked like the remains of a woodsman’s hut, then ducked his head, going inside. The ground was dry at least, dusty with old leaves. ‘It will do,’ he called out to Gisela. ‘I can’t stand up in it, but it will keep the rain off us for tonight. And we’re far away enough from de Pagenal, in case he decides to send his men out after us. They’ll never find us here.’
‘But what if it belongs to someone else?’ she asked. ‘They might return for the night.’
Ragnar kicked at the pile of leaves around the entrance, bending to pick up the twigs that had fallen around the front of the hut. ‘No one’s been here for ages,’ he said. He blinked the raindrops out of his eyes, his lashes wet and spiky. The rain had plastered his hair to his scalp, darkening the colour of the strands to burnished copper.
Her heart gripped; she stifled a gasp. She remembered the last time they had shared a room, back at the Saxon lord’s castle in Bertune. The heat of the chamber as he had stood behind her as she washed. The water dripping from her bare arms as she had turned to face him.
Straightening up, his arms full of thin, knotted branches, Ragnar caught her look of dismay. He grimaced. ‘Look, I know it’s hardly a palace, but it’s all we have for tonight. It will have to do.’
‘It’s not that.’ Gisela slid down from her horse; her skirts bunching behind her. She flicked down the hem, impatient with the yards of cloth. She would do well to remember what had happened after that moment, after he had seen her scar. His rejection of her. He would think nothing of them sharing this hut, because he was not in the least attracted to her. De Pagenal was correct: she would be alone for the rest of her life.
‘What is it, then?’ Crouching down, balancing on the balls of his feet, Ragnar struck a spark with his flintstone into a piece of dried moss that he carried for the purpose, then quickly piled small sections of twig around it. The overhanging roof of the hut meant they could start a fire in the dry, without smoking out the interior. ‘Gisela?’
Her fingers worked at the stiff buckle at the side of the horse’s jaw, her mind searching for something else to say. Why, he would laugh in her face if he knew the course of her true thoughts! ‘I suppose... I wanted to say that I’m sorry, sorry for bringing you into this mess. I truly thought I would see Richard again today. I’ve wasted your time.’
‘No, you haven’t.’ Satisfied that the fire had enough wood to keep it going for a while, Ragnar stood up and came over to her. His thigh muscles, visible beneath his braies, clenched, then released with the upward movement. ‘You weren’t to know that was going to happen. Besides, you never asked for my help, if you remember. It was I who offered.’
The buckle was too stiff; her fingers ached. Frustrated, she lowered her chin, desperate to rest her forehead against her horse’s silky pelt. ‘Even so, without me, you would be well on your way to finding your sister’s abductor by now.’ Her voice was a low mumble, filled with regret.
Ragnar laughed. ‘Nay, Gisela, I would probably still be far from finding him. And even if I had, I would be sitting outside his castle, wondering how I would get in.’ Pushing aside her fingers, he unstrapped her bridle, hanging it over a tree branch. His green eyes, darkly brilliant, honed in on her pale face. ‘I need you, don’t you understand? Otherwise I’ll never get close to the bastard, whoever he may be!’
She peered closely at him, wanting to believe him, wanting to be needed by him.
‘Although you’d be perfectly within your rights to return to your father and sister now.’
‘No!’ she said. The thought of being away from him was almost too much to bear after the disappointment of her brother. ‘I wouldn’t do that to you! We had a deal, remember?’
He held up his hands. ‘I’m not arguing with you, Gisela. And I’m eternally grateful for you holding up your end of the bargain. Most women would have probably run screaming from me by now.’
‘I can’t say I’m like most women,’ she replied, a gentle smile lifting the corners of her mouth. ‘Circumstances have changed me; I wasn’t always like this.’
He had gathered a few more sticks and threw a couple on to the fire. ‘What were you like, then?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Gisela patted her horse’s neck, stroking the pelt. ‘I was braver, I suppose, more ready to take on a challenge.’
‘You haven’t changed, then.’ He glanced up at her, fingers stilling above the fire. ‘You might look like an angel, Gisela, but you have the heart of a warrior.’
A tremendous heat rose in her face at his compliment. ‘Oh, but I...’ she began to protest.
He moved across to her, laid a hand on her arm. ‘Believe me when I tell you that you are braver than most of my men. You’ve taken so many risks over the past few days, all for your family, and now you’re about to take one huge great risk for me, a man whom you scarcely know at all.’
Oh, but I do know you, she thought. It’s like I’ve known you all my life. The muscled dip of his shoulder. The curve of his shadowed cheek like polished wood. The way his eyes seized hers, gripping them, so she was unable to look away. Every small detail of him, burned into her brain so she would remember them for ever. She knew him.
Later that night the rain cleared, the last rags of drifting cloud shifting westwards to reveal the moon, almost full, flooding the sky with a luminous, limpid light. Stars twinkled, pricking the dark velvet of the sky like diamond needlepoints. Rolled in a blanket, Gisela turned restlessly, caught in a fitful sleep, beset by shreds of a bad dream. De Pagenal, high above her in the saddle, about to slash down on her neck; her brother, shoving her away, his mouth a contorted circle of rage.
She awoke with a start, heart pounding. Sweat prickled on her neck. Her eyes scratched with exhaustion. A great tide of misery engulfed her; the yearning cavern of not knowing where Richard was squeezed her innards. She chewed fretfully on her bottom lip, her eyes adjusting to the dim half-light, picking out the details of her surroundings. She lay inches away from the wooden boards at the back of the hut; her hands, bunched into tight fists, gripped the two sides of the blanket into the hollow of her throat. The cloth smelled of Ragnar, of leather and horse. The briny tang of the sea.
Ragnar.
She rotated on to her right side, expecting to see the familiar bulk of his body stretched out across the entrance. Earlier, she had listened as his breath slowed gradually to the deep, regular rhythm of sleep, tracing the silhouette of his shoulder in the firelight, the wayward strands of his hair. But now, the space where he should have been was empty. He wasn’t there. She thrust herself into a sitting position, head spinning. Panic crowded into her chest, thumping through her blood. Where was he? A tiny voice niggled in her brain. Maybe you’re just too much trouble, Gisela. Maybe he has decided to take off and leave you alone in the darkness of the night.
Through the looming sense of abandonment, she spotted his cloak, lying in a rumpled pile. The gleam of his jewelled brooch. Leaning across, she tugged at the material, finding his riveted surcoat, and red long-sleeved tunic beneath. Throwing off her blanket, she scrambled awkwardly to her feet, her hips aching from the ride that day, and peered outside the hut. His horse was there, tied to the tree, alongside her own. His sword was missing, but surely he wouldn’t have gone far, wearing only his shirt, braies and boots.
Relief coursed through her, a giddy, stupid relief. She folded her arms across her chest, the sense of panic ebbing away. Her reaction had been ridiculous: had it truly come to the point that she couldn’t survive without him? She had always been able to fend for herself—indeed, had prided herself upon it. Was his continued presence making her weak, unable to fight her own battles? Her former self would have seized this opportunity to escape, to leap on her horse and gallop back to her family.
But she had changed. He had changed her. She wanted to stay with him. She clung foolishly to the fact that he needed her to help him; this was the reason she must stay and no other. But there was another reason, one she could not voice. It floated hazily in her mind, nibbling at the edges of truth, taunting her. To admit that truth, though, to voice her innermost feelings, was almost too much for her heart to bear. That this man had come to mean more to her than...than life itself.
Exasperated, Gisela stepped over to the horses. She would be wiser to stamp down hard on those feelings and snuff them out with the stern practicality for which she was well known. For to entertain these ridiculous notions would make their inevitable separation the harder to bear. Better to protect her heart now, than risk running the crashing pain and humiliation later on.
Her hand shook as she patted the horse’s soft neck. The mare nickered in recognition. ‘Where is he?’ Gisela whispered quietly, her ears tuning in to the faint sounds of the woodland, listening intently. Maybe she should just go back to the hut and try to sleep. But the thought of Ragnar out in the forest somewhere niggled at her. He might have hurt himself, or someone might have tried to hurt him. Maybe de Pagenal had sent his knights out after them. She would never sleep. Far better to try to find him and put her mind at rest.
Beyond the rustles and squeakings emanating from the undergrowth, the breeze filtering through the branches above, she could hear water running, then a faint splash. She tilted her head first one way, then the other, trying to work out where it was coming from. There. Over there, behind the hut. Her hand slipped from the horse’s neck. Picking up her skirts, Gisela headed towards the noise. Moonlight traced a path along the woodland floor, a gleam of track winding between the ferns and moss-covered rocks. Brambles, muscular arcs of thorn-laden tendrils, snagged her gown, but she wrenched them free with quick, decisive tugs.
And there he was. In a pool, mirrored in moonlight. Beech trees circled the spot, branches swaying gracefully down to touch the water’s surface. Pinned by his sword, his remaining clothes were strewn across the bank, as if he had cast them off in feverish abandonment. She staggered to a stop, feet rocking with unused energy, folding herself back behind a large tree trunk. Silent. Her subterfuge astonished her. She should shout to warn him of her presence, announce herself, but she could not, for her heart was in her mouth, stifling all speech.
Ragnar was swimming, bare arms describing wide, lazy circles across the pool, the white shimmer of his naked flesh visible beneath the limpid surface. Her eyes feasted greedily upon the sight, tracing the clench and release of muscle across his back with avid abandonment, before sweeping down the sturdy curve of his spine to his hips, the scoop of defined flesh across his powerful buttocks, the splay of thigh muscle beneath. A slow burning heat gathered in her loins, blossoming dangerously. He drew her like a spell, magical and dangerous, lifting her up and pitching her fast into another world: a world of desire, of dark, secret couplings and love, unspoken. The heaviness of grief lifted from her, leaving her light and tingling.
Ragnar stood. Water sluiced down his honed flesh, bathing his perfect physique in liquid silver. An Adonis beneath the stars. Ecstasy stabbed at her, plucking violently at her self-control. She made a small sound in her throat, swiftly muffled; laid her forehead against the nubbled bark of the tree, admonishing herself for not leaving, for not turning tail and running back to the hut. And yet still she looked.
Raising his arms, he pushed his wet hair back from his forehead. Strings of pearly water fell from his shoulders, surrounding him in a net of twinkling light. A rippling line of darker hair ran down the centre of his chest, separating the two flat planes of muscle, down across his stomach to the point where his hip bones curved into the patch of dark hair at his groin, partially hidden by the water level.
‘I know you’re there,’ he said quietly.