Rurik had been a captive for almost a full day. His major discovery during that time was that if he craned his neck a certain way and looked towards the end of the corridor, he could make out a sliver of sunlight sneaking in through a gap between the stones. That light was fading now as the sun set, meaning he was no closer to getting himself free than he had been when they had carried him in. At least he was conscious and had suffered no ill effects from being captured. It was a minor detail for which he was grateful as it might mean the difference between life and death.
A thorough search of his cage had taken most of the day. He had explored every crevice and crack in the stone, only to discover there was no easy way out. The rocks were beginning to crumble in several areas and he had managed to use his chain to scrape away bits and pieces of old mortar. The stones were only a single barrier to the soil. Once a few were removed, it would be simply a matter of digging himself out, which meant that the cell would not hold him indefinitely. However, he did not have the weeks it would take for that particular escape route. Every day he stayed down here was a day closer to his eventual execution. He did not know why he was being kept alive. Perhaps they meant to ransom him to anyone who happened to come looking for him. One day soon, they would realise it would be easier to kill him and pretend that he had never arrived on their shores.
He paced his cell, unwilling to accept that he had failed. This could not be the end. He had not failed his brothers in bringing this murderer to justice. He would return to them with this triumph so that he would finally belong. Escape would simply have to come by some other, quicker means. Since the woman was the only person he interacted with, it would have to come through her.
He had no choice but to get her into the cage with him. If he could bind her in some way, then he could take the key from her. From there it would be a matter of locking her in—killing women, even those who took him captive, held no appeal to him—and then finding his way to wherever that coward Wilfrid was hiding. He briefly considered taking her along with him and using her as leverage, but decided that she would be too much work. She had proven herself to be feisty and not the least bit biddable. He could not imagine that kidnapping her would improve her disposition.
The rusty hinges of the door at the top of the stairs creaked and squealed in protest as the door opened. He straightened, his mind racing with how to entice her into his cage. It would have to be something believable, something that would make her disregard her own safety to enter. There came her even footfalls on the steps. One…two…three…
He moved as silently as possible with the old chain attached to his wrist. Holding it against the stone, he debated on pretending to have got it stuck on one of the rocks. If she had brought food, he would not be able to reach it and she would be forced to come in. He disregarded the idea just as quickly. Anyone with any sense would suspect it for the ruse it was, and she did seem intelligent. She would likely seek help before coming inside and he would have lost his advantage in having her alone.
The only thing to do was to pretend to be injured. Despite the fact that she had kidnapped him, he had seen a reluctance in her eyes to bring him harm. His only chance to get her inside would be to pretend to have some lingering head injury from the assault. If she believed him and reacted as he hoped, she would come inside. If she went to get help first, then it would have been a failed attempt that cost him nothing, because they could not prove he had no ill effects and thus he wouldn’t be punished. It was his only hope.
The moment her boots touched the floor, he dived for the straw pallet, grimacing at the low clink the chain made as it scraped against the stone. He closed his eyes just as the light from her lantern flickered against the iron bars.
‘Norseman!’ Her voice was a sharp contrast to the thick silence of the underground chamber.
He forced his breathing to stay shallow and kept his face turned away from her. The scent of roasted meat met his nose, making his stomach rumble in greedy displeasure. He only hoped it was not loud enough for her to hear. His heart pounded in his head every moment she stood there watching him. She stayed still, the weight of her stare a nearly tangible touch as she tried to determine if he was faking an injury.
Finally, her breath exhaled on a sigh and there was a series of soft clips as she set the wooden bowl and the lamp on to the floor. The one from earlier had long since burned itself out. The rattle of keys followed a moment later as she pushed one of them into the lock. It must have been stubborn, because she had to fumble with it for a bit before it gave way with a harsh clang. The creak of old iron told him the door was opening, but he would have known even without the sound. The very air changed around him, becoming thicker with her presence.
‘Norseman?’ The tip of her boot pushed at his hip. Apparently satisfied that he wasn’t pretending, she knelt down at his side and touched the pulse at his neck.
Conscious thought gave way to instinct as he grabbed her wrist with one hand and her hip with the other. He twisted his body and attempted to roll her beneath him before she could make a sound, but he wasn’t quite prepared for the ferocity of her response. She struggled with her whole body. Her hips rose to thwart him while her knees did their best to unman him. She struck a blow to the side of his head that had him seeing spots even as he tried to wrestle her into submission. The tables had turned and she was the animal bent on fighting her way out of captivity.
Only his greater weight saw him succeed in the end. They were both breathing heavily by the time he managed to sit on her thighs, his upper body leaned over her as he held her wrists to the straw pallet at her back. Her eyes blazed with her fury. Had they been weapons, he would have been ripped to shreds by their intensity.
‘You have made a grave mistake.’ Her voice was as hard as that of a queen whose sovereignty had been called into question.
He had expected yelling and more than a little screaming. What he got was a vow of retaliation that was all the more powerful for its unwavering belief that she would prevail before this was over. The proclamation was so jarring that he hesitated, but only for a moment before he renewed his commitment to the path he had set out for himself. He had to escape and the only way to do that was through her.
‘It is you who made the mistake, Lady Annis. You believed that you could take me captive with no ill effects. You were wrong.’
Giving a quick shake of her head, she said, ‘I never thought that. You left me no choice. When you came here to my home asking questions about Wilfrid, what did you expect would happen? I cannot allow you to bring harm to him.’
It wasn’t the first time she had spoken of Wilfrid as if she were responsible for him when it should very well be the other way around. Suspicion had niggled at the back of his mind the day before and now it became full-blown.
‘Do you not mean that he cannot allow harm to come to you? Should he not be here himself?’ At the look of mutinous righteousness that flared to life in her eyes, he added, ‘Not that you are not capable of defending yourself, as we can both plainly see.’ He smirked at the flash of rage the remark evoked. Now that she was beneath him and powerless, he could not help but take the time to enjoy her righteous anger.
‘Are we back to this again, Norseman? Tease the woman because you are so much bigger and stronger than she?’ She sniffed. ‘I am disappointed. I thought you would be above such things.’
His smile had broadened before he even became aware of the fact that he was smiling. He couldn’t take the time to ponder it now, but one day when he was far away from Glannoventa and its dangers he would sit and wonder how she could affect him so. Settling into the back-and-forth game they were playing, he said, ‘As you can see, I am not, but I am above you which does give me something of an upper hand.’
‘You are despicable.’ She bucked against him to no avail. Well, to no avail but to raise his awareness of the fact that she was indeed beneath him.
Strange as it was, a rush of heat began to simmer deep in his belly and his body tightened in response. The thighs between his were taut and firm, but there was no denying the curve of her hips or the softness of her belly when she bucked up against him. She was strong and lithe, while also being supple. Her beauty rivalled that of any great beauty he had ever known. Only, it was different in a way he could not describe, but could appreciate no less for his inability.
Strong. Feminine. Powerful. It was odd how that particular mix of attributes was appealing to him, but he could not deny her allure. Even chained to the wall of her prison on a bed of straw, he wanted her. Badly.
The night they had met had found them in a similar position to now, him holding her pressed against the wall as he had tried to show her a better way to defend herself. There had been a hitch in her breathing when he had spoken to her softly. In that moment before the attackers had come upon them, Rurik had known that she was attracted to him. The knowledge had been heady then and it was heady now for all that they were in a cage. Thoughts of seduction whirled in his head. If he could get her into his bed and compliant, she might very well give him the freedom he wanted and even the information he needed. Of course, he had a feeling she would also give him far more pleasure than he had ever known, but that was secondary to his real motivation. Wasn’t it?
As if she could read his thoughts, she stopped bucking. But the moment her gaze met his he saw that it was because she had noticed the heat between them. The blacks of her eyes had grown larger, which could have been a result of the weak light, but was most likely enhanced by the shift in the mood between them. Her gaze went to his mouth and, whether she realised it or not, her own mouth softened. The pink tip of her tongue laved her full bottom lip before her eyes darted back to his. They were wide in awareness and perhaps a tiny bit of fear.
The fear he could understand. He felt it, too. She was the last woman in the world that he should feel anything for…but that did not seem to matter. Before he could remind himself that he was only doing this to gain the upper hand, he followed his need for her and leaned down to kiss her.
* * *
For one tiny moment, Annis went mad. Rurik’s intent was clearly written on his face. His eyes fairly lit up with his carnal interest in her. Instead of being appalled or using the seax at her waist to ward him off, she wanted his kiss, welcomed it even.
It had been years since Grim had kissed her and he had only ever kissed her in the darkness of her chamber. Even then his eyes had never gone so deep and intense, as if kissing her were the most important thing in the world to him. He had never once kissed her outside of her bed and never would he have done so at such an inappropriate moment. The need in Rurik’s eyes…the way they seemed to eat her up… Annis had never felt so wanted. The feeling was so heady that she was drunk on it, dizzy with weighted limbs that would have trembled had he not held her so firmly…so very firmly.
As Rurik came closer, his head tilting to the side, his thumb a gentle stroke along the inside of her wrist, she found herself licking her bottom lip in preparation for him. When his breath touched her cheek, hers became shallow in anticipation. There was a flicker deep within her belly. She barely had time to ponder the hows and whys of this ill-advised kiss. One moment they had been struggling for control and the next there was this.
His lips were incredibly soft as they touched hers. She had expected a hard kiss, as rough and terse as the man himself. What she got was so much different. So much more. He took his time. Even as they lay there in the cell on a pile of straw, he kissed her as if they were lying in bed on a morning of leisure. His lips brushed hers once, twice, in a lazy back and forth before pulling away to tilt in the opposite direction as if he could sample her better that way.
She should end it before it became deeper. She meant to, but some urgency in the back of her mind made her extend what would surely be the only kiss in her foreseeable future. So instead, she touched her tongue to his bottom lip before retreating. She should end this now and was tensing to do just that when his soft groan gave her pause.
The sound vibrated in her, sending a bolt of molten need shooting to her core. She barely had time to register it before he gave chase, plundering her mouth as if it was his for the taking. Perhaps it was, because she only arched beneath him to give him better access. Grim’s kisses had never been anything like this. This was nothing short of a pillaging, a stealing of her very soul if only she hadn’t meant to hand it over. She was very certain that she might do just that, because so far she was kissing him back. Not passive in accepting him, but her tongue twirling with his as if it were a long-lost lover come back to her.
He pulled back to take in a breath. His callused hand moved gently down her arm on its way to what she thought might be her breast. Or at least her breast seemed very hopeful as it swelled and her back arched even more to push it higher. Opening her eyes a sliver, she looked at him through a glossed haze to see the corner of his mouth tick upwards as he watched her response. A grin of triumph. A smirk of conquest.
The excitement building in her crumbled on its shaky foundation. That smile broke the spell he had cast on her far faster than anything else could have. He was using her and why wouldn’t he be? She was his captor and a veritable fool to have succumbed to her curiosity. She would be damned if she would allow him to gloat over it.
Using his inflamed opinion of himself against him, she moved quickly, knowing that he would think nothing of it, and drew back as far as she could in the cushion of straw at her back before swinging her head forward so that her forehead caught him on the bridge of his nose. He let out a cry as he released her to bring his hands up to his face. Taking advantage of his momentary incapacitation, she wiggled free and drove her knee into his stomach. He let out a guffaw of air as he crumpled to the straw. His hand shot out to grab her ankle, but he was too late, grabbing only a handful of her skirt before she was able to jerk herself free and hurry towards the door.
Her hands were trembling as she fumbled for the key at her waist and shoved it into the lock. The stubborn thing was old and unused, so it stuck, but she still managed to turn it, sliding the bolt into place with shaking fingers. He was rising by that point, but she did not dare wait for him and say the things she wanted to shout at him. She hurried down the short corridor and up the steps, his roar of outrage following her as she fled.
Cedric was waiting for her outside the door at the top of the steps. He had insisted on it since she had refused to allow him to go downstairs to see to the prisoner. She could have called out at any time and he would have come running to help her. She had not done so, because she had been so certain that she could handle the Norseman. Only, she had not planned on that kiss. Her face flamed as she imagined Cedric finding them like that.
What had she been thinking? How had she allowed that man to put his mouth on her? She waited for disgust to roil to life within her, but it didn’t. Even now her lips tingled pleasantly.
‘What happened?’ Cedric’s hawk gaze seemed to see everything.
Dear Lord, were her lips swollen? She touched them with her fingertips as she shook her head and locked the door behind her. ‘He’s doing well. Still not talking about who he is or why he’s here.’
‘But we already know that, do we not?’ Cedric raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest.
‘We do.’ It seemed trifling for him to point that out, or perhaps she was overly sensitive because she did not know how to proceed. This inability to decide was something new for her and she did not enjoy how vulnerable it made her feel. Doing her best to appear busy sorting the keys at her waist so that she could avoid Cedric’s knowing gaze, she said, ‘I shall retire to my chambers after checking on Wilfrid.’
Cedric gave a huff of disdain when she stepped away. Whatever had made her think that he could be put off so easily, she did not know. He had never once been put off easily in all the years she had known him, so she paused and added, ‘I know we cannot keep the Norseman prisoner for ever. I will decide by morning what is to be done.’ Though how she would accomplish that she did not know. She could not bring herself to order his death, but there was no other obvious answer.
The creases between Cedric’s brows relaxed and he nodded. ‘That is wise. The sooner we have this business done with, the better.’
Annis gave him a nod of assent and hurried away. She looked in on Wilfrid only to find him in bed already, snoring soundly. Still shaken from her encounter with the Norseman downstairs, she hurried to her own chamber and suffered through the brisk administrations of her chambermaid. The girl had only been with Annis a year, taking the place of her mother who had served Annis all these years. Annis enjoyed Goda’s company, but sometimes missed the wise words of the girl’s mother. Perhaps she could have confided in her. She discarded the thought almost at once. She was in this alone. She could not endanger anyone else with the truth.
After she was changed into her nightdress and her hair was thoroughly combed and plaited, she bid the girl goodnight and took a candle to her bedside. Climbing up on to the down-stuffed mattress, she lay back and pulled the coverlet over her as she pondered what to do. Cedric was right. Death for the Norseman was the only reasonable solution. But it was so brutal that she could not do it, nor could she order it done. The events in Maerr were already black marks on her soul. She could not add the Norseman as well. However, she could not set him free either. He could very well murder them all with no hesitation. There was absolutely nothing to stop him from bringing back all the warriors in Maerr who might want vengeance.
Then there was the kiss. Even the memory had the ability to make her stomach swirl pleasantly. How could she have responded so completely to him? When she closed her eyes, she could feel the weight of him above her, the heat of his mouth on hers.
What could she do?
The question followed her into a fitful sleep where she dreamed of that stolen kiss.
* * *
Rurik had very nearly bellowed his thanks to the gods when his foot had encountered the metal of her seax. The slim weapon had been lying on the floor of his cell, still warm from where it had been secured against her body. Their wrestling must have loosened it so that it had fallen free when she had been lying on the ground. Rurik had promised to offer up a proper sacrifice to whichever god was responsible for his good fortune when he was free. Then he had spent hours using it to work the lock on the cuff around his wrist. For something so obviously aged as the restraint was, it had taken a long time to break the mechanism holding it closed. Once that had been taken care of, he’d had to do the same for the lock on his cage and the lock at the top of the stairs.
Most of the night had gone by then, but that did not matter. His only objective was to find Wilfrid. The home was quiet and so dark that he had to stand very still for far longer than was comfortable for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. A series of doors opened off a large atrium, each one appearing to guard dark chambers. The only light came through a crack between a large set of double doors. The wood was cold, nearly freezing, so he knew that they led outside.
Taking a deep breath and holding the seax in front of him, he pushed one open very slowly to find himself entering a garden. A single torch lit this area, revealing chambers along two sides. All seemed quiet, but one set of doors showed flickering light beneath. It was behind this door that he found an old man muttering to himself over a game.
Rurik knew immediately that it was Wilfrid. His age and the status indicated by the comfortable fabrics and appointments in the room told Rurik as much. Whether Rurik lived or died, at least he had found the man at least partially responsible for his father’s death, for Gilla’s death, for Ingrid’s death. So many dead.
‘Wilfrid?’
The man looked up, his snow-white hair an unruly mane. Rurik knew a moment of shock at his obvious age. While he had expected a man of Sigurd’s age, this one appeared at least a score of years older. The ruthlessness needed to kill innocents was generally found in younger men, or so Rurik had thought.
Though Wilfrid’s eyes sparkled with intelligence, there was a childlike innocence about him that had Rurik proceeding with caution. He refused to kill innocents in his pursuit for revenge. It was possible he was wrong about the man’s identity. As he approached, he found himself hoping that he was. There would be no joy in killing this strange man.
‘Are you Wilfrid?’ he asked again to make absolute certain, his fist tightening on the small dagger.
The man gave a jerky nod that had his head moving awkwardly. Rurik looked for an injury that would cause him to move like that, but could not see one.
‘Welcome,’ Wilfrid called out as if meeting a beloved friend, a hand raised in greeting. Whether he did not see the small dagger Rurik carried, or if he simply did not care, Rurik did not know. ‘Come.’
The man’s words were slurred. Having learned a bit of the Saxon tongue from his mother’s servant at a young age, Rurik was adequate, but not advanced in the language. He could barely make the words out. It was Wilfrid’s raised hand that bid him come forward. That and the man’s obvious lack of a weapon.
‘Sit,’ Wilfrid said, gesturing to the chair opposite him.
Rurik let himself fall heavily into the chair, momentarily concealing the weapon in the folds of the fur cloak draped over his shoulders. In all his imaginings, he had never thought to meet Wilfrid this way. His fingers trembled with suppressed anger.
‘Do you know who I am?’ Rurik asked, knowing the man would not.
Wilfrid seemed not to hear as he leaned over the game, selecting a wooden figurine and moving it to an adjacent square on the wooden board set on the table. This man was not a warrior. He seemed hardly more than a child for all his white hair and wrinkles. He was simple-minded.
Rurik had allowed anger and the promise of revenge to fuel every decision he had made for almost two years, only to come to this end. If Wilfrid even remembered the murders in Maerr, he would likely not even be able to talk about them, much less answer Rurik’s questions. His grip tightened again on the dagger. Did it matter that he was simple-minded? He had been involved in the murders. He deserved to die.
As the man leaned over the table, blissfully unaware that his death was imminent, Rurik stared down at the baby-fine hair on his pink scalp. He raised the dagger, but could not bring himself to allow it to descend to its natural conclusion in the man’s neck. It did not seem fair. He had come for a fight, only to find this. He lowered the dagger and several long moments passed with Rurik pondering how to proceed when the door opened and fate delivered to him another prize.