Forbidden Nights With A Viking. Michelle Willingham
backs on her?
If Caragh died, none of the others would free him. She was his only hope of escaping. And the only way to do that was to gain her trust.
‘Set me free, and I’ll help you get food,’ he said at last. ‘Then you can guide me to find my wife and kinsmen.’
She shook her head slowly, a rueful smile on her face. ‘You’d only abandon me here, as soon as I let you go.’
Of course she would believe that. But he wasn’t about to spend any longer, waiting until her brothers arrived. He would keep trying to free himself, no matter what he had to do.
Caragh took a branch from her supply of kindling and made it into a torch, lighting it in the fire. ‘I suppose I could try to look for crab for a little while. Wait here, and I’ll return within the hour.’
As if he had a choice.
He leaned back against the post, determined to do anything necessary to make his escape.
Styr tested the chains behind his back, lifting the manacles as far up as he could, to his shoulders. He leaned against them with his full body weight, stepping against the post. Though his wrists burned from the effort, he walked backwards up the post, lifting the chains with every step. After falling back down several times, he realised he had to keep the chains taut. Inch by inch, he guided himself up, gritting his teeth against the ache. It was the thought of freedom that pushed him past the edge of pain, while he twisted the chains and continued higher.
The support beam reached up to the ceiling. Slowly, he pulled himself up, until his shoulders touched the thatch. Sweat beaded against his forehead as he fought to keep his balance. If he could just lift his arms a little higher, he could raise the chains over the top of the post. It was attached to the roof, but the other beam was thinner, perhaps the width of his wrist.
Every muscle in his body cried out with agony, but he pushed past the pain. he would endure this for Elena’s sake.
His shoulder nearly dislocated when he shoved the chain over the top of the beam. He hung, suspended, from the smaller piece of wood, and his body weight strained against the beam.
Come on, he pleaded. Break.
He gulped for air, swinging against the wood while he feared it was his wrists that would break. In his mind, he pictured the face of Elena and her haunted sadness.
She needs you.
With a Herculean effort, at last the smaller beam cracked and he fell to the ground against his knees.
He couldn’t move, and for a long moment, he rested his cheek against the earthen floor. His wrists were slick with blood, and they throbbed with pain.
But he’d done it. He was free to move, free to leave this place. Though his hands were still bound in chains, no longer was he confined to Caragh’s hut.
Styr rose up to his knees, letting out a shuddering breath. It was better to wait until morning to go after Elena. This land was unknown to him, and he needed to plan his journey.
That meant gathering supplies and food—if there were any to be had. He sobered, for he’d travelled enough to know that he couldn’t go off blindly trying to track down Elena and Ragnar. Since they’d gone by boat, they could be anywhere along the coast.
He needed a ship of his own, to travel the same path. And he needed to break free of these chains.
Slowly, he stood, eager to escape the confines of this place. He struggled to open the door, but when he stepped outside, he breathed in the scent of freedom. All was quiet, the night cloaking the sky with darkened clouds. In the distance, he spied the flare of a single torch.
Caragh.
He gripped the chains to hold his silence as he tiptoed into the night. Soundlessly, he made his way towards the beach where he saw her staring intently at the sand. Alone, with no one to help her.
In her face, he saw the dogged determination to survive. It was breaking her down, but she kept searching. He’d known men who were quicker to give up than her.
She walked alongside the water, the torch casting shadows upon the sand. In the faint light, her face held a steady patience. Her skin was golden in the light, her brown hair falling over her shoulders in untamed waves.
She was far too gentle for her own good. What kind of a woman would capture a Norseman and then give up her own food? Why would she bother treating his wounds, when he’d threatened her?
And why was there no man to take care of her? No husband or lover…unless Kelan intended to offer his protection. From her coolness towards the man, she wouldn’t want him near.
Styr remained in the shadows, even knowing that he shouldn’t be here. He ought to be studying the perimeter of the ringfort, searching for hidden supplies or information about these people.
Instead, he couldn’t take his eyes off Caragh, as if she were the vision of Freya, sent to tempt him. Like the women of his homeland, she possessed an inner strength he admired. Though Fate had cast her a bitter lot, she’d faced the grimness of her future.
Taking him prisoner had been the action of a desperate woman, not a cruel one. He knew within his blood, that if he left her now, she would starve to death.
He shouldn’t care. Because of her, he’d been helpless to look after his wife and his men. He owed her nothing.
And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away. Perhaps it was the way she’d tended his wounds…or the way she’d wanted to protect her brother. He understood loyalty to family.
He cursed her for weakening his resolve, but he couldn’t leave until she had enough food to survive a little longer. Turning his back, he returned to her shelter, his mind filling up with plans of how to gain a boat.
Once he’d found fish for Caragh, he’d have his own supplies, too. Then, he could go out in search of his wife.
Caragh sat upon a large stone, watching the sand for any sign of movement. Styr had claimed that she might find crabs at this time of night, but she doubted there would be anything.
His accusation stung, that she would rather wait on her brothers than try to save herself. Of course she’d tried to survive. she’d done everything she could to find food.
Every breath was a fight to live, and she’d grown accustomed to hunger. The emptiness inside her was a constant reminder of how capricious Fate could be. But the Lochlannach’s words had bruised her feelings.
The familiar dizziness blurred her vision, and she took slow, deep breaths to keep from fainting. In time, the ringing in her ears stopped, and she concentrated on the water once more.
A flicker of movement caught her eye, and she raised the torch. She was startled to realise that Styr’s prediction was right. There were crabs underwater at night. Quickly she reached for one and placed it in her basket. Though it was too tiny for meat, if she caught enough of them, they could make a good soup.
One by one, she saw more crabs and added them to her basket, feeling her spirits lift.
After another hour passed, she decided she’d caught enough. Though there were only a dozen, they would provide sustenance. She smiled with relief, covering the basket to protect her catch.
It was late, but she was so hungry, she hardly cared. Right now, she wanted to boil some of the crabs for food. Hurrying back, she opened the door and saw the Viking exactly where she’d left him. When he spied her, his eyes seemed to say: I told you so.
‘You were right,’ she admitted, revealing the crabs she’d caught. But she hardly cared what he thought. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling. ‘I’ll boil these and make a soup.’
The Lochlannach shook his head. ‘Don’t. You’ll catch fish if you bait lines with the crab tonight. Put them where the tide comes in and you’ll have bass or flounder in the morning.’ He gave her further