The Warrior's Viking Bride (Harlequin Historical) Page 4

‘Nevertheless, he sent me.’ Aedan held out a gold ring with a double-axe motif engraved in it and struggled to keep his temper. The woman should be on her knees in gratitude to him. He had saved her life. She owed him a life debt.

  He knew her type. He had encountered Northern women over the years. Invariably they were proud and stubborn, inclined to argue rather than accepting his word. And this one was the worst—the most stubborn and pig-headed. She rivalled her father in that.

  ‘His token. Kolbeinn said it would be enough. You would understand that I came from him.’

  She looked at it warily as if it was a snake which might bite her. ‘My father sent you. Truly? Not my stepmother?’

  ‘I’ve never encountered your stepmother,’ Aedan said truthfully. There would be time enough to explain about the death of Kolbeinn’s second wife and, more importantly, her son’s. It amazed him that she remained in ignorance of these events, but if she kept slitting messengers’ throats, what could she expect?

  She was silent for a long while. The tattooed whorls on her cheeks trembled. ‘That is my father’s ring. He did indeed send you, but that doesn’t mean I’m going with you like a lamb to the slaughter.’

  Aedan clung on to his temper with the barest of threads. If he could have rid himself of this burden, he would have. ‘What other options do you have?’

  She lifted her chin. ‘Plenty. Give me time and I will detail them to you.’

  Mor stiffened, gave a low growl and began backing into the undergrowth. Every muscle in Aedan’s body stiffened.

  ‘Is there a problem with your dog? I haven’t moved,’ she asked, cocking her head to one side.

  Without giving her a chance to react, Aedan clamped his hand over her mouth and pulled her into the undergrowth, next to where his dog crouched. His body hit hers and somewhere in his mind he registered that Dagmar Kolbeinndottar was made up of far more curves than he had originally thought.

  Her furious blue eyes stared back at him. Without the facial decoration, she would be pretty.

  ‘Listen with your ears. Stop struggling,’ he muttered. ‘My dog has heard something. I trust her instincts far more than your prattling.’

  She pressed her mouth shut and lay still, her skin pale against the blue whorls.

  ‘Can’t believe we are searching for the Gael,’ came one voice, far closer than Aedan would have liked.

  ‘Olafr wants to make sure the Shield Maiden is dead. He didn’t find her body,’ another said. ‘Just her armour.’

  ‘I’m sure I heard a woman’s voice coming from around here.’

  ‘You hear women’s voices all the time. Why should this be any different?’

  Five Northmen barged into the clearing. Aedan’s other hand inched towards his sword.

  ‘If she is around, she’ll be dead easy to spot.’ The man gave a guffaw. ‘How many women do you know who sport blue whorls and snakes in their hair? Nah, she’ll be dead.’

  ‘What do you think that was all about anyway?’ asked the voice.

  ‘Her mother had the whorls as well. Maybe she was born with them.’

  ‘Tattoos more like. After her first battle. I was there. I smelt the stench of burning flesh. And they ain’t no snakes, just plaits. By Loki, some people are gullible.’

  ‘All I know is that it is beginning to rain again. They didn’t go this way. Let’s get back to camp. At least we found a horse and if they have gone into the marshes they’re goners. It ain’t no one who can survive that.’

  ‘Wee Davy...’

  ‘Wee Davy has a big mouth for tall tales, but the Gael went north, I know that for a fact.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He came from the north. There ain’t no way man nor beast can get through what lies due west—those marshes are full of spirits who sup on the souls of the living.’

  ‘Aye. If the Shield Maiden has gone in there, it’ll be the last we see of her. She will have left the horse here as a diversion and taken the road north. It is the only way.’

  ‘We will catch her and claim the reward. She can’t hide those tattoos.’

  Aedan breathed a sigh of relief as the group disappeared back the way they came. He waited, holding his body and hers completely still until the footsteps had faded.

  He slowly took his hand away from Dagmar’s mouth and rolled away. ‘Believe me now?’

  ‘About Olafr’s treachery?’ Her mouth twisted. ‘Can there be any doubt? Your words hold merit, Gael. To stay in the lands Thorsten controls is to court death.’

  Aedan released a breath. One hurdle overcome. Now for the rest. ‘I’ve spent long enough chasing after you. Time slips through my fingers. We go now.’

  ‘How close are we to the battle?’ she asked in a low voice.

  ‘I thought we were far enough away. You were beginning to stir when I stopped. I didn’t know how hard I hit you.’

  ‘And the horse?’

  ‘One I stole. I let it go free. Obviously someone recognised it.’

  She nodded. ‘You did well there, Gael.’

  Aedan rubbed the back of his neck, unable to decide if she was serious or being ironic. ‘We go across the marshes from here. The horse would only have slowed us down.’

  ‘Those men said that it would be certain suicide. Spirits inhabit those marshes.’

  ‘They’re wrong. There is a way through and we will take it.’

  ‘Are you touched in the head?’ She slapped her hands together. ‘Don’t answer that. Of course you are, why else brave a battle with only a dog? Gods help me.’

  ‘A large portion of my family might agree with you, but I like to think that I take calculated risks. The marsh is a calculated risk.’ Aedan shifted the pack on to his other shoulder. ‘Are you ready?’

  Dagmar remained where she stood, fingering her cheek with a thoughtful expression.

  He sighed. ‘What else does my lady fair require afore we depart?’

  ‘I require clean water, and I’m not some fragile spoilt flower of a lady. I’m a shield maiden. Remember that.’

  ‘If you’re thirsty, I’ve the dregs of small beer remaining.’

  ‘To wash the paint off my face, of course. Once I no longer sport blue whorls on my face and snakes in my hair, then we can travel on the road right under Olafr’s nose.’ She gave a self-satisfied smile. ‘I do have ears. They search for a woman with blue and black circles tattooed on her face and tightly plaited hair. Both things are easy to change.’

  He started. ‘Your whorls are not tattoos? In Bernicia I was told—’

  She gave her first real smile. ‘Amazing what people will believe without questioning. How could anyone have venomous snakes for hair?’

  Aedan frowned. He’d believed it simply because it was a rumour. He should have thought to question. Or when she was unconscious, to check for himself. Fundamental mistake. ‘It is what I was told.’

  ‘My mother refused to permit the tattoos as one day I might have cause to change my mind. I railed against her, but to no avail. I was going to make them permanent after I’d fulfilled my vow and won my lands,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Once again I see her wisdom and foresight.’ She picked up a handful of moss and made an imperious gesture. ‘The water, Gael. The sooner my face is clean, the sooner we can depart on the road north.’

  Aedan stared at her. ‘I’m not your servant.’

  ‘No, but you’re my father’s. Why else wouldn’t you have a horse?’

  It was on the tip of his tongue to her inform her of the truth that he owned estates and many horses on Ile, but then he decided that it was not worth it. Their acquaintance wouldn’t be longer than strictly necessary. The less she knew of him and his true reasons for the quest to find her and return her to her father, the better.

  ‘Why indeed?’ he murmured instead. Leaving Mor to guard his reluctant companion, he fetc
hed water from the edge of the mist-shrouded marsh.

  She poured it on the moss and began to rub her face. Rivulets of blue and black trickled down her cheeks and neck. He shook his head, disgusted with his blindness. ‘Paint. Such a simple, obvious trick.’

  ‘But highly effective.’ She concentrated on removing the paint. ‘It gave my face a fierceness that men respected.’

  She dried her face on the corner of her tunic. Then, with quick fingers, she undid the tight plaits in her hair so that it hung about her face like a golden wavy cloud.

  ‘Do I look like the same woman?’

  Aedan tried not to gape in surprise. The woman who regarded him had a certain vulnerability to her mouth. Her other features were a bit angular, but her skin was no longer stretched tight from the plaits. Before he’d only noticed the strange whorls of the tattoos; now he noticed her—and very delectable she was, too. Aedan struggled to remember when he had last seen a woman with skin that translucent. It was little wonder that her mother had kept Dagmar’s beauty hidden, surrounded as she was by so many men.

  ‘It will make it easier to travel unnoticed,’ he said, busying himself with checking the pack. His body’s intense reaction to her was because he’d been without a woman for far too long, that was all. ‘The marsh awaits, my lady fair.’

  Her jaw dropped. ‘But there is no need. I have disguised myself.’

  ‘We must still go through the marshes. The mist is lifting. We need to make the most of the daylight.’

  ‘Those men spoke the truth. They are treacherous. People have perished. Several of my mother’s men lost their way last spring and only one body was ever found.’ She gave her imperious nod as if she expected him to obey her without question.

  Aedan gritted his teeth. She would soon learn he was no brainless servant who would fawn over her every utterance.

  ‘We go around,’ she proclaimed, tilting her chin arrogantly upwards. ‘To the south, rather than to the north if we must.’

  ‘My dog has an excellent nose. She got me through them before. She will get us through again.’ He forced his tone to be gentle as though he was soothing a frightened horse. ‘If Olafr believes you survived, he will check all the roads. He will know that you will make for your father.’

  She was silent for a long time. ‘Olafr knows that would be my last resort. He might consider the south and Halfdan at Eoforwic. My mother had dealings with him six warring seasons ago. The road south will be difficult, but he won’t be looking for me when I look like this.’

  ‘Who do you resemble?’

  She lowered her brow. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

  ‘Your mother may have confided the paint trick to him. You can’t discount it.’

  ‘I look like my father’s mother except for my hair.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘I get that from my mother’s mother.’ She tapped her finger against the dusky pink of her mouth. ‘But you’ve a point. He has obviously been planning this for some time. My mother may have been foolish and confided our secret to him. She was besotted. I underestimated him before, but I won’t make that mistake again.’

  ‘He knows your father sent me,’ he reminded her. ‘He is searching for the both of us.’

  ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

  ‘We go through the marshes, even if I have to carry you every step of the way.’

  ‘I can walk.’

  ‘I carried you before.’

  ‘Across the back of a horse, a horse which is presently elsewhere. I can make it difficult for you, Gael. Give in to my sensible request. I tend to win.’

  That he did not doubt. Her strong jawline told of an inner strength and stubbornness.

  ‘It is best that we are gone before they work out their mistake. Before the mist comes down. Unless you wish to throw yourself on Olafr’s mercy, you will join me.’

  He whistled for Mor and started off. His heart thumped in his ears. She had to believe the bluff. He couldn’t afford to leave her, but going through the marshes would save precious time and the one commodity he lacked was time if he was to beat Kolbeinn at his game.

  ‘Are you abandoning me?’ Her voice held a plaintive note.

  ‘I’m going the way which leads to safety, the only way open to us. Decide—do you want to live to enact your revenge against Olafr or do you wish to die, slowly and painfully?’

  ‘Wait! I’ll brave the marshes,’ she called.

  Chapter Three

  Dagmar carefully picked her way through the bog with its squelching mud and hidden pools of bad water, following in the Gael’s footsteps, trying not to think about all the tales and legends she had heard about this place.

  Old Alf had delighted in reciting them when they skirted around it earlier in the season—tales of unquiet ghosts and elves who lured men into the deep where they drowned. A king’s army had once ridden in and had never been seen again. However, on the days when the mist rolled out, then the sound of their dying cries echoed across the land.

  She concentrated on the Gael’s broad shoulders and the way his cloak swung instead. The man moved far too arrogantly as if the entire world should bow to him. Women probably melted under his gaze and populated his bed. She’d encountered the type before. Her body’s earlier reaction to the Gael was definitely a result of the blow to her head. She’d be immune to him from now on.

  ‘Does your dog have a name?’ she called out when the Gael halted beside a particularly malodorous bog. She was certain he’d chosen to stop there simply to be awkward. The Gael was like that.

  The mist had started to rise, obscuring even the limited view. The small wisps of cold resembled humans with outstretched hands. A few loons called out over the marsh, sounding precisely like men begging for help.

  ‘Mor,’ he answered without bothering to glance back. ‘My dog is called Mor. She is a wolfhound and dislikes imperious people from the north.’

  ‘I’m not imperious!’

  He raised a brow. ‘That is for my dog to decide.’

  Since they had entered the marshes, he had not bothered really to see if she was keeping up. It was only because his dog Mor kept stopping, turning to look at her every so often and occasionally returning to her to nudge her hand and prevent her from stepping in thick oozing mud, that she remained alive and not lost for ever in the growing mist. Something else to hold against him. Soon he’d have to admit that this trek was impossible and they’d have to retrace their steps and go the way she’d suggested in the first place. She wasn’t imperious, she simply had better ideas and wasn’t afraid to say so.

  ‘Mor as in big or Mor as in Sarah?’ she asked to keep her mind away from the way the mist had shrouded the few scrubby trees which suddenly punctuated the landscape.

  He stopped so suddenly that she nearly bumped into him. ‘Of course, you know Gaelic. I forgot that you spoke to me in Gaelic when we first met. How did you learn it?’

  ‘My nurse when I was little was a Gael.’ Dagmar looped a strand of damp hair about her ear. ‘It was her name. Mor like Sarah.’

  His brows drew together in a fierce frown. He cursed loud and long. ‘One of the captured women, forced to work for the Northmen, but all the while longing to be free.’

  She concentrated on a tuft of dead grass. He made it seem as though it was somehow wrong to have had a nurse. ‘Thralls exist. Even the Picts and the Gaels have them. Estates could not function without workers. If you know of a better way, do tell me. My mother had other duties and both her mother and my father’s mother were dead, long before I was born. Someone had to look after me when I was little.’

  She waited with a thumping heart. She did not doubt that if he could, the Gael would abandon her here. She had to be grateful that his desire for payment from her father was greater than his loathing of the people from the north.

  ‘Even so, the Northmen have c
aptured too many of our women. My aunt disappeared before I was born. She never returned. There were rumours about my grandfather selling her, but I know the truth.’

  ‘Just as you supposedly knew the truth about my hair and tattoos?’

  ‘That is different.’

  Dagmar regarded the ground and wished she had never said anything. The Gael obviously despised her and her kind. At least her mother had never sunk so low as to become a snatcher of women. ‘And you’re certain it was Northmen.’

  ‘From Dubh Linn, from the Black Pool, according to my mother. They came in their ships and took her.’

  ‘We have been at war with the Northmen from the Black Pool for as long as I can remember. My mother despised them and what they did to women,’ Dagmar said fiercely.

  ‘What happened to your nurse?’

  ‘My nurse was a second mother to me. Mor in the north tongue means mother and she truly was kind and loving. I revere her memory.’ Dagmar hated how her voice caught. Mor had been one of the few people to show tenderness to her, drying her eyes when she failed at her lessons.

  ‘How convenient.’

  Ignoring the Gael and his ill humour, she went and knelt beside the dog, holding out her hand and softly called her name. Mor the dog sniffed her outstretched palm and then gave it a tentative lick with a rough tongue. ‘Mor, I mean you no harm. I’m grateful for your nose which has led us thus far and I pray to Thor and Freyja that you lead us to safety.’

  Mor cocked her head to one side and gave a small woof with a wag of her tail.

  ‘She approves of you,’ the Gael said with a frown.

  ‘As someone from the north, I’m honoured not to be considered imperious.’

  ‘It takes time for her to fully trust someone.’

  Dagmar attempted a smile. ‘Like her master.’

  He gestured towards the thickening mist. The bog in front of them looked particularly treacherous. The gesture revealed the breadth of his shoulders and the power in his arms. ‘Shall we get going?’

  Dagmar gave the dog one last pat. ‘You’ll get us through, won’t you? You won’t allow the elves who lurk in such places to capture me.’