Page 2 of Her Rogue Viking
The warning was enough to quell further struggles. Fiona hung there, the fur of his cloak rubbing against her exposed neck as he strode forward into the village. She remained still and quiet, and prayed to the merciful God she only half believed in that this huge savage would not do her or her loved ones lasting harm. Somehow, she doubted her prayers would be heeded.
The Viking bent at the waist to deposit her back on her feet. Fiona swayed, and the warlord grabbed her elbow to steady her. She allowed herself a quick glance up, and gasped.
He was ferocious, almost feral in his warlike intensity. The Viking’s visage was stern, hard, the face of a battle-wearywarrior. His head was bare, and she caught sight of long, flaxen-coloured locks that brushed his shoulders. It was his eyes though that captured and held her attention. They glittered in a brilliant shade of azure, like shards of ice. They were the eyes of a man who had seen too much and cared very little. Those deep blue orbs were hardened, cold, uncompromising. This man would snap an opponent in a heartbeat, and Fiona could not fathom why she still drew breath.
“Do not move from this spot. You will be coming with us.”
He turned on his heel and strode off, leaving Fiona among the huddle of captives clearly destined for a life of slavery in the frozen lands to the north.
“Why are you bound?”
The question came from Taranc who had materialised at her side moments after the massive Norseman left.
Fiona turned, astonished to find him here among the villagers of Pennglas. “Taranc? Why…? How are you?—”
“I was here when the raiders charged in. I came looking for you, but you were off somewhere. You would have done well to remain away…”
“I went to Aikrig, but returned early since you were not there. I heard the sounds of battle, saw the smoke and I wanted to help.”
“Turn around, I will free you.”
Fiona presented her back and bound wrists to him, but no sooner did Taranc set to work on her bonds than a shout rang out, cutting across the babble and cries of the now dwindling strife.
“Leave her bound or I shall have your hands chopped off.”
The Viking warlord pierced her with his merciless gaze from across the ruins of their beleaguered settlement. He now held a huge sword, drawn and ready, and Fiona entertained not a moment’s doubt that he meant what he said.
“It is all right,” she murmured. “I am fine.”
Taranc stiffened behind her. Fiona sensed his indecision and knew he would defend her to the death if she but asked him. She would do no such thing.
“Really, I am not uncomfortable.”
Taranc wrapped his arms around her and Fiona turned to bury her face in the soft leather of his jerkin. He bent to kiss the top of her bowed head.
“My father? Adair…?” She almost did not dare to ask.
“I am sorry…” His tone betrayed his anguish.
She tilted her head to gaze up at him, his face blurring as tears filled her eyes. “What? No! Please, no…”
“Your brother rushed the first of the invaders. He was courageous?—”
“He was rash and stupid. What did Adair charge them with? A stick? A plough?”
“A shovel. But he did at least try…”
“And my father?”
“I am not sure. He may yet live. I have not seen him.” Taranc craned his neck to look over the heads of those clustered closest to them. His height gave him an advantage, but his flattened lips and narrowed eyes told their own story. Fiona’s father was not among the prisoners.
“We will survive this, I swear it. I shall take care of you. Always.” He tightened his embrace around her as Fiona succumbed to the weeping she could not hold back. “And after, we shall marry. I promise.”
Fiona nodded against his chest, though privately she doubted that would come to pass. They would not survive this. Even ifthey did, even if by some miraculous twist of fickle fate they should both emerge with their lives, neither would be any more enthusiastic about marriage in that stolen future than they were now.
Desperation breeds rash promises, she mused. She would not dwell on it.
The Norsemanshe had felled first rose unsteadily to his feet. He shook his head, the tangled mane of russet hair wild and shaggy about his still-bleeding scalp. He muttered something in his guttural Nordic tongue and cast his angry gaze about him. Fiona shuddered and shrank back against Taranc.
