My Lord Viking (2 page)

     
Carefully she washed the crimson line from his forehead.
 
She frowned when she saw the wound that was surrounded by a lump nearly the size of one of Scamp’s paws.
 
The bruise was still red.
 
The man had been struck not long ago.
 
Her hand clenched the ruined stocking.
 
Mayhap the man who had landed him this facer was still close by.
 

     
Her heart thudded against her breast as she glanced both ways along the beach.
 
It was empty, but...

     
A glint on the sand caught her eye.
 
She nearly cried out her relief when she saw a knife lying beside the man’s left hand.
 
A weapon!
 
A scoundrel would think twice before attacking her if he saw this knife.
 
Horrified, she realized that this broad-shouldered man who was lying on the sand may have wielded it first against the one who had laid him so low.

     
Stretching across the unconscious man, she realized those shoulders and his chest were even wider than she had guessed.
 
She balanced herself carefully as she reached for the knife.
 
To tumble atop him might be dangerous for him and would be unquestionably embarrassing for her.
 
She smiled when she grasped the blade’s engraved haft.
 
Holding her breath, she lifted it from the sand and sat back on her heels.

     
Linnea squinted to look at the pattern on the knife’s pommel, for the sun shimmered off the metal.
 
It was engraved with a series of circles and figures.
 
Mayhap human figures, and she bent to determine what they might be.

     
Fingers closed around her wrist.
 
She gasped and tried to pull away.
 
Her arm was jerked toward the ground.
 
She stared in disbelief into eyes as purple as the first glow of dawn.
 
The man was awake!
 

     
“How are you faring?”
 
She winced as his grip on her wrist tightened.
 
“That hurts!
 
Please let me go.”

     
“
Feila
?”
 
Bafflement threaded his brow, and a flash of pain swept his face.
 
His incredible eyes did not release her, nor did his strong fingers.
 

     
“I don’t understand,” she whispered.
 
She tried to tug her arm away.
 
“Let me go!”

     
Linnea gasped as he slowly forced the point of the dagger up toward her chin.
 
She released the knife.
 
The blade struck the sand between them.
 
He shoved her back and reached for the knife.
 
She moaned as her bottom landed hard on the sand.
 

     
Scamp rushed, barking, to her side.
 
She pushed the excited puppy off her lap.
 
Rising to her knees, she cried out in horror as the man gripped the ribbons holding her bonnet around her neck.
 

     
“Release me!” she cried.

     
He pulled her toward him, the sharp edge of her bonnet cutting into her nape.
 
A smile spread through his shaggy beard, and his eyes narrowed to amethyst slits.
 
He said something, but she could not understand a single word.
 

     
Fury strengthened her.
 
She tugged at the ribbons, and the bow untied.
 
Again she rocked back onto the sand.
 
Jumping to her feet, she ran toward the other cove.
 
Over her shoulder, she called, “Scamp, come!”

     
The puppy yelped.

     
Linnea looked back.
 
The man was leaning on his right elbow and held Scamp by the scruff.
 
The puppy was wiggling in a futile attempt to flee.
 
Knowing she should go for assistance, but fearing the man would hurt her puppy, she faltered. She could see his smile glimmering even from where she stood as she took a single step, then another back toward him.

     
“Let Scamp go.
 
Please,” she whispered when she stood beside the man again.
 
She pointed to the puppy.
 
“Scamp.
 
Let him go.”

     
“Scamp?”

     
She flinched as he repeated the name back to her.
 
The odd accent his deep voice put on the single word was one she could not place.
 
But what did she know of the ways of low folk who would threaten a woman wanting only to help?
 
“Yes, that is Scamp.
 
My dog.”

     
“
Rakki
,” he said as he held the pup off the ground.

     
“
Rakki
?
 
Dog?”
 
She nodded.
 
“Yes, that is my dog.
 
Please do not hurt Scamp.”

     
Satisfaction widened his smile.
 
He released the dog, which darted beyond his reach.
 
“
Britannia
?”

     
“Are you asking if this is
England
?”
 
She never had met such a peculiar man.
 
Even though the wound was still oozing on his forehead and his left arm had not moved, he acted as if nothing were amiss.
 
“Who are you?”

     
Nils Bjornsson continued to smile at the lovely woman.
 
That was one question he did not intend to answer until he discovered what was happening here.
 
He could understand this woman, even though he had never heard any of the gutless Anglo-Saxons use some of the words she did.
 

     
Pain scored his skull as he shifted and tried to sit.
 
His left arm hung at his side, useless.
 
It was his misfortune that he preferred to hold his knife in that hand when he drove it into an enemy.
 
His left ankle burned as if it were a torch.
 
If his ribs were not broken, the agony of every breath made them seem so.
 
Blood trickled along his side, and he knew his foe had gotten in one successful strike before Nils saw him dead.
 
Then he had been hit again by his blood-enemy.
 
Where was Kortsson now?

     
Fighting to clear his blurred eyesight, he looked up at the woman who was edging away.
 
He grasped the
sax
, and she halted, an expression of fear on her face as she stared at the blade.
 
Good!
 
She was not as witless as others he had met during his previous journeys to this island.
 

     
Nor was she without other attributes that appealed to him.
 
Although she wore her ebony hair shamelessly uncovered about her shoulders and a white gown that was as gossamer as a fair weather cloud, her face was finely boned.
 
Eyes as dark as her hair did not lower before his steady gaze.
 
She possessed a brave spirit he had not seen here.
 
Yet it was not her spirit that drew his eyes to the intriguing curves which were revealed so delightfully by her damp dress.
 

     
His eyes narrowed as something glistened just above her breasts.
 
He could see well enough to determine the necklace she wore around her neck was of fine gold and gems.
 
He doubted if such a young, wealthy woman would wander far from her home.
 
There might be a treasure waiting there for the daring man who sought it.
 

     
But that man could not be Nils Bjornsson.
 
He had his duty, the sworn oath that had brought him to this desolate place.
 
He could not forsake it to fill his pouch with gold.

     
“
Feila
!” he called.
 
When she did not move, he repeated in her language, “Woman.
 
Aa-sjaa
.”

     
“What?”

     
Nils sought in his slow mind for the English word.
 
“
Aa-sjaa
.
 
Help.”

     
He was astonished when she folded her arms in front of her and said, “You have your gall asking me for help when you have threatened me with a knife and nearly choked me to death.”

     
Trying to decipher her peculiar accent, he smiled as he said, “I did not kill you.”

     
“You tried.”

     
“If I had tried, you would be dead.”

     
“Do you expect me to be grateful for your clemency?”

     
Nils gave up all attempt to comprehend what she meant by that question.
 
His mind was clearing, and he could recall more and more of the language of Britannia.
 
Lowering the
sax
, he said, “I need help.
 
Bring some.”

     
He watched as she hesitated.
 
Her dog ran about her, but he ignored it.
 
The pup had no more sense than the birds above, and he saw no use for such a puny creature.
 
It was too small to herd or to hunt.
 

     
Slowly she nodded.
 
“I will get some help, but you must give me the knife.”

     
“So you may kill me?”

     
“If I wanted to kill you,” she said in the same superior tone he had used, “you would never have wakened.
 
You were as helpless as a babe.”

     
In spite of himself, Nils smiled again.
 
This
was
a dangerous woman, for she used words with the skill of a
skald
.

     
“Will you bring help?” he asked.

     
“Will you give me the dagger?”

     
He flipped the
sax
into the air.
 
The blade drove into the sand only an inch from her toes.
 
“That is your answer.”

     
Taking a deep breath, she bent to pick up the knife.
 
“Rest.
 
I will bring others to help.”
 
She frowned as she looked at his left arm.
 
“That will need to be set.
 
It looks broken.”

     
“It feels broken.”

     
Her eyes grew wide.
 
She took a step toward him.
 

     
He tensed.
 
Did she mean to slay him now that he had been a
daari
and given her the dagger?
 
Maybe she had guessed how weak he was.

     
When she knelt beside him, she said, “Rest here.
 
I will leave Scamp with you.
 
He will keep the birds and any other curious creatures away until I can return.”
 

     
“He will do nothing but make noise.”

     
“Exactly.”

     
“I need no more noise when my head is as heavy as a
drakkar
.”