Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (26 page)

And another man's wife.

His best friend's wife.

Ragnar leaned his weight against the stones, pushing his way up to a standing position. The sky was a hazy rose and gold, and mist frosted against the edge of the mainland. His stomach twisted at the thought of food and he hoped they would catch fish or other game.

But he wasn't much use to Elena. Not like this. The barest pressure of weight upon his leg was agonising, and he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to limp towards the other side of the island. It was a small outcropping, hardly more than a copse of trees and large boulders. There was no food, no water and their only hope for survival was to make the crossing.

He glanced at the grey salt water, knowing that it would burn his wounds with unholy fire. Elena's suggestion, that they bind fallen limbs together, was a sound one. The pain had been bad enough when the arrow was still inside him, but more flesh was exposed now that she'd taken it out.

* * *

When Elena emerged from the woods, she dragged four stout branches along the sand, each the thickness of his forearm. She had gathered up her hair, twisting it in a knot and securing it with a small stick while she worked. She used his knife to cut off more material from her skirts. As she bound the limbs together, his traitorous imagination conjured up the vision of her bared legs tangled with his own, his body lying atop hers.

Ragnar closed his eyes, furious with himself for even thinking such dishonourable thoughts about her.

‘Let me help you,' he said to Elena. He needed the activity to distract him. Anything to keep his gaze away from her bared flesh.

Limping towards the pile of limbs, he sat down and wove the fabric under and over each branch, securing it tightly. Elena worked opposite him, mirroring his method, until at last it was ready.

The morning light reflected upon her skin and, though she appeared tired, there was determination in her eyes. She was staring at the arrangement of wood, frowning. ‘It won't float with your weight.'

He shrugged. ‘There's not enough wood for that. But if it gives us something to hold on to, that will be enough.'

She studied their raft, then glanced overhead at the sparse trees that shaded them. ‘I wish you had a battleaxe as your weapon. It would be more useful, cutting branches and trees.'

‘I prefer a sword.' He liked the balance of the weapon and it suited fluid battle motions where he could slash at his enemy. ‘Styr's weapon is the axe.' The moment he spoke her husband's name, a flash of sadness came over Elena.

‘I want to believe he's alive,' she murmured. ‘That somehow he'll come for me.' But she shook her head, rubbing her arms against the chill.

‘If he doesn't, I'll take you back myself.' His words were little reassurance, for neither of them knew what had happened to Styr. He might still be a prisoner, or he could be dead.

‘You can't make the journey with that leg. It's too far.' With a sigh, Elena began pulling the small makeshift raft across the sand.

Before she could go any further, Ragnar limped towards her and caught her arm. ‘I may be wounded, Elena, but I'm not dead. The wound will heal.' He didn't want her to think of him as helpless and he let his hand slide down her arm to grip her hand. A trail of gooseflesh rose over her skin at his touch. ‘You won't be stranded here. I swear it by the blood of Thor.'

Her hand gripped his and, when she met his gaze, there was a flicker of hesitancy before colour spread over her cheeks. ‘I'm glad you're here.'

He wanted to pull her close, to taste the lips that had haunted him for so long. But she only turned back to her discarded apron, pulling it over her head and fastening the brooches at her shoulders. She had the innocent demeanour of a maiden, but the body of a woman who had known a man intimately.

Without a word, he began dragging the raft towards the water, suppressing a gasp when the salt water lapped against his bandaged wound. The vicious pain was the reminder he needed to stay away from Styr's wife.

Elena joined him, holding on to the bound limbs while they made their way towards the mainland. Ragnar kicked with his good leg, grateful that the tide was coming in, aiding them in their journey. But by the gods, the salt against his open wound was shredding apart his control.

The bound wood did give them a means of staying together, without the risk of drowning. As she struggled to swim, he bit back the pain and fought to help her.

‘You look as if you're hurting again,' she commented, churning her left arm in the water while she held on with her right.

‘It's like hot knives searing my skin,' he admitted, keeping his voice light. ‘Not very comfortable.'

She sent him a sympathetic look. ‘When we reach land, it will be better, I promise.'

If he didn't drown first. He bit his lip hard against the pain, forcing himself to continue.

The waves pushed them closer and Ragnar concentrated on the strand ahead of them. With every stroke, it seemed further away. The cold water numbed his skin and he felt his eyes beginning to close, his fingers slipping from the wood.

‘Ragnar!' Elena shouted at him, pulling him back to the present moment. ‘Stay with me. You can't let go now.' She made her way to his side, holding his waist. ‘We're not so very far.'

He knew it, but his body was rebelling against the sea water, his mind fighting to help her. The cold embedded within his veins, making it more difficult to move.

‘I need you,' she whispered. ‘Please.'

It was her voice that forced him onward. She spoke words of encouragement, urging him not to give up. And although they had been in the water for what seemed like an hour, eventually he felt his feet sink into sand. He bit hard to keep his teeth from chattering, and Elena remained at his side, holding on to him. He stumbled through the waves, but she helped him to remain balanced.

They staggered through the sand, his vision blurred and his ears ringing. He damned himself for the weakness, fighting to remain conscious. Elena needed him and he would not fail her.

‘Listen to me,' she insisted. ‘We're here. We're safe now, but you can't stay on the sand. Just a little further.'

She held his waist, letting him lean on her as she tried to get him past the water's edge. But when her leg accidentally bumped against his wound, he couldn't suppress the hiss of pain.

She apologised and pleaded, ‘We're almost there. Only a few steps more.' The world tipped, but she held tight, keeping him on his feet.

‘I'm not going to die,' he told her, but his words sounded thick and slurred.

‘I won't let you.' She eased him to sit down with his back against a hillside. Ragnar leaned back, resting his head upon the amber grass while he stared up at the clouded sky.

‘You're too cold,' she said. ‘I have to get you warm.' She moved beside him wrapping both arms around his waist. Though her skin was cool, her presence slipped beneath the pain of his wounds, offering comfort.

* * *

He wanted to tell her what she meant to him, to spill out the words he'd kept buried for so long, but honour kept his lips silent. He would accept the warmth of her embrace, knowing that it could never be more than that.

He was angry with himself for leaving Styr behind, though he'd had no choice at the time. The Irish might kill his friend, for Styr had no value as a hostage and he would never be any man's slave.

Ragnar glanced over at Elena, who was busy gathering tinder for a fire. Her skirts were cut short to her knees, while her red-gold hair was still bound in a knot at her nape. She moved with efficiency, but as she stacked the wood and arranged the seaweed, the earlier tremors became impossible to stop.

So cold. He couldn't feel his fingertips or his toes and his muscles felt stiff and ungainly.

‘You're so pale,' Elena said, hurrying to strike a spark. ‘Don't worry, I'll get you warm again, as soon as I can start the fire.' But her own hands were shaking, as if she, too, were suffering from the intense cold of the sea. After several attempts, the spark kept dying out.

His eyelids were heavy and he closed them, surrendering to the temptation of unconsciousness. Sleep was what he needed now.

But a moment later, Elena's arms were around him and she was supporting his shoulders. ‘Ragnar!' She shook him lightly, demanding that he open his eyes.

His vision flickered, but he managed to look at her.

‘Don't leave me,' she demanded. Her eyes welled up with tears and she commanded again, ‘You can't leave me here alone.'

‘Just...resting,' he told her. Sleep would make it easier to bear the pain. The darkness was tempting him to let go, to fall into nothingness.

‘Your lips are blue,' she told him. ‘If you go to sleep now, you might never awaken.'

He didn't answer her, for his body had transformed into lead, the last bits of consciousness sliding away. Though a part of him understood what she meant, he lacked the strength to fight it.

‘Don't you dare die on me,' she wept, shaking him again. ‘I can't survive out here alone. Do you hear me?' she demanded. ‘If you die, I'll die as well.'

He tried to form the word ‘no', to tell her he wasn't going to die at all. But before he could speak, her mouth came down on his in a searing kiss.

Chapter Four

E
lena couldn't say why she'd kissed Ragnar. It was either that or strike him. Anything to shock him into awakening. As she'd hoped, his eyes had sharpened, his body jolting at her touch.

‘Why did you do that?' he demanded.

It had been only a short kiss, one hardly more than the touch of her lips on his. But he was staring at her with fury and she let go of him, edging her way back on the sand.

‘You weren't responding. I thought if you closed your eyes, you wouldn't wake again.' But her face was on fire now and she regretted her actions. Worse, she'd never seen him this angry before.

‘Don't ever kiss me again,' he warned.

‘I'm sorry.' She hadn't expected him to react so strongly. ‘It was just a way of getting your attention, to make you open your eyes.'

‘The next time you need my attention, use your fist. Not your mouth.' He grimaced, easing up to a seated position near the fire. ‘Styr is my friend and your husband. You would do well to remember it.'

‘I haven't forgotten.' But her face was burning with humiliation. She hurried to finish building the fire, wishing she'd never done anything. ‘It was meaningless, Ragnar. Truly.'

But nothing she said would dispel the anger and frustration in his eyes. She hadn't truly considered the consequences and his violent response unnerved her.

‘It will never, ever happen again,' she swore.

‘See that you keep that vow.' His voice was cold, almost cruel.

Elena backed away, wishing there were words enough to apologise for what she'd done. Why couldn't he understand that it was only an impulse, one intended to awaken him? Instead, he acted as if she'd tried to seduce him.

The forbidden thought of this man claiming her swirled inside her. Of his mouth opening against hers, taking her down against the sand.

She closed her eyes against the dark heat that poured over her. No, she would never fall under such a spell of madness.

Finally, Ragnar said, ‘We'll need food and shelter. Go and look around at the terrain. But stay nearby, in case you have need of me.'

Elena didn't point out that his injuries would prevent him from defending them. Instead, she welcomed the chance to leave, to escape her embarrassment and make herself useful. She hurried from the shore, shielding her eyes against the sun as she searched for a way to make shelter.

She crossed over the rise of a hill and saw a wide oak tree with many branches. The leaves might shelter them from the rain, but there was still too much exposure from the wind. Her mind turned over the problem while she gathered as many fallen branches as she could find. She began to organise the branches by length and width, laying them out in neat stacks.

Some were tall enough to make a lean-to shelter, but nothing larger than that. She was grateful that it would only be temporary, for it would force her to sleep close beside Ragnar once again.

The bitter taste of shame lingered, for she'd made such a foolish mistake, thinking the kiss would pull him back from losing consciousness. She winced to remember it.

If it had been Styr, he would have kissed her back, taking command of the embrace. Ragnar's mouth had been cool, his lips firm. And though the kiss had meant nothing, her body had unknowingly responded to him. She took a slow, deep breath, ignoring the sensitivity of her breasts against the linen shift. Styr was the only man who had ever touched her. The only man who ever would.

But their lovemaking had grown stagnant, a duty they had both endured for the sake of conceiving a child. Sometimes her thoughts drifted away and she found herself going through the motions. Lying with Styr had been pleasurable and she hadn't minded it. But as of late, her thoughts had been so focused upon whether or not his seed would take root within her, she'd forgotten to enjoy it.

Finally, she'd asked him to stop trying. The bitter memory burned inside her, for she'd allowed her festering grief to transform into anger. She didn't want her husband to share her bed any more, for every time he lay with her, she was reminded of her failures as a wife.

Elena stopped sorting the wood, her eyes blurring with tears before she forced them back. She was stronger than this. She had to be. Sooner or later, they would find a way back to the ringfort and they would rescue Styr. Then she would do what she could to heal their shattered marriage.

It was best to ignore the kiss with Ragnar, as though it had never happened. It had been a foolish thing to do and his volatile reaction only reassured her that she had nothing to fear from sleeping close to him. Breathing a little easier, she walked back to the beach, her mind already envisioning the shelter. She would build a watertight lean-to that would keep out the rain and any harsh weather.

Along the way, she spied some wild strawberries and picked them, tying them into her apron. There were also some carrots, hardly bigger than her thumb, but they would still do well enough. Further inland, she spied the silvery surface of a pond.

Water. She breathed a sigh of relief, letting herself hope for the first time that they could survive here.

She wasted no time in getting a drink. Then she found a leaf larger than her hand and curled it into a cone, filling it with water for Ragnar. It wasn't much, but it was a start, until she could find another container. There was so much to do; her mind was reeling from all of it.

* * *

When she returned, she saw that he was leaning on his side, his eyes closed. Pain tightened over his face and blood darkened the bandage on his thigh.

Guilt flooded through her, for she shouldn't have left him this long. The cone of water fell from her hand and she ran to kneel beside him.

‘Ragnar.' She tried to awaken him, shaking him slightly. He didn't respond and she loosened the torn fabric, peeling back the bandages. The skin was an angry red and at the sight of it, her spirits sank. He was beyond her healing abilities and she didn't know where she could go or what she could do.

‘I'm not a healer,' she muttered, as she touched his cheek. ‘But you can't give up. Not now.'

His wound was swollen and she racked her mind to think of any herbal knowledge she'd heard of. Ragnar remained unconscious and she didn't know what to do for him.

There were no people here. There was no one to help, no one to tell her the proper way to treat his wounds. He would die if she did nothing.

She had to reach inside and find a place of calm. Surely if she studied him more carefully, she would find the answers.

Elena took a deep breath, then another as she examined his leg. His skin was hot to the touch, so tight as if it were an animal skin bulging with water.

It needed to be drained, she decided. Some of the healers drew blood to bring out the evil spirits. Perhaps if she released some of the pressure, it would help.

She pulled her dagger from its sheath, starting to lose the edge of her courage. The idea of hurting him more, of causing him to bleed, made her wince. But neither could he tolerate this pain.

Beneath her breath, she murmured prayers to all the gods as she cleaned the knife with a cloth and began probing his wound. His hands clenched at his sides, and his eyes flew open when she touched the raw flesh.

‘Don't,' he gritted out.

‘I'm going to ease the pain,' she said. ‘The wound needs to be lanced.'

His eyes were wild, his mouth tight as she reopened the wound. The moment her blade touched the swollen area, it sliced through the poisoned flesh. Blood and pus mingled from the wound and she fought to hold back the wave of nausea. But as she bled him, the swelling did seem to recede. She couldn't tell how long she would have to let out the bad blood, but eventually, she held the edges of his flesh together and wrapped his leg tightly.

All she could do now was pray. She tried to make him as comfortable as possible, but inwardly she knew they needed a better shelter or they would both die. And that meant leaving his side to build it.

Only when she was certain he was asleep did Elena venture out again. Though it bothered her to leave him, their survival depended on it.

* * *

‘Ragnar.'

Her voice awakened him from the harsh pain that flowed like a never-ending stream. It was twilight and the sunset haloed Elena's hair from behind.

By the gods, he'd never known anyone more beautiful. But he'd learned to mask any emotions, never to let her see what he felt. Even if he died here, he refused to surrender to the traitorous thoughts he felt towards her.

Her hand came to touch his cheek, and he didn't speak a word, taking comfort from the warmth of her palm.

‘The rain will come soon,' she whispered. ‘I've built us a small shelter for the night. Can you lean on me to walk?'

He almost laughed at that, but one glimpse of the sky made him realise that he could either struggle and walk with her or lie here on the sand while the rain poured down over them. The clouds were thick and a fog was rolling in off the shoreline.

She leaned down and put both arms around him, guiding him up to a seated position. At such a close distance, he saw the tints of red within her hair and her sea-green eyes held such fear, there were no words to allay it. Words would not stave off the hand of Death, if it came for him.

Ragnar bent his good leg and grimaced as she pulled him up to stand. The moment he did, white spots spun in his vision, threatening to pull him under. ‘Elena, I don't know how far I can make it.'

‘You're strong enough to get there,' she insisted. ‘I've gathered some food and made a fire for us.' She continued talking, bearing the heavy weight of him as best she was able. The journey seemed endless. At one point, he asked, ‘Why did you build it so far away?'

‘I needed a tree to support the driftwood,' she explained. ‘And we don't want our shelter caught in the tides.'

He hardly heard any more of what she said, for he was lost in his own sea of pain. But as they moved in closer, he thought he scented something cooking.

Surely he was imagining it. But the heady aroma of a roasting fowl made his mouth water.

‘Did you catch something?' he asked, squinting at the glow of the fire ahead.

The chagrined smile on her face confirmed it. ‘I set some snares, yes. And when we've both eaten, the night will be easier.'

He doubted if any food would settle the aching inside, but he would say nothing to cast a shadow over what she'd done to help them both. A ringing resounded within his ears and she caught him before he could fall, holding his waist.

‘We're almost there.'

Thank the gods for that. It seemed to take an hour before he finally reached the tiny shelter she'd built of fallen limbs around a thick tree trunk. At first, it appeared crude, a mass of large branches and leaves. But as she eased him down, he realised it was wider than it appeared. The structure was circular, with stout branches as supports and smaller, more flexible limbs woven between them.

‘How did you ever have time for this?' he questioned.

Her face flushed and she shrugged. ‘I kept returning to check on you, but you were sleeping. It seemed like a better use of my time.'

The wind was increasing and he eased backwards until he was inside the shelter. Elena tended the fire and adjusted the roasting meat until the fowl was fully cooked.

He'd never smelled anything so good in his entire life. When she broke off a piece, she blew on it before bringing it to him. He tasted the meat and found it delicious.

‘Styr is a fortunate man,' he remarked. Though he kept his tone even, it was far more than the food. It was the way she had laboured over the shelter, managing to build something of this complexity in a short amount of time. ‘I don't think he realises half of what you do for him.'

The look in her eyes turned startled, as if she'd never expected him to say such a thing. Perhaps it was the belief that he might die that caused him to speak so freely.

‘I am his wife. I want to make his home comfortable.' She ate but no longer looked at him.

Ragnar knew that in the past few months, Elena and Styr's marriage had suffered. Her barrenness had taken its toll upon her, and Styr had confided their troubles. It had put Ragnar in an awkward position. He'd urged Styr to talk to Elena, but he was torn between wanting them to reconcile...and wanting the marriage to end.

He was such a selfish bastard. What good would it do, if she and Styr parted ways? Elena would never turn to him. She knew his darkest secrets, of the vicious adolescence he'd endured...and the violence that still dwelled beneath his skin. He knew better than to think she would consider someone like him.

As the wind grew stronger, Elena moved deeper within the shelter and pulled out a panel he hadn't noticed. It had been disguised amid the other branches, but it formed a door. Almost within seconds, the rain began to pour down over the shelter.

But they didn't get wet. He stared up and realised that she'd layered the leaves so thickly that they were fully protected from the storm.

‘You did well, Elena,' he complimented. ‘I suppose you're tired from the work.'

She nodded. ‘A little. How is your leg?'

‘It hurts. But it's not nearly as swollen as it was before.' The wound ached, but the pain was more bearable.

‘I'll try to find some garlic bulbs or other herbs to draw out the poisoned blood,' she promised. ‘When it stops raining.'

‘In the morning will be soon enough.' He finished eating and an awkward silence descended between them. She wouldn't look at him and he realised that she was still embarrassed by what she'd done.

‘I'm sorry for what I said before.' He leaned back against the structure, well aware of how close she was. ‘I know you meant nothing by the kiss.'

She let out a heavy sigh. ‘Thank you for that. I don't know why I did it. It was truly just to keep you conscious.'