Page 3 of The Shipwreck (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch)

Avril was glad Kimbery hadn’t witnessed her mother clouting a helpless castaway.

She winced as she used the pointy end of the driftwood to cautiously sweep aside the unconscious man’s hair. Blood tricked down his temple where she’d struck him, but his pulse still beat steadily in his throat.

Thank God she hadn’t killed him. True, Northmen were degenerate and insidious and evil. But slaying an unarmed man went against everything her father had taught her about honor.

Now what was she going to do with him? He might wake again at any moment. She couldn’t keep clubbing him. But she had to keep him subdued. And she had to get him out of sight.

She didn’t really want him in her home, but she didn’t have much of a choice. She couldn’t afford to have him roaming loose. At least in the cottage, she could keep her eye on him.

Dropping the driftwood, she separated out one long strand of tough kelp caught on his boot and wrapped it around his ankles several times. She wrapped another thick strand around his wrists, noting that his left forearm was bruised and swollen.

She scowled. It looked like he’d broken his arm. Then she remembered he was the enemy and it didn’t matter to her if he’d broken his arm. She only hoped the bonds would hold until she reached the cottage and could tie him up with something more substantial.

Dragging him up the beach by his ankles was harder than she expected. His legs were leaden, and in his waterlogged clothing, he was as heavy as a walrus. With every backward step, the wet sand sucked at her feet, hampering her progress.

Halfway up the shore, she stopped to rest. Kimbery was safe now. She’d slammed the door behind her, and Avril could hear the little girl’s muffled wailing coming from inside the cottage.

While she caught her breath, Avril wiped the sweat from her forehead and took a moment to study her captive.

A light growth of beard covered his chin, but he looked considerably younger than the savage who’d raped her five years ago.

His face was not unhandsome. His skin was darkened by the sun and salted by the sea, but he lacked the heavy lines of age.

His nose was straight, his cheekbones were unbroken, and his brow was strong.

If his size didn’t give him away, the brief glimpse of his bright blue eyes confirmed he was a Northman.

She blew out a long breath and looked out to sea.

In the distance, she could see refuse bobbing atop the waves and drifting toward the shore.

Soon, splinters of his ship would make landfall, along with broken oars, bits of rigging, and, she thought with a shudder, the waterlogged corpses of his shipmates.

It took every bit of Brandr’s willpower to play dead.

He still couldn’t believe the sweet-faced maiden had clubbed him with a cudgel of driftwood.

But he didn’t want her to club him again, not while he didn’t have the strength to fight her.

So he remained quiet as she began dragging him across the sand.

His head throbbed where she’d hit him, his muscles ached, and the deep-seated, dull pain in his left forearm told him he’d probably broken it.

It was still his heart that hurt the most. In the past year, he’d lost everything…his wife, his children, his ship, his men. It must be some cruel trick of the gods to keep him alive to endure such anguish.

After a while, the woman, panting heavily from her exertions, dropped his feet onto the sand and stopped to catch her breath. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel her gaze upon him like the searing touch of the sun.

What did she intend? She must not mean to kill him. Otherwise, he’d be dead by now. He figured he was somewhere along the Pictish coast, though he wasn’t sure where or how he’d washed ashore. Until he got his bearings and regained his strength, he was better off feigning unconsciousness.

Which was even more challenging when the woman resumed dragging him, this time up a stone pathway and over the threshold of a cottage, jarring his ribs and banging his skull on the hard rock.

At least it was warm indoors. He thought his bones would never thaw. He heard the comforting crackle of a fire and smelled pottage simmering on the hearth. And then he heard something that wrenched at his memory—the quiet sobbing of a child.

Unbidden, the faces of Sten and Asta appeared in his mind’s eye, and unbearable pain seized him as he realized he’d never see his children or his wife Inga again.

The last time he’d seen them alive was when he’d set sail on a raiding voyage with his brothers, Ragnarr and Halfdan.

By the time he returned, his family had been dead two months, stolen from him by a sickness that had swept through the village.

His brothers’ families had succumbed as well, and even though they’d never said so, he was sure his brothers regretted going on that last long raid with him.

“Shh, Kimmie, it’s all right now,” the woman murmured in Pictish. It was a language Brandr had learned as a boy from the slaves his father had brought home.

“You hurt me,” the little girl sobbed.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, wee one,” the woman replied. “But I’m very proud of you for running home. You did just the right thing. You were very brave. And you ran very fast.”

The pain in Brandr’s chest deepened. The woman might speak a different language, but her motherly voice reminded him of his precious Inga.

The little girl came closer, her voice hitching with spent tears. “Will my…my da…live with us now?”

“He’s not your da.”

“He is.”

“Nay.”

“Aye.”

“Nay, he’s not,” the mother replied testily as she began cutting the bonds around his ankles. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“He is my da. He is ,” the little girl insisted, starting to cry again.

“Kimmie, I’ve told you a hundred times. Your da is dead.”

“That’s what you said about him .” Brandr imagined the little girl was sticking out a pouty lip the way Asta always did when she knew she was right.

The woman, unable to come up with a suitable reply, changed the subject. “Look in the chest beside the bed and see if you can find Finn’s leash.”

Leash. Leash? That didn’t bode well. What was she up to?

He didn’t find out until it was too late. As she started sawing at the kelp bonds around his wrists, she wrenched his broken arm, and the pain was so severe that he blacked out.

When Brandr awoke again, he was bound in a leather collar and leashed tightly by his neck through an iron ring attached to the wall.

His sealskin cloak was missing, leaving him sitting in his tunic, trousers, and boots.

His bound legs stretched nearly to the hearth, his arms were secured to his sides by a rope around his midsection, and his wrists were tied before him.

Fury surged through his veins. By Thor! He’d come here to conquer, not to be conquered. How could he have wound up a prisoner—the prisoner of a woman?

While his rage simmered, he perused the room through narrowed eyelids. His cloak had been hung on a peg near the fire. And his captors supped at a table across the chamber, unaware that he’d roused.

He could see why the little girl thought he was her father. They shared the same blond hair. The girl was younger than his daughter, but in her dust-colored kirtle and bare feet, she reminded him of Asta.

Though he hated to admit it, the mother was breathtaking.

Her hair, an intoxicating color of golden mead and ruby wine combined, hung in thick waves down her back, and her skin was as golden and radiant as flame.

Her face was artfully sculpted, with generous lips and finely arched brows, and her snugly-laced, faded blue kirtle revealed pleasing womanly curves.

But this was the same lovely temptress who’d clubbed him, dragged him home, and tied him up like a dog. He wasn’t about to be fooled by her pretty face.

He studied the stone cottage, which was well-kept and welcoming.

Its curious furnishings appeared to be made mostly of scavenge from the sea.

Odd pieces of driftwood were fitted together to form stools, and candles were set in holders made of mussel shells.

A bit of fishing net tacked onto one wall held hair combs carved out of abalone, and on a shelf fashioned out of an oar sat an assortment of clamshell bowls and dishes.

A fishing pole and a net were propped against the hearth.

But it was what was leaned against the corner that interested him most.

It was a nobleman’s sword, a magnificent blade.

Its pommel was set with gems, the grip was wrapped in seasoned leather, and the guard was carved with designs that intersected, weaving complex knots.

The sword looked well cared for. The steel was highly polished, the edge keen.

He wondered where the man who owned the weapon was.

“Mama,” the little girl said, picking up her clamshell bowl, “my da wants some, too.”

“He’s not your da, Kimmie, and he’s not even…” She ended on a gasp as she glanced his way.

It was too late to feign sleep.

She rose suddenly, knocking over her stool. “Awake.”

“He’s hungry, Mama.”

Brandr swallowed, and his throat clicked. He didn’t feel like eating, but he was as parched as winter tundra.

The little girl started toward him with her bowl, but her mother hauled her back.

“Listen to me,” she said sternly. “He is not your da. He’s a bad man, a very bad man. Promise me you won’t go near him.”

“But—”

“Promise me, Kimbery.”

Kimbery sighed unhappily and put her bowl back on the table. “I promise.”

A very bad man. Brandr supposed he was that. After all, a good man would never have deserted his wife and children to go a-Viking.

Avril righted her overturned stool. Then she picked up Kimbery and sat her atop it. “You stay here.”