Page 7 of The Shipwreck (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch)

The Viking instantly lost his grip on her, and Avril tumbled back onto her hindquarters, cradling her bruised knuckles. What was wrong with the man? Hadn’t she said she was going to put him out of his misery? The ungrateful wretch!

He was subdued now, and blood dripped from one nostril. She hadn’t hit him hard enough to break his nose. Indeed, she hadn’t knocked him out, only stunned him. She’d have to work quickly before he took it into his head to fight off her good intentions again.

She carefully moved his injured arm flat on his lap and pushed up his sleeve to examine it. The bone looked fairly straight, though it was hard to tell from the swelling. She ran her fingertips gently and swiftly along the edges of his forearm to check for breaks.

Nothing poked through the flesh, so it wasn’t too serious. But halfway between his elbow and his wrist, there was a bulge where the bone had cracked and slipped sideways. She’d have to pull it and put it back into alignment.

Why she was showing him any kindness, she didn’t know. Maybe it was because he’d lost his wife and children. Maybe it was because he was alone, abandoned, a castaway like her. Maybe it was the way he’d kissed her last night.

He was coming around again, sniffing back the blood trickling from his nose. She’d have to move fast. Seizing his thick wrist in both her hands, she thrust her foot against the inside of his elbow and pulled hard.

He bellowed, but he must have understood what she was doing. His right hand was free, and he could have flattened her with one punch. Instead, he pounded the floor with his fist.

She let go of him then and backed away. She wasn’t sure what black words he spat out, for they were in his own tongue. But the rafters rang with his curses, and Kimbery couldn’t resist the urge to peek around the corner at the great roaring beast.

“Mama, what are you—”

“Go!” they shouted simultaneously, and Kimbery disappeared at once.

The Northman was huffing like a wounded wolf now, and she realized he was just as dangerous. She’d set his arm. And now he might well be able to use it.

She armed herself with the fireplace poker, ready to jab him at a moment’s notice. But he didn’t seem inclined to aggression. His legs were bound. His upper arms were secure. The leash was still in place. He couldn’t go anywhere.

“The break should heal properly now, but you’ll need a splint. Move,” she said, showing him the poker, “and I’ll break your other arm.”

Luckily she had a choice selection of driftwood just outside. Leaving the door open, she ducked out, quickly chose two fairly straight sticks, and brought them in, thinking all the while she must be mad. Mending a Viking invader made as much sense as sewing up a deer she’d shot for supper.

She rummaged in the small chest at the hearth and found a linen underdress that had grown too small for Kimbery. She ripped it into strips to use for binding. “Do I need to give you opium again to keep you calm?”

“Nay,” he growled.

She still didn’t trust him. “Then heed me well, Northman. Make one false move, and I’ll unset your arm again as fast as I set it.”

He let her splint his arm, but it proved almost as much an ordeal for her as it was for him.

It felt wrong, touching him. His arm looked foreign and forbidding with its massive muscle and sprinkling of light golden hair.

His tawny skin was hot beneath her fingers, as if it radiated sunlight, and her own flesh grew warm from the contact.

She was close enough to feel his breath, and her pulse quickened as she remembered the pleasant sensation of his lips on hers.

The kiss had been so unexpectedly gentle coming from a brutal Northman.

But she couldn’t afford to be gulled by his tenderness.

Besides, he looked anything but tender today.

An angry furrow lodged between his brows.

The corners of his mouth turned down. And his hands looked enormous and threatening beside hers.

A man like him could grasp her neck in one fist and squeeze the life out of her before she could blink.

Fortunately, he didn’t.

She managed to tie off the splint and then bound his wrists together again with rope. Satisfied with her work, she backed away, eager to create some distance between her and the man who was disrupting her heartbeat.

Keeping her hands occupied was easy. There were always plenty of chores to be done.

She’d gathered seaweed yesterday to make a soup, and now she stood at the table with her wooden block, chopping the ruffled red strands into small pieces.

Keeping her mind occupied, however, was almost impossible, especially when she felt the Viking’s silent gaze on her like the intent stare of a stalking wolf.

After several unnerving moments, he finally spoke. “No chains can hold me forever, woman.”

She continued chopping. She worried he was right, but she certainly wasn’t about to let him know that.

He continued, “Have you not heard the story of Fenrir?”

She gave him a disinterested sniff.

Which he ignored. “Fenrir, the fearsome son of Loki. They tried to keep him chained. Shall I tell you what happened?”

She refused to look at him. “Nay. I have no wish to hear—”

“Tell me! Tell me!” Kimmie suddenly cried from the doorway. “I want to hear a story!”

“Hush!” Avril hissed. “I don’t want you going anywhere near him, Kimbery.”

“I won’t go near him, Mama. I promise. Please?”

“Nay. I don’t even want him speaking to you.”

“But why?” she whined.

He answered before she could open her mouth. “Your mother is afraid I may turn you into a Viking.”

“Oh,” Kimmie said.

Avril let out an exasperated breath, slammed down her knife, and glowered at him. “That’s not true.”

“But Mama, I’m already half Viking,” she said happily, skipping over to Avril.

Avril bit the inside of her cheek. She usually tried to forget about that half. Despite Kimbery’s ice blonde hair and periwinkle blue eyes, she thought of her daughter as a sweet little Pict lass.

“Please, Mama,” she wheedled, tugging on Avril’s skirts, “I’ll be good, I promise.”

“ You’ll be good,” Avril said, picking up her knife and pointing it toward the Northman. “ He, however, is not so well-behaved.”

“What do you expect I’ll do?” he muttered, pointedly twisting his neck in the collar, “Pierce her with my gaze?”

Avril thought he was doing a fairly good job of that already. She felt the touch of his frosty glare like the stabbing of winter sleet.

But he was right. For all intents and purposes, he was helpless.

He couldn’t harm Kimbery with mere words.

Besides, it would be useful to have the wee lass entertained while Avril tended to her chores.

She’d heard Viking sagas were notoriously lengthy and convoluted, which would keep Kimmie out from under her feet for a while.

Still, she couldn’t allow the Northman anywhere near her daughter. He might not be able to escape, but he could do serious damage to a little girl who wandered too close.

“I won’t hurt her,” he said. “I swear.”

Surely he didn’t expect her to trust him. A Viking’s oath wasn’t worth shite. “That’s right. You won’t. Because if you lay a finger on her, I’ll carve you up with this knife.”

“Please, Mama?” Kimbery pursed her lips.

Avril sighed. She shook her head, still not sure it was a good idea. “You swear on your honor, Kimbery, that you’ll stay where I put you?”

“On my honor,” she said, clapping a hand to her chest.

Avril put down her knife and wiped her palms on her apron.

She took Kimmie by the hand and walked her to a spot near the hearth, opposite the Viking.

“Stay here. And you,” she said, stabbing a finger toward her captive.

“Don’t even cast your ‘piercing gaze’ on my daughter or I’ll gouge out your eyes. ”

She didn’t need to tell him that. He wasn’t going to look at her precious Kimbery.

His piercing gaze was reserved for the cursed wench who’d clubbed him on the head, dragged him up the beach, tethered him like a rogue hound, and punched him in the nose.

He might be telling the tale of Fenrir to her daughter, but his glare and the story were meant for her .

“Long ago,” he began, staring intently at the woman’s back while she chopped seaweed, “Fenrir, one of Loki’s three sons—”

“Who’s Loki?” Kimmie asked.

“Loki is the brother of Thor.”

“Who’s Thor?”

“Thor is the son of Odin.”

“Who’s Odin?”

Brandr sighed. The little girl apparently knew nothing about her Viking bloodline and history.

It was tempting to recite the entire lineage of the gods, an ordeal that could take hours, but his own children had always fallen asleep before he could get past the fifth generation.

He settled for telling her, “Odin is a god. They’re all gods.

And Loki, the son of Odin and the god of fire, was always causing trouble. ”

“Mama says I’m always causing trouble,” Kimbery told him.

“Well, not this kind of trouble,” he said. “Loki lied and cheated and tricked the other gods.”

“He had no honor?”

“Aye, that’s right. He had no honor. He did, however, have three sons, creatures he’d raised up to be terrible monsters. One was a great serpent.” Brandr hissed like a snake, making the little girl shiver in delighted revulsion. The woman ignored his antics.

“Odin cast him into the sea, where he grew so fast that his body coiled around the whole world and his tail grew into his mouth.”

The little girl gasped with wonder. Her mother continued chopping.

“The second monster Odin imprisoned in Niflheim, a land where the sun never shines and it’s always dark.”

“I’m not afraid of the dark,” Kimbery boasted.

“That’s good.”

“What about the third monster?”