Page 9 of The Shipwreck (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch)

The instant they closed the cottage door, Brandr began struggling at his bonds, praying for Fenrir’s strength.

The way he saw it, eventually the woman would tire of having him in her cottage.

But she wouldn’t just set him free. She’d turn him over to someone who knew what to do with a captive Viking.

The last thing he wanted was to force her into a hasty decision.

He strained with all his might against the leather collar.

With his arm splinted, it was even more useless now.

But if he pulled hard enough, he might be able to work the iron ring out of the wall.

Once that was done, he could reach the knot to free his ankles.

Then he’d flee. And he’d take that magnificent sword with him.

Where he’d go, he didn’t know. It wouldn’t be easy for a tall, blond, blue-eyed Northman to hide in this land of dark-haired dwarves.

The leather rubbed his throat raw, and he nearly choked himself more than once, but he couldn’t dislodge the ring. When they returned, he was no closer to freedom. The woman, however, suspected something, for she gave him a sharp look as she set a bucket of milk on the table.

“You’re sweating,” she said.

“I’m beside the fire,” he replied.

She frowned dubiously and opened her mouth to speak, but Kimbery interrupted her. “I milked Caimbeul,” she announced proudly. “Her name’s Caimbeul because she has a crooked mouth, like this.” She made a comical sneer. “Have you ever milked a sheep?”

He shook his head.

“Indeed?” her mother asked with a sly lift of her brow. “I’ll have to teach you how when your arm heals.”

He narrowed his eyes. Teach him to milk a sheep? Did she plan to enslave him? The idea was absurd. He was the son of a noble, a warrior. And unless she meant to keep him tied up, he’d easily fight his way free. A featherweight wench and her four-year-old daughter were no match for a Viking.

But this was good news. Without the imminent threat of death and with the benefit of time, he could easily lull her into a false trust. Then, when she least expected it, he’d manage his escape.

“Want to see my picture?” Kimbery asked him. She didn’t wait for an answer, galloping into the bedchamber and returning with a square piece of slate.

He turned his head to look at it. “Is that me?”

She nodded.

“Did you draw it?”

She nodded again.

“What does it say?”

“Kimbery,” her mother interrupted, “don’t bother him.”

“I’m not.” Then she pointed to the letters, confiding to him in a loud whisper, “It says Da.”

He couldn’t help but smile at that. The little girl certainly was bullheaded.

Her mother, obviously eager to end their conversation, asked, “How is the sloke doing, Kimmie?”

Kimbery set the slate down and peered into the clay pot nestled amongst the coals. “It’s bubbling, Mama.”

“Good. Don’t stand too close to the fire.”

The little girl took a dramatic step backward and started idly twirling her braid between her fingers.

Her gaze slid over to him, then to the floor, and she wrinkled her forehead in concern.

Following her eyes, he saw he was crushing her cloth doll beneath his hip.

He moved aside as much as he could, which wasn’t very much.

“Mama,” she said plaintively, “I want Maeve back.”

The woman clucked her tongue. “You shouldn’t have given her to him.”

Kimbery’s bottom lip trembled.

The woman sighed softly. “Very well. You stay back. I’ll get her.”

She approached carefully and crouched beside him.

She smelled fresh, like sunshine and sweet grass.

Her underdress was still untied, and when she bent forward, he could see the upper crescent of her breast, as pale and smooth as cream.

A surge of lust rose in him, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that she began rummaging under his buttock for the doll.

His uneasy grunt alerted her to what she was doing. Suddenly mortified, she seized the doll and yanked it out, unfortunately tearing its arm in the process.

Naturally, Kimbery began screaming in horror at the sight, and it took several moments before her mother could placate her with the fact that the doll could be easily repaired.

Meanwhile, Brandr was glad his hands were bound over his lap, for the sight of his rising desire would undoubtedly upset them even more. It certainly upset him. He’d lost his wife less than a year ago. It wasn’t right that he should be aroused by this strange woman.

Eventually order was restored, though the woman had to pause in her other chores to stitch the doll’s arm back on.

When she was finished, the little girl studied her handiwork intently to be sure it was correct.

Apparently satisfied, she took the doll into her bedchamber, chattering to it all the way.

The woman was busy the rest of the day. He’d never seen anyone work so hard.

Even the thralls of his country were allowed to rest. But she labored from sunrise to well after sunset, keeping the fire stoked, preparing supper, milking the sheep, laundering linens, making cheese, mending clothes, even teaching her daughter to read and write.

No wonder she wanted to make a slave out of him.

The seaweed pottage was remarkably tasty, especially after she added the fresh sheep’s milk, smoked fish, and wild onions to it.

It might not be the succulent roast pig he preferred, but he had to admire her ability to make delicious fare out of what was at hand.

Indeed, if he’d come to Pictland for pillage and prisoners, he would have considered himself lucky to take such a resourceful woman home as a slave.

At the end of the day, the woman heated water for Kimbery’s bath and undressed her.

As the little girl streaked through the cottage naked, squealing that she didn’t want a bath, Brandr had to bite back a smile.

Eventually, her mother caught her and plopped her into a makeshift tub of a split ale cask.

After a bit, the little girl’s protests subsided, and she began playing in the water, singing and splashing.

By the time she was scrubbed clean, her mother’s kirtle was drenched, and Kimbery now didn’t want to get out of the tub.

She kicked and screamed as her mother picked her up. Brandr, amused by the wicked little sprite’s antics, couldn’t help but laugh aloud.

Avril turned in surprise. The Northman was grinning.

His eyes sparkled like the sunlit sea, and his teeth flashed as white as snow.

But it was the low rumble of his laughter that took her breath away.

She didn’t realize how much she’d missed that sound.

She hadn’t heard male laughter in four long years.

Then Kimbery, wet and slippery, taking advantage of Avril’s distraction, slid out of her grasp and began tearing around the cottage. She dodged the linen Avril held out until Avril finally gave up, figuring the little girl would dry herself off with her running.

The Viking’s smile turned bittersweet then, and a faraway look came into his eyes. Avril knew at once that he must be remembering his own daughter.

She forced her gaze away, dabbing at her damp kirtle with the linen.

It wasn’t her concern. His people hadn’t cared whose children they slaughtered when they’d raided Rivenloch.

Why should she care what had happened to his daughter?

And yet, against her will, words fell softly from her lips. “What was your daughter’s name?”

He glanced up, as if surprised she’d read his thoughts. “Asta.”

“It’s a pretty name.”

“She was a pretty…” He choked on the words. “A pretty lass.”

She shouldn’t feel sorry for him. The Vikings killed pretty Pictish lasses all the time. But there was a deep sorrow in the Northman’s eyes that pulled at her heart.

“Who’s Inga?” The words tumbled out of her mouth unbidden, mortifying her. She should never have asked him that. He probably didn’t remember calling her by that name or kissing her anyway.

His gaze shot straight to hers.

“You…spoke her name in your sleep,” she explained.

He frowned. “I dreamt she was alive.”

“Your wife,” she guessed.

He nodded.

He must have loved her well. That kiss had been full of tenderness and desire.

As odd as it was, Avril envied the dead woman.

His fortunate Inga had known the love of a devoted husband.

Avril had only experienced the mindless lust of a Viking berserker and a handful of men for whom she felt nothing.

Just then Kimbery went galloping past. Before Avril could catch her, the wee lass dove at the shocked Northman. She plopped herself into his lap and captured his gold-stubbled face playfully between her hands.

“Da!” she cried.

Avril’s heart leaped into her mouth. Tiny, pale, bare Kimbery looked so vulnerable against the Viking’s broad chest. Lord, he could bite off her hand with one snap of his jaws, just like that wolf in his story.

She glanced up in horror at his face. But he looked far more rattled than she was. No doubt he was unused to strange naked children leaping into his arms.

“Kimbery!” she barked. “Get away from him!”

Kimbery clambered down, looking guilty. She probably hadn’t intended to disobey. She’d only been caught up in her play.

Still, Avril didn’t dare let her think it was acceptable to traffic with Vikings. “Go to bed. Now.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Now!”

The little girl began to weep, which made Avril feel awful. After all, she’d been so happy a moment ago. But Avril couldn’t afford to let down her guard. Kimbery’s life depended upon it.

Tears of heartbreak streamed down Kimmie’s face. She started sobbing in earnest and shuffled sadly off to the bedchamber.

Avril bit her lip in remorse. It was hard being a mother. Sometimes she thought she would have had an easier time commanding the army of Rivenloch than she did watching over one wee lass.