Part 14 (2/2)
”What guarantee?” he demanded.
She arched a brow, still very amused. She turned back to the sh.o.r.e with a shrug. ”Free the children ... let those flat-footed farmers there run with them. Let go the silly peasant la.s.ses there, and the women . . .
except for that one.”
She had pointed to Igrainia.
Could she recognize the wife of the chieftain?
”That one!” she commanded to one of her warriors. ”Take that one and behead her, so that he will know we have no mercy.”
His heart slammed against his chest.
”Let her go, or I swear I will kill you myself. I, too, can have no mercy.”
She looked back at him, a winged dark brow rising. ”Chieftain, I do find you . . . curious.” she said. The sound of laughter was in her voice.
”Let us barter with the chieftain here. He desires it, so leave the la.s.s her head!” she ordered.
”Lucian! Give over nothing for me! Barter nothing for my life!”
Igrainia cried fiercely.
”She asks to die!” the woman said.
”Don't touch her!” Lucian commanded.
The woman smiled slowly. There was a curve of cruelty to her lips.
With the wind now raging around her, she seemed a greater menace than any storm.
”I will try to refrain,” the woman said. Her fingers curled around the gold pendant she wore.
He was as still and silent as she. ”Now-give over your sword.”
”Let her go with the rest of them,” he said, indicating his wife.
The woman watched him a long moment, then walked toward him. It seemed that she barely stirred the water. He did not believe in such things, but by G.o.d, she walked over the water.
Sorceress!
He heard the whisper rise from the sh.o.r.e. Christianity had come here, to the British Isles, several hundred years ago.
But old superst.i.tions remained.
Witch! Aye, she was some kind of witch. She practiced magic, the darkest kind.
Illusions! he told himself.
Don't believe what you see!
”You do not need her,” the woman told him. ”You will have me.”
Illusion! he reminded himself. Deny her!
But his lips were heavy; his throat seemed rigid; words would not form. He looked at her, and fought to s.h.i.+ft his gaze.
He managed to speak at last. ”I have no need for a witch such as you.”
Her subtle smile deepened.
”You lie.”
And he did lie.
She had a power.
There was something about here . . . something that created a fire in his groin, a hunger unlike any he had known. He wanted to touch her.
With his wife, whom he adored, standing in peril before him, with an audience of warriors and farmers and children, with G.o.d above ... he wanted her. In the water, the dirt, the mud. Now. He burned.
He fought for his senses. Strained, ached. ”Let her go. Let her run after the children then.”
She c.o.c.ked her head at him, her eyes amused, ever more intrigued.
”Tell me to come to you.”
”What?”
”Invite me ... to know you.”
”Know me, madam, have what you want; do what you will. But let the woman go!” Her smile deepened with wicked triumph and she turned. ”Let her go.”
The men released Igrainia.
Her eyes met his. For a moment he was released from the woman's uncanny hold. G.o.d, how he loved his wife! Her eyes, her laughter, the softness of her voice, her quest for knowledge, her love of books, learning, art...
He inclined his head. Run! Help me fight for my own life, knowing you wait for me.
Igrainia's eyes held his a moment longer.
Then she ran after the children. He knew that the Viking warriors could easily run after them again. His men were dead, broken, injured, shattered. The Viking crew knew it, too.
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