To Tempt a Viking. Michelle Willingham

grim determination of a man who would sacrifice himself before he’d allow any man to harm her. But even with his strength and fighting prowess, he could not hope to bring down all the men on horseback. He was outnumbered and likely he was shielding her, granting all of them time to get away.

      She froze in place, stopping one of the Irishmen. ‘He needs help,’ she pleaded. ‘He can’t stop them alone.’

      The man stared at her before she realised he could not understand her words. But he cast a glance at Ragnar, his expression holding surprise that a wounded man would stand against their enemy.

      One of the riders lifted his sword, prepared to strike him down. Instead of raising his own weapon, Ragnar stood calmly, waiting for the killing blow.

      Freya, protect him.

      She knew what would happen—she’d witnessed it a thousand times. He would hold steady and the act of suicidal madness twisted his enemy into questioning their actions. No sensible man would stand and face charging horses.

      Even as she trusted him, Elena couldn’t bear to think of anything happening to Ragnar. He’d been her friend for so long, always there when she’d needed him. She bit her lip hard to prevent herself from interfering and when she stepped back, the rider’s attention flickered for a moment.

      It was enough for Ragnar to twist his sword, slicing the rider from his horse. The animal whinnied, rearing up, and Ragnar seized the reins, barely dodging another blow before he swung up on the left side, protecting his wounded leg.

      It took all of Elena’s courage to remain among the Irish instead of running towards him. She knew she was a distraction and a danger if she dared to intervene.

      He guided the horse forwards, keeping his sword poised.

      ‘You’re Norse,’ one of the riders said in their tongue.

      ‘I am,’ Ragnar countered. ‘My name is Ragnar Olafsson from Hordafylke. We came to éire a few days ago.’ He kept his voice calm, but Elena heard the trace of steel beneath it. He was not about to stand down and let these raiders continue their attack.

      ‘I am Alfarr Gelinsson,’ their leader replied. His gaze narrowed upon Ragnar. ‘Why would you defend these men and women? They’re not your people.’

      ‘No, but we need supplies. They can offer that to us.’

      ‘Join us,’ Alfarr offered. ‘We’ll take from them and share what is left.’

      From behind her, Elena sensed the Irish growing uncertain about the continuing conversation in a foreign tongue. She raised her hands in reassurance, hoping they would not interfere with the negotiation.

      ‘Why do you not trade with them?’ Ragnar asked calmly, drawing his horse closer until he was within reach of their leader.

      Alfarr stared over at the Irish and then spit on the ground. ‘They are weak. Taking their supplies would be an easy victory.’

      ‘You look like a man who enjoys fighting,’ Ragnar challenged. ‘Would you rather make a wager?’

      What was he doing? Elena took a step forwards, wondering what his intentions were. Ragnar wasn’t strong enough to fight these men, not with his wound. She’d bandaged it heavily, but no doubt the other Norsemen were well aware of the injury. It would affect his speed, no matter how strong he was.

      She wanted so badly to interrupt, but she held her tongue, afraid it would weaken his position before the men.

      ‘I wouldn’t mind a wager,’ Alfarr agreed. His gaze passed over Elena with interest and she felt a prickle of uneasiness pass over her skin. ‘Especially if a woman is involved.’ Despite the short distance, she could feel his stare upon her and it made her skin crawl.

      Ragnar didn’t bother to look back. ‘She is not a part of this.’

      ‘When you’re dead, she will be,’ Alfarr answered.

      ‘But if I win,’ Ragnar warned softly, ‘your man will be dead and you’ll go raid another tribe. Not this one.’

      ‘You’re wounded, Ragnar Olafsson. You are no match for us.’

      ‘Then I’ll meet Odin in Valhalla, if my sword does not prevail,’ he said.

      So much rested upon this fight. Not only their fate, but the fate of the Irish as well. It angered Elena that the people kept a distance instead of joining him. Why had no one offered to help?

      Fear quickened in her veins as the men faced off. Even if Ragnar prevailed, she suspected the men would not keep their word. Raiders who lived and died by their swords were not men of honour. The moment Ragnar’s back was turned, they would cut him down.

      She closed her eyes, trying to bring clarity to her clouded mind. If he were not wounded, she didn’t doubt that he would strike down every last man.

      But with only one good leg to stand on, he might not live through the rest of this day. She would become their prize of war unless she did something to stop them.

      Elena turned back to the Irish, her mind spinning with ideas, most of which wouldn’t work. But when she saw a woman carrying a basket of green apples, an idea began to take root. The apples were a symbol of the gods. Men like these might not honour the afterworld...but they would understand the effects of a curse. It was something to be feared.

      There was one way to put an end to the fighting and drive the invaders away.

      Freya, be with me, she prayed.

      * * *

      They chose their tallest man to fight him. The hersir weighed more than Ragnar, but Ragnar wasn’t afraid to face the man. The larger the warrior, the slower he tended to move.

      His thigh wound was aching, but Ragnar blotted all of the pain from his mind. If he failed in this fight, they would take Elena and use her. He had no doubt of it. In times like these, he had to use his wits, rather than his strength.

      The man had chosen a battleaxe as his weapon and after dismounting from the horse, Ragnar took a round shield from the warrior he’d already killed.

      Thor, guide my blade, he prayed. Let me strike true.

      He waited for the man to make the first move, for in that motion he could determine his enemy’s weaknesses.

      ‘Your wound will slow you down, Olafsson,’ the man remarked, eyeing the reddish stain on Ragnar’s thigh. His enemy tossed his battleaxe and caught it again, the silvery gleam of steel revealing a sharp blade. The man was fair-haired with a reddish beard and wore a hauberk made of whalebone.

      ‘Wounded or not, the gods favour me.’ He nodded towards the sky, which was transforming from sunshine into a darker hue. Large clouds drifted into a grey mass, forming storms. ‘In a little while, Thor will show his lightning and you will be in Valhalla to greet him.’

      ‘Or you will,’ the man countered.

      Ragnar glanced back towards Elena, but was startled to see that she’d disappeared. It was for the best, he supposed. At least if she’d gone, he would not have to worry over her fate.

      But he’d known her too long. She wasn’t one to run from a fight. It was more likely she’d gone to fetch a weapon herself.

      Better to end this quickly, then.

      Instinct took over and he let the blood course through his heart, pushing back any trace of mercy. This man would die and soon.

      Ragnar raised his shield to defect a blow from the battleaxe, biting back a gasp when the man kicked his thigh. Pain shot through him, but he slipped into the blur of fighting, no longer feeling anything. He was aware only of the weapon in his hands and the movement of his enemy. Blood seeped against his wound, but he dulled his mind against distractions.

      ‘You’re stronger than you look. But not for long,’ the man said. He renewed his attack, using his own shield to press hard against Ragnar.