To Tempt a Viking. Michelle Willingham

hope for survival was to make the crossing.

      He glanced at the grey salt water, knowing that it would burn his wounds with unholy fire. Elena’s suggestion, that they bind fallen limbs together, was a sound one. The pain had been bad enough when the arrow was still inside him, but more flesh was exposed now that she’d taken it out.

      * * *

      When Elena emerged from the woods, she dragged four stout branches along the sand, each the thickness of his forearm. She had gathered up her hair, twisting it in a knot and securing it with a small stick while she worked. She used his knife to cut off more material from her skirts. As she bound the limbs together, his traitorous imagination conjured up the vision of her bared legs tangled with his own, his body lying atop hers.

      Ragnar closed his eyes, furious with himself for even thinking such dishonourable thoughts about her.

      ‘Let me help you,’ he said to Elena. He needed the activity to distract him. Anything to keep his gaze away from her bared flesh.

      Limping towards the pile of limbs, he sat down and wove the fabric under and over each branch, securing it tightly. Elena worked opposite him, mirroring his method, until at last it was ready.

      The morning light reflected upon her skin and, though she appeared tired, there was determination in her eyes. She was staring at the arrangement of wood, frowning. ‘It won’t float with your weight.’

      He shrugged. ‘There’s not enough wood for that. But if it gives us something to hold on to, that will be enough.’

      She studied their raft, then glanced overhead at the sparse trees that shaded them. ‘I wish you had a battleaxe as your weapon. It would be more useful, cutting branches and trees.’

      ‘I prefer a sword.’ He liked the balance of the weapon and it suited fluid battle motions where he could slash at his enemy. ‘Styr’s weapon is the axe.’ The moment he spoke her husband’s name, a flash of sadness came over Elena.

      ‘I want to believe he’s alive,’ she murmured. ‘That somehow he’ll come for me.’ But she shook her head, rubbing her arms against the chill.

      ‘If he doesn’t, I’ll take you back myself.’ His words were little reassurance, for neither of them knew what had happened to Styr. He might still be a prisoner, or he could be dead.

      ‘You can’t make the journey with that leg. It’s too far.’ With a sigh, Elena began pulling the small makeshift raft across the sand.

      Before she could go any further, Ragnar limped towards her and caught her arm. ‘I may be wounded, Elena, but I’m not dead. The wound will heal.’ He didn’t want her to think of him as helpless and he let his hand slide down her arm to grip her hand. A trail of gooseflesh rose over her skin at his touch. ‘You won’t be stranded here. I swear it by the blood of Thor.’

      Her hand gripped his and, when she met his gaze, there was a flicker of hesitancy before colour spread over her cheeks. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

      He wanted to pull her close, to taste the lips that had haunted him for so long. But she only turned back to her discarded apron, pulling it over her head and fastening the brooches at her shoulders. She had the innocent demeanour of a maiden, but the body of a woman who had known a man intimately.

      Without a word, he began dragging the raft towards the water, suppressing a gasp when the salt water lapped against his bandaged wound. The vicious pain was the reminder he needed to stay away from Styr’s wife.

      Elena joined him, holding on to the bound limbs while they made their way towards the mainland. Ragnar kicked with his good leg, grateful that the tide was coming in, aiding them in their journey. But by the gods, the salt against his open wound was shredding apart his control.

      The bound wood did give them a means of staying together, without the risk of drowning. As she struggled to swim, he bit back the pain and fought to help her.

      ‘You look as if you’re hurting again,’ she commented, churning her left arm in the water while she held on with her right.

      ‘It’s like hot knives searing my skin,’ he admitted, keeping his voice light. ‘Not very comfortable.’

      She sent him a sympathetic look. ‘When we reach land, it will be better, I promise.’

      If he didn’t drown first. He bit his lip hard against the pain, forcing himself to continue.

      The waves pushed them closer and Ragnar concentrated on the strand ahead of them. With every stroke, it seemed further away. The cold water numbed his skin and he felt his eyes beginning to close, his fingers slipping from the wood.

      ‘Ragnar!’ Elena shouted at him, pulling him back to the present moment. ‘Stay with me. You can’t let go now.’ She made her way to his side, holding his waist. ‘We’re not so very far.’

      He knew it, but his body was rebelling against the sea water, his mind fighting to help her. The cold embedded within his veins, making it more difficult to move.

      ‘I need you,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’

      It was her voice that forced him onward. She spoke words of encouragement, urging him not to give up. And although they had been in the water for what seemed like an hour, eventually he felt his feet sink into sand. He bit hard to keep his teeth from chattering, and Elena remained at his side, holding on to him. He stumbled through the waves, but she helped him to remain balanced.

      They staggered through the sand, his vision blurred and his ears ringing. He damned himself for the weakness, fighting to remain conscious. Elena needed him and he would not fail her.

      ‘Listen to me,’ she insisted. ‘We’re here. We’re safe now, but you can’t stay on the sand. Just a little further.’

      She held his waist, letting him lean on her as she tried to get him past the water’s edge. But when her leg accidentally bumped against his wound, he couldn’t suppress the hiss of pain.

      She apologised and pleaded, ‘We’re almost there. Only a few steps more.’ The world tipped, but she held tight, keeping him on his feet.

      ‘I’m not going to die,’ he told her, but his words sounded thick and slurred.

      ‘I won’t let you.’ She eased him to sit down with his back against a hillside. Ragnar leaned back, resting his head upon the amber grass while he stared up at the clouded sky.

      ‘You’re too cold,’ she said. ‘I have to get you warm.’ She moved beside him wrapping both arms around his waist. Though her skin was cool, her presence slipped beneath the pain of his wounds, offering comfort.

      * * *

      He wanted to tell her what she meant to him, to spill out the words he’d kept buried for so long, but honour kept his lips silent. He would accept the warmth of her embrace, knowing that it could never be more than that.

      He was angry with himself for leaving Styr behind, though he’d had no choice at the time. The Irish might kill his friend, for Styr had no value as a hostage and he would never be any man’s slave.

      Ragnar glanced over at Elena, who was busy gathering tinder for a fire. Her skirts were cut short to her knees, while her red-gold hair was still bound in a knot at her nape. She moved with efficiency, but as she stacked the wood and arranged the seaweed, the earlier tremors became impossible to stop.

      So cold. He couldn’t feel his fingertips or his toes and his muscles felt stiff and ungainly.

      ‘You’re so pale,’ Elena said, hurrying to strike a spark. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get you warm again, as soon as I can start the fire.’ But her own hands were shaking, as if she, too, were suffering from the intense cold of the sea. After several attempts, the spark kept dying out.

      His eyelids were heavy and he closed them, surrendering to the temptation of unconsciousness. Sleep was what he needed now.

      But a moment later, Elena’s