Saved by the Viking Warrior. Michelle Styles

gathered her courage. ‘I believe...I believe Hagal’s men murdered everyone in my party.’

      There, she had said it and had mentioned the possibility of a reward. Gold always motivated the Norsemen. Her stomach twisted in knots. In the silence which followed she could hear the flap of a wood-pigeon’s wings.

      ‘A strong accusation,’ he said, his face remaining devoid of any shock or surprise. ‘Why would Hagal’s men want his bride dead? He will have spent time and effort negotiating the marriage contract.’

      ‘Perhaps they are in the pay of Thrand the Destroyer and betrayed their master.’

      ‘I think not,’ he said, crossing his arms, and his face appeared more carved in stone than ever. No doubt he expected her to cower. ‘Try again. Who attacked this convoy?’

      Cwenneth glared back and refused to be intimidated. ‘I speak the truth—Hagal’s men did it under his orders. I overheard them speaking afterwards. He wanted her dead to fulfil a battlefield vow he made. I hope even Norsemen have a respect for the truth. The Lord of Lingwold certainly will. He’ll see justice is done and Hagal the Red is punished for this crime.’

      As she said the words, Cwenneth knew she spoke the truth. Edward might have desired the marriage, but he wanted her alive. Blood counted for something...even with Edward. He would take steps to avenge Hagal’s actions. Even a convent without a dowry currently sounded like heaven compared to being a Norseman’s slave or, worse still, murdered.

      ‘How did you propose to get to Lingwold? It is over a hundred miles through hostile wilderness and floods. The mud-clogged roads from the recent rain are the least of your problems.’

      Cwenneth sucked in her breath. He knew where Lingwold was, but then it was one of the largest estates in southern Bernicia.

      ‘Walk!’

      ‘Wolves and bears lurk in these woods. Not to mention outlaws and other desperate men who roam the roads.’

      ‘I know. I was waiting until nightfall before I returned to the...’ Cwenneth’s throat closed. What did she call it now that murder had taken place? ‘To where it happened. I hoped to find something there, something I could use on my journey. I refuse to simply sit here and die.’ She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking uncontrollably. ‘Will you take me to Lingwold? Help me complete my journey? The Lord of Lingwold will give a great reward for information about his sister. I promise.’

      ‘I’ve no plans to visit Lingwold at present.’

      Cwenneth blinked. He was refusing? ‘What do you mean? There will be a reward. A great reward. Gold. As much gold as you can carry.’

      ‘The promise of a small reward for telling a man his sister is dead fails to tempt me. The great Lord Edward of Lingwold might even take a severe dislike to the man who brought him news of his sister’s demise.’ His mouth curled around the words as if her brother was anything but a great lord.

      ‘You have a point. He is known to have a temper.’ Cwen fingered her throat. She couldn’t confess now. Not now that she knew this man disliked her brother so much that he refused to consider a reward. She’d have to come up with a different plan. That was all. ‘Where do we go?’

      ‘You go where I choose. You tell your story when I choose and to whom I choose. And not before. Like you, I know Hagal the Red did this.’ A bright flame flared in his eyes, transforming his features. ‘I have my own reasons for wanting him to face justice.’

      Until he chose? To become his slave for ever? Cwenneth firmed her mouth and renewed her vow. ‘Who are you? What shall I call you?’

      He made a mocking bow. ‘Thrand Ammundson.’

      Thrand Ammundson. Thrand the Destroyer. Cwenneth gulped. The Norseman whose band of warriors raided Lingwold yearly. The man who loved killing so much that his name was a byword for destruction. The man who was supposed to be in Jorvik, but who was here and probably on his way to raid innocent Bernicians.

      Her luck was truly terrible. Of all the Norsemen to encounter, it would have to be him, the one man other than Hagal the Red most likely to want her dead.

      ‘You’re Thrand the Destroyer?’ she whispered, clasping her hands so tight that the knuckles shone white.

      He was right—her brother had no cause to love him and every cause to kill him. As she had departed for Acumwick, Edward had crowed that he looked forward to having Thrand’s head on a plate and his hide nailed to the parish church’s door.

      ‘Some have called me that, but they are wrong. I have never come to destroy, only to take what is rightfully mine or my liege lord’s. The Norsemen of Jorvik did not start the last war, but they did finish it.’

      ‘That makes it all right because you won,’ Cwenneth remarked drily, trying to think around the pain in her head. Right now she had to put miles between her and Hagal, who definitely wanted her dead. Everything else could wait. Patience was a virtue, her nurse, Martha, used to say.

      ‘The victor commissions the saga, as they say.’

      A soft rustling in the undergrowth made Cwenneth freeze. She instinctively grabbed hold of Thrand’s sleeve.

      ‘Wolf or mayhap a bear,’ she said in a hoarse whisper. ‘My luck goes from bad to worse.’

      Thrand put his fingers to his lips and pivoted so that his body was between her and the noise.

      He started to draw his sword, but then relaxed.

      ‘There, see.’ He pointed with a long finger. ‘No wolf.’

      Cwenneth crouched down and found herself staring into the tusked head of a boar. The animal blew a hot breath over her face before giving her a long disdainful look and trotting off.

      ‘That was unexpected,’ she said, sitting back on her heels.

      ‘Thor has shown you favour,’ Thrand remarked in the quiet that followed. ‘Good luck follows your footsteps in battle when Thor favours you.’

      ‘I don’t believe in the Norsemen’s gods. And I know what those tusks can do. My stepson was gored once. It ended his fighting days and he walks with a bad limp. I wouldn’t call that lucky.’

      She gave an uneasy laugh. A god favoured her? Thankfully he didn’t know about the curse she carried. He’d abandon her in these woods if he did. Pressing her hands together, she tried to control her trembling and breathe normally.

      ‘You’re married? What did your husband say about you travelling with your lady to her new home?’

      ‘My husband died and...and I found myself back in my lady’s service.’ A fresh dribble of sweat ran down her back. The words rushed out of her throat. ‘My luck has been dreadful these last few years.’

      ‘You’re wrong.’ His searing gaze raked her form, making Cwenneth aware of her angles. Her sister-in-law was one of the plump comfortable women which men loved, but Cwenneth had few illusions about the attractiveness of her body—all hard angles with only a few slender curves. ‘You survived the slaughter. That makes you luckier than the corpses back there.’

      Her shoulders relaxed. He hadn’t noticed her slip. ‘I’ve lingered too long in these woods. Can we go from this place?’

      He made a mocking bow. ‘As my lady wishes.’

      ‘I’m not a lady. I am a maid, a person of no consequence.’

      A faint smile touched his lips. ‘It is well you reminded me.’

      She shook her head to rid it of the prickling feeling that he was toying with her. But Norsemen were not that subtle. They used brute force to destroy farms and steal livestock, rather than cunning to discover the hidden stores. She’d bide her time and escape.

      * * *

      ‘What have you found, Thrand? Anything? There is nothing to say who did this here,’