A Deal With Her Rebel Viking. Michelle Styles

seated.

      Ansithe lifted her tallow lamp. The light made strange shifting shadows on the stone walls of the byre and highlighted the chiselled planes of Moir’s face.

      Moir put his hand to his eyes, shielding them against the light from her lamp. ‘Why have you come here? To gloat? We are defeated men and cannot harm you or your people. Grant us dignity if nothing else, Lady Valkyrie.’

      ‘The name is Lady Ansithe.’

      ‘The question remains the same whatever the name used.’

      His voice held more than a hint of tiredness. He appeared far older than this morning when she had seen him trampling on the edge of the water meadow. With an effort, he rose and positioned himself so that he was a barrier in front of his cowering men as if he wanted to protect them from more pain or hurt.

      ‘You have wounded. They need attending to and you obviously require food,’ she said, using the sort of voice she’d used when she had had to cajole her late husband into taking the medicine he’d usually just rejected.

      ‘You are the main cause of the wounds.’

      ‘Guthmann will not release my father and brother-in-law if I bring him corpses.’ Ansithe gave a tight smile as she remembered the uncomfortable conversation she’d had with Cynehild about it. ‘One should treat prisoners with honour and respect. That is the Mercian way.’ She lifted the lamp higher. The shadows danced on the walls. ‘We are not animals or torturers. We leave murdering in cold blood to the Heathen Horde.’

      ‘Not only beautiful, but with a kind and generous heart. Truly a formidable combination.’

      ‘Luckily I don’t have to worry about other people’s opinions.’ Ansithe forced a laugh. Knowing her flaws and limitations had saved her when she first married. Several of her husband’s retainers had started paying her extravagant compliments and waylaying her in corridors. Later she’d learnt that they had acted at her stepson’s instigation as he’d wanted to show his father how untrustworthy she was. ‘Yours or anyone else’s.’

      He gave a crooked smile, softening the hard planes of his face. He was the sort of man who would have maidens stammering and blushing if he as much as glanced in their direction. She blinked and concentrated. He was her captive and the means by which she’d free her father.

      ‘You dislike me speaking the truth. I wonder why you seek refuge in denying it,’ he said with a lilting laugh in his voice. His accent, while distinctive, was not hard on her ears.

      She gave a ticking noise in the back of her throat and made a show of looking over the prisoners, making a great sweeping motion with her lamp. ‘Your days of preying on innocent Mercians are over. That is a truth we can both agree on.’

      His eyes became piercing slits of ice. ‘Have I ever preyed on innocents?’

      ‘What do you call what happened today? A friendly gesture?’

      ‘I went to save my comrades. They were starving as you can see.’

      There was something in his voice which made her pause. He had come in last, after the fighting was nearly done. To save his comrades or ensure that they succeeded in their attack?

      ‘My home was attacked without warning. You claim leadership of the very warband who attacked it. And we Mercians have a reputation of giving hospitality towards strangers, but a ferocity towards those who would harm us.’

      She firmed her mouth. It was something she needed to remember, instead of being lulled into doing something she’d regret by the silky soft sound of his voice.

      ‘Release us from the ropes which bind us.’ He held up his hands. ‘I pledge my word. We surrendered. We will not attack you again. What more do you require besides my word? My word is a sacred oath. Why would I wish to break that?’

      ‘The word of a pagan warrior is reliable? I learn something new each day.’ She forced a smile and ignored the sweat dripping down her back. Could Northmen smell fear like wolves could? ‘I have yet to see any reason why I should trust a Northman.’

      ‘Not just any man, but me.’

      ‘Ansithe,’ Elene whispered. ‘Maybe he speaks the truth. You never waited to hear what they wanted. You simply fired your arrows.’

      ‘There, you see, your sister speaks the truth.’

      Again, the smile to make silly women melt combined with the intimate note in his voice which caused a warm pulse to go down the back of her spine.

      ‘The man I shot knocked down the door with an axe and attacked my sister.’

      ‘And he was punished for it. But I am not that man. I did not break down your door, even though I, too, was starving.’

      Ansithe tapped her foot on the ground. ‘I’d sooner trust a hungry bear.’

      ‘I didn’t lead the raid,’ he said in a voice which barely carried. ‘And I counselled against it. My men now see the wisdom of obeying me and heeding my warnings.’

      ‘Do you deny you lead this warband?’

      ‘I lead it now.’ He gave the cowering wretches a hard stare. ‘I will lead it until we all are free. All of us, not just a favoured few.’

      A sudden thrill of understanding went through her—Moir had seized power in the aftermath of the raid. And his words were directed at his men as much as at her.

      ‘It is the present which concerns me, not reliving a past battle.’ She knew that the reliving would happen when she closed her eyes and had to make the same choices again and again.

      ‘Spoken like a true warrior, Valkyrie. Keep your mind in the present, so the past ceases to haunt you. It is what I try to do.’

      Ansithe frowned. The infuriating warrior was far too perceptive. Whatever he wanted, he was not going to get it from her. Instead, he would learn an important lesson, a lesson to last a lifetime—Mercian women were strong and capable, not weak-willed creatures who could be easily fooled into permitting captives to escape.

      ‘Ansithe,’ Elene murmured. ‘The golden-haired lad, the one younger than me, hasn’t touched any bread. And it looks as though he might have been crying.’

      ‘Pathetic considering the damage he has caused.’

      ‘Will you have a look at him? His face is distorted something terrible.’

      Ansithe knelt beside the youth. Elene had spoken true. His face was grossly swollen from the bee stings. Angry welts circled his throat like a collar.

      Ansithe put her wrist against his forehead. It was far hotter than it should have been, but it seemed to be coming from the stings rather than a more worrying fever.

      She wished she could just leave him to his well-deserved agony from the bee stings, but she might need everyone healthy to ensure their value was equal to the ransom demanded for her father and Leofwine.

      The youth, boy really, was dressed in fine wool with new leather boots. Everything about him screamed privilege and wealth. Given the state of his clothes, he was bound to command a higher fee. She sighed, rocked back on her heels and reached for the pot of Father Oswald’s special paste.

      Ansithe daubed the paste on the angriest of the welts. He winced, but allowed her to do it. She loosened the ropes and removed them from his wrists.

      ‘That takes the pain away. More,’ he whispered. His mouth turned up in a lopsided smile.

      ‘Do you make demands here?’

      The youth’s cheeks flushed. ‘Hard to talk. Please, pretty lady, heal me.’

      Ansithe rolled her eyes. Everyone was obviously primed to make positive remarks about her appearance as if that would make her treat them differently. ‘Then keep your mouth shut and save your breath for living.’

      He gave a ghost of a laugh. ‘You