He didn’t respond and she loosened the torn fabric, peeling back the bandages. The skin was an angry red and at the sight of it, her spirits sank. He was beyond her healing abilities and she didn’t know where she could go or what she could do.
‘I’m not a healer,’ she muttered, as she touched his cheek. ‘But you can’t give up. Not now.’
His wound was swollen and she racked her mind to think of any herbal knowledge she’d heard of. Ragnar remained unconscious and she didn’t know what to do for him.
There were no people here. There was no one to help, no one to tell her the proper way to treat his wounds. He would die if she did nothing.
She had to reach inside and find a place of calm. Surely if she studied him more carefully, she would find the answers.
Elena took a deep breath, then another as she examined his leg. His skin was hot to the touch, so tight as if it were an animal skin bulging with water.
It needed to be drained, she decided. Some of the healers drew blood to bring out the evil spirits. Perhaps if she released some of the pressure, it would help.
She pulled her dagger from its sheath, starting to lose the edge of her courage. The idea of hurting him more, of causing him to bleed, made her wince. But neither could he tolerate this pain.
Beneath her breath, she murmured prayers to all the gods as she cleaned the knife with a cloth and began probing his wound. His hands clenched at his sides, and his eyes flew open when she touched the raw flesh.
‘Don’t,’ he gritted out.
‘I’m going to ease the pain,’ she said. ‘The wound needs to be lanced.’
His eyes were wild, his mouth tight as she reopened the wound. The moment her blade touched the swollen area, it sliced through the poisoned flesh. Blood and pus mingled from the wound and she fought to hold back the wave of nausea. But as she bled him, the swelling did seem to recede. She couldn’t tell how long she would have to let out the bad blood, but eventually, she held the edges of his flesh together and wrapped his leg tightly.
All she could do now was pray. She tried to make him as comfortable as possible, but inwardly she knew they needed a better shelter or they would both die. And that meant leaving his side to build it.
Only when she was certain he was asleep did Elena venture out again. Though it bothered her to leave him, their survival depended on it.
* * *
‘Ragnar.’
Her voice awakened him from the harsh pain that flowed like a never-ending stream. It was twilight and the sunset haloed Elena’s hair from behind.
By the gods, he’d never known anyone more beautiful. But he’d learned to mask any emotions, never to let her see what he felt. Even if he died here, he refused to surrender to the traitorous thoughts he felt towards her.
Her hand came to touch his cheek, and he didn’t speak a word, taking comfort from the warmth of her palm.
‘The rain will come soon,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve built us a small shelter for the night. Can you lean on me to walk?’
He almost laughed at that, but one glimpse of the sky made him realise that he could either struggle and walk with her or lie here on the sand while the rain poured down over them. The clouds were thick and a fog was rolling in off the shoreline.
She leaned down and put both arms around him, guiding him up to a seated position. At such a close distance, he saw the tints of red within her hair and her sea-green eyes held such fear, there were no words to allay it. Words would not stave off the hand of Death, if it came for him.
Ragnar bent his good leg and grimaced as she pulled him up to stand. The moment he did, white spots spun in his vision, threatening to pull him under. ‘Elena, I don’t know how far I can make it.’
‘You’re strong enough to get there,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve gathered some food and made a fire for us.’ She continued talking, bearing the heavy weight of him as best she was able. The journey seemed endless. At one point, he asked, ‘Why did you build it so far away?’
‘I needed a tree to support the driftwood,’ she explained. ‘And we don’t want our shelter caught in the tides.’
He hardly heard any more of what she said, for he was lost in his own sea of pain. But as they moved in closer, he thought he scented something cooking.
Surely he was imagining it. But the heady aroma of a roasting fowl made his mouth water.
‘Did you catch something?’ he asked, squinting at the glow of the fire ahead.
The chagrined smile on her face confirmed it. ‘I set some snares, yes. And when we’ve both eaten, the night will be easier.’
He doubted if any food would settle the aching inside, but he would say nothing to cast a shadow over what she’d done to help them both. A ringing resounded within his ears and she caught him before he could fall, holding his waist.
‘We’re almost there.’
Thank the gods for that. It seemed to take an hour before he finally reached the tiny shelter she’d built of fallen limbs around a thick tree trunk. At first, it appeared crude, a mass of large branches and leaves. But as she eased him down, he realised it was wider than it appeared. The structure was circular, with stout branches as supports and smaller, more flexible limbs woven between them.
‘How did you ever have time for this?’ he questioned.
Her face flushed and she shrugged. ‘I kept returning to check on you, but you were sleeping. It seemed like a better use of my time.’
The wind was increasing and he eased backwards until he was inside the shelter. Elena tended the fire and adjusted the roasting meat until the fowl was fully cooked.
He’d never smelled anything so good in his entire life. When she broke off a piece, she blew on it before bringing it to him. He tasted the meat and found it delicious.
‘Styr is a fortunate man,’ he remarked. Though he kept his tone even, it was far more than the food. It was the way she had laboured over the shelter, managing to build something of this complexity in a short amount of time. ‘I don’t think he realises half of what you do for him.’
The look in her eyes turned startled, as if she’d never expected him to say such a thing. Perhaps it was the belief that he might die that caused him to speak so freely.
‘I am his wife. I want to make his home comfortable.’ She ate but no longer looked at him.
Ragnar knew that in the past few months, Elena and Styr’s marriage had suffered. Her barrenness had taken its toll upon her, and Styr had confided their troubles. It had put Ragnar in an awkward position. He’d urged Styr to talk to Elena, but he was torn between wanting them to reconcile...and wanting the marriage to end.
He was such a selfish bastard. What good would it do, if she and Styr parted ways? Elena would never turn to him. She knew his darkest secrets, of the vicious adolescence he’d endured...and the violence that still dwelled beneath his skin. He knew better than to think she would consider someone like him.
As the wind grew stronger, Elena moved deeper within the shelter and pulled out a panel he hadn’t noticed. It had been disguised amid the other branches, but it formed a door. Almost within seconds, the rain began to pour down over the shelter.
But they didn’t get wet. He stared up and realised that she’d layered the leaves so thickly that they were fully protected from the storm.
‘You did well, Elena,’ he complimented. ‘I suppose you’re tired from the work.’
She nodded. ‘A little. How is your leg?’
‘It hurts. But it’s not nearly as swollen as it was before.’ The wound ached, but the pain was more bearable.
‘I’ll