took a breath, glancing at the Irish to see if they’d understood him. They were too busy gorging on food, but Brendan’s brow furrowed. Without a word, he unsheathed his blade and crossed the boat until he sat behind her. She felt the kiss of the blade upon her throat, and the young man stared back at Ragnar in a silent challenge.
* * *
Ragnar intended to gut the Irishman, before the night was over, for daring to touch Elena. He’d sliced through his bonds, using a hidden blade that he’d passed to his kinsmen, one by one. Now, the blade was his again and he was waiting for the right moment to strike.
They had been sailing for hours and several of the Irish had fallen asleep—all, save the man holding Elena captive. Brendan seemed to sense that the moment he let her go, his life would be the forfeit.
The sun had descended below the horizon, and the moon was beginning to rise. Ragnar eyed the other men, silently warning them to be ready. He kept his gaze fixed upon Elena, watching for the moment to seize her. She appeared tense and, upon her throat, he saw the barest trace of blood.
His fist clenched upon the dagger, while he vowed his own vengeance upon the man who kept her captive. Elena’s shoulders were held back, her body stiff as if she didn’t dare move.
Ragnar needed a distraction, a way of diverting Brendan’s attention away. Taking a hostage or possibly attacking without warning. His brain went through a dozen possibilities, all of which were feasible, but held an inherent risk.
Gods above, why couldn’t this be any other hostage but Elena? If it were, he’d simply drag her away, slicing her attacker’s throat. But the threat was too strong. Elena meant everything to him and he would do nothing to endanger her life.
He saw her glance up at the crescent moon, which had slid out from behind a cloud. At the sight of it, her face went white. Ragnar wanted to say something, to reassure her that all would be well.
‘Elena.’ He couldn’t stop himself from speaking her name, despite the risk. Don’t be afraid. I’ll free you.
The Irishman spoke words that sounded like another warning, but his voice cracked at the end, undermining the threat. Reminding him that he was hardly more than a boy.
‘The ship is moving closer to the shore,’ Ragnar told her.
‘I—I can’t swim very well.’ Her fear was tangible, but she cast a look at the dark water. The wind was strong now, pulling the vessel east. Ahead, he spied a large outcropping of rock, a tiny island not far away. She could reach it, if she tried.
‘I won’t let you drown,’ he swore.
She seemed to consider it, seeking reassurance from him. Though he knew she belonged to Styr, he wished in that moment that he could hold her. Give her the comfort she needed.
And then, as if the gods had willed it to be so, he spied the perfect diversion.
* * *
Brendan Ó Brannon had never been so terrified in all his life. He held the knife to the Lochlannach woman’s throat, all the while wishing he’d never left the shores of his homeland. At the time, he’d believed he was protecting his sister Caragh. He’d thought he could force the invaders to leave, bringing their ship miles away from home before he and his friends could abandon the ship at night, swimming to shore.
But these men hadn’t slept. They’d never taken their eyes off him or the woman he held hostage. With every minute that passed, his impending death came closer.
A hollow sorrow filled him up, with the knowledge that he’d never see his sister or brothers again. All because he’d tried to be a hero. What did he know of defending them against fierce Lochlannach invaders? Nothing at all. He was only seven and ten, barely a man. He’d acted without thinking and worse, he’d left his sister Caragh alone. She had no one to take care of her and he doubted if he would make it out alive.
One man, in particular, made him nervous. He stared hard at him, as if he intended to murder Brendan the moment an opportunity presented itself.
Silently, Brendan prayed that he could somehow get out of this. He considered letting the woman go, throwing himself overboard, no matter how far from shore they were. His chances of survival were better.
But he held on to her, for she was the only person keeping him and his friends alive. Soon enough, they would reach the southernmost tip of the eastern coast of éireann.
The moon was clouded this night, making it difficult to see. His body was exhausted and he fought to keep his hands from shaking.
A shout came from one of his men, alerting them to another ship. Brendan kept his blade at the woman’s throat as he turned to look. Just as his friend had warned, a large merchant ship was bearing down on them.
But the men weren’t Irish.
His mouth went dry, his palms sweating. It was the Gallaibh, the Danes who were as fearless as the Norse. His grandsire had spun tales of the bloodthirsty invaders who would kill anyone who breathed.
God help them all. If they survived this night, it would be a miracle.
‘Turn the ship!’ Brendan commanded. If they could get closer to shore, they might have a chance of escaping. But he wasn’t accustomed to the Lochlannach vessel and he didn’t know how to steer it. Instead of moving in the direction of the shore, it seemed that an invisible force was turning them towards the path of the Danes.
Fear ripped through him and he caught a glimpse of archers taking aim. His stomach twisted and he stared back at the water, wondering if he had the courage to seize his escape. Drowning was better than facing a dozen arrows.
His gaze fixed upon his hostage. The woman was hardly older than his sister Caragh. He took a breath, wishing he’d never taken her. She didn’t deserve to fall into the hands of the Danes, who would rape her before they killed her. He’d made countless mistakes this day, but there were precious seconds left.
With his knife, he cut the ropes securing her to the front of the boat, then sliced through her bonds. She stared at him in surprise, rubbing her wrists. Without asking why, she stumbled back towards her kinsmen.
To his friends, Brendan ordered, ‘We’ll have to jump. If they get too close, we won’t survive.’
‘If we abandon the ship, we’ll drown,’ a friend countered.
Brendan’s heart beat faster, a thin line of sweat sliding down his neck. ‘Once we make it to shore, we’ll journey back to Gall Tír on foot.’
If they made it to shore. The Danes were even closer now and he heard them shouting words in an unfamiliar tongue.
‘It’s too far,’ his friend argued.
‘We don’t have a choice. If we stay here, we’ll die tonight.’ After they abandoned the ship, he could only hope that the Lochlannach would remain on board and let them be. But from the mercenary look in the Viking leader’s eyes, Brendan wasn’t at all convinced that the man would let them go. His stomach lurched at the thought of their impending fate.
Without warning, the Lochlannach rose from their places, closing in on him. It was clear that they’d freed themselves from the ropes some time ago and had been waiting for the right moment to attack.
The archers drew back and the first storm of arrows struck the ship. Brendan threw himself to the deck and heard the dull thud of an arrow piercing flesh. When he saw the face of his dying kinsman, he cringed, keeping low on the ship.
The Norsemen were shouting, and all around him, he heard the sounds of men jumping overboard. He heard the screams of those who were shot by the archers before their bodies landed in the water.
The woman lay against the bottom of the boat, while her kinsmen defended her. He saw the Lochlannach leader stiffen when an arrow pierced his leg. The woman cried out, and a moment later, she emerged from her hiding place, jumping off the ship. The man followed, though Brendan doubted he would make