find her. The prophetess said she was alive.’
‘I hope so.’ He wanted his wife to be safe and well; there was no question of it. But with every moment he’d spent with Caragh, the differences between them only magnified. Logically, he knew it was best for them to part, to never look upon her face again.
But when her hand slipped within his, he did nothing to push her away. He simply held her warm fingers, while he wished for a moment, that another life could be his.
‘Why are you staying with Ivar?’ he asked. ‘You don’t have to.’
‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘But I wanted to do something for you. You need your men to help you.’
‘And what of your needs?’ He turned, forcing her to face him. Her violet eyes were troubled, her complexion pale. ‘Do you intend to share his bed?’
She lowered her gaze. ‘I don’t know what will happen. He seems to care for me, though he can be proud and stubborn. Like someone else I know.’ Her face softened into a sad smile.
A harsh ache clenched his gut at the thought of her lying in Ivar’s arms. The vision burned him like a fiery brand. ‘Don’t stay with him, if you don’t desire him.’
Her hand moved to touch his heart. ‘What choice do I have, when I can never have the man I do desire?’
He froze, disbelieving what he’d heard. Caragh’s face flushed, but she turned and went back inside, leaving him to stare at the darkening streets.
She desired him. And God help him, he wanted her, too, as dishonourable as it was.
But he could not forget Elena. After all she’d endured, he could never abandon her.
The last of the fading light slipped beneath the horizon, and a strange sense of awareness caught Styr without warning. There were lights in the distance and the flare of torches. Something was wrong.
Warning shouts resounded, and within moments, an acrid scent caught his nostrils.
Smoke.
The fires began to spread, from one house to another, and he threw the door open, ordering his men to arm themselves.
‘They’re setting fire to the houses!’ he shouted to Ivar, and the men poured forth, prepared to defend themselves. In the midst of the panic, he saw the Danes openly attacking.
‘Take Caragh to your ship,’ Styr ordered Ronan and Terence. ‘Get her out of here.’
‘One of us can take her,’ Ronan argued. ‘You’ll need help fighting against them.’
‘I’ll stay and fight,’ Styr said. ‘You need to take her to safety. If the Danes are in the city, their boats will be empty.’
Ronan saw the truth of his words and nodded. Terence shouted to Ivar, but the man had unsheathed his own sword and was charging forwards with the others.
‘Get her out!’ he echoed, and Styr caught only one last look at Caragh, before she disappeared into the night.
Bodies littered the ground, but Ivar’s house remained unscathed. Styr cleaned his sword and thankfully, none of his men had died in the fight.
Ivar had a wound upon his upper arm, but it would heal. ‘Take your men and go after them,’ he commanded.
At Styr’s questioning look, he added, ‘Caragh wants you and always has.’ Nodding towards Onund and the others, he said, ‘Your men helped defend my house. They may take their freedom, so long as you guard her.’
Ivar’s mouth curved in a bitter smile. ‘The only reason she offered to stay was for you. And unless you’re an utter fool, you should claim the woman who loves you. Before the Danes do.’
‘She doesn’t—’
‘Open your damned eyes, Hardrata. Because if you don’t go after her, I will.’
Styr eyed the man, not certain what he was agreeing to. Even so, he didn’t want Caragh here any more. It wasn’t safe.
‘You And I know the Danes,’ Ivar continued. ‘They will build their fires upon the bodies of their enemies. And her brothers aren’t enough to guard her. Go,’ he ordered.
Sheathing his sword, Styr ordered his kinsmen to follow him. They moved through the streets, cutting down any man who dared to attack.
As they moved along the edge of the River Liffey, Styr kept his battleaxe in hand, his eyes searching for a glimpse of Caragh. the deeper he moved into the city, the more he realised Ivar was right. The Danes had slaughtered the Norse and Irish alike, and the fighting hadn’t stopped.
He moved with a purpose, needing to ensure that she was safe.
The sounds of Death surrounded them, mingled with fire and smoke.
Caragh kept her head down while her brothers pushed her through the crowd. She saw women cut down in the streets, the Danes slaughtering anyone who stood in their way.
Terence shoved her through a narrow passageway between houses, ordering, ‘Don’t look. Don’t think. Just run.’
And she did. Her lungs burned, her sides aching as she followed them towards the harbour. But just when she spied the gleaming dark water, a hand snaked around her waist, dragging her back.
A cry escaped her, and Ronan swung hard at the man, his blade biting into a wooden shield. Terence tried to aid him, but within moments, they were surrounded by invaders. The dark-haired Gallaibh were fierce fighters, bearded men whose ruthless eyes revealed the desire to conquer.
Fear pulsed within her, while her brothers fought, back to back, against the insurmountable odds. She struggled against her captor, but although she had regained some of her strength, it wasn’t nearly enough.
His foreign words made no sense to her, but when he shoved her against a wall and reached for her skirts, his intent became clear.
No. She refused to stand here without fighting. When he tried to pin her, she let her body go limp, and she hit the ground hard. Her fist seized a handful of dirt, and when he jerked her up, she threw it into his eyes.
He roared in fury, reaching for her. She ducked to avoid the strike of his fists, but a moment later, the man seized her, gripping his forearm across her throat.
‘I should break your neck,’ he said in Irish, and his breath smelled of ale. She tried to push against him, but he only tightened his grip, cutting off her air.
The world swam with blurred images, her hands fighting hard against the man who slowly strangled her. She couldn’t see her brothers or anyone else, the fading consciousness sliding away.
She glimpsed the face of Death, as her lungs burned from lack of air. A part of her mourned the fact that she hadn’t had the chance to talk with Styr to admit the feelings she’d held inside her.
And now she was going to die.
Styr embedded his battleaxe in the Dane’s spine, catching Caragh before she could fall.
Thor’s blood, she’d nearly died. Her skin was waxen, but thank the gods, she gasped for air. He lifted her in his arms, while his men aided Ronan and Terence in fighting the enemy.
All around them were the bodies of the fallen, but Styr kept his battleaxe in one hand, holding Caragh with the other arm. Her head slumped against his shoulder, but he continued towards the waiting boat. One man dared to attack, and he slashed his battleaxe, cutting the man down.
No one will harm her. The need to protect Caragh, to keep her safe, went deeper than his bones.
When he reached the boat, he brought her inside, awaiting her brothers and his