She remained still while the rain fell steadily. Both men were soaked now, but they appeared indifferent to the elements. When she eyed the other man, she saw that he was watching her with interest. There was no sense of surprise, as if he had expected to have a female slave aboard the ship. It made her question what else he knew.
Breanne huddled beneath the seal skin, and they continued to row until the river met the edge of the sea. Áth Cliath was now behind her, and she could see only a light fog and the water surrounding them everywhere. Once they were further out to sea, the Norseman gestured for her to put out her chained wrists. He withdrew an awl and a small hammer, and she understood his intention. Within moments, he had hammered out the pin and her chains fell to the bottom of the boat. Next, he removed her neck collar, and she rubbed at the chafed skin, feeling relief from the weight. Last, she extended her ankles, and he removed the chains there, as well.
Her wrists were raw, and she tried to ease the soreness. She didn’t quite know what to think of this man. True, there was nowhere she could run, now that they were nearing the open sea. Perhaps he’d meant to offer her comfort, and for that, she was grateful.
Even so, she could not dispel her suspicions. She was his captive, and he had no intention of freeing her. Was he trying to soften her distrust? Or perhaps he did not want her to fight him when he forced her to share his bed. Breanne swallowed hard, trying not to think of it.
During the journey to Áth Cliath, countless hands had groped her, and she had fought to protect herself. They had laughed at her, and she’d received a few bruises when she had struck back.
Breanne gripped the edges of the seal cloak, shutting her eyes to try to blot out what was to come. Though this journey would grant her somewhat of a reprieve from his attentions tonight, she did not doubt that the Lochlannach meant to use her for his own pleasure. His blue eyes stared upon her with interest, and her body prickled at the thought of his hands upon her bare flesh. She tried to dispel the thought, but the more he stared at her, the more she sensed that he would not be a brutal lover. Instead, she imagined those rough palms caressing her skin, arousing her. Without warning, her breasts tightened against the thin fabric of her shift and she caught her breath. He was handsome and stoic, a fierce warrior with undeniable strength. At the thought of him pressing her back against the sleeping furs, she could not suppress the unexpected response from her body.
And by the gods, she knew not what he would do to her.
Alarr sailed with Rurik, grateful that his brother had maintained the silence. He didn’t know if his captive knew any of their language, and he didn’t want to take the risk. For that reason, he had spoken little on the journey, until it was in the early hours of the next morning.
He’d been tracking King Feann’s foster daughter for the past sennight, fully intending to use her as a hostage. He had paid a soldier to take Breanne and bring her to him, with the understanding that she would remain unharmed. Instead, the man had betrayed him, selling her to a slaver who had taken a shipment of women along the coast. It had taken several days to track her to Áth Cliath, and Alarr was irritated by the delay. But now, he realised that there was an unexpected advantage, for she would know nothing of his connection to Feann. He could learn more about her foster father’s weaknesses if he could coax her to talk.
Although Feann had not been the one to plunge the blade into his father’s heart, Alarr knew the Irish king had been involved in the plot. There was no question that the man had travelled across the sea, seeking the death of his enemy...but why? What had Sigurd ever done to Feann that would cause such a response? He needed to uncover the secrets that veiled his father’s death.
After the wedding massacre, his brothers had taken him into hiding to recover from his wounds. They had burned the bodies of Gilla and her family before burying their ashes. Alarr had kept Hafr’s sword as a reminder of the tragedy. King Harald Finehair had stripped his brother Brandt of his claim to Maerr, giving it to his aunt’s husband, Thorfinn. Thorfinn had declared them outlaws, and Alarr and his brothers had no choice but to leave Maerr. But not before they had all sworn a blood vow of vengeance. Every man who had played a part in the wedding slaughter would face justice for what he had done.
Alarr had asked Rurik to accompany him to Éireann, while there were rumours that others had gone to Alba and even to Constantinople. Within a year, Alarr hoped to scatter the ashes of their enemies so that they would find no place in Valhalla.
And Breanne, foster daughter of King Feann, would be used to gain the information he needed. Although his knowledge of the Irish language was not strong, Alarr had learned enough to understand it during the past year. Rurik’s grasp was better, since his mother had been Irish.
He’d understood every question Breanne had voiced, along with her frustration when he’d refused to answer. But he had given her a crust of bread and some dried meat, which she had devoured. He and Rurik took turns keeping guard until at long last, she had succumbed to sleep, curled up against the seal
