Gunnar cast quick repeated glances at the woman, just long enough to verify she was still there and still frantically pulling at her steed, before returning to scouring the underbrush on either side of the road. After trudging on high alert for what seemed like an eternity, he finally saw signs of the next clearing ahead; the brighter light from the open area was like a beacon. Gunnar began to relax. Their path forward was clear. No blockade, no down or felled tree had appeared to block them. The woman’s behavior hadn’t changed; she was still desperately laboring in front of them in a futile bid for freedom.
As he watched, she slipped and stumbled to her knees. Only her grip on the horse’s reins prevented her from falling headlong into the mud. Using the animal’s front leg to steady herself, she clambered back to her feet, then whirled to face them.
“Stay back!” she shouted as she backed away, floundering in the mire, the horse bobbing obediently beside her.
A great gust of wind blew the hood of her cloak from her head and, for the first time Gunnar could see her face. Pale Irish skin, huge eyes dark with fear and defiance. She was stunning. Without the protection of the hood, the wind soon freed her long dark wavy hair from its restraint. Red highlights glinted in the moonlight—not the fiery red of so many of the Irish, only hints of red like a prized sable fur. Gunnar, shocked by his visceral reaction to her, took a deep steadying breath.
“I mean it! You stay away from me!” she screamed again. Another gust of wind threatened to tear the cloak from her completely. She spun away from them, her arms flailing in an effort to pull the errant cloth back around her body.
Gunnar signaled his men to stop. The excitement that had been building in them as they stalked her was physically palpable now. The chase was at an end. Their prey was at hand. All could feel it. Gunnar waited for her to turn back to them. Waited to see her reaction when she realized it, too. He was close enough now, he would be able to see it in her eyes. She began to turn.
His eagerness to see her face as she recognized escape was lost, made her movements seem in slow motion. His eyes hungrily took in every detail of her as it was revealed—first, the soft curve of her jaw, then her high cheekbone, then the edges of her thick dark eyelashes. Finally, her eyes—the centers so dilated and dark he was unsure of their true color. So fully expecting was he to see her cowed expression, it took several seconds for Gunnar to comprehend what he actually saw. There was no fear, no resignation, no defeat in her eyes. They were, in fact, the opposite—hard and bright with triumph.
Gunnar frowned, confused. The wind whipped at her cloak again, but this time she made no attempt to stop it. As it lifted away from her body and blew back over her shoulders, she raised the loaded crossbow and aimed it directly at the center of his chest.
“You’ll be releasin’ those prisoners now,” she called out, her voice steady and calm. Gone was any trace of the terror that had seemed to grip her only seconds before. In that instant, Gunnar felt, as much as heard, the forest around them come alive with men. He glanced over his right shoulder at the wall of drawn bows and swords, and swore under his breath. At the same time, he couldn’t help but think how his previous commander, Jarl, would laugh at the predicament he’d gotten himself into over a beautiful woman. He had not only forsaken an easily defended position, he had allowed their guard to completely fall away after she lured them into the forest.
“Perhaps you Norse are as hard of hearing as you are ugly,” she said. “I said release the prisoners. Now,” she repeated menacingly.
Her lilting accent was like water running over smooth stones—pleasing to his ears. He watched as the wind pulled a wild lock of her hair and blew it across her neck. It landed at the base of her wet throat and stuck there. Gunnar stared, mesmerized, as a tiny rivulet of water ran from the soaked tress and disappeared under her dress. His eyes continued to follow its imagined journey downwards until his gaze landed once again on the crossbow. The sight of the loaded bolt aimed at his heart snapped him back to reality.
“Rorick, release the prisoners,” Gunnar commanded under his breath, not taking his eyes from the woman.
“But, Sir,” Rorick balked. “We can take them. Look at them. They’re nothing more than a bunch of armed peasants. They’ll be no match for us. We may not even lose a single man.”
“Rorick!” This time Gunnar did tear his eyes from the woman, furious at the interruption and lost seconds of appraisal his second’s insubordination had cost. “Release the prisoners—now,” Gunnar seethed through gritted teeth.
Rorick opened his mouth as if to argue further, then snapped it closed at the look in Gunnar’s eyes. He turned and relayed the order to the other men. Gunnar heard their grumbles as the order was received, then heard the clinking as the collar chains on the slaves were removed.
“Send them forward,” the woman commanded. His men held their ground until Gunnar nodded. The Irish prisoners rushed forward in a wave. Gunnar noted that even as she greeted them and accepted their gratitude, her crossbow never wavered a fraction from its target on his chest. She did not appear to be new to this.
A man appeared on the road behind her, pushing a rickety hand cart. No one moved as he labored toward them, forcing the cart through the mud. Finally he reached them and parked it beside her. She did not acknowledge the man’s arrival, was clearly expecting
