“No. Just…my shoulder is likely a bit bruised after the fall.”
Yes, it would be, but at least nothing appeared to be broken. Torsten let out a sigh of relief. When he had seen her tumble off Grendel, for a dreadful moment he had feared never to see her rise again.
“Are you still mad at me?” she asked after a while, her voice betraying her anguish.
Was he? In view of what had happened since their conversation and their current predicament, he wasn’t sure what to think.
“Probably. Only it is of no importance right now.”
She didn’t seem to agree and spoke again. “I’m sorry, for everything. For lying to you, for using you, for thinking I?—”
“Hush. We have a bigger problem than that on our hands for now. Did you hear what the men said?”
“Yes.”
Her voice was little more than a breath. She knew what was in store for them, and she dreaded it. Not that he could blame her, since she was to be handed to a stranger to be used for his pleasure, and he most likely tortured and killed.
It was a dreadful prospect.
“Don’t worry. People will see Grendel coming back to the village, with a saddle and no rider, then Fáfnir and another, unknown horse in tow. They will understand something has happened to you and come investigate,” he told her, bringing his forehead closer to her head. In the position they were in, it was as close to a kiss he could give her. Why he should want to kiss her right now, he wasn’t sure, but the urge was definitely there and he didn’t think to resist it.
Predictably, Aife wasn’t fooled by the empty reassurance. “Even if they do set out in search for me, it will take them forever to reach us, as they won’t know in which direction to start looking, and we are hidden out of sight among those rocks.”
“Yes. But we can shout if we hear anything.”
She didn’t answer. Indeed, there was no guarantee anyone would find them before Ranulf and Ginger came back.
“Can you move?” he asked, already guessing the answer.
She tried to wiggle and turn to face him, in vain. “No,” she said in a sob. “Oh, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault. If I hadn’t tried to flee, we wouldn’t have ended up?—”
“It’s done now,” he cut in firmly. No point wasting strength bemoaning what could not be changed when they should focus on trying to escape. “We have to find a way to free ourselves. There is nothing else to do.”
Anything rather than lie there and wait patiently for Ranulf.
They tried everything, shuffling on the forest floor in unison, testing the bonds around their wrists, twisting their bodies as much as they could. Nothing worked. Eventually, out of breath, they ceased moving and Torsten just held Aife tight. He wished he could at least brush the hair away from her face and look at her, but even those small comforts were denied them. It was odd to be so intimately close to someone when he knew it would not lead to lovemaking, and he felt sure Aife would feel the same.
Above them, the sun had started its slow descent toward the horizon. It would not be too long before dusk stole whatever light was left.
A moment later they heard the sound of a horse approaching. Hope spiked through Torsten. Aife’s disappearance had been discovered and riders sent out. Then he forced himself to reason. Too little time had passed and whoever was out there sounded too sure of where they were heading to be one of their friends. The villagers would likely have traveled in groups and called out to Aife as they rode. Before Torsten could decide whether to risk calling out or not, one of the Normans appeared through the rocks.
Vermin, the dark-haired one who’d offered to stay behind to guard them.
Everything within Torsten tensed. Obviously, he’d come back as soon as he’d left Ginger in Ranulf’s company, in the hope he would have enough time to put his evil deed into action.
He took one look at Aife and gave a sinister smile. “So. You’re awake. Not that I would have minded either way, as I said. But I do like a responsive lover.”
Responsive. He meant struggling, he meant suffering. Ice froze what little blood was left in Torsten’s veins and he tightened his hold on Aife protectively. The man would have to kill him before he touched her.
“You’re not to?—”
“Shut up, Norseman, I’m not talking to you,” Vermin said, taking hold of his dagger. “And I won’t need you for what I have in mind. Go to sleep.”
He raised his fist and stars exploded in Torsten’s skull. The hilt of the dagger had hit his temple with the force of a battering ram. For a moment he feared he would pass out from the pain, which was no doubt the intention. By pure force of will, he fought the oblivion beckoning and allowed his whole body toslacken to give the impression that his attacker had succeeded in putting him out of action. Thinking himself safe, the bastard would untie them at last. It would give him the chance Torsten had been desperate for.
“No! Look what you’ve done, you’ve killed him, you beast!”
Aife’s panicked voice almost put paid to his resolve to remain still. But he had to resist the temptation. If the man thought him unconscious, he would free Aife and once he was busy, Torsten would jump, stopping him before he could hurt her.
