“Don’t even consider that either. We’ll figure it out. Together.”
The curious glances and Rhys’s glare warned them that talking any longer would not do them any good.
Seventeen
Gressa and Strian arrived in the camp that supported a mixture of Norsemen, Highland mercenaries, and Welsh bowmen. The flow of conversations created a level of noise that disoriented both of them. Their captors forced them to a stop outside a tent that Gressa recognized as Grímr’s. Her stomach churned, and her mouth went dry.
“Grímr?” Strian whispered.
Gressa nodded. They had managed to come to a stop standing close enough that their arms brush together. They linked their pinkies together as they awaited their fate.
A man with a grizzled face and a pronounced limp pushed back the flap and stepped outside. He sized up Strian before his gaze jumped to Gressa. What had been an assessing and defensive expression morphed into a lascivious one. His grin pulled his lips taught over yellowed and broken teeth. He swept his tongue over them as he reached out to grasp Gressa’s breast. He squeezed mercilessly. She refused to make a sound, not granting Grímr the pleasure he sought. Strian swallowed the growl that rose in his throat, understanding that coming to Gressa’s defense would only put them both in more danger.
“I see the little dove has returned to the coop to nest. I’ve missed you at night. It’s been very lonely without your company.” Grímr continued to grope Gressa, but he stared at Strian as he spoke, testing the man’s resolve not to intervene. Grímr spoke in Norse, so Rhys and the other Welshmen could not understand, but Strian caught every smug word flung his way. When Grímr’s hand attempted to travel lower, Gressa grasped his wrist.
“We come with information you might want to know.”
“And why would you do that? Why would the man who sits at Jarl Ivar’s table come to my aid?”
“We intend to make our home in Wales.” Gressa responded.
“You act as though that explains everything.” Grímr pinched her nipple. Gressa gritted her teeth to keep from wincing.
“It explains why we would look for the other Welshmen. If we are to travel back with them, then we must be of use to you first.”
Grímr squinted at her as though narrowing his eyes would help him see better into her mind. Gressa had expected his skepticism, but she had failed during the march to devise a plan for overcoming it.
“A man who stood beside the jarl as a favored warrior and best friend to the heir doesn’t come over to the enemy. What could be enough for that?”
“A woman,” Strian interrupted. “A woman you are touching but doesn’t belong to you.”
Grímr cackled. It was the only way to describe the sound that choked free of his throat.
“You are not in much of a position to claim anything let alone the woman who has such a talented mouth.”
“If you would like to keep your cock attached and not bitten off, then you would do well to treat your informant with some respect.” Gressa hissed, ripping his hand from her breast.
“Leave Gressa alone, and I will tell you everything you wish to know.”
“And how do I know you’re not lying? Trying to fool me.”
“You don’t. But you do know I’ll do anything to protect my wife.”
“Including lie. I think not. I think we shall manage just fine without your help, and now we have a captive worth a hefty ransom.”
“Is that how capturing Tyra and Bjorn worked out?” Strian’s hushed tones had iron that rang out as more Norsemen congregated around the captives.
Grímr struck out his fist, aiming at Strian’s face, at the reminder of his failed attempt to kidnap Tyra and Bjorn. Strian grasped his wrist and twisted until Grímr had no choice but to bend backward lest he suffer a broken arm. Strian pulled him close, so only Grímr could hear him. Not even Gressa knew what Strian said.
“Touch my wife again, even brush against her, and I will offer your arse to every Norseman here. I’ll be sure to find a nice long stick for them to ram up your hole. Don’t fool yourself into thinking any of these men are loyal to you. Not even those remaining from your tribe. Given half a chance, they will turn on you, and you’ll turn up your arse.” Strian released Grímr with a shove. “Now, what would you like to know?”
Gressa watched the exchange between Strian and Grímr with a mixture of pride and fear fighting to consume her. She had not wanted Strian to speak out against Grímr’s mistreatment toward her, but she also wanted Grímr to know Strian would not stand by and let him take advantage of her. She had not wanted to anger Grímr, but she also wanted Grímr to know he did not have the upper hand no matter how she and Strian came to be in his camp. She needed him to believe they were of more value alive than dead. She desperately wondered what Strian said to Grímr to make the older man go pale and nod when Strian released him. Once more squarely on his feet and with more distance between them, Grímr resumed his pompous stance as the leader of the ragtag band of warriors.
“Take the man to one of the Norse warriors’ tents. Shackle him if you must. The woman comes with me.” Grímr barked his order and turned to enter his tent, assuming they would follow his commands.
Several of the men who gathered to observe the exchange between their leader and his captives now stared at Strian and Gressa. Three Norsemen stepped forward to seize Strian, but he snarled. He cocked an eyebrow, daring any of them to take him on. He hoped they had been present when Grímr made an error in judgement and captured Bjorn and Tyra. Bjorn had fought a man while naked and bashed his face in. The man died of a crushed windpipe. Tyra severed one warrior’s manhood from his body with a swipe of her knife. Strian relied on their wariness of meeting the same end as their compatriots. When the men did not reach for him, it reassured him that they had understood his silent warning. He looked down at Gressa who watched the interplay as the Norsemen whispered to one another, casting looks at them.
“Gressa?” Strian kept his voice low now that they no longer had a language barrier to guard their privacy.
