Garrick did not answer, but quickly left the room before he took his anger out on her again. He went directly to the stable, and for the second time did not notice that Erin was not about. He mounted the poor beast who had run his best that morn, though Garrick still lost to Hugh. Losing had soured his mood considerably, but finding Brenna gone was the last blow.
Garrick bolted from the stable, his temper boiling. “Damn fickle woman!” he growled at the wind. “First she cried her hatred so stubbornly, then she turned about and said she loved me—now she hates me again. I gave her all I had to give, but nay, ’tis not enough for her! Loki take her! I do not need this vexation.”
Garrick spurred his horse on without pity. He would drown in mead this night and forget the stubborn vixen at his house.
Brenna started the cooking fire, then prepared a loaf of flat bread as she had seen Janie do so often. She was in a much better frame of mind now. After Garrick had left, she had cried some more, but then she realized how foolish she had been. Garrick was willing to share his life with her, to give her what he could. She must accept that and be grateful for it. One day he might change and love again. After all, she had changed.
The house was quiet, with only the occasional crackling of the fire to break the stillness. Dog was sprawled out beneath the table, so Brenna did not see his head when it suddenly perked up. However, she did hear the noise outside that had aroused the white shepherd.
Could Garrick have returned already? If so, then he must have missed her company. Brenna smiled at that thought and waited for the door to open. It did, although very slowly. Cold air rushed into the room and chilled Brenna, but not as much as the realization that Garrick would not enter his house in such a stealthy manner, nor would anyone that she knew.
A man stepped carefully around the half-opened door—a tall man, nearly Garrick’s height, with golden brown hair and light blue eyes. He was warmly wrapped in fur pelts of different colors, and a single-edged sword was clasped in his hand.
Brenna held her breath. She did not know this Viking, and from his look of surprise when he spied her, he did not know her either.
Dog came to her side, his low growl bringing back some of her courage. The dagger Garrick entrusted her with rested on her hip, and this also lessened her apprehension, though her weapon was little good against a broadsword.
“Brenna?”
She was bewildered. Did he know her after all? But no, his tone was questioning. He must only know of her, and so must also know Garrick. Perhaps there was nothing to fear, then.
“Who are you?” she asked, but his expression showed plainly that he did not understand her.
Brenna bit her lip in indecision, wondering if she should speak his tongue or not. Dog continued to growl threateningly. Did he sense danger?
“The wench is alone, Cedric.”
Brenna caught her breath and whirled around to face the stranger who had come in from another part of the house. Before she could even appraise the situation, the young man called Cedric grabbed her from behind. She cried out in startled alarm, and at that moment Dog bared his teeth and attacked the Viking’s leg.
Cedric yelled in pain as Dog drew blood, and he raised his sword to sever the animal’s head.
“Nay!” Brenna screamed, and grabbed the Viking’s arm to stay him. She forgot her own fear and mustered all her strength to keep the sword from reaching its target. Yet it was not through her efforts that Dog was spared, for she was like a mouse against a deadly hawk. The other Viking acted quickly and kicked Dog away from the descending sword.
“Shewould not kill the dog,” he said warningly, “so neither can we.”
“Ah! ’Tis a fool’s errand, this trickery!” Cedric spat and released Brenna in order to tend to his leg. “We have the girl, Arno. That is enough.”
“We will do this as the woman wanted it done,” Arno replied. “’Tis the only reason I agreed, because we will never be suspected.”
Cedric grunted and remarked with sarcasm, “The purse of gold swayed you not a little, eh?”
Arno ignored that question and stared angrily at his friend. “Is revenge against a dog worth your father’s wrath?”
“How so?”
Arno threw up his hands in exasperation, a coiled rope he held sliding up to his shoulder as he did so. “Must I remind you that your father loathes the feud you and your brothers started. ’Tis my thinking, and you know it too, that Latham would frown on this deed. If we are found out, ’twill bring the peace of these last years to a bloody end.”
Brenna stood silently between these two men as they argued. She did not understand exactly why they had come here, but she knew it boded her no good. Though he would live, Dog was hurt, and could not come to her aid again—and Garrick was enjoying himself at the feast.
She felt a twinge of resentment that Garrick had left her here alone to fend for herself. Then she chided herself. It was not his fault, but hers, that she was here facing God knows what.
Before Arno finished his last words, Brenna slipped slowly from between them. In frantic haste, for this was her only chance as far as she could see, she turned and started to run. Suddenly her feet became tangled in something and she fell forward, scraping the palms of her hands against the hard floor.
With dread, she realized her error as she was roughly yanked to her feet. She glared at this Viking who had cunningly thrown his rope at her feet to stop her. Her eyes were as dark and wild as a tempest as she watched him gather the short rope and wrap it about her wrists.
He did not look at her once to see the fury and contempt she felt, but turned to Cedric once he finished binding her hands together.
“We have the horse and now the girl. Let us be gone before this plan goes awry.”
