This fear.
Everything here had always been peace and now she was running.
Why was she running?
And it hit her then, with each beat of her feet pounding the ground. She was running because she’d been sent here to hide.
Because if there was something to run from there was a high chance that the danger was there for her.
So she ran like she would die if she was caught, because perhaps she would be.
She ran like her freedom depended on it, because perhaps it did.
But she wasn’t faster than a horse.
She could hear the hoofbeats getting closer and closer, and it confirmed that he was here for her. He was here for her.
Ragnar.
King Ragnar Gunnarson. Once deposed heir of Asland, now the king.
She didn’t look back; it would only slow her down. So when she found herself being lifted up off the ground midstride it was a shock. She flailed and tried to escape the ironclad hold she found herself in, as she was positioned on the horse in front of its rider, one muscular arm holding her fast against a rock-hard chest.
He smelled good.
That was the dizzying, nonsensical thought that crowded out all the other ones as she sat there, entirely trapped. He smelled like the forest. Like the sea. Like the wilderness itself.
Whoever this man was, he was a warrior.
Her father and her brothers smelled of expensive colognes.
Not of the wild.
And then it was like whatever haze had fallen over her suddenly lifted. What was she doing, pondering the strength and scent of him and not trying to escape?
Without overthinking it, so that she didn’t give her next move away, she arched backward and created space between herself and the rider, and then used that moment, that split second where he loosened his hold, to roll sideways off the horse.
She hit the ground hard, rolling to the side, and then stood up and began to run again. She no longer heard footsteps. She just had to get to the convent.
She just had to—
And then she was being lifted up again, this time, not onto the horse, but simply into the unseated rider’s arms.
She looked up at him and her heart leaped into her throat.
He looked like a Viking from the old world. He had long blond hair, and a full beard. His nose was straight and angular, his expression fierce.
This wasn’t an agent of Ragnar, King of Asland.
This was the king himself.
His eyes caught hers and held.
Blue.
Shockingly blue.
And then it was all she could see, as her world narrowed and fear and exhaustion rolled over her, claiming her consciousness.
