“I’ll go,” he said. But his friends had refused to allow it.
Olaf had died a few days later. Whether it was from the wounds or from the illness of drinking too much, it didn’t matter. From that moment on, Ragnar had known that a darkness lurked within him, a violent temper beyond his control.
It was for that reason that he could not be with Elena. Though he wanted to start over, to try to be the right man for her, he feared the violence that lay buried inside.
Elena didn’t know the man he was. She believed he was a good man, a close friend whom she could turn to, now that her life had fallen apart.
He wasn’t a good man. A good man would never have touched her so intimately, taking advantage of her wild grief that night.
Ragnar was grateful when Styr left with a few men to return to Gall Tír. At least now he wouldn’t have to face his friend, after what he’d done to Elena.
Elena walked through the marketplace, her thoughts in turmoil. In her mind, she’d replayed every moment of the night she’d tried to seduce Ragnar. Never in her wildest imaginings had she guessed that there could be such fire between them.
He’d brought her to fulfillment, taking nothing for himself. And she had to admit to herself that not once in her marriage to Styr had she felt such a connection. She’d reveled in Ragnar’s touch, wanting so much more from him. Confusion spun within her mind, for she’d never guessed that it could be like this with any man. Especially her closest friend.
Orwashe a friend anymore? By the grace of Freya, he’d made her feel desirable. He’d awakened her to sensations she’d never dreamed of and she no longer knew what to believe. She’d been blinded, never seeing the man who had been beside her all along. Although she didn’t know what was happening between them, the line of friendship had been breached.
Shame darkened her cheeks, for she’d wanted him to lie with her, to make her feel desirable, when that wasn’t fair to him. He’d all but shoved her away that night, claiming he would not allow her to use him.
And now he was avoiding her.
Elena knew why. Yet she didn’t want to turn away, behaving as if nothing had happened. She wanted to spend time with Ragnar, trying to make sense of the muddled thoughts in her mind. They had grown so close when they’d been stranded together, and she’d come to rely upon him. Now that she was alone again, she didn’t want their friendship to end because of her foolish impulse.
She finished making her purchases in the marketplace, while her kinsman Hring shadowed her. Though she would have preferred to go with Ragnar, she’d hardly seen him these past few days.
The sound of merchants arguing with one another blended with the noise of animals being herded through the streets. Elena spied two children chasing one another, and it evoked the ache of envy within her. The dream of bearing a child hadn’t faded, despite the years. She still wanted to cradle an infant in her arms, no matter how long she had to wait.
Her gaze shifted to the crowds of people and in the shadows, she saw many children with lean faces, their eyes revealing hunger. Some were born of slaves and had almost nothing to call their own. Others had lost their parents in raids.
She walked deeper into the city, and in one section the scent of smoke lingered. Several fires had been set by the Danes a few weeks ago after she’d returned with Styr. At the sight of the skeletal houses, Elena was glad she’d been gone during the attack. She couldn’t imagine what horrors that night must have wrought.
She frowned, suddenly realizing that many children might have been orphaned if their fathers or mothers had fought for them. They might need someone to take care of them, if they had no living relatives.
The idea took root within her, circling with possibility.
“Where is Ragnar?” she asked Hring suddenly. She wondered what he would think if she fostered some of the orphans. It would give her a sense of purpose, a way of filling up the endless hours of the day.
“He’s been spending his time sparring against some of the Irish,” Hring answered. “They wager on whether or not he’ll win. It’s a good way to earn silver.”
Elena frowned, not wanting to think of it. Although Ragnar was undeniably a strong fighter, if he defeated many men, it would also give him more enemies—enemies who wouldn’t hesitate to hunt him down and take back their silver.
“Will you take me to him?” she asked quietly.
Hring obeyed, and they crossed through the crowd of people gathering to watch the fighters. Elena pushed her way to the front and saw Ragnar standing off to the side, bare from the waist up. His skin was oiled, and it was clear from the blood on his lip that he’d already fought.
She met his gaze and saw not a trace of remorse in him. He’d come here wanting to fight, and judging from the pouch at his waist, it seemed that he’d won a few matches.
Elena ignored the people around her and strode forward to speak with him. Had he forgotten the arrow wound in his leg so soon? Why would he do this? Though she was angry, she forced herself to hold her tongue.
When she stood before him, she suddenly felt small, in contrast to his strength. His biceps were so thick, she couldn’t span them with both palms. The gleam of his skin caught her attention, and her mouth went dry. Although she knew the oil made it more difficult for an enemy to seize him, she could not help but wonder if a woman had helped to rub it into his skin.
A jolt of resentment caught her, and once again, she felt uncertain about her feelings for this man. There was no reason to be jealous. Yet she couldn’t deny the invisible ties between them, especially after the night he’d touched her.
“I would like to speak with you, if you’ve finished here,” she said in a low voice.
“And if I haven’t?” He crossed his arms and again she saw the corded muscles flex across his broad chest.
Her pulse tightened with frustration, but she reached out to rest her hand upon his heart. Slowly, she drew her palm over his oiled skin. “Please.”
