“You need a better healer than me,” she argued. Rising to her feet, she took a deep breath and glanced around her. “But it’s too far for both of us to swim to the mainland.” She stared at the small copse of trees. “There may be some fallen wood we could use for a raft.”
“You aren’t strong enough to pull a log into the water,” he argued. Already Elena appeared exhausted, her green eyes clouded with unspoken fear.
“No, but I can find smaller branches and tie them together. We could hold on and then try to swim.”
“And what are you going to tie the wood with? Grass?”
In answer, she lifted her skirt, baring her legs to the knees. “I’ll cut off more of my dress.”
The image of her long bared legs was enough to send a sharp flare of heat coursing through him. “If you think it will work,” he said. He’d never seen beyond her ankles, but now, she’d revealed shapely calves. He could only imagine the rest of those long legs, for she was a tall woman.
And another man’s wife.
His best friend’s wife.
Ragnar leaned his weight against the stones, pushing his way up to a standing position. The sky was a hazy rose and gold, and mist frosted against the edge of the mainland. His stomach twisted at the thought of food, and he hoped they could catch fish or other game.
But he wasn’t much use to Elena. Not like this. The barest pressure of weight upon his leg was agonizing, and he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to limp toward the other side of the island. It was a small outcropping, hardly more than a copse of treesand large boulders. There was no food, no water and their only hope for survival was to make the crossing.
He glanced at the gray salt water, knowing that it would burn his wounds with unholy fire. Elena’s suggestion, that they bind fallen limbs together, was a sound one. The pain had been bad enough when the arrow was still inside him, but more flesh was exposed, now that she’d taken it out.
When Elena emerged from the woods, she dragged four stout branches along the sand, each the thickness of his forearm. She had gathered up her hair, twisting it in a knot and securing it with a small stick while she worked. She used his knife to cut off more material from her skirts. As she bound the limbs together, his traitorous imagination conjured up the vision of her bared legs tangled with his own, his body lying atop hers.
Ragnar closed his eyes, furious with himself for even thinking such dishonorable thoughts about her.
“Let me help you,” he said to Elena. He needed the activity to distract him. Anything to keep his gaze away from her bared flesh.
Limping toward the pile of limbs, he sat down and wove the fabric under and over each branch, securing it tightly. Elena worked opposite him, mirroring his method, until at last it was ready.
The morning light reflected upon her skin and, though she appeared tired, there was determination in her eyes. She was staring at the arrangement of wood, frowning. “It won’t float with your weight.”
He shrugged. “There’s not enough wood for that. But if it gives us something to hold on to, that will be enough.”
She studied their raft, then glanced overhead at the sparse trees that shaded them. “I wish you had a battleaxe as your weapon. It would be more useful, cutting branches and trees.”
“I prefer a sword.” He liked the balance of the weapon, and it suited fluid battle motions where he could slash at his enemy. “Styr’s weapon is the axe.” The moment he spoke her husband’s name, a flash of sadness came over Elena.
“I want to believe he’s alive,” she murmured. “That somehow, he’ll come for me.” But she shook her head, rubbing her arms against the chill.
“If he doesn’t, I’ll take you back myself.” His words were little reassurance, for neither of them knew what had happened to Styr. He might still be a prisoner, or he could be dead.
“You can’t make the journey with that leg. It’s too far.” With a sigh, Elena began pulling the small makeshift raft across the sand.
Before she could go any further, Ragnar limped toward her and caught her arm. “I may be wounded, Elena, but I’m not dead. The wound will heal.” He didn’t want her to think of him as helpless and he let his hand slide down her arm to grip her hand. A trail of gooseflesh rose over her skin at his touch. “You won’t be stranded here. I swear it by the blood of Thor.”
Her hand gripped his and, when she met his gaze, there was a flicker of hesitancy before color spread over her cheeks. “I’m glad you’re here.”
He wanted to pull her close, to taste the lips that had haunted him for so long. But she only turned back to her discarded apron, pulling it over her head and fastening the brooches at her shoulders. She had the innocent demeanor of a maiden but the body of a woman who had known a man intimately. And he couldn’t deny that he hungered for her.
Without a word, he began dragging the raft into the water, suppressing a gasp when the salt water lapped against his bandaged wound. The vicious pain was the reminder he needed to stay away from Styr’s wife.
Elena joined him, holding on to the bound limbs while they made their way toward the mainland. Ragnar kicked with his good leg, and when they swam far enough, the tide shifted toward the mainland, aiding them in their journey. But by the gods, the salt against his open wound was shredding apart his control.
The bound wood did give them a means of staying together without the risk of drowning. As she struggled to swim, he bit back the pain and fought to help her.
“You look as if you’re hurting again,” she commented, churning her left arm in the water while she held on with her right.
“It’s like hot knives searing my skin,” he admitted, keeping his voice light. “Not very comfortable.”
