Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

T he journey over rough terrain was excruciating. Caedmon kept his eyes closed and his mouth shut throughout so as not to betray by a look or a groan just in how much pain he was. Ingrid held his hand the whole time and he was glad of it, as he took it to mean she had forgiven him. Seeing the fear in her eyes, hearing the panic in her voice when he'd abducted her had been a blow to the gut, almost as painful as the slash he'd just received. He'd had his reasons for acting the part of the villain, and if he had to do it all again, he would do the same, but she hadn't known it was not real. For too long, she would have been out of her mind with fear, thinking she was about to be raped, and possibly killed.

But despite all the anguish he had caused her, she had forgiven him.

After what felt like an eternity, they arrived at the village. Understandably, it was in upheaval. Everyone was waiting for news of the abducted women. As soon as they had alighted from the cart to be reunited with their frantic loved ones, Magnus deposited him outside Ingrid's hut. With his help, Caedmon limped over to the pallet, where he collapsed without ceremony.

Finally, he could rest and have his wound seen to. About time, too. He was shaking with pain. He'd never been the kind of man who got himself involved in fights and had never suffered anything like a knife cut before. At least it seemed to have stopped bleeding.

"So. Wolf thinks I need to stitch your wound," Ingrid said, looking nervous at the prospect.

"Yes. You probably do," he agreed grimly. Though Magnus' intervention had stopped the cut from being fatal, it was both too long and too deep to be left alone. "Could I have a drink first?" There was no use pretending this wouldn't be an ordeal. He had never needed as much as a single stitch in his life and he dreaded the prospect.

"Of course." She handed him a cup full of the excellent ale he'd enjoyed during his stay under her roof. Was it only yesterday morning he'd left? It seemed more like two years. "I'll get everything I need."

When she came back, she had a basin of water and a few pieces of cloth in her hands.

"I need to wash the blood off first, so I can see what I'm doing," she explained almost apologetically. "Will you be able to remove your shirt?"

The mere idea of having to sit up sent his guts into a tangle of knots. "Perhaps I could just lift it?" he said hopefully.

To his relief, she agreed. "It should be enough, as the cut is quite low on the stomach. May I?"

He nodded, only too happy to lie there and have her take charge. Kneeling by his side, she slowly lifted the shirt up, making sure the material wasn't sticking to the drying blood. No, he wasn't bleeding anymore. Still, Ingrid clicked her tongue in disapproval.

"What is it?" He frowned. Was the wound worse than he had thought?

She gestured at his chest. "Your shirt will have to be mended as well. It's cut clean through."

Well, yes, it would be. He gave a little mirthless laugh and regretted it when pain slashed through his middle. "That is the least of my problems," he croaked.

Ingrid's eyes widened. "Sorry, of course. I don't know why I said that."

"Probably because, like me, you've never been in such a situation. It's all right. I suspect I might start talking nonsense myself in a moment."

"I will have to lower the waistband of your braies," she whispered. "As I said, the wound is quite low on the abdomen."

He nodded his agreement but when he saw her with her bottom lip caught between her teeth and her hands poised above the laces fastening his braies, his whole body went taut—including the part that should have had the decency to lay dormant. Even though she was not trying to entice him in any way, the gesture was too evocative for him not to react. Only a moment ago he'd thought he was too weakened by the loss of blood and in too much pain to do anything but evidently he was wrong.

Apparently, he could still get aroused.

When Ingrid flushed a vivid crimson, he understood that she'd seen the effect her actions had on his body. Not that it was difficult, placed where she was. He was rethinking the wisdom of having her lower his braies, after all. Another inch and she would expose the tip of his manhood. Quickly he readjusted himself while she turned to dip a piece of cloth in the basin. It made little difference.

Dear lord, this was embarrassing.

"Pay it no mind," he growled when she turned to face him again. "I'm a man and you're a woman undressing me, I suppose it is inevitable this should happen."

"I suppose so," she answered, wringing the cloth—and stalling for time. Apparently she thought she had better wait until he regained some semblance of control before she did anything. He agreed. The only problem was, it would not happen while she looked at him with flushed cheeks and wide eyes.

"I expect it will go down as soon as you stick that needle in me."

"I expect it will. But I have to wash you first."

Oh, God. Washing. He'd forgotten about that. In other words, she was going to put her hands on him, rub him slowly in a place inches away from his straining member. It would be torture for them both. But it could not be helped. He would have offered to do it himself if his head didn't start spinning as soon as he tried to lift it, but he knew he would never be able to manage. Couldn't the blasted Saxon have cut his arm? Or at least his chest?

"I'll go and get everything ready while you…finish your drink," Ingrid murmured.

While you try to compose yourself , she meant.

And he tried, he really did, calling on all his powers of imagination to picture rotting carcasses writhing with worms and snails crawling all over his flesh. He even, when this didn't work, conjured up a memory of the man who'd lived next door to him in London, complete with rolls of fat, grimy hands and putrid breath. In vain. When Ingrid came back with her thread and needle, there was still a sizeable bulge at the front of his braies.

Acting as if she couldn't see it, Ingrid went about wiping the blood from his skin. It was as bad as he had feared. Because she was so gentle, he could not even use the pain she was inflicting as an ally. There wasn't any pain, just a beautiful, sweet-smelling woman on her knees by his side, with her head bent low over his crotch. Damn the Saxon to hell!

Closing his eyes made no difference whatsoever, because he could still feel and imagine. When she finally stopped, he was hard enough to hammer nails and Ingrid sounded distinctively out of breath.

He opened his eyes again and found her staring at him. His breath caught in his throat. How could anyone look so beautiful in the midst of such grim a task?

"All clean. Now for the hard part." She flushed at the words, as if realizing what she'd said, then threw the piece of cloth into the basin. "I'm sorry for the pain I will cause you. I will be as gentle as I can."

Caedmon only grunted and took one last swig of ale, readying himself for the ordeal. At least now his erection should go down. Small mercies. "And I'm sorry to have to inflict such a task on you."

A tense smile answered him. "Don't worry about me. I'd much rather be here stitching a wound than in that hut being raped. Again." She added that last word in such a low voice that he wasn't sure he'd heard her right.

Had she said: " again "? His heart skipped a beat. Had one of the Saxons raped her last night, before he could free her? When? How? It didn't seem possible. He'd been watching the door to the hut with an eagle eye all evening. If anyone had even tried to enter, he would have stopped them. Besides, the men had all been lying on the floor, trying to survive the mushroom poisoning.

He opened his mouth to ask what she meant but, at that precise moment she stuck the needle in for the first stitch and he gritted his teeth.

This would be hell.

Ingrid tried to keep her body relaxed to make sure her gestures were as fluid as possible but the whole thing was nerve-racking to say the least. Not that the wound was horrific, exactly. Thankfully, even if it was rather long, the cut was neat and would be easily mended. But Caedmon's golden skin, surprisingly muscular stomach and, well, distracting bulge just under her right hand, made the task all the more daunting. She would have stitched her brother or any of the villagers and thought nothing of it. This man though…This man was different. It was not just that he had saved her and the other women from a dire fate, or that he was objectively handsome. He drew her like no other, had from the start.

She would have liked to kiss his exposed stomach rather than stitch it, bring him pleasure rather than inflict pain, lick his skin rather than?—

Kiss? Lick? Was she mad? She berated herself for such distracting thoughts and focused on the task at hand. Caedmon would bear that scar all his life. All his life he would be reminded that he had sacrificed himself for her. The least she could do was ensure it was not a horrid one.

This is just another shirt I'm mending , she kept repeating to herself. Nothing more than rough wool or dyed linen I'm piercing.

Mm, yes. This was like mending a shirt in the same way that fire was no hotter than sunlight and the ocean no bigger than a puddle. Thinking those things was no help whatsoever. Perhaps talking would help distract her.

She cleared her throat.

"When Dunne taught me how to sew all those years ago, I hated it. I never imagined I would ever become proficient at it or..." She gave a hollow laugh. "Or that I would end up stitching a wound one day. I don't mind admitting it is quite nerve-racking."

"I can well imagine," Caedmon said through clenched teeth. "I don't mind admitting that being the one stitched up is not pleasant either."

"No. Of course, not." What was she doing, complaining? He was the one suffering. "Forgive me, I'm doing my best not to be too rough."

"Oh, I have no doubt you're doing all you can to make the whole thing as bearable as possible." His voice sounded strained. "Still, I won't mind when it's over."

A moment later, it was. Ingrid's hands were trembling, and Caedmon's forehead was slick with sweat. She wiped it with her last clean piece of linen, lingering over the gesture. He'd been so brave, not uttering a single moan of protest throughout.

"Let me go see if Bj?rn has something that could dull the pain," she said, standing up on shaky legs.

Dear Heavens, if she felt so unsteady she could not imagine how Caedmon, who'd had to endure having his skin pierced time and time again, would fare. This had been nothing short of an ordeal and she wasn't sure when she would build up the courage to pick up sewing again. It seemed to her that every time she stuck her needle into fabric she would see golden flesh and blood pearling to the surface.

"Why would you ask Bj?rn?" Caedmon glanced toward the door as if he expected her irate brother to burst through at any moment, something she was dreading herself, she had to admit.

"He makes the ale for me," she explained, nodding toward the cup that was now empty. "He might have made a stronger batch for himself. That would come in handy right now."

"I thought you made the ale?" He sounded surprised, as well he might. Ale making was usually reserved to women.

"Bj?rn has always had a talent for it, and he is kind enough to supply me and a few friends with his production. Sigurd and Frigyth for example." She thought she saw him scowl at that, but she must be imagining things. Or maybe he'd just felt a twinge of pain. "I won't be long."

Outside, the fresh air helped restore some of her composure. It was really over. She was home, safe, she could relax now. All she had to do was find something to help Caedmon deal with the pain. That should be easy enough.

A moment later she was in front of Bj?rn and Dunne's hut. Bee opened the door almost before she'd had time to knock. She must have seen her approach through the window.

"Aunt Ingrid!" The little girl didn't seem surprised to see her, which told her that her parents had not mentioned what had happened to her. Ingrid smiled, relieved. She would have hated for her niece to hear about the women's abduction. She was much too young for that.

"Hello, Bee. Is your father in?"

"Yes. Come in."

The whole family was around the table, enjoying a hearty meal. At the sight of the food, Ingrid's stomach growled, reminding her she had not eaten anything since yesterday morning.

"Forgive me for interrupting."

"It's no issue." Bj?rn stood up. "How do you feel, sister?"

"I'm fine." She probably looked a bit pale, but she was fine.

"What can I do for you?"

While the children carried on eating, Dunne started to assemble a few items on a wooden plate. Cheese, smoked fish, bread, oat cakes, nuts. There was enough there for two people, Ingrid noticed, her and Caedmon. She shook her head ruefully. Trust her sister-in-law to think about everything.

"Do you have a cask of extra strong ale by any?—"

"No, I don't do that, never would!" he snapped.

Ingrid recoiled at Bj?rn's unexpected reaction. What had she said? It surprised her even more to see Dunne, who evidently understood the reason behind her husband's sudden outburst, place a soothing hand over his arm. She would have to ask her what that was about when they were alone. For now she had to see to Caedmon's comfort. That was why she had come.

"Very well then," she said, taking the plate Dunne was handing her with a grateful smile. "I'll go and see if Helga has a potion for the pain of Caedmon's injury." Why hadn't she thought about that first? It would be much more efficient than strong ale.

"The Saxon!" her brother spat. "Why are you worried about that man! Let him suffer, it's nothing more than he deserves after what he did."

Ingrid was incensed at the unfairness of the comment. "I won't let him suffer when I can do something to help! And I worry about him because he saved me and all the other women from a dreadful fate and he almost died because of it! He deserves everything I get him." How could her brother not see it? But she knew already the reason behind his animosity. He thought the two of them were lovers. She could have told him the truth now, but she didn't think he deserved to know, if he was going to be so pig-headed about it.

"Mm." The stubborn man crossed his arms over his chest. "If you say so."

"I do. Now let me go."

Unlike her brother, the healer was only too glad to give her what she needed. She only had words of praise for the brave Saxon who had ensured the women could be rescued in time.

"Make sure he drinks some of this now, even if he's asleep, and then the rest regularly throughout the night," she instructed Ingrid, handing her a small vial filled with a dark liquid. "It should help. Be careful though, it is quite potent, you don't want him to start having visions. Send for me if he falls prey to a fever. I fear it might happen. A wound such as the one he received can all too easily go putrid. I'll come see him tomorrow anyway. And make sure you get some sleep yourself, girl, you look about to drop dead."

"Yes." After all she had endured, she did feel half dead.

Thanking the woman she regarded almost as a mother, Ingrid made her way through the village. A moment later, she entered the hut.

Caedmon was lying still on the pallet, asleep, just as Helga had anticipated. She approached in silence and placed a hand over his forehead. It was still cool to the touch. Relief washed over her. No fever yet. With luck, now that his wound was closed, it would stay that way.

"Saxon," she called out, kneeling down by his side. "You need to drink some of this potion, for your pain."

He grunted and his right eye fluttered open. Slipping one arm around his shoulders, Ingrid brought the vial to his lips. With her help, he swallowed a few spoonfuls of the dark liquid and fell back on the furs, like a man determined to get to oblivion. Though she would have liked him to eat something, she did not try to wake him up further. Right now for him, sleep was more important than food. But she knew she would not be able to fall asleep before she'd had something to eat, so she reached out to the plate Dunne had prepared for her.

Nibbling at an oat cake, she watched as Caedmon slipped into the deep sleep Helga had promised. Then, once she was sated, she settled herself on the fur he'd used when he'd slept in her hut. After a night worrying herself sick about what the men had in store for her and then a day full of trepidation, she was exhausted. In moments, she was fast asleep.

When Ingrid next opened her eyes, it was full dark in the hut. How long had she slept? Only a ray of moonlight allowed her to see anything. On the pallet, Caedmon was still as a statue. A good sign? It was hard to tell from where she was. She crept up to him, intent on checking him for signs of fever. When she reached him she could not help a gasp. His eyes were wide open, two gleaming orbs in the moonlight. He was not asleep, as she had first thought, but staring at the ceiling, looking almost panicked. Without a word she extended her hand to his forehead.

Before she could touch him, he grabbed her wrist and drew her to him.

"It's you," he said in her ear, his voice cold as ice. "What are you doing here?"

"I-I live here," she replied stupidly. What sort of a question was this? Where else could she be?

Then she remembered what Helga had said, that he might have visions. Apparently he did. That had to be why he looked so panicked, why he was taking her for someone else, someone he hated. He had never spoken to her in that tone before, even when he had pretended to abduct her and played the role of a villain. When he winced and placed his other hand over his wound, she glanced at the bottle on the table. Should she give him more of the potion if he was in pain? He already seemed quite affected by it, and the healer had urged her to be careful. What if she had given him too much already?

"I have something that could bring you relief," she said hesitantly.

A sneer answered her. "I bet you do. You always seemed to use your wiles to ensnare me. You think I cannot see what you're up to, but I can."

Oh, dear, that wasn't good. Whoever he thought she was, this person was more akin to an enemy than anything else.

"I'm not up to anything, and it will help with the?—"

"You think this is for you, don't you?" He forced the hand he was still holding to land over the bulge between his legs. Ingrid gasped. He was hard, harder than any man she had ever felt, and much larger. Seeing the bulge earlier had been impressive enough, touching it was a lot more disconcerting. It gave her the full measure of his potency. "But that doesn't mean a thing, sweetheart, other than I'm a man. Now, how do you propose to give me the relief I need this time? Will you use your hand? Your mouth?" He licked his lips in such a lewd manner that Ingrid felt a bolt of heat shoot between her legs and realized she was still holding his rigid member. "Your pretty little c?—"

"That's not what I meant at all when I said I could help!" she cut in, scrambling away from him. "I meant I have a potion to make you sleep."

He gave something between a chuckle and a growl. "Sleep. I don't want to sleep. I need something quite different right now. So why don't you come ride me, make me come? That would help, for sure, and it's the only thing you're good at."

By the gods, who was this woman he was taking her for? She had never imagined Caedmon could be so crude, so scathing to anyone. And why did the idea of bringing him the relief he was after arouse her so? Perhaps she could do as he suggested, and ride him. That way they would both get what they needed. Because thanks to his lewd talk, she was slick with want. After all, if he were wholly unaware of who she was and would never remember what had happened come morning, she could?—

Reality slammed back into her, making her shake her head.

Was she mad? Of course, she could not do such a thing, quell the need throbbing between her legs while he was unaware of what he was asking, and of whom! She could not use him so, when he was all but unconscious and injured!

Angry at herself for even entertaining such shameful ideas, Ingrid shot back to her feet. "I won't give you any more potion tonight," she told him sternly. "It seems to me you've had too much already."

He laughed again and palmed himself crudely. "Well, then, I will have to see to my needs myself, won't I? Care to watch?"

"You can't do that!" she cried out in panic. Not here, in front of her! If he started to stroke himself, she would stay and watch, she just knew it. She would not have the will to leave. "Please be reasonable, you'll tear the stitches if you…move," was all she could manage.

"Mm, yes. Maybe you're right." His hand fell back to the floor. "I don't think I'll have the strength to stroke hard enough anyway," he said, his words suddenly slurred. "Pity."

And just like that, he fell asleep.

Ingrid stared at the body lying on her pallet for a long moment, trying to regain some sense of composure. Her heart was drumming in her ears, louder than it had last night when she had thought he was about to attack her. Already knowing she wouldn't be able to get any more sleep tonight, she turned her attention to what was left of the food.

She had to do something, other than keep admiring Caedmon.

After a quick bite of bread and cheese, she picked up her needle out of habit before discarding it with a shudder. Would she ever be able to sew again? She didn't know. With no light, no wish to wake Caedmon for fear he started stroking himself or demand she do it for him, and nothing to do, she had little choice but to lie back down on the fur and try not to look in the direction of the man sleeping mere feet away from her, dreaming of a mysterious woman riding him.

Eventually she must have fallen asleep because she woke to a gray predawn light. Groaning, she stretched her numb body. How had Caedmon spent two nights in a row on this fur and not felt the worst for it? She felt as if someone had hit her all over with a hammer. With difficulty she stood up and helped herself to a cup of ale.

On the pallet, Caedmon was stirring as well. Determined to wait until she'd ascertained what mood he was in before she looked at him, she kept her gaze firmly on the cup in her hand. Was he hard and ready for a tumble? Had he recovered from his earlier madness? She wasn't sure she was brave enough to find out.

Just then there was a knock at the door of the hut. Ingrid opened to a smiling Helga.

"How is the patient faring this morning?" the healer asked, accepting the cup of ale Ingrid handed her.

"Quite well. He's just waking up. I was about to check him for signs of fever."

"I'll do that, girl."

Helga knelt by his side and placed a hand over his brow. Ingrid pinched her lips, imagining Caedmon drawing the old woman atop him in the way he had grabbed her last night and demanding relief.

"No fever. That's good. It means you took good care of him when you stitched him back up. The potion will have helped, no doubt." Helga sounded satisfied. "Mind you, that is a potent mixture. Did he have visions?"

"Erm..." Ingrid felt herself go red to the roots of her hair. That was the least she could say. "No. Not that I could tell, but after all, I'm not in his mind so I cannot be sure."

"Of course. But did he start to speak nonsense is what I mean?"

"No. Everything he said was perfectly clear."

Yes. His demands had been perfectly explicit, but she was not about to admit to the old woman that Caedmon had asked her if she preferred to suck him dry or ride him senseless. It was bad enough she had considered doing those things.

No one could ever know about that. She would take her secret to her tomb.

"I thank you for your care of—" Caedmon started, his words slightly slurred, just like last night before he'd fallen asleep.

"It is I who should thank you for what you did for our women, young man. My granddaughter was one of the ones who were abducted." Helga took Caedmon's hand in hers and gave a squeeze. Her voice, usually so steady, was wobbling. "I will never be able to repay you for saving her."

"Please. What else would you have me do? I could not let the men go through with their evil plans when I had the means to stop them."

"No. I suppose not. You're a good man, you know that?"

"Yes. I do know that." He sighed, as if weary beyond measure. Helga took it as her cue to leave. The Saxon needed to rest and recover.

"Very well. I'll leave you to it then. Send for me if you need anything else."

Caedmon could not remember ever feeling worse. His head was twice as heavy as normal, courtesy of the potion he'd been given, no doubt, blood was drumming in his temples and every movement, even the slightest, brought flames of pain licking through his middle. The stitches on his wound were taunting him, urging him to scratch himself. He could not, of course, at the risk of undoing all Ingrid's hard work.

"I'm afraid I will have to prevail on your hospitality for a few days more," he told her once they were alone. The mere idea of standing up and walking out of here was enough to make his stomach churn.

She didn't even blink. "I would not have it any other way. You are not leaving this hut until Helga deems you recovered enough."

That might take as much as a couple of weeks, he thought grimly, accepting the drink she was handing him. He suspected the old woman would not jeopardize her granddaughter's savior's health for the world and would want to keep him abed for as long as possible.

Ingrid saw his grimace and asked. "Do you have pressing business in town? Is that what the matter is? Should I send word to anyone?"

"No." In actual fact he had no business at all, no one was waiting for him, or cared what he did. He could stay here indefinitely, and it would make no difference. The thought was rather dispiriting.

"So you can stay for as long as you need, and see more of your friend while you're here? That's good."

See more of Frigyth…The innocent comment made Caedmon realize he had not given her any thought since he'd entered Ingrid's hut yesterday. Admittedly, he'd been either in pain, or asleep since then, but still, the fact was surprising. He was supposed to be in love and obsessed with her, was he not? Why had his first thought when he'd feared he was going to die not been for her? It felt like a betrayal, but it was a fact. When the scrawny Saxon had drawn his blade on him, all he'd been able to think of was Ingrid, of how he was glad to have done enough to spare her from the men's lust.

He could not explain why that might be, so he pushed the thoughts away from his mind. With nothing else to do other than lie down and think, he would try to make sense of it all later. For now there was something he needed to ask, something that had been niggling at him since he'd woken up.

"Ingrid."

"Yes?" She stopped in the act of cutting a loaf of bread in two. His stomach growled at the sight. Having not had anything to eat since yesterday morning, he was famished. But food could wait. This could not.

"Did I speak nonsense last night?"

She resumed the cutting of the bread. It was obvious she was only doing it so she could avoid meeting his eye. So his intuition was right. He had made a fool of himself.

"Why do you ask?" she said eventually. "You heard me tell Helga you did not."

"Yes. I also saw your cheeks go the color of a sunset as you did." He arched a brow. She was the same color now. Dear God, what had he said? "I think you weren't completely honest for fear of embarrassing me in front of her. I thank you for it, but I'd like to know. Did I make a fool of myself?"

"N-nothing happened, don't worry," she stammered.

This answer, far from reassuring him, only made him wince. That was even worse than he had feared. So he had propositioned her, as he'd suspected. He had a vague memory of her bent over him, of his body pulsing with need. He had most definitely wanted something to happen. The question was, had he told her as much? And in what terms? Had he frightened her with his crudeness, mere moments after her abduction? It didn't bear thinking about.

"Apologies," he mumbled. "I was out of my head with the healer's potion." That didn't excuse anything, but at least it explained it.

"Well, yes, I know. It was my fault. I think I gave you too much."

A pause. "So what did I say? Please tell me."

He had to know.

Ingrid worried her bottom lip as she wondered what to tell Caedmon. He seemed to be aware he had asked her something, so she would never get away with a lie. But she didn't have to be completely honest either, did she? Not when the truth was so embarrassing.

"It was nothing really. You wanted…to go fishing, no doubt a fancy brought on by the potion. When you insisted, I had to remind you that you might tear your stitches if you weren't careful." There. Innocuous enough, and if he happened to remember bits of their conversation he would remember them talking about tearing stitches. When lying, she knew it was better to stay as close to the truth as possible.

"Yes…I seem to remember wanting something desperately. So desperately it hurt."

"I suspect the pain was caused by your wound." And not the pulsing in your groin . "Your addled mind confused everything. It's only normal."

"Mm." He didn't sound convinced and no wonder. The urge to go fishing and the pain caused by an erection the size of his arm probably had nothing in common. But she could not change her explanation now. Heart beating hard, she waited. "Odd, as I've never been one for fishing. You would have thought I would yearn for something I actually enjoy doing at the best of times."

Oh, this was excruciating. "You don't enjoy fishing then?" she asked in her best innocent voice, handing him a piece of bread. Perhaps if he ate he would stop talking. It was worth a try, and he needed to eat anyway.

"Not really." He took the piece of bread. "Do you?"

"Er..."

Calm down, Ingrid, he's only asking about catching fish, not what you're thinking. He doesn't know, he cannot know what he asked you to do, or that you were tempted to agree .

"No. I cannot say I often go fishing."

He bit on the bread, chewed his mouthful with slow deliberation then said, "That's not what I asked."

His amazing eyes flashed in the morning light. Damn… Did he know what had happened after all? Was he only testing her? She decided to stop cowering and force him to reveal his hand.

"I can't really tell you what I think of it, that's why. I tried…fishing a long time ago and thought it quite a boring activity. Now I don't have the equipment or the skill to see whether it is as enjoyable as people say." She raised her chin. "Besides, I'm not sure I would know what to do if I actually caught a fish."

"I suppose you could..." The look he threw her dissolved what little was left of her composure and she knew for sure he remembered what had transpired between them the night before. "Eat it."

"Mm. Yes. I suppose. Of course, I would have to gut it and cut it to pieces beforehand and I might well butcher it through lack of practice."

He winced when she stole an involuntary glance at his groin. "That sounds painful."

"It would be for the poor beast. So I think it is better if I stay clear of fishing altogether. In fact, I suspect that if anyone tried to take me fishing I would end up breaking their rod to make sure they cannot bother anyone else with it again."

"Well, then, it is a good thing I will never ask you to…go fishing. I would hate to have my rod broken."

By now there wasn't a breath left in Ingrid's body. The moment had been far too intense for comfort, and Caedmon's new appearance didn't help. He hadn't shaved since he'd left her hut the other day and the stubble on his jaw was utterly compelling, a dark shadow that had nothing in common with the longer, blond beards the men from the village sported.

He looked magnificent, if a little pale.

The knock on the door came both as a relief and an unpleasant interruption. When Ingrid opened the door, her heart sank in her chest.

Her brother was the last person she wanted to see right now.