Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

" S o let me get this straight, Saxon."

Jaw clenched, Bj?rn straightened to his full, impressive height. Ingrid barely stopped herself from kicking him the way she often had when they were children. What was the oaf doing? There was no need for such a show of intimidation, not when Caedmon was lying on the floor, unable to defend himself. Really, her brother could be insufferable when he wanted to be. And what did he mean by using the word "Saxon" like an insult when his own wife was a Saxon and there was no one in the world he loved more?

"You mingle with a bunch of bastards who steal horses and abduct women?"

"No." Caedmon sounded oddly calm, considering what he was being told. He'd been unruffled when Ivar had accused him of stealing the horses and that had been commendable enough but this was too much. She wished he would show Bj?rn just how outrageous the accusation was. "I only joined them so I could help the?—"

"You took my sister," Bj?rn carried on as if Caedmon had not spoken. "You made her fear for her life, you placed her in unspeakable danger and then you?—"

"Enough, Bj?rn!" she interrupted. "He did all that so he could save us. There was no other choice, as I explained before. He was on his own, there was nothing else he could have done. And it worked! Without him no one would have found us in time, and we would have been raped over and over again by vile men. He saved us all, he placed himself in danger, not me, and he almost got killed in the process. Now he needs to rest and recover from his ordeal and you need to leave."

Her brother arched a brow, no doubt surprised to hear her talk so assertively. But she was too incensed to care. Why couldn't he be grateful for what Caedmon had done? Couldn't he see she was hurt by his lack of trust?

"If you're sure you—" he started in Norse.

"I am," she snapped in the same language. "What is he going to do anyway, in the state he's in? If he attempted anything, I would only have to punch him straight on his wound and he would crumple to the floor like a sack of grain. Not that it would come to that anyway. Now, leave."

Bj?rn threw one last menacing look at Caedmon. The meaning of that look was clear.

If you lay one finger on my sister, I'll break all the bones in your body.

Goaded beyond endurance, Ingrid ushered him through the door without ceremony. A moment later he was gone.

"Well. That told him, whatever you said."

Caedmon sounded amused but she could not share in the merriment. Really, what was her brother thinking? How could he berate someone who'd just saved five innocent women at great risk to himself? Not only that but, as far as he was concerned, she and Caedmon were lovers, which meant she had gone to him willingly in the first place. What business did he have threatening the man she had chosen for herself? What would he have said if she'd objected to his relationship with Dunne? Not that she would have, of course, the woman was perfect for him. But that was not the point. The point was she should be free to choose her own life.

Independence was her most prized possession and up until now Bj?rn had never tried to rob her of it.

"I'm sorry about my brother. He means well, but he's very protective of me and often unreasonable." It had become worse after their parents' sudden death. Aged only nineteen, Bj?rn had taken his role of protector and head of the family very seriously and she had been grateful, because without him she might well have collapsed under the weight of her grief. But she was now a grown woman, and he had his own family to worry over. She didn't need a watch dog. "I dread to think what he will do to the poor boys who will start sniffing around his daughter soon. They will have to prove themselves three times over before they're allowed even a moment alone with Bee."

"I should hope so. If I had a little sister, or a daughter, I wouldn't want them alone with a strange man either."

She could not help rolling her eyes at that. Really, were all men so predictable? If ever she'd needed confirmation that she didn't need one in her life, this was it. "You wouldn't trust them?"

"I wouldn't trust him ," he growled, reminding her of Bj?rn for a moment.

"Are you saying I shouldn't trust you?"

He made a grimace. "Oh, no. I'm no danger to anyone, much less women. We all know I'm a good man."

The bitterness with which he said the words seemed unwarranted to her. What was the problem with that? He was a good man, he had proved it only the other night.

"Do you want some more bread? A bit of cheese?" she asked, turning her attention back to the table. She didn't want to discuss the relationship between men and women any longer. It could lead nowhere.

"Please." She gathered what was left of Dunne's food, but he raised a hand before she could bring it to him. "I would like to sit at the table to eat."

"You—" The look he threw her was enough to stop the protest on her lips. He didn't want to be seen as an invalid. She could understand that. Hadn't she just bemoaned the fact that she would like to be allowed to make her own decisions? Besides, he didn't look on the verge of a swoon. Perhaps it would do him no harm to sit down. "Very well."

Ingrid handed her arm out to him. It was one thing allowing him to hold on to some dignity, quite another to have him hurt himself further by trying too much too soon. He took it without a word and started the painful process of getting to his feet.

By the time he was sitting on the chair, he was pale and breathing hard.

"I will go to the vegetable patch, get some onions while you eat," she said, feeling he needed a moment alone to compose himself. He nodded curtly.

By the time she was back, Caedmon was looking more like himself again. She placed the unpeeled onions on the fire pit before covering them first with cinders then with the almost extinguished embers. In the residual, gentle heat, they would become meltingly tender and be a tasty addition to tonight's supper.

Then she turned to face Caedmon, who had finished eating. Some color had returned to his cheeks, she was pleased to see.

"Now that you're up, I'd like you to remove your shirt." The moment the words left her lips she realized how it sounded. Heat suffused her chest. Had she really told him she'd like him to remove his shirt in front of her? Yes, she had. To his credit, he did not even arch a brow. She started to explain hurriedly. "I need to wash the blood, you see."

"Of course," he said, standing up.

The moment he lifted his arm she averted her eyes. How had she not anticipated what it would do to her to see him undress? He was too attractive, and the action too evocative for her to remain unruffled.

"I think I should go ask Bj?rn if he can lend you a shirt," she mumbled.

There was a snort from somewhere behind her. "Do you really want to draw the man's attention to the fact that I am half-naked in front of you? Didn't you say earlier that I should take care not to rip my stitches? Well, I don't fancy having them ripped for me either."

Privately, she had to acknowledge the wisdom of this observation. She had better keep Bj?rn out of this.

"Don't worry about another shirt, I'm not cold, I can wait while mine dries. In this weather it will take no time at all. But I will be the one washing it."

"Nonsense, you will do no such thing while your stomach is bandaged and your wound so fresh!" Was he mad?

Ingrid turned around and snatched the garment from him. Which meant he now stood in front of her, just as he'd said, half-naked. And the sight was not one she'd been prepared for.

By the gods, had Helga put something in the potion to make him grow even bigger during the night? When she had met him, because he'd been standing next to three of the most strapping men in the village, she had thought him rather slender. He was anything but. The muscles on his chest were well-defined, and the skin was taut over them. The overall effect was one of grace and elegance rather than power and brute strength, and much more appealing in her opinion.

But what fascinated her were the hairs. They appeared silky soft and were a shade darker than the hair on his head. It was a revelation. She had only ever seen men with blond or no hair on their chest before. Caedmon was different, in every way, more masculine despite the lack of bulging muscles. He could have looked menacing, he only looked protective. His pectorals were covered with dark swirls that narrowed to a V just above his navel, leaving the part she had stitched up almost bare, before flaring up again above the waistband of his hose and disappearing under the garment as if the draw the eye.

Everything within her leapt in approval—or was it arousal? Probably both.

She took a step back, fearing her body's reaction. At the moment it was urging her to go pet this man, run her hands through the fascinating hairs and possibly even test how it would feel against her mouth when she kissed him, all things she could not, and should not, want to do.

"It is so dreadful?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Dreadful?" she repeated. Of all the words she could have chosen to describe his chest, this was the last she would have picked. It was not dreadful in the least.

"My wound." He placed a hand over it to hide it from her. "You recoiled. I should have thought. I'm sorry."

"I..." What could she say? Nothing that would be wise, or acceptable. She cleared her throat. "Forgive me. I am not used to such sights." That, at least, was no lie.

The tension in his shoulders relaxed. "I see."

Yes, unfortunately, he seemed to see all too well and understood that his wound was not responsible for her unease. She tightened her fingers on the warm shirt she was holding as if it would help her appear composed.

"I will go wash it now. Then I will also need to stitch it."

Which would require him to be half-naked for even longer. Ingrid swallowed hard, but there was no other solution. There was nothing in the hut he could wear. Oh well, she would just have to make sure to keep her eyes averted until he got dressed again.

"Stitch the shirt like you stitched me, you mean?" A smile was floating on his lips.

"No. Better, because I doubt it will squirm and complain as I do it."

"Ah, Ingrid." It was the first time he had used her name and her insides gave a little flip. "I did not squirm or complain."

No, he had not. What had possessed her to say such a thing? But how was she supposed to think straight in front a half-dressed Caedmon? Some things could not be helped. She might as well try to remain calm when faced with a wild animal about to ravage her. "No, I know. I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. It was both a lie and unkind. In truth I was most impressed by your fortitude."

"And I by your gentleness. I'm sure no one would have a done a better job. Now. Is there some of that potion left?" He grimaced. "I promise not to drink overmuch, I need just enough to take the edge off the pain."

"Of course. Take what you need."

She handed him the small vial. As he took it, their fingers touched, and it was as if thunder and lightning had struck the hut. They both stilled, eyes locked, then Ingrid cleared her throat. Her brother was the only man she had been in such close proximity to, at least while he was bare-chested and standing. But because Bj?rn was not a man in her mind, but her brother, she had never felt self-conscious, and because he was so tall and she only reached to his neck, she always felt slightly ludicrous next to him. With Caedmon, it was the opposite. She was definitely aware of every inch of his body, of every single one of his intakes of breath. And when she was facing him, she could see his jaw and his mouth. She still had to lift her head to meet his gaze, but it made all the difference. Next to him she did not feel ridiculous, but feminine.

And aroused, unsettlingly so.

"Thank you," he said, and she could have sworn his voice made her core quiver. "I promise to drink the potion wisely and not bother you with my urges to…go fishing again."

All the air left Ingrid's lungs. Was she right? Did he remember what he'd asked her last night? She would never dare ask the question. It was better not to know anyway, as it could only lead to all sorts of trouble. Shirt in hand, she hurried out of the hut, then rushed back in to get the soap she'd forgotten, exited it again and ran toward the river, as flustered as she'd ever been. She could have used a bucket with water from the well to wash the shirt, but the farther she went while Caedmon was in a state of undress, the better.

Kneeling in her favorite spot in the shade of a tree, she plunged the garment in the cold water and started to rub the soap over it, careful not to damage it further. It took time to wash away the dried blood, and even then she wasn't certain she had gotten rid of the last of the stains. Once she was satisfied she could not do any better, she laid the shirt on a patch of tall grass just behind her. In the sunshine, it would be dry in no time. While she waited she went to the vegetable patch to get some beans for the pot, then to the chicken coop to see if the hens had been generous. It was unlikely they would have laid more eggs since the morning but she had to at least appear as if she was not trying to avoid getting back inside the hut while Caedmon was half-naked.

Fortunately the sun and wind were on her side and the shirt was soon ready. By the time she had done all her useless jobs, it was dry enough for her to start sewing. Heart beating, she knocked on the door of the hut. No answer. With luck the potion would have sent him to sleep. Gingerly, she entered.

Caedmon was lying on the pallet, head thrown to the side, one long arm extended on the floor, the other resting lightly over his chest. It was a sight she found both arousing and moving. The veins along his exposed forearm in particular fascinated her, as did the soft dip in the inside of his elbow, the ridge of his collarbone, the strong column of his neck, the color of his nipples, the shape of his navel, the—Everything.

Everything she saw fascinated her.

As soon as she had ascertained his unconsciousness, she threw a light blanket over his all too tempting chest and started sewing the shirt.

The night before she had feared never to be able to sew again, but her fingers just took over and the familiar action helped to settle her nerves.

She was just finishing when he stirred. Ingrid was instantly on her guard. What if he'd drunk too much of the potion? Would he recognize her or take her for that woman again? What would she do if he started to make advances on her? This time if he drew her to him she would feel his naked skin under her palms. He would be warm, hard and silky soft all at once, and she would not resist stroking him.

It was better to stay where she was.

"Feeling better?" she asked, cutting her thread with great flourish. If she appeared busy, he would not guess she was trying to avoid having to look at him.

"Yes. The potion did me good. But I…I don't remember having a blanket when I fell asleep," he observed, his voice hoarse from sleep.

"You started to shiver a while ago so I threw one over you," she answered, her gaze firmly on her fingers. She didn't need to know whether he had removed the blanket or not, and if he had, she certainly didn't need to see his chest. "It's getting chilly."

"Is it?"

In truth, Ingrid had no idea. She certainly felt hot enough. "Stay where you are," she warned when he made to stand up. "Your shirt is ready. Do you need help to put it back on?"

She waited, both dreading having to help him and hoping he would ask for her assistance.

He hesitated and then said, "No. I'll be fine."

Just before sunset, Frigyth came to visit. The first thing Caedmon thought when she walked into the hut was that he was glad not to be bare-chested. The oddness of the thought struck him. Shouldn't he be thinking that he was glad to see her instead? Shouldn't he find her more radiant than ever or rejoice over the fact that she was not accompanied by her husband for once? Perhaps. But all he could think was that he was glad she had not seen him half-naked. And he had no idea why. It was not as if it would be the first time, after all.

She knelt by his side. He started to say that she should not trouble herself, not in her condition, but she waved his protests away.

"I'm not exactly full term, as you can see." No. She was hardly showing yet. Still. "How do you feel?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

"I'll go get more beans for the stew," Ingrid said, taking her basket before exiting the hut. He understood she wanted to give him and his friend privacy and he was grateful for her discretion.

"You look well for a man who was almost cut in half. Ingrid is clearly taking good care of you," Frigyth observed, smiling. "I'm so happy for you. She's a good woman."

Ah, yes, a good woman for a good man, Caedmon thought wryly. It always came down to this with him.

He didn't answer. For no reason that he could understand, today he felt ill at ease in front of Frigyth. That had never happened before, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. What was certain was that he didn't like it. What was happening to him? It was as if the Saxon had changed something within him when he'd cut his body, dislodged something that had been bothering him.

Mm, perhaps he had taken too much of that potion, after all, because that was a strange thought to say the least.

"I'm so happy to have you back here. I've missed you, you know," Frigyth was still smiling but her eyes had gone misty.

"Not as much as I've missed you, Frig."

She couldn't have. Happily married to the man of her dreams, she would not have felt the same yearning for him as he had for her.

"Are you going to live here, or is it just a visit?"

"I'm never going back to London."

Caedmon was well aware he had not answered her question, had not said whether he intended to stay or not. But that was because he had no idea. He had set out with no real plan in mind, except to flee Mildred and the disaster his life had become, and to see the woman he was still pining after.

"What made you come back?"

He stared at her and had the satisfaction of seeing her blush. Ah, so she had guessed that she was part of the answer, if not the main part. Good. He didn't see why he should have to pretend she didn't mean anything to him anymore, when it was not the case.

"I had my reasons," he said eventually.

"You know," she carried on, "when you left I was certain you would be back within a few months. After a couple of years, however, I stopped hoping I would ever see you again. It seemed obvious that you had left your old life behind and had no intention of coming back. The thought even crossed my mind that you had died. After all, I wouldn't have been any the wiser if you had, for who would have told me?"

She closed her eyes, and Caedmon understood that, even if she did not return his feelings, at least she still cared about him. The thought brought warmth to his chest.

"I'm sorry to have caused you pain."

She nodded and opened her eyes again. "About a year ago I bumped into your grandmother in town. She told me she hadn't seen you in years, even if she'd gotten the occasional message from you when a peddler who'd been to London visited the town. It made me think…That you'd forgotten about me,"

He inhaled sharply. "I could never forget you, Frig. But I thought…Well, I thought you 'd forgotten about me , what with your husband and growing family."

"I could never forget about you!" she protested, placing a hand over her stomach. "But you're right about the family. There is this new babe, of course, but did you know we adopted a son?"

"No." How could he have?

Frigyth smiled. "Little Elwyn, Osric the chandler's son. He lived in our road, remember?"

Osric. Yes, Caedmon remembered the man, an unsavory character. Why on earth had Frigyth adopted the boy? He waited for the explanation that was sure to come. "A few weeks after you'd left, his father died and Elwyn found himself on his own. He needed a family. We gave it to him. He's fifteen now. You wouldn't know him. He's already taller than me, though I doubt he'll ever match Sigurd's height."

There was so much pride in her eyes, so much love in her voice that Caedmon's insides twisted. He ran a hand over his face. The stubble was starting to irritate his skin. He would have to shave soon. Perhaps when Ingrid came back he would ask if she could find what he needed. He sighed and, realizing he was stalling, finally looked at Frigyth.

"You know, the day you told me you had married Sigurd, I didn't quite believe it."

Where had that admission come from? He had not meant to tell her as much, ever. But it was true all the same. When she'd told him she had married a Norseman in his absence, he'd held on to the hope that it was just a lie, that he still had a chance to woo her. But when he had seen them together, that hope had died. She and the Dane were destined to be together, any fool could have seen it.

He expected her to laugh away the comment, but her answer shocked him.

"I was not married to him at the time, that may be why."

"What do you mean?"

A pause. "I lied."

He stared at her stupidly. She'd lied about being married? "Why?"

Frigyth didn't meet his eye when she replied, as if embarrassed. "I always knew we would not suit as husband and wife, but you didn't seem to see that what was between us was not love, merely the deepest affection. I didn't want you to waste time pining after me. I thought that telling you I was married was the best way to make you see there was no future for us. I'm sorry, I should just have been honest, but I didn't have the courage to break your heart."

Well, her good intentions notwithstanding, she had broken his heart.

"But you did marry Sigurd in the end?" Surely she wasn't lying now. He'd seen them together these last few days. These two were definitely a couple. And she was carrying his child.

"Yes. I had fallen in love with him while pretending to be his wife but I didn't see how it could work between us so I left the village. Then, a few weeks after you'd gone to London, I found out I had fallen with child from the…from the attack I told you about."

She swallowed and placed a hand on her stomach as if to draw strength from it. Fury sliced through Caedmon, blurring his vision. Frigyth had been raped by a Norseman from the village ten years ago. She had told him as much, but he hadn't known she'd had to bear the bastard's child.

His chest tightened at the thought of all she'd had to endure and had he not been bed-ridden, he might well have punched something.

"I told Sigurd. That day he told me he loved me and wanted to raise the babe as his own. He asked me to marry him for real, and not once has he made me regret saying yes." Emotion caused her voice to wobble. "He was with me the night the baby was born. Eirik is his son in every way, just like Elwyn, Moon and our daughter."

Caedmon's throat tightened. "You are making it hard for me to think ill of your Norseman," he mumbled.

"Why would you want to think ill of him?"

Too many reasons, he thought wryly, none of which put him in a good light. It was best not to answer. He stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of and absorb all he'd been told. Frigyth had never thought they could be husband and wife. She had lied to avoid having to marry him. She had adopted a child with the Dane and was happier than anyone he had ever seen. All hope of anything happening between them was well and truly dead.

"I'll leave you to rest now," she said, mistaking his sudden silence for weariness. To his surprise, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. He stilled, savoring the moment. It was not the kiss he'd dreamed of sharing with her, but it seemed all the more meaningful for it. "I'm so happy to have you back."

"Thank you. It's good to be back."

When the door closed, Caedmon had the impression his life had been changed forever. The last of his illusion had been torn from him. It was as if a veil had been removed from his eyes, allowing him to see things as they truly were.

It was disconcerting, and not really pleasant. He felt rather like a child who'd persuaded himself he lived in an enchanted forest populated by magical beings, only to find out once he'd gone back as an adult that the trees were just ordinary oaks and the creatures only the fruit of his imagination. Had his love for Frigyth been based on nothing but wrong impressions? She'd been convinced, even at the time, that they wouldn't suit, when he'd wanted to think that what they had really was love. Was she right? Had it only been affection? Suddenly he wasn't so sure.

A moment later Ingrid came back, her basket groaning under the weight of vegetables.

"I'll put these to boil," she said, reaching for her knife.

"Ingrid?"

"Yes?"

Caedmon blinked, not sure why he had called her or what he wanted to say.

He considered asking her if she knew Eirik was not Sigurd's son, but he could not be so indiscreet. She might not be aware of it and he did not want to expose Frigyth's painful, personal past.

Then he wondered if he should ask for her opinion. Did she think he and Frigyth could have worked as a couple? No, that was silly. Even supposing it wasn't an inappropriate question, how would Ingrid know? They had met mere days ago. Days that somehow seemed a lifetime.

It was then that he understood what he really wanted from her.

He wanted her to sort his life out for him, make him whole again, repair the gap in his soul in the same way she had stitched the wound on his body.

But, of course, such a thing was impossible.

"Do you have something I could use to shave?" he asked instead.

"Of course. Let me go find what you need." She smiled faintly. "I promise I won't ask Bj?rn."