Forbidden Ch 02 7

Dear Reader, Thank you for taking the time to read chapter Two of forbidden, and if you read the first one and left me comments! Big hug and lots of kisses xxx

Even though, every precaution has been taken to make sure the historical side to the story is accurate, there are no doubt some areas that can be disputed. However, I must stress, and i don't mean to be rude, this is a romance novel! I am human, i do make mistakes, and I'm not some, historical buff that lives in the past researching every tiny little detail.

But in the same sense! I will try my best in the future to provide as much accuracy as i can, and in doing so, i would like to ask that you as a reader, see past those mistakes, and focus your attention on the real reason you are reading this story... the romance!.

- Amber Maynard.

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CHAPTER TWO

Despite the weight and the warmth from the heavy cotton draped about her shoulders, she still shook. Not from the cold, or what she had presumed was the cold to begin with, but with fear. She was slowly starting to realize how little she had in this world. Not that she had expected her step mother and step sister to change the habit of a lifetime and suddenly start caring. But she hadn't expected them to give up on her so easily. She felt sick to the stomach when it truly sank in that anything could have happened to her, and they just wouldn't care. Their complete disregard for someone's life, for family was shocking.

She tried not to wallow on the pain of knowing her step mother and step sister would do anything to save themselves, rather than being selfless to protect others. But there was much more frightening things to think about...Like the Vikings who were slowly starting to pour into the room from the outside. They were all very large men with what looked to be fine strong blood lines. It was something she admired. She probably admired it the most because her father would insist that she spend her time around the most pompous of men. Half of them hadn't known the feeling of a hard day's work, and their hands were even softer than hers.

The Vikings though, be as they may the enemy, looked weathered and strong. She remembered the feel of Ivar's hands, his palm was rough and his fingers calloused. She had felt like she weighed nothing more than just a feather when he had dragged her along. The scary part about that was, he is the slimmest man among these men. It terrified her to think of what they were capable of. They could grind her bones with their mere hands.

She watched them cautiously from where she sat. Mostly because she was interested in the people most feared by her own... and because she preferred focusing her attentions upon them right now. Rather than the two women who sat to her right, her supposed family. A family that was broken in so many ways that it had become a disfigured blur in her memory.

Their accents were thick, so understanding them completely when they talked so fast wasn't easy. What she had observed was that most of them were distracted. Their attentions were turned upon each other, rather than Harriot. She knew that planning an escape, between her, her mother and her sister was practically useless. They weren't brave enough to make a run for it. But the bigger question for Harriot, was would she be able to? There was no judging what the Viking was capable of if she should try to escape him again. It was true that he had been quite nice to her so far, but she didn't trust him. Something told her there was more to this person than what meets the eye. He was the enemy after all, a handsome and intriguing enemy, but an enemy no less.

Harriot leaned forward and fidgeted a little. No one noticed. So instead she tried stretching. She spread her arms a little, still no one noticed. They really were engrossed in everything that they were doing. If she was going to attempt escape, she knew now might be her only opportunity to do so. Nevertheless that didn't stop the flip her stomach did at the thought. She must be crazy, really crazy. She closed her eyes firmly as she started to stand.

It was as though her sister's discomfort vibrated through the air around them. Still she took her first step in the direction of the door, and then another. She opened her eyes and it felt as though everything around her had slowed until she could miss no detail or movement. Her heart throbbed so hard against her chest as she sucked a breath into her lungs. The room was dimly lit by candles; their yellow glow flickered along the bare walls... Walls that were covered once with beautiful bright wall hangings, and luxurious curtains.

"And where is it you think you are going?"

His voice would forever haunt her memories. It was deep and one of a kind. It instantly sent a wave of chills running through her spine, and she turned slowly to face him with quite a bit of reluctance. She had been caught.

"Your men are hungry and thirsty. I was merely going to serve some food and mead to distract you all from killing me for a little while longer."

She set her shoulders as though she was insulted by his remark. Then, she looked up into his eyes with as much genuine sincerity as she could offer. She surprised herself, because she hadn't put a single thought into what she would say if she was caught. Which was quite stupid really, considering she never believed she would get out of this room unnoticed. But she did have doubts on whether he believed what she had said or not.

He seemed doubtful, and looked as though he was about to make her sit back down, but he didn't. Instead he swiveled on his heels and pointed to one of his men before he turned back to face Harriot.

"He goes with you."

It was clear from the look on his face that the terms were not open to negotiation. So she nodded to him and carried on making her way towards the kitchen. The guy Ivar had chosen to go with her was probably three times Harriot in size. His sheer size and presence could dominate almost any room. Looking up at him made her giddy. He had great big black eyes, and hair as long as hers. His lips were pulled taut into one sweeping line across his face. His whole demeanor was so much different from Ivar's. He didn't look like he was capable of much sympathy. If her father had caused these men enough trouble, that they would go out of their own way to find him and use his family for ransom. She was pretty sure he saw her as the enemy too.

She couldn't exactly blame them for treating her that way. All she could say is that she had no choice over what family she was born into, or other people's actions. She was not like them. She liked to believe she was not heartless or insensitive to the people around her. She cared for the little things she couldn't expect them to know that though. She wasn't even sure why she cared what people thought. These men would either become a blur in her memory, or the very last memory she would have.

She was conscious of the room around her. Everyone was watching her as she moved. They were all probably wondering why Ivar was being so nice to her, in fact she was too. It felt surreal.

Harriot could hardly breathe as she stalked along the walls of the corridor. She held the heavy material of the cloak away from the ground, hoping to avoid snagging it on any corners as she moved. It was miles too big for her, in both length and quantity of material. But she had not considered making her escape without it. It could hinder her if she needed to move fast. Overall that was a risk she was willing to take in order to protect her modesty a little, and to stay warm. She had wound her hands in the course material of the cloak so hard, they burned. She was nervous, and scared of how little control she had over her own life right now.

His sharp blue eyes were burned into her memory. It was easy to tell he had been born with a gift. Not only because he was beautiful, but because behind those bright blue eyes was anticipation. He didn't look at you, but through you, and that's what scared Harriot the most. She just had this horrible feeling when he looked at her. It was as though against her will, he could see straight through to her soul.

But enough of that...she had to concentrate on what she was doing or she would very likely make a mistake. There was no room for that. This could very well end up being her only option, and if it was she wasn't going to waste it.

She pushed at the heavy wooden door that separated the kitchen and hallway from a small room where a door to the outside rested against rusty hinges. It creaked and scraped against the course fine dusting of straw and always made her cringe. But she was convinced no one so far was onto her. The man Ivar had sent to keep an eye on her was consumed with the mead she had offered to him and the rest of the men. It had been too heavy for her to carry, and he had surprised her when he had offered to help. In doing so, he had played into her plan, and had given her the chance she needed to escape.

She made a break for the door as she heard someone re-enter the kitchen. She assumed it was the Viking returning for the next batch of mead to hand out. She knew it wasn't when she heard Ivar's hiss of frustration. She risked a glance at him as she ran out into the garden. His face was contorted with barely contained anger and she couldn't really say she blamed him for being angry. She had probably caused him more trouble than the worth of it.

He came after her, and she knew if he caught hold of her she was either dead, or would suffer for abusing his trust. Let's be fair though, who would trust someone you just captured not to escape? Harriot shivered inwardly with fear. She had heard so many times over the years of how fear could drive you to do crazy things. She had never thought of herself as so impulsive until her hand curled about the sword that was left just outside the rusty old door.

She needed both hands to lift it, as it was just too heavy. Even then she struggled to point it straight in his direction. It felt like it had a mind of its own as the blade swayed in her grasp. It glinted through the fog an orange glow from the fire that consumed the barn. However it would not stay straight, instead it pointed towards the ground as she battled with her own strength and determination.

She had a new-found respect for the men who could lift these and swing them with ease. They made it look so easy, too easy. She squealed and sidestepped as Ivar launched himself in her direction. The blade had now lowered even further toward the ground in front of her feet. With her lack of ability to control the fine long blade, it scraped against the mud. She tried her hardest to right her balance but it was not proving easy for her to do.

The fool grinned at her, like this was some game he admired. He was mocking her, and even she mocked herself. What was she even doing? She didn't want to kill him, she wasn't a murderer. She probably didn't even have the strength to drive the blade into him even if she truly wanted to. Moreover the truth was she didn't. Her reactions now were so foreign she didn't even recognize herself.

"Ah, I see doubt." Ivar said with a smile as he stepped closer to her.

Harriot clutched at the sword like it was the last fragment of reality she had left. Her whole world had suddenly slowed down. Each step she took she was conscious of the ground beneath her... Conscious of his every response to her movements. He was so in-tune with her that she was starting to grow even more scared than she was before.

"Please... I don't want to do this. I don't want to see anyone hurt."

She meant it with every last fiber of her being. She didn't want anyone to get hurt, and she wanted even less to hurt him. But he was persistent, and she knew he wasn't about to give up that easy.

It was when she lifted the sword to surrender it to him that she felt a painful blow. She had thought someone had struck her in the arm from behind. The force of it alone was enough to send the blade crashing to the floor. Reaction told her to grab where the item had struck, but when she did; she felt the stream of blood against her fingers.

The force of it had spun her around. She hadn't thought something could take the air so completely out of her lungs. Ivar, thankfully was less dazed than she was. She felt his hand secure itself at the base of her spine. She was thankful because the blood streaming along her arm was starting to make her knees weak.

She was too disorientated to tell where the blow had come from. When she looked around no one had been there except her and Ivar. Ivar hadn't done it because her eyes had been on him the whole time.

He practically carried her back towards the house. Even when faced with the blood he didn't flinch half as much as she did. This was expected, considering they were both very different people, with very different upbringings.

"An Arrow." Ivar hissed the words through gritted teeth.

Instead of retaliating, and finding the source like it was clear he wanted to do. Ivar huddled close to her and put himself between her and any more attacks, until he had managed to get her back inside. She didn't understand why someone would shoot at her.

"Here let me see."

He took her by the arm.

He was being as gentle as he could be, but the pain from that small action was overwhelming. She found herself grabbing at the prodding fingers out of reaction. It hurt... It hurt more than she had ever expected. The arrow hadn't even become lodged in her body as it would have been if the person had better aim. Instead she had been left with a hefty slash across her right arm that gaped and burned with so much force her legs felt weak. She had never felt anything as painful as this before. Her whole body was numb, apart from the area where the arrow had bit into her skin. Everything seemed to be concentrated on that area now, and the throbbing was unbearable. Ivar held onto her arm as he stormed his way along the corridor. Anger oozed from every part of him. He had incredible strength when he was angry. He flung the door to the main hall open so hard, its hinges screeched and shuddered as the door bounced off of the wall. Everyone turned from their loud happy chatter, took one look at her and Ivar, and the room changed and molded into something more serious.

The men's faces hardened as they looked them both over, you could see them weighing the options of Ivar causing her injury. The man who had been sent to watch her suddenly looked sheepish. Ivar did not look at him, instead his eyes swept along the room and stopped upon a small shaggy looking man. He nodded his head and left the room.

"Fetch me some mead." he barked to one of his men.

Then slowly but steadily turned to face Harriot.

She must have looked completely horrified. Common sense would tell you that the wound would not heal by itself. Whether it is wishful thinking or blatant ignorance, Harriot hoped with all of her heart that none of this would need a hot blade against her skin. Her knees throbbed for the very first time since the arrow had skimmed her body, not through relief but through fear.

Her knees wobbled, and her hands shook. It felt silly, how her body was reacting to the wound. Something so small shouldn't feel so big. Yet she was sure once the mixture of blood and sweat had been wiped away from her skin, the wound wouldn't look so monstrous. Plus the sight of the blood wouldn't make her want to faint. The color must have drained from her face, because Ivar only looked at her once before he led her back in the direction of the kitchen. She stumbled slightly, unable to adapt to his forward movements and gain any sort of control over her shaky legs. The cloak he had offered her was now ruined from the arrow, and the steady stream of blood that trickled along her arm.

He managed to catch her fall with his own body. For a moment she thought he might dare to carry her the rest of the way to the kitchen. This only served to annoy her further as she hated feeling weak and helpless. She was and never would be a damsel in distress. It was a quality her father hated. He felt he would get less for her hand in marriage because of her strong will, stubbornness and quiet determination.

She was thankful for the chair offered to her once Ivar had rounded up a few of his men in the kitchen. The relief her legs felt to have the strain of standing removed, when they felt so horribly weak was most welcome. It was the next part she did not look forward to.

She almost leapt from where she sat when Ivar tore the expensive curtain from the window. The material was fine stuff, and her father would surely have a fit. He would rather lose a daughter than the material those curtains were made out of. She swallowed the lump building in her throat. Also the breath that had almost emerged as a plea to put the curtain before her own survival. But it was embarrassment that stopped her. She did not wish to explain how her father cared more for material objects, rather than his own flesh and blood.

His blue eyes were searching as he tore the material straight down the middle. He could sense her hesitation, but he did not question it. Instead he came and sat next to her, and extended his hand towards her arm cautiously.

"May I?"

His politeness surprised her. Everything about him surprised her. She had heard so many things about his people over time, that she had naturally assumed he was a bad person. The same way they had assumed she was like her father, though she was nothing like the man. He took her arm so gently, and despite her wish to pull away from him after his brutish kiss among the gardens, she did not. She let him lift her arm, and fold the fabric just above the wound. He tied it as tight as he could manage without hurting her and cutting into her skin. Then he brushed the edges of the arrow's wound with his fingertips, as his other hand circled her elbow. His long slender fingers were loose but warm against her skin. They stood out even above the throbbing pain of the blood rushing through her arm. Her skin stung where his fingers touched no matter his effort to be as careful as he possibly could.

She didn't understand why any of them would help her. Why she was so important that they would go out of their way to stop the bleeding. Not just rule her out as another casualty to brush under the bridge. She almost instantly regretted the distraction of her thoughts, as one of the men turned the blade they had placed among the flames to heat.

"Drink this." Ivar said as he offered her a container of mead.

She half hesitated, faced with a non-sympathetic glare, she knew then that she would need it. Whether she liked it or not he was going to seal her wound with that blade. Even if they had to hold her down to do so, and there wasn't a single doubt in her mind that they could.

She shouldn't be surprised that her step mother or sister hadn't bothered to pay much attention to whether she was alright or not, but she was. They hadn't spared her a single glance of concern which reminded her of something her uncle, from her mother's side would say 'Who needs enemies when you have family quite like this.'

She drank the mead heavily hoping the quantity she consumed all at once would soothe and numb at least some of the pain. She couldn't help but flinch a second time as the blade was turned over in the flames again. Ivar however, was engrossed in cleaning the blood from her skin -- at-least as much as he could -- while being as careful as he could not to hurt her. His body was rigid with tension, his eyes the color of a clear summer sky skimmed over her with little emotion.

The door burst open as the man who had left the room on Ivar's signal entered. His face was unreadable, but in his hand he held the remains of a broken arrow.