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tangle-free. The scent of leather was mixed with a hint of soap and something potently masculine coming from him. That smell set her senses ablaze with memory. Yet something had changed since last she had seen him, to set the sternness so firmly in place on his features. Or perhaps he just dared not show any sympathy or kindness to her, lest it be taken for weakness by the men he commanded.
    The trip didn’t take long, thank goodness, since she was far from comfortable in that position. The Norsemen’s settlement was only a short distance from her town. She’d never been there before, however, and looked around curiously as the party rode into the center of a grouping of ten or so houses. Two of them were very long buildings built of wood, raised off the ground on enormous poles with straw-thatched roofs. The others were smaller versions of the longhouses, scattered in a rough half circle around an open area where children played and people gathered to talk.
    A small crowd of men and boys emerged from one of the longhouses to meet them. Several boys took charge of the horses as the men dismounted. The same two who’d helped her onto the horse assisted her off, as well, and supported her when her legs wobbled a bit.
    Henrik ignored her and turned immediately toward one of the smaller buildings. Her companions moved to follow, still holding her arms, so she went with them.
    Enough light flowed in the window openings of the house to let her see clearly the interior. In one corner an older man sat, whittling on a piece of wood. He wore an intimidating frown. She’d seen Hjallmar only once before, but despite the greater years, the resemblance Henrik bore him was clear. A woman stirred a pot hung over the fire on that wall, releasing an aroma that reminded Fianna she hadn’t eaten for a while. She doubted they would offer her food. At least not right away and not if the mission they’d summoned her for could be accomplished quickly.
    Henrik went over to the old man, bowed toward him then folded himself onto a low stool and began talking. Fianna knew only a few words of the Norse tongue and none of them helped her distinguish what they were saying. But more than once they turned to look at her. The old man argued and waved a hand in a way that showed he wasn’t happy. Finally, though, they seemed to come to an agreement.
    Henrik stood. As he turned toward her, he drew his sword from its scabbard and pointed it at her.
    Fianna couldn’t move. Shock held her firmly in place at first then the realization that she could do little about the situation. If he wanted to kill her, there was little she could do to prevent it. Better she face him with courage than with sniveling pleas or cowering fear, though she had no idea why this was happening.
    Man and sword advanced on her until the point was no more than an inch from her breast. She looked up and met his light eyes. Fierce emotion blazed there, but it wasn’t anger or hatred.
    She held his gaze as she asked, “Why?”
    He ignored her question. “Turn around,” he said.
    Fianna debated refusing but couldn’t see anything to gain by it. She turned. He was suddenly beside her, the sword pointed down. With his left hand, he took her arm and led her to a panel that walled off about a third of the building into a separate room. Henrik pushed aside a length of cloth draped over the opening into it and waited for her to go in.
    A rough mat covered in linen cloths covered nearly half the floor space. A man lay stretched out on it. Pain drew his face into harsh lines and printed dark shadows under his sunken eyes. His hair would have been the same bright golden blond as Henrik’s save that it was matted with sweat and mud. In fact, when healthy, she suspected the man would look quite a lot like Henrik . But he was far from healthy. His skin looked grayish and his breath gasped in and out too loudly.
    “What’s wrong with him?” Fianna asked. She began to understand why they’d