Vengeance Hammer (Viking Vengeance) Read Free

as a thirst quenched. Yet naught escaped from this man.
    He steadied her. “Are you ill, lady?”
    The wonder of his voice. Deep, like low thunder vibrating through clouds. Dense, rich, strong, and heated like a boulder baked in the sun. Mesmerized by his low rumble, she yearned to press her fingertips to the corded veins in his thick neck, and learn from him how to speak again.
    “Lady Xára, are you faint?” He gave her a little shake.
    She dared not look at him, too afraid her confusion and the secret, delicious thrill coursing through her showed plain on her face. Ducking her chin, she nodded, shifted out of his hold, and picked up her pace.
    Now her awareness of him, of the warrior manliness leashed beneath those powerful muscles and his immense size, bubbled through her veins. Her nape grew damp and she had to choke back a nervous tickle scratching at her throat.
    He muttered something she did not catch and she swept him a surreptitious peek. His mouth had canted into a grim line and she knew his patience with her, Jennie, the whole lot of it, was nigh at an end.
    “’Tis pointless.”
    Nay. He would not deny her this. She glared at the pitted stone floor and concentrated on hurrying her footsteps.
    Jennie had made her promise not to cry, to be strong, to win over this Viking and swear him to Evie’s protection, and she would, by the mercy of the lord above. Xára fisted her hands. She would make this warrior respect her.
    It had been difficult to hide her meager possessions from Néill’s rampaging destruction. They approached the garderobe and Dráddør’s steps slowed. As awful as the whole castle stunk, the aroma here was powerful enough to fell even the most insensitive nose.
    “Halt. I do not need the use of—”
    She touched two fingers to his lips and froze. ’Twas as if lightning had struck her fingertips. The skin there sizzled. His mouth felt like satin and velvet, hot and smooth. Xára jerked her hand away.
    Hurrying, nigh tripping over her own two feet, she rushed into the tiny chamber where the privy straw was stored. The master of the garderobe had vanished two sennights past and she had moved her treasures here.
    “What are you about?”
    She shot a look at him, scrabbled the loose hay from the hidden alcove, and retrieved her writing supplies. When she had lost the use of her voice, Jennie had devised a clever way to communicate without using their scarce stores of precious vellum. Carrying the box and bundles, she pushed past where he stood in the archway, and pointed her chin to the opposite direction.
    He made a sound somewhere between a growl and an exasperated sigh, but followed her to the chamber she had once called her own on the third level. She heard his quick inhale when he saw the state of the room. Naught but one table had been left standing, but at least ’twas clean.
    “Lady Xára, I have not the time for this. The people of the keep are restless and I must attend to the castle defenses.”
    Ignoring the laced irritation in his tone, she quickly assembled everything and using her fingers wrote in the sand in the tray, Néill assembles an army in Leòdhas.
    She motioned for him to come forward and pointed to the sand tray Jennie had had made so the two of them could “speak” to each other.
    His golden brows pulled together, but he did as she asked, and read her words. Quick as a furious winter melt, he spun around, massive hands on his hips, his glance sweeping from the tray to her, back and forth, and back and forth. His frown deepened. He scrubbed at the light dusting of hair on his chin.
    “Do you understand me when I speak?”
    Oh, she yearned to pinch him for even asking such a doltish question. Were all men witless? That she could write words but not comprehend them? She rolled her eyes, pursed her mouth, and nodded.
    “Lady, you cannot expect me to know your thoughts or abilities. I have to secure the castle before nightfall. Who is Néill?” His straight nose