Page 119 of The Viking’s Captive

Adam clicked his jaw shut. He was not about to ask her father what he meant by convince.

“I wrote a saga one time titled ‘How to Convince an Unconvinceable Maid.’ ‘Twas very popular at Anlaf’s court, as I recall.” Bolthor was stroking his chin as he tried to remember the details.

“Enough!”Adam shouted. He stopped dead in his tracks, which caused everyone else to stop dead in their tracks, too. “I do not need an escort. I do not need advice. I do not need any of you here with me. Go away!”

As one, his four companions turned on their heels and stalked away, with the king muttering, “Ungrateful Saxon whelp!” and Bolthor saying something like, “He will be sorry,” and Rashid intoning, “Allah cannot be everywhere; that is why he created friends.” Tykir just laughed.

Adam stared at the tent before him, bracing himself.

This morning, he and Tyra had made it safely away from the desert palace to the Stoneheim troops, despite being followed by the sultan’s guard. They all had ridden off without any fighting … something that had rankled with Thorvald, who wanted desperately to lop off a head or two in retaliation for his daughter’s kidnapping. Adam was certain he would find an opportunity to take revenge in the future, once he was in a position of greater strength.

Now they were back at the desert outpost of the Army of the East. Tyra and her soldiers had already informed General Phocas that they would no longer be serving in his army. The general had argued fruitlessly the whole time, denying any involvement in her being taken by the desert sultan. Since she had no proof besides the evidence of her own eyes, they’d decided to accept his word. The only other choices were: one, to confront the devious commander on the issue in a Byzantine court, which would be heavily weighted in the general’s favor; or two, to lop off his head during the night—Thorvald’s preference—but then they would have a thousand soldiers chasing after them.

Thorvald swore that he would take his revenge at a later date. Already he’d talked five hundred Norse soldiers into deserting the Byzantine ranks and returning with him to the Northlands, at great cost to his royal treasury. This depletion in ranks would hurt General Phocas more than any court fine.

To say that the general was livid was a vast understatement. He would have lopped off Thorvald’s head himself if he could.

On the morrow, they would travel back to Byzantium and their two longships. The king intended to purchase several more to carry the additional soldiers who would return with him.

From there, the ships would be heading on separate paths. Most would proceed to Stoneheim. But at least one of them would be going to Britain and Adam’s home at Hawkshire.

The question he nervously faced now was whether Tyra would be coming with him to Britain … or not.

Should he first tell her of his feelings and the future they might have together? Or should he make love to her first, and leave the explanations for later? He was leaning toward the latter.

And besides, he was still angry with her over her desertion immediately following their night of loving. Although they definitely needed to talk, he was thinking it might be a good idea to wait till his temper cooled.

Inhaling deeply, he opened the flap of her tent and called out in what he hoped was a husky voice filled with erotic promise, “Tyra? Sweetling?”

He stepped inside.

Then he bellowed with outrage, “Aaarrgh!”

So much for erotic promise!

Pulling at his hair with frustration, he stomped around the carpeted floor of the tent, exclaiming over and over, “I should have known. I should have, should have, should have known!”

Tyra was gone. Again.

Now she was in big trouble…

Adam caught up with her halfway to Byzantium.

She was by herself, brushing down her horse in the stable of a small village. She had planned to sleep here for several hours on a wool blanket placed over the straw. Taking no chances, her sword would be at the ready by her right arm and a battle-ax near her left.

That plan was cut short when she glanced up and saw Adam standing in the open doorway of the stall. He was leaning back against the door frame, his arms folded over his chest, his ankles crossed casually at the ankles. His nonchalant pose didn’t fool her, though. He practically had smoke blowing from his nostrils.

“Adam,” she acknowledged, trying to sound calm, when inside her heart was thundering. She resumed her brushing, as if his appearance had been totally expected.

“Tyra, you are in big trouble. The biggest trouble of your life. So big you should be shivering in your boots and begging for my mercy.”

“Adam, I can explain.”

“Oh, I am sure you think so. But we will save that for later. We have a longship to catch now.”

She tilted her head to the side in question. “For where?”

“Northumbria.”