In the hut that held Brenna prisoner, Calder watched her interact with the other woman. He’d actually caught a portion of their conversation. He’d heard Brenna ask what would happen when the truth came out.

He’d not have heard it if he were a mortal man, but being a shifter meant his senses were amplified. He could hear better, see farther, move faster, smell subtleties that most humans couldn’t.

What did she mean about the truth coming out? What truth, he wondered.

The two women rose to their feet. The fur blanket was still wrapped around Brenna, in her hand she clutched a new tunic.

The other woman gathered several furs, murmuring, “You can wrap yourself with these while you dry; the river has not yet begun to warm.”

“Thank you, Astrid.”

“You’ll be going with her to assist,” Calder told the other woman.

She nodded after glancing at Brenna.

* * *

Calder, his best friend Gunnar, and Torsten—another close ally in the tribe he ruled with his brother, all followed slowly behind the two women as they made their way toward the river.

The path was wide enough for three men to walk shoulder to shoulder, the weeds brushing thighs encased in leggings. The women’s long skirts rustled the brush that covered the oft-used path.

Calder hadn’t told Halvar he was taking the statuesque red-haired beauty to bathe in the river. He knew that for one reason or another, his brother had a bone to pick with Brenna.

And Halvar was still ensconced in his hut, in the depths of sleep, an arm slung around each of the two village women who lay next to him, all three unclad.

The cabin smelled like sex, making Calder’s rod twitch. For too long, he’d been without a woman. It wasn’t that he had a problem with taking one of the captives as his own, to bury himself in deeply and release the tension that had built in him.

It was that every time he thought of sex, Brenna’s face flashed before his eyes. The image of her countenance while she’d been sleeping, the way her body had risen and dropped with every breath while she’d lain unconscious.

And now that he’d seen at least part of that body, a set of glorious breasts, he couldn’t scrub her from his mind. He’d entertained the idea of taking one—or two—of the women to his own hut, but every evening, predictably, after he’d had his dinner, he’d post himself near her door, sharpening his blade, his mind immersed in thoughts of her.

Gunnar elbowed him. “We’ll be catching a glimpse of her now, won’t we. I’d like to see if her hair is as red—”

Calder halted, whirled to face him. “You’ll do nothing to jeopardize our getting the ransom from her husband, you understand? Nothing.”

Gunnar took a step back from the viciousness in Calder’s tone. “I was not going to touch her. Just looking.” He held out his hands, palms up. “Just looking.”

Calder snorted, then continued to follow the two women. He was angry with himself for having reacted. Since when did he care what his men did with captives?

At the water’s edge, Brenna faced the water, away from the men while Astrid helped remove the fur from her shoulders.

Brenna turned to look at the men. “I’d like my privacy.”

Torsten guffawed. “She’d like her privacy,” he mimicked her.

“Turn around,” Calder said.

Gunnar slapped Torsten on the back. “Do as he says.” But he gave Calder a questioning look. “And if they run?”

“Where will two women run to that we can’t catch them?”

Gunnar laughed.

Calder gave him a pointed look and Gunnar turned his back on the women.

Brenna pierced Calder with a glare, apparently waiting for him to comply.

He scowled and turned.

The soft sounds of splashing told him that Brenna was washing and that he didn’t need to turn.

And yet, he did. He couldn’t resist. His bear couldn’t resist.

Brenna was facing away from him, submerged in water to her neck. Her rich red hair had darkened in the river.

Astrid was facing Brenna and therefore could see that he was watching, but she didn’t give him away.

He didn’t have a chance to wonder why she kept his secret because just then Brenna rose out of the water and his attention was transfixed. Her long hair covered her back and ended at a set of dimples that served as a crown over a rounded arse and a set of flaring hips.

He held his breath as she ran a cloth over her arms, then Brenna pushed her hair to the side, collected it and wrung it out.

The vision before him was unspeakable.

Calder grunted, then glanced at his cohorts to see if they’d noticed.

Gunnar was watching him with a raised brow.

“Too much ale last night.” Calder rubbed his sternum as though he’d just burped.

Torsten nodded sympathetically, as he was always one to put down a bit more ale than the others.

Calder chanced another peek. Her back was still turned.

He regarded the white flesh; it was crisscrossed with angry red slash marks.

Frowning, he turned away from the horrific visage.

Who had beaten her with such fierceness as to break the skin and leave those scars?

Who would whip a married woman?

He wondered how long she’d been married. Had her husband seen those? Had he taken issue with her father for having caused them?

Then it occurred to him. Perhaps it wasn’t her father. Could her own husband have done that to her? What man would?

An anger built within him, seething and simmering like stew in the cauldron.

In Calder’s mind, his bear roared at the sight of the scars.