by Gina Conkle
Copyright © 2017 by Valkyrie Publishing. All rights reserved.
No part of this work, To Steal a Viking Bride, may be may reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without the proper written permission of the copyright owner unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal copyright law.
All fictional characters in this story have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention. © Copyright 2017 Gina Conkle All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. V 1.0
ISBN: 978-0-9983056-2-2
Cover Art: Rebecca Poole, Dreams2Media
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
NORSE JEWEL
TO FIND A VIKING TREASURE
CHAPTER ONE
Wars and weddings were alike in her father’s longhouse…celebrations marked with roast venison, rose hip mead, and raucous laughter. And much revelry. Except the old women. They drank quietly, their aged eyes fixed on the fire pit. Eira’s cheek brushed the leather curtain she stood behind. She tried to read their faces through a break in the weave.
What secrets did the elders hide?
They’d seen enough merriment honoring marriage and battle. The two feasts could be cut from the same cloth.
Her gaze slid to the great chair where her father, Den Gamle, Aland’s greatest chieftain raised a silver-trimmed drinking horn. The chair would be hers as would the man beside it, Steinar of Uppakra, a Viking of great standing and lethal ambition. Beautiful and strong, he could be the perfect mate, but when the time was right, she’d kill him. He deserved it for what he’d done three years past.
Steinar’s pale blue stare searched the room, measuring, counting, full of expectation.
“Calculating our wealth, is he?” She clutched the key ring heavy on her thigh. “He works harder to open my father’s chests than my heart.”
Fine saffron wool stretched across his massive chest. Steinar didn’t need more silver, and he didn’t need her. She was a prize. Nothing more.
His well-shaped lips tightened when he spied her empty seat. She stepped back in the shadows. The curtain had been her mother’s idea, a lattice weave of leather strips hanging from the ceiling to hide unsightly barrels in the corner of the hall. When her sister Ginna had whispered to her, “We need more apples,” she was glad to slip away for a moment of quiet. The bucket of fruit in hand, it was time to return.
Cool drafts stirred her skirts. “Who left the back door—”
A brawny arm manacled her waist. The bucket dropped. Apples tumbled underfoot as she struggled against a wall of muscle and heat.
“Don’t fight me,” a male voice rasped into her ear.
Her eyes flared wide. She opened her mouth to scream, tasting salty hand and seal oil. Rough whiskers raked her neck.
“More than a hundred men are outside. One battle cry from me and they’ll storm this longhouse. Understand?”
Limbs locked, her gaze shot across the hall. Ginna laughed with her husband, Ivar, her belly round with child. Eira gave a jerky nod. Her captor’s arm slid up her body, pressing her breasts as he walked her backward.
Was he stealing her? Or worse?
Sweat beaded her forehead. The smooth white tip of her favorite paring knife poked from her pocket. She reached for the elk bone handle, crying out in pain when a large, calloused hand crushed hers.
The warrior’s breath was hot on her neck. “Drop it.”
Hand shaking, her knuckles showed white. Wide-eyed, she struggled to see the man behind her. He couldn’t have seen the knife. He knew it was there. Her teeth scraped the hand covering her mouth, but the warrior pinched her nose. Metal flashed…her blade’s iron and a gold arm ring on her captor’s wrist.
Skin hot, her body craved a breath. She pushed back with all her might. A barrel thumped the wall. Air…the lack of it sunk her empty lungs. Her body fell against her captor. The hold on her nose slackened. Sweet air wheezed through her nostrils and filled her chest. The man grunted, but he squeezed her blade-wielding hand harder.
Five men played goat bone flutes across the hall, the light notes floating strangely. Her breath came fast, sharp. A solid thigh squashed her bottom. Blonde hair fell across her eyes in the furious dance to be free. An ivory comb dangled over her breast. Shouts of laughter rang in the hall. New heat surged her limbs. She pushed again. The warrior rammed a barrel, toppling a turnip bucket.
“Eira! Stop fighting me,” the voice hissed in her ear.
She jerked at the sound of her name. Hand numb, she dropped the knife. Beyond the lattice curtain Aland’s people reveled as she battled the invader. He dragged her to the back door. Panting hard she clawed her captor’s leather arm braces. Legs wheeling in the air, she drove back with all her might.
Thunk. Her head hit his chin and the world spun.
Feet twisted with his, she landed hard on apples and turnips. She winced at faint stars dancing before her eyes. The noisy feast, the goat bone flutes carried on. Her head throbbed. Lumps gouged her ribs and thighs.
A grey wolf-skin boot stirred on her blue skirt. Tattered red garters crossed the fur. For a split second her breath stopped. The same booted foot had lifted her skirt a long time ago.
“Gunnar?” She rolled over.
Brown eyes narrowed with accusation inches from her. Light from the great hall slashed his sensual features marred by a newly seared wound slanting cheek to chin. Soot smudged and raven-haired, he could be a prince of darkness come for his due.
“Your face—”
“It’s nothing.” He grimaced and pushed himself upright as if he needed distance between them.
A lump formed in her throat. Gunnar rested gingerly against the barrel, both legs stretched out before him. She hungered for details. The places he’d seen. The things he’d done. She sat up, feasting her eyes on him. Exhaustion shadowed his face, but his shoulders were broader, arms thicker, even his hands resting on long thighs were bigger. Three years spent in far flung places changed a man, made him wiser or proved him a fool. Hardness tinged Gunnar’s once-soulful eyes, and his mouth twisted, bitter and wordless.
Did he plan to starve her of conversation?
Her heart thumped like the hall’s drums. Time hadn’t dimmed her lust for the warrior, but it fueled a confusing brew of anger, concern, and want.
“This is bad timing with the war in Uppsala.” Wetness bloomed on his tunic over his ribs. “Or perhaps you’ve already been there?” Touching the spot left her fingers sticky. “You’re bleeding.”
“I’m healing.” Gunnar grabbed her hand and held tight. “I think my timing’s good…showing up at your betrothal feast.”
“I don’t. You’re one year too late.”
“Have you forgotten your promise to wait for me?” His eyes sparked harshly.
“I waited for you,” she hissed, yanking her hand free. “But you didn’t come.”
The barest flinch betrayed Gunnar, proof her words hit a tender mark. He watched her, his face a stoic mask as music reached high notes beyond the curtain.
Why did he come back now?
Fed by rumors he was alive and well in foreign places, she’d worked hard to bury the sting of rejection. Time was a healer. Summer had slid into harvest. She’d busied herself culling the herds and working her loom. When winter came, frozen nights blurred together. At the first sign of a new summer, the sea lanes opened, bringing Steinar to her shores. The will of the gods was clear. Gunnar was not for her.
He touched her skirt. “If you marry Steinar, it’ll be the worst mistake of your life.”
“Why? Because he’s your half-brother?”
“Because only I can make you happy,” he said with certainty.
Raven-haired Gunnar was a corner born son, the offspring of Steinar’s mother and a handsome Greek slave. As a babe, his mother had sheltered him from her brutal husband, Hrolf. Once he became a fledgling man, she sent him to live with kindly King Olof of Uppsala. There Gunnar learned to fight, though he preferred to carve wood over wielding a sword.
Her heart softened at the weight of his hand on her leg. Warm currents touched her skin the same as three years ago when he’d laid her on a bed of ferns and traced a line up her bare leg. Gunnar had whispered how perfect she was, inching her hem higher with gentle words of love. Vivid images flashed…his eyes black with passion as his hand caressed hidden flesh. Long sensual fingers parted tender folds of skin between her legs.
“We were young and foolish.” Her voice quavered.
Gunnar stroked her thigh, his fine lips curving with satisfaction. He read her every twitch tonight as he had then. Even better, he understood her. Their youthful summer was filled with him finishing her sentences and kissing her senseless. For a woman raised to fight and hunt as well as any man, his sensitivity penetrated dormant places.
He plucked the ivory comb from her bedraggled tresses. “You’re wearing your hair like other high born ladies.”
A self-conscious hand brushed the loops at her nape. “It was…expected.”
“When your mother died.” He removed another comb with care. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to hold you when you mourned her.”
His voice soothed her aching heart. Grief had been a luxury when her mother died at springtime. Rebellion had flared fast in Uppsala against King Olof, and her father counted on her to step into the void when he was called away. With only two daughters, she would inherit half the wealth and all the power. It was her birthright as the oldest daughter.
Sometimes in the quiet hours, she wished she wasn’t the capable one good with a sword and shield. People bowed respectfully and sought her judgement. Yet, authority was a heavy mantle. At night in her bed, she longed for simpler days.
“I thought you’d forsaken me for another,” she said sharply.
“Never.” Gunnar pulled the last comb, and her blonde hair fell free. “I had to fulfill my oath to Olof.”
“Of course you did,” she said bitterly. “Searching for his holy man friend in Byzantium instead of staying with me.” Yet she scooted closer, needing him the way a moth craved a flame.
King Olof had saved Gunnar’s life from Hrolf three summers past. It was the same summer her father promised Hrolf she’d wed his son, Steinar. Rebellion had flared hotly in her. She refused to do her father’s bidding. Steinar had lusted for her, but no more than he did for other fair maids. It’d be a marriage for wealth and power, benefitting the people of Uppakra and Aland.
Once Hrolf caught wind of the young lovers, he’d nearly killed Gunnar, and Steinar had been the one to alert him.
“I had debts to fulfill.” Gunnar brushed back blonde wisps falling around her face. “It was the only way. Now I’m free to be with you.”
Could life be that simple? A single vow bonding a man and woman, the tie mightier than swords or silver?
Her lashes fluttered low. Three summers past, she let the black-eyed youth secret her away to the forest armed with a blanket and an ampoule of Rhenish wine. There amongst ferns and butterflies, Gunnar had lifted her skirts and lowered her bodice. He’d planted a hundred kisses on her shoulders and neck before his lips grazed her nipples. She’d melted under his tender torture, the same as she weakened for him now.
Musical notes from the great hall pitched higher, faster. Sitting on her awkward bed of apples and turnips, her breasts ached for his touch.
Gunnar’s hand slipped under her skirt. “Come away with me.”
Her breath hitched when his fingers grazed her inner thigh. Softly he teased her skin. How well his hand fit on the private curve. When she opened her eyes, a bold, claiming light glinted under Gunnar’s black lashes. Strong male fingers inched higher to the plump flesh at the top of her thigh. Her skin flushed with anticipation.
Expectation was a weapon Gunnar brandished well. He was a natural in the sensual arts. Brown eyes lit darkly as if to say you were formed for me and me alone. With his ink black hair and talented hands, he’d lured her three summers past in Uppsala the way a skilled piper enthralls the listening ear. He was a Viking warrior with an artist’s soul. His father’s foreign blood colored Gunnar differently, tainting him. He was appealing to women. Tender at times. Or darkly seductive.
Wetness trickled down the seam between her legs. Male fingertips teased her inner thigh. Music pitched higher beyond the leather curtain. Pale beams filtered through the weave on the wall above his head. The crowd. The aroma of crushed apples. Her heart beat faster. Anyone could catch them.
Breath skipped in her chest. “Gunnar. I—”
“Gunnar.” Light flooded the barrels. “You’re finally here. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.”
Ginna let the curtain fall behind her. She lumbered into the storage area and stopped short at the mess.
“Another woman who doubts me,” he jested.
Eira jumped to her feet. “You knew he was coming?”
“I sent for him,” Ginna said, going down on both knees. She turned Eira’s bucket upright and began tossing apples into it. “The two of you, stop gawking and help me.”
Gunnar set the second bucket right and laughing softly, began collecting turnips. “You didn’t give me enough time to woo your sister.”
Eira’s mouth fell open. Her mind spun, trying to weave sense from what they said. Beyond the leather curtain, a saucy serving woman poured Steinar’s mead, rubbing her breast on his arm. Borgunna. The woman was Ginna’s childhood friend and a quick flirt. A drummer joined the goat bone flutes behind her father’s great chair. The crowd thickened with newcomers.
“You could help, Eira.” Ginna sat back on her heels, rubbing the small of her back. “Borgunna can’t stall Steinar forever.”
“I don’t understand.” She dropped to the ground, her clumsy hands gathering the fruit. “You knew Gunnar was coming. On the eve of my wedding. Why?”
“I was supposed to arrive days ago,” Gunnar said. “But fighting began in Uppsala. There was a thrall…a woman named Sestra—” he shrugged apologetically “—she did a brave thing. I vowed to help her.”
Her hands fisted at her sides. “A woman?”
“Eira,” he chided. “She means nothing to me.”
“Yet you stayed for her? And left me for three years.” Her voice pitched high. “You and your vows of honor.” Her chest hurt. She wanted to lash out and make him suffer. “Perhaps it’s a good thing Steinar told Hrolf about us.”
“Steinar didn’t say a word to Hrolf.” Ginna stood up and wiped dirt smudges off her yellow skirt. “I did.”
Coldness hit Eira. Both hands covered her stomach as if she’d been punched. Shadows bathed her sister’s face in half-light, yet the dim room couldn’t hide her keen eyes. Ginna’s wheat blonde hair looped in perfect, smooth coils at her nape. No comb was out of place. No pleat mussed.
“You were so rebellious.” Ginna’s blue gaze darted at Gunnar. “So determined to marry him.”
“Why do you care who I
marry?”
“Look at them.” Ginna waved an emphatic arm at the gathering. “Every man, woman, and child here celebrates the war in Uppsala. They can’t wait to die with a sword in hand.”
Eira’s attention ricocheted from her sister to the festive throngs before landing on the gold arm ring Gunnar wore.
Ginna eyed the gold arm too. She grasped Gunnar’s wrist and held it to the light. “This is why they fight.”
A sprouting plant and cross punched the gold, the mark of Vikings who followed the White Christ. King Olof had tried to do away with the Norse ways, but the people of Uppsala defied him.
“What’s happening in Uppsala could happen here, if you marry a Christian.” Ginna’s voice trembled. “Is that what you want for us? More bloodshed?”
Gunnar jerked his hand free and stepping closer, he cupped Eira’s cheek. “Listen to me. I came for you because I said I would.” His voice dropped lower. “Because I love you more than I did three years ago. It’s always been you, Eira. Always.”
Time and battles had whittled change in his features, but he was still the same good man. And he’d come for her. She clutched her bodice. Her chest ached. Her eyes stung with tears that wanted shedding.
“All this time I’ve blamed Steinar for what happened,” she whispered.
Gunnar had been badly beaten by Hrolf before King Olof intervened. Her mother had spirited her away and poured a calming tincture down her throat that made her eyes heavy and her limbs sluggish. In the dead of night, a bruised and bloodied Gunnar had roused her. He bid her to wait for him.
The next day she awoke and Gunnar was gone. The people of Uppsala gossiped about King Olof sending him and a handful of men to Byzantium to fetch a holy man. Numb in mind and body, the kindly king had beckoned her to his barn. He told her the journey would be long. Two summers would pass, and he repeated Gunnar’s plea that she wait for him.
Lips twisting bitterly, she glared at Ginna. “I trusted you! I told you about our trysts…our plans…”
“You broke our mother’s heart when you chose a Christian born of a slave father.” Ginna’s jet beads dangled long against her pale neck. “You’re foolish to think the people of Aland would accept him beside you.”