Forbidden Viking

by Ree Thornton

  "I shouldn't, but I can't help myself." He crushed his mouth to hers, the fervent strokes of his tongue stoking the fire deep within her into an inferno.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and everything disappeared. The rough touch of the boulder against her arm, the gentle trickle of the river, even the daylight. There was only the taste of his mouth and the heat pooling between her legs. She moaned and pressed closer, feeling the hard ridge of his desire pressed against her stomach.

  He pulled away, a low guttural groan indicating his reluctance. "We should stop."

  Still dazed, Samara fingered her swollen lips. "Swimming…kissing. I like these Viking ways. What else will you show me?"

  "Pleasing things," he whispered in her ear, his hot breath hitting her neck and making her shudder.

  "Like what?" she stammered, her eyes drifting closed.

  His teeth scraped across her earlobe, before his tongue darted out to soothe the tender flesh.

  Oh my! She wanted…more. She didn't know what was missing, but she was sure Valen could give it to her.

  "Like fishing …" His lips burned a trail down her neck. "Or hawking. And kissing… much more kissing."

  "Hawking?" Samara's eyes popped open. She'd long wanted to try hawking, but no matter how much she'd begged her father, his hawking parties had always left without her.

  "Have you been?" Valen asked, as he nipped at her neck.

  She gasped at the surge of pleasure that followed the sting of his gentle bite. "It is forbidden."

  He pulled back and looked down at her. "Naught is forbidden here, Princess. I'll find time to take you."

  She whimpered at the friction of her nipples rubbing against his chest and the press of his hardened staff against her belly, and then abandoned all coherent thought as his hands gently cupped her face and he claimed her mouth once more.

  Chapter Nine

  Valen

  Valen swallowed a groan as he kissed Samara long and deep. She tasted like the sweet fresh water and his thirst was unquenchable.

  She whimpered her approval, and her lips moved with the same ardent desperation as his own.

  He pulled away, his gaze dropping to the wet shift plastered to where her breasts pressed to his chest, creating a tantalizing swell of creamy flesh. He trailed soft kisses down to the hollow of her neck. Blessed Freya, help him. He was painfully hard. Holding her in his arms was foolish—she made him feel more alive than he had in years. He'd long avoided contact with women, beyond occasional rutting to satiate his urges, content to perform the act without intimacy or attachment. But this, holding Samara against him, threatened to equal what he'd felt with Kalda.

  "Valen..." she said in a breathy whisper.

  He needed to stop now, or he'd wrap her legs around his waist and take her until she screamed his name as she tightened around him. He shivered. By the gods, it was hopeless—he couldn't control this hunger for her.

  "NEI! Calla, my baby!" The piercing scream cut through the soothing trickle of water flowing past and birds chirping.

  He snapped his head up, instantly pulled from the intoxicating haze of rapture. He knew that voice—it was Mara.

  Samara shoved him away and listened attentively to the murmur of panicked shouts drifting on the breeze. "Something's wrong." She dove in and swam away from him, her arms cutting through the water swiftly as she crossed the river.

  He followed and chased her up the riverbank to their discarded clothes.

  She grabbed her dress and threw it on, oblivious to the fact her wet shift clung to her skin, baring all. "Hurry!" She ran along the riverbank toward the noise.

  Were they under attack? Valen yanked on his boots and rushed after her. He had to keep her close, where he could protect her, until he could assess the threat. "Samara, wait."

  She ignored him and disappeared around the bend that had sheltered them from view.

  He ran faster and caught up to Samara as she pushed her way through to the front of a panicked crowd that had gathered at the water's edge.

  "La..." Samara's hands flew to her chest.

  "Nei!"

  His gaze fell to where his clanswoman Mara sat on the damp riverbank with her little girl lying limp in her arms. The child's skin was drained of color, her lips the same dangerous tinge of blue he'd seen on many a drowned warrior.

  "How did this happen?"

  "The children were jumping from a tree into the river. She must have hit her head, because she was found floating face down," Dànel said.

  "Wake up, Calla. Wake up," Mara sobbed, as she rocked her lifeless daughter back and forth.

  He crouched down, his heart sinking as he watched Mara wrestle with her grief. The child wasn't breathing—it was too late.

  Samara dropped to her knees in front of Mara.

  He thought she would offer the woman comfort, but she reached out, gently smoothed the child's hair from her eyes, and then bent to listen over the child's mouth.

  Mara shoved her hard in the shoulder. "Get away. Get away from her." The woman's eyes were wide with terror as she screeched and pulled her child away.

  Samara teetered off balance but then leaned toward Mara once more. "Let me try save her," she pleaded. She lifted her eyes to meet his. "Let me try," she repeated.

  He paused. Should he let her try? Something in her pleading eyes gave him a spark of hope. He would do anything for the little girl to live. He looked at Mara. "Let her try."

  Mara collapsed as though all will to live abandoned her as he and Samara pried the child from her arms and laid her flat on the ground.

  He looked up at Samara, taking in her stern-faced expression and pursed lips. "What can I do?" he asked.

  Samara released a shaky breath. "Keep everyone back. I must do this alone."

  He nodded, and pushed himself to his feet. "Move away." He spread his arms wide and forced everyone back.

  He stood behind her, prepared to step in if the crowd turned on her. If she failed, the whispers of her being a witch would be unstoppable. He could only hope it would not come to that.

  Samara pinched Calla's tiny nose between her thumb and forefinger and used her other hand to open her little mouth. She bent at the waist, opened her mouth, and placed it over the child's open one.

  He jerked. Was she kissing the dead child? Did she want to get herself killed?

  Shock rippled through the crowd.

  He raised his hand to still the few that had stepped forward prepared to defend the small child.

  Samara's chest heaved as she exhaled with a noisy whoosh.

  Calla's tiny chest rose as it filled with air, and then fell as Samara moved her mouth away.

  He watched in fascination as she repeated the action. She was plainly trying to breathe life in the dead child. Would it work?

  Her hands shook as the powerful force he'd felt many times on the battlefield rushed through her body, but not once did her focus waver from the child as she repeated the act over and over. A fierce woman hid beneath her reserved exterior, one that would do anything to save the child.

  Though time had slowed to a crawl, as it often did when faced with death, eventually he knew that the child had been dead far too long. Samara had tried, but failed to save the girl.

  "Breathe, little one." He watched as Samara, oblivious to the watchful crowd and passing of time, continued to force air into the lifeless child, unwilling to accept the death in front of her.

  He couldn't let this continue any longer. The gods had claimed the child. He crouched down beside Samara. He placed a hand on her shoulder and realized that her whole body shook beneath her damp dress. She needed to stop before she made herself sick.

  "Samara…"

  Her shoulder tensed beneath his hand.

  "She's..."

  As he spoke, the little girl's stomach contracted, her legs pulling up toward her chest, then falling back to the ground.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  Mara gasped, her teary eyes still
riveted on her daughter's body.

  Calla's body jerked once more, and her scrawny shoulders rose and fell as water began to spill from her mouth.

  He froze, the pounding of his heart escalating to a deafening roar in his ears.

  Samara pushed the girl onto her side and thumped her on the back hard three times.

  The child spluttered, vomited up more liquid, and then opened her eyes and began to wail.

  Thank the gods! The surge of elation was so strong he almost fell back on his ass, just barely saving himself in time. She'd done it! She'd wrestled the child from the clutches of the goddess Hel.

  "Calla. Oh, my baby." Mara reached for her child, and then stopped and looked at Samara.

  Samara slumped, her shoulders sagging as she nodded that it was safe.

  Mara pulled her daughter into her arms, tears running down her face as she hugged her daughter tight.

  He wrapped an arm around Samara and lifted her to her feet, noting how she wobbled unsteadily. She was on the downward slide that followed life-threatening battles. He pressed her to his side and held her upright. She was strong and stubborn, but the shaking had spread to her whole body and he knew her legs would not work yet.

  She went limp in his arms, allowing him to support her.

  His attention returned to his people. He didn't know how they'd react to what they'd just seen. She'd saved the child, so he doubted they'd hurt her, but would they fear her even more? Fear made men unpredictable—he'd seen it often on the battlefield.

  The crowd surged forward, their gentle hands reaching out to pat Samara on the back or clasp her trembling fingers in a show of gratitude.

  The tension eased from his shoulders. He watched her, tired but politely returning each thankful gesture and smile. Óðinn, he was proud of this woman. She had fought hard, even through his own doubts, to save one of his own. He cupped her chin and tilted her head back.

  Her eyes were glassy as she looked through him. She was still dazed, and completely unaware that she had won the heart of his clan. In her haste to save Calla, she had abandoned all pretense and shown everyone the truth of her kind heart. Now that the Eriksson clan had claimed her, she would always have a place with his people.

  "I did it." Samara rested her head on his chest, a satisfied smile lighting her face.

  "That you did, Princess." He swept an arm under her legs and lifted her up against his chest. As he looked down at her, the first twinge of hope he'd felt in years crept in. She was a princess and his clan had claimed her. Mayhap he could have it all? The very admission pained him, but he still wanted the comfort of a woman's love and all that it entailed—laughter, tender caresses, passionate nights, children...

  If he could just convince his father, then mayhap they could merge their two kingdoms, and he could have his feisty princess too?

  Chapter Ten

  Valen

  Four nights later, Valen stood in the great hall beside Rorik and nursed his ale. The room was loud with the chatter of competition, heated debate about rules, and the occasional rowdy accusation of cheating that required he intervene and broker peace. He smiled as he watched his guests play the various games of strategy and skill.

  Rorik shook his head at the warriors gathered around a table at the far end of the room, chugging down pitchers of ale. "They are willing to risk tomorrow's pain to be crowned champion drinker. Fools!"

  "Já. They shall regret it when I wake them at dawn." His gaze left the rowdy group and moved to watch his brother Ulf move a piece on a Hnefatafl board and nod at Siv Gustafsson opposite him. Hnefatafl was the most popular game by far, and Valen had counted more than six battle boards in play around the hall.

  As he found himself doing often these days, he searched the room for Samara. The long forgotten thrill of wooing a woman had returned since that first kiss at the river. That she was forbidden to him had only heightened his hunger for her company.

  "Your eyes betray you, brother. Is that where you disappeared this day?" Rorik's teasing tone held a twinge of concern.

  "I was hawking," he replied, omitting to mention Samara had accompanied him. She was a natural, not that he was surprised. He'd been jealous of the damn bird, until she'd reminded him of the secret kisses they'd stolen over the last few days. He'd almost thrown her over his shoulder and taken her to his bed when she'd clasped his hand beneath the table earlier tonight. His yearning for the woman was staggering.

  "Is that what we are calling it now?" Rorik gave him a knowing look, and then walked off and disappeared out the door, no doubt seeking the solitude of his hut and the company of the livestock he tended.

  A few moments later, he spotted Samara across the hall in deep discussion with his mother. He couldn't hold back his grin.

  She had her back to him, her dark hair hanging loose with the tips of her dark curls kissing her perfectly rounded ass.

  He adjusted the part of him that always swelled when she was near. By the gods, he ached for her as he had for no other woman.

  A smile lit his mother's face as she patted Samara affectionately on the shoulder. The days of mistrust before Samara had saved Calla seemed like the distant past. Everyone adored her, especially his family.

  Especially him.

  "I see you watching her."

  He stiffened at the harsh tone in his father's voice.

  "Don't do this to yourself." The Jarl's cold stare was intent upon Samara and his wife.

  So, Samara hadn't won over everyone in his family. Not that there was anything she could do that would make her a suitable match in his father's eyes.

  "You see naught, Father."

  "Do not lie to me." His father turned to him, his displeasure clear on his face. "No good can come of this for either of you. You must marry for an alliance."

  He huffed in response. He loved his father, but the old man was wrong this time. "She's a royal princess, and an alliance with Caliph Radi-el Abbasid would be good for the clan."

  "Nei." His father barked the word with a curt finality. "Your wife must be Viking."

  "But we could open up new trade routes."

  "I said nei. You needn't wed her to trade with the Caliph, but you must marry the daughter of a Jarl to secure another Viking ally. You know this, Valen." His father scowled, forbidding further argument, before he turned on his heel and stomped away.

  He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as he watched his father return to the raised chair he would soon occupy as Jarl. The weight of responsibility that settled back on his shoulders felt heavier than ever before. His father was right. He must wed to strengthen his position as Jarl, as not doing so would be seen as weakness and would leave his people and lands open to attack. He couldn't risk it. There was too much at stake to throw away tradition.

  "You look vexed. Is something wrong?" The heat of Samara's hand on his shoulder burned straight through his shirt.

  He studied the roughly carved rune on the smooth timber cup in his hand. He couldn't have her. He had to make her see that.

  "What are we doing, Princess?"

  The question was vague, but from her knowing look, she understood his meaning. A soft smile lit her face. "Soon I will be gone. Nothing more than a collection of thoughts that die with those I met on this isle. We will both be alone."

  "You will not be lonely." He frowned at the thought of her sad and alone in a palace deep in the desert of her homeland.

  "Like you, I will marry a stranger. We will both be lonely, Valen."

  She was right. He already lost Kalda and soon he'd have to let Samara go too. He did not want to wake up and not see this strong, brave, and stubborn woman that challenged him in every way. His heart swelled with a feeling he'd thought long since dead. He felt like he'd been struck down by Thor's hammer as the truth hit him—he was falling for her.

  She tilted her head and studied him curiously, waiting for him to speak.

  He admired this kind-hearted, witty, and often exasperating princess! Somehow, s
he had laid claim to his barren heart and brought it back to life. She was right—there was a good chance that his marriage would be loveless and lonely, but if the other clans discovered that he had chosen to bed her rather than one of their daughters, then he would never find a wife. And he knew naught of the consequences she would face, but surely they would not be good either.

  "We risk too much for something fleeting," he said. She had to understand that.

  She shook her head, leaned closer, and lowered her voice. "We will keep it a secret. Soon I will be gone and there will be no danger to your kingdom."

  Was she right? He weighed her proposition carefully. If they could keep it a secret, then there would be little harm done. Even so, bedding the forbidden princess was dangerous. He would stop before it went that far.

  She rose up onto her toes and whispered in his ear. "I vow to embrace every moment until we must part. Will you?"

  Her hot breath on his ear added fuel to the fire that her words had sparked within him. By the gods, he wanted to take every moment they could to be together too.

  She lowered her heels to the floor, sipped her wine, and looked around the room casually. Maybe this could work. She was very good at presenting what people expected to see. She had fooled him after all.

  "Já. I will." He nodded his acquiescence before he could change his mind. Soon enough he would be Jarl and sacrifice his own happiness for his people. Just this once he would do as he wished, and hope that it would bring him the comfort she spoke of in the years ahead. He would do this, and hope that it didn't kill him to watch her leave.

  Her eyes widened as though she was surprised at his easy capitulation.

  "Come," he said, and led her to an empty table. "Let's play."

  "What is the game?" she asked, her eyes shining as she placed her cup on the table and lowered herself gracefully in the chair opposite him.

  "Hnefatafl."

  "King's table?" she translated, and leaned forward to study the board.

  He nodded. "Do you know it?"

  She shook her head. "Nei."