Magnus
Viking Surrender
Emmanuelle de Maupassant
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. With the exception of well-known historical figures and places, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2019 - Emmanuelle de Maupassant
Cover Design by Emmy Ellis
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Contents
About Emmanuelle de Maupassant
Introduction
VIKINGS
Where it all begins...
Magnus
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Nine Passionate Viking Romances
About Emmanuelle de Maupassant
Emmanuelle lives with her husband (maker of the best fruit cake ever) and with her little Skye Terrier, Ms. Scruffy, (connoisseur of squeaky toys and bacon treats).
Writing heroines who know their own mind, and heroes who appreciate a woman’s worth.
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Website - www.emmanuelledemaupassant.com
Welcome to the Viking Surrender series: a scorchingly hot collection of nine sizzling Viking romances.
If you’re yet to read the Prologue to this romance, please do before you dive in to Magnus and Modwen’s story.
(find it FREE here, on Amazon)
The Prologue sets the scene for all that happens next, so you don’t want to miss out…
We hope the nine romances in this series provide welcome escape and entertainment, that they inspire you and transport you.
While you’re cheering for our heroes and heroines, we want you to cheer for yourself. Like the women and men in these tales, you’re stronger than you may realize, more resourceful and more determined.
As for happy endings, we all need to believe that things can get better if we persevere, that there is hope, and the chance to embrace a life of love and friendship and contentment.
Go get ‘em!
VIKING SURRENDER
A horde of battle-hardened, ferocious Nordic warriors.
A Pictish village at the mercy of its enemies.
A harrowing bargain struck for nine fearful and reluctant brides.
Delivered into Viking hands, claimed and conquered, each bride must accept that she belongs to her new master. But, as wedding nights bring surrender to duty, will fierce lovers also surrender their hearts?
The Highland wilderness is savage, life is perilous, and the future uncertain, but each Viking has sworn protection, and there are no lengths to which a man will not go to safeguard the woman he loves.
Nine provocatively sensual tales of suspense, seduction and adventure, told against the forbidding backdrop of medieval Scotland.
Journey together with indomitable heroes and intrepid heroines, as they discover that the raging storms of fear and passion can transform into enduring devotion.
Dare to enter our world
Magnus - by Emmanuelle de Maupassant
Magnus is tortured by memories of his wife’s murder at the hands of savage berserkers, yet commanded to wed.
The valiant warrior finds unexpected passion in his new bride’s arms, but can Modwen’s love heal the wounds of his battle-scarred heart—or will another’s jealousy destroy them both?
Where it all begins...
Have you read the FREE Prologue to ‘Magnus’?
If not, please download your complimentary copy HERE, from Amazon
Magnus
Emmanuelle de Maupassant
1
It had been a good day for sailing.
The wind was whipping her skirts as he kissed her and tugged her long plait. She laughed, returning the caress of his sea-salted lips.
When he returned from fishing with Hagen and Gulbrand, their young sons, she’d have a surprise waiting. Something to serve alongside the fish they’d catch. The lingonberries were ripening, and she knew the best gathering places.
She’d ventured deep into the forest, filling her basket, staining her fingers scarlet. She hadn’t known about the attack on Skalanes. Hadn’t realised until it was too late.
In his dreams, she didn’t scream. Not at first.
Seeing them, she dropped her basket, and the berries spilled.
She ran, but they were swift, those wild-eyed beast-warriors in predator pelts. Faces dirty above her, they shivered with fevered urge.
Animals—not men. Feasting, until she was broken.
He woke with a jolt.
Solveig!
Gasping for breath, Magnus reached for his axe, his heart racing beneath the terrible, crushing ache in his chest. A wave of nausea followed close on, and he rolled over to retch, heaving until the spasm passed.
There was nothing he could do to bring her back.
His mouth was sour, and he needed to piss, but he kept his eyes closed, resting his fingertips on the sand, willing himself calm.
A third of his lifetime had passed, but still the dreams came—borne of memory and imagination, of what had happened, and his own helplessness to change any of it.
The gods had forsaken him, taking what he most loved, letting her die. Hadn’t he lived as Odin would wish? With courage and discipline, self-reliance and honesty?
Wasn’t he just and loyal and honourable?
None of that had been enough.
He shifted onto his side, then sat up, looking out at the glimmering sea. Far, far below, so the skalds told them, lay Jörmungandr—the great serpent girdling this world, waiting for battle with Thor at the end of days.
All this was to come, ice and fire, death and rebirth from beneath a blackened sun. Eternal. Unstoppable.
And still he breathed, his lungs pulling air in and out, as ceaselessly as the pebbles pushed and drawn by the tide. Blighted and heartless, cast upon this accursed place, and bound by his loyalty to Brandr’s command.
To take a wife, of all things.
To bury his misery and embrace this new land.
To put
aside his devouring spite and return to what he’d once been.
Impossible.
2
Modwen pushed open one of the great doors that ran across the front of the forge and squinted through the dim interior. There was no reason for them to be closed. The longest days were nigh upon them, and there was yet light in the sky. Plenty to work by.
Two summers had passed since she’d last heard the distinctive ring of hammer upon iron. None in Achnaryrie had the skill nor strength to wield the tools; not since the death of Galan—though their son had been soon to begin learning his father’s trade.
The sound carried across their jutting peninsula, high above the sea. Perhaps even down the cliff path to the beach, where the rest of the Norsemen were encamped.
Having feasted well, they were mostly sleeping, sated with drink and food, but the man she must now call husband was here. With only the illumination of the furnace to guide him, he struck at the clasps of the shackles he’d been set to mending.
Shackles for Rhiannon.
Foolhardy of the girl to have drawn her dagger. More foolish still to have wounded one of these strangers, the brother of their jarl, no less. If he died, she’d pay dearly.
Reckless and misguided, but admirable, too, Rhiannon had never given up the will to fight, taking up arms to defend against those who would plunder.
From the south and west, beyond the forests and the fast-flowing waters of Dunnock Burn, had come raiders—first to trade, but then to steal. Through skirmishes and constant fighting, Achnaryrie had become a settlement of women, its menfolk killed or harshly wounded.
Many nights, Modwen had lain awake, wondering what would become of them. Few livestock remained, and they’d scarce had strength to plant this year’s crops.
Their chieftain, Domnall, reclined upon his sickbed, little able to bargain on their behalf.
The arrival of these Norsemen was a blessing. Some might call the marriages to which they’d consented no better than servitude, but what choice did they have? To resist and be enslaved?
Better to make a truce, as Eithne had bartered for them.
“I’ve ale for you, husband—and food.” She held out the richly fragranced trencher, well-piled with roasted boar. It had been months since her people had eaten so well. Not only fierce warriors, the Norsemen they’d invited within their walls were good huntsmen, too.
He knew she was here, surely, but made no reply, keeping his head bent to the anvil. Again, Magnus lifted the hammer, a single spark flying as its weight connected with the metal below. What would he look like in battle, she wondered, using those powerful warrior arms to wield an axe or sword?
Gathering her courage, Modwen moved closer.
With her eyes growing accustomed to the dark, she saw he’d thrown off his leather tunic and was stripped bare to the waist.
His skin glistened with sweat—from the heat of the flames and exertion. How powerful his arms were, the muscles flexing with each raising of the hammer. She took in the breadth of his chest and great shoulders, the strength of his neck and jaw. A strange pattern covered his abdomen—eight arrows, forked, radiating from the centre. Another adorned his right arm—like the handle of a sword. She frowned. No, a hammer, of course, interwoven with knots.
A thick scar bisected his left eyebrow, passing jagged through his cheek. Others, smaller, marred the sun-darkened skin of his chest and shoulders. A single, curving wound had sliced his rigid abdomen.
He was a stranger to her, but something primitive within herself responded to the sight of him. She knew that feeling. That hunger.
She hadn’t forgotten Galan, but he was no longer here to claim her, to protect or comfort her. She belonged to this man now, and his pleasure would be her bidding. If she were fortunate, he’d be considerate and gentle—he’d uphold the vows he’d made before Father Godfrey, keeping her and the children safe and well-fed.
Had he been waiting for her all this time? Expecting her to come? Was he angry that she’d not presented herself sooner?
If so, then to show herself willing would be wise. There was no soft place to lay in the forge, but men seemed to care little for such comfort.
Alpia and Taran were safely abed in the hut.
Placing the victuals and ale upon the bench of tools, Modwen took another step. Swiftly, she unlaced the fastening at the front of her gown to reveal the softer fabric of her smock beneath.
All through the day, she’d been aware of what must come. Had thought of little else, if truth be told, but how his body would feel, pressed upon hers.
Now the moment was at hand, a sudden fear gripped her. She knew nothing of her new husband’s tastes.
Galan had never hurt her; at least, not intentionally. What of this Magnus? He had the strength to make her submit to whatever stirred him.
His hammer had fallen still, but his eyes remained downcast, and he appeared to frown.
For what did he wait? Her supplication?
Should she discard both garments, to stand naked before him? Her body was his more than her own, so the sacrament of marriage dictated, but she rebelled at presenting herself so. Didn’t she deserve some token of courtship, despite the circumstances of their joining?
Perhaps his ways were different. Or, had she disappointed him? She was younger than he, but ten summers older than most of the other women. Did he think her unworthy?
She’d birthed two babes, and her body was yet strong.
Heated by indignation, she pulled down the yoke of her smock, baring her breasts. Let him see for himself.
She was no willow branch, her womanhood as lush as any man could desire. If he doubted it, let him test the firmness of her flesh.
“Husband?” She sought to muster some defiance, to let him see that she wouldn’t be ignored but, when he raised his head, her breath caught.
His eyes bore no trace of warmth, nor feeling. With lips pressed tight, he was all aversion, as if her presence were vile to him.
She knew not whether to cover herself and flee, or to fall upon her knees in entreaty.
A shiver passed through her as she stood, exposed under his hateful gaze.
Could she not see that he’d no stomach for meat nor ale? He’d removed himself to escape the mirth of those who would celebrate this day, and to escape the sight of her!
The skækja was brazen, showing him the goods of purchase.
She was comely enough, but he was in no mood to consummate this sham of a marriage.
In fealty to Brandr, he’d fulfilled his obligation, speaking the necessary vows. Yet, they’d stuck in his throat.
He’d grown from child to man alongside Brandr, and his loyalty sprung from friendship as much as duty. His Solveig had been cousin to Brandr’s wife, Sigrunn—lost the year before in delivering his child.
What deception had Brandr’s new bride worked to entice their jarl into this pact? Some enchantment was afoot, for the other men from Skalanes seemed far too willing to take these Pictish wenches to wife.
He’d have none of it.
It was doubtful the gods blessed these pairings, for what rituals had been observed? They’d offered their sacrificial blót, but none of the boar’s blood had been sprinkled upon them, and they’d given no exchange of ancestral swords.
As to the bridal ale, Brandr had been obliged to use their own store from the ships, Achnaryrie having exhausted its own supply of honeyed mead.
Magnus remembered, still, the night before his wedding to Solveig, going to the bath house to purify himself for the ceremony. Her father had made clear what he expected, laying out Magnus’s duties as husband. How proud he’d been, to take Solveig from the older man’s protection.
His bride had never looked more beautiful, in her crown of straw and wheat garlanded with cornflowers, her golden plaits looped between the blooms. And how brightly her eyes had shone.
Magnus grimaced.
Her father, at least, had not lived to see the cruel destiny woven for her.
At Brandr’s wish, in Achnaryrie he would stay, keeping weapons sharp and the farming tools in good order. No man would accuse him of failing his duty, but his time of husbanding was over. That, he’d leave to younger men.
Meanwhile, he wished to be left with the hammer and the flames, shaping iron to his will.
The wench yet brandished herself for his appraisal.
“Be gone,” he growled.
To his annoyance, she didn’t move, though her eyes grew wide, and he detected the first sheen of coming tears. She trembled under his glare.
Angered, he flung the hammer away, sending it thudding across the earthen floor. He clenched his fists. If need be, he’d throw her physically from his place of refuge.
“Be gone, woman!”
This time, his tone could not be mistaken.
With a cry of dismay, she clasped together the fabric of her gown and, clutching it to her, ran from his sight.
Magnus Page 1