Marrying Her Viking Enemy

by Harper St. George

  A Saxon maiden

  Bound to a Viking warrior

  Part of To Wed a Viking: The conquering Danes have taken everything from Elswyth—even her mother. So, despite the uneasy truce between their people, she knows where her loyalties lie. Until she meets towering Rolfe, leader of the opposing forces. Her mind knows this muscled Viking is her enemy. So why is her traitorous body so tempted by his suggestion that she become his wife?

  To Wed a Viking

  Saxon brides for Viking warriors

  Danes Rolfe and Aevir have long fought side by side in battle. They understand the fierce power and cruelty of battle, the meaning of loyalty and the satisfaction of victory.

  But being asked to take Saxon brides to secure the peace is new territory for these fearless warriors. It might be their biggest challenge yet!

  Read Elswyth and Rolfe’s story in

  Marrying Her Viking Enemy

  And look out for Ellan and Aevir’s story

  coming soon!

  Author Note

  I have always been fascinated by the Viking Age and the millions of dramas that must have turned up in ordinary life because of the melding of cultures that era produced. The strong women and men who found themselves forced together by circumstance and the way they dealt with the fallout is fodder for countless tales. My Viking stories are my hopes of how some of those could have played out with a happily-ever-after.

  I’m so thrilled to be setting off on yet another Viking adventure with my new series, To Wed a Viking. As the name suggests, all the books will feature heroines who, one way or another, find themselves wed to Viking husbands. I hope you enjoy reading how Elswyth finds her way to falling in love with her Viking enemy. Look for her sister, Ellan, to find her own happily-ever-after soon.

  Thank you for reading.

  HARPER

  ST. GEORGE

  Marrying Her

  Viking Enemy

  Harper St. George was raised in rural Alabama and along the tranquil coast of northwest Florida. It was these settings, filled with stories of the old days, that instilled in her a love of history, romance and adventure. In high school she discovered the romance novel, which combined all those elements into one perfect package. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband and two young children. Visit her website, harperstgeorge.com.

  Books by Harper St. George

  Harlequin Historical

  To Wed a Viking

  Marrying Her Viking Enemy

  Outlaws of the Wild West

  The Innocent and the Outlaw

  A Marriage Deal with the Outlaw

  An Outlaw to Protect Her

  Viking Warriors

  Enslaved by the Viking

  One Night with the Viking

  In Bed with the Viking Warrior

  The Viking Warrior’s Bride

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com for more titles.

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  With sincerest thanks to Laurie Benson, Nathan Jerpe and Tara Wyatt for their friendship and guidance while I was writing this book.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Excerpt from The Cinderella Countess by Sophia James

  Prologue

  ‘Traitors will be punished.’ Rolfe’s words rang out over the gathered crowd, punctuated by the roar of the newly set fire at his back.

  A black cloud of smoke rose high in the air, filling the village of Banford with its acrid scent as tongues of flame licked hungrily at the hut’s thatched roof. It was engulfed like kindling, half-burned to the ground by the time a blaze flickered to life on a second one. Tightening his hold on his stallion’s reins to be ready should one of the Saxon warriors dare to attempt to fight him, Rolfe ignored the sharp ache in his shoulder from yesterday’s battle. He refused to show weakness before these people, especially when he had to make certain that his words were heard.

  ‘We found one of your neighbours among the Scots we battled yesterday. Durwin was there as a friend to them, giving information to our enemy, and he raised his axe to us in battle.’ Durwin had been a simple farm worker with no sword to his name. He’d had no cause to meet with the Scots. No cause save the wounded pride that many of the Saxons seemed to share when it came to the Danes. On his cue, his men cut Durwin’s blanket-wrapped body down from a horse and laid him respectfully on the ground.

  Rolfe and his men had come directly from that confrontation to this village on Alvey lands where the traitor lived. Cnut, Rolfe’s man in charge of the Saxon village, had quickly led them to Durwin’s house. Thank the gods that it had been empty. Rolfe didn’t relish the task of making women and children homeless.

  ‘But what of his brother Osric?’ An old woman’s voice rose from the people who had come from their homes to watch. They all stood huddled together, a few with blankets over their shoulders to guard against the snow that had started to fall. The flakes hissed when they touched the flames that engulfed the second hut. ‘Was he there, too?’

  Cnut stepped forward. ‘They’ve been suspected of fraternising with the Scots for months. Osric hasn’t been seen in days. Can anyone vouch for his whereabouts?’

  Of course no one could. Rolfe knew in his gut that Osric was fraternising with the Scots. Everyone in the village knew it, but no one would give up that information. It was why Rolfe had given the order to burn both of their houses. It was the only way to send the harsh but necessary message that traitors would not be tolerated.

  ‘You are people of Alvey.’ It was a simple fact that should need no reminder. ‘You were born here and your loyalty should lie with your lord and lady.’

  A few in the crowd nodded along with his words, but many only stared at him. Pockets of rebellion had broken out since his Jarl, Vidar, had married their Saxon lady, Gwendolyn. Rolfe was hopeful that the melding of their people would continue, but it was inevitable to face some resistance. Their only choice was to catch it early. It was particularly disconcerting in this case because the village of Banford was the closest to the Scots who lived just north of their border. A rebellion here could have devastating consequences should they join with the Scottish army, which was why it was particularly important that he squash any seeds of uprising now. ‘Lord Vidar and Lady Gwendolyn will not tolerate traitors. Anyone known to be giving information to the Scots will have their belongings seized and risk execution.’

  A grumble of unease ran through the gathered crowd, prompting his dog, who had been lying beside the horse, to get to his feet, his ears forward. ‘Easy, Wyborn.’ Rolfe kept his voice low and the mongrel settled while still keeping alert to the possibility of danger.

  ‘Consider that we Danes have not butchered your
people. We have not taken your land from you. Will the Scots, who have haunted you for generations, be so fair? Will the Scots allow your women to choose their own mates? Will the Scots extend silver to the families who marry their warriors?’

  He paused to look over their faces, hoping that his words rang true for them. The people murmured, but not one of them stepped forward or offered comment. This brooding rebellion was merely misplaced pride. If sense prevailed, they would come to understand that. For real peace to be fostered and to thrive, they would have to accept that the Danes were here to stay.

  ‘Your lord and lady have offered you all of these things. We have come to live in peace and to unite our people. The Scots will not offer you that. They will befriend you, only to enslave you.’

  Rolfe gave a final nod and swung his horse around to walk to the edge of the village. Cnut and Wyborn walked beside him. ‘Are any other men missing besides Osric?’

  ‘None from the village.’ Cnut nodded in the direction of the fields and the farmhouse set with several outbuildings on the outskirts of the village. ‘I couldn’t say about the farm. Since I’ve been here Godric keeps most of his people to himself, but I will question him.’

  The wheat field was fallow now with the arrival of winter and, though most of the trees were bare, a hill hindered a clear view of the house. Godric was known to dislike the Danes, but so far had done nothing that would cross the line to outright treason. However, Rolfe had been gone from Alvey all summer—first visiting Jarl Eirik to the south and then Haken up north where he’d come across Durwin meeting with the Scots—and things might have changed. He’d need to speak with Vidar before doing anything in that quarter.

  ‘Thank you, Cnut. Send word if Osric returns or you have more information.’

  ‘Aye, immediately.’

  Rolfe set his heels to his horse and led the way from the village, some of his men falling in line behind him. The rest of his army had been left to return home in the longships, while he detoured to Banford. Wyborn ran out front as if he sensed they were going home. The wound from the spear Rolfe had taken to his shoulder the day before ached with every jolt of the horse. It would take over a day of hard riding to make it home to Alvey. He’d been gone for months and was ready to be home. He only hoped this show of treachery wasn’t a sign of things to come.

  Chapter One

  Bernicia, northern Northumbria—winter 872

  ‘The Danes are a fearful sight, are they not?’

  Elswyth could not find the breath to answer her sister’s question. It had lodged in her throat where it held until her lungs burned. The Norsemen came out of the forest on horseback, filtering into the clearing in a stream of warriors that didn’t seem to have an end. There were thirty...forty, but even more followed behind. Several mongrels in various shades of brown and grey ran in their midst. She imagined them as bloodthirsty wolves from the tales she had heard growing up, with teeth dripping the blood of their enemies and snapping jaws clamouring for more.

  The sun hung low behind the trees, a stray beam glinting off their armour and the hilts of their sheathed swords, casting their faces in the shadow of a cold nightfall. The earth rumbled from the beat of the hooves as the horde moved closer. Her heart echoed that beat of distant thunder. It knew that the days of calm were over. These men were why her father had sent her to spy on Alvey.

  It was an objective she meant to carry out, not only to prove her loyalty to her family, but also to bring hope to their small village of Banford. Banford needed hope that a reprieve from the Danes would soon come. She was to bring that hope to them in the form of information about the Danes’ plans for the future.

  ‘Aye,’ she finally whispered when she could draw breath. ‘They are quite fearful.’ The frigid stone of the fortress wall bit into her palms as she stared down at the men approaching. The warriors were merely coming home and not here for battle, but her instinct was to reach for the short-handled axe at her belt as fear pounded through her veins. They were Danes, which meant they were her enemy.

  ‘’Tis good they are attractive, then.’ Ellan grinned, her eyes calculating as she looked them over.

  Elswyth smiled, for once grateful that Ellan was never serious about anything. Though only scarcely more than a year separated their births, Elswyth sometimes felt far older than her often frivolous younger sister. ‘Why do you care if they’re attractive?’

  ‘Because I would not care for an ugly husband.’

  The horde forgotten for the moment, Elswyth swung her head around to stare at her sister in shock. ‘You are not seriously considering marriage to one of them?’ Ellan surely wouldn’t, especially after the way their mother had run off with a Dane, abandoning the whole family to take up with the heathen. But something in her sister’s expression made Elswyth’s breath catch.

  ‘And why wouldn’t I?’ The wind caught the cloak covering Ellan’s hair, forcing her to take it in hand. Her cheeks were pink from the frigid air, while her eyes were fierce with challenge. ‘What husband is there for me once we return home to Banford? Shepherd? Farmer? I’d much prefer a warrior.’ Her gaze returned to the Danes below. ‘You have to admit they’re far more attractive than the men at home.’

  Still in shock at her sister’s blasphemy, Elswyth’s gaze found the man leading the warriors. He sat proudly on his stallion with broad shoulders. His shirtsleeves had fallen back as he rode to reveal the defined muscles of his forearms flexing as he held the reins. His fur cloak hung low behind him, exposing the strong sweep of his cheekbones and his bearded jawline to the light cast by the wall’s torches. She couldn’t make out details, but she could tell—with some regret—that it was a handsome face. Much to her surprise, his gaze was fixed on the two of them. If she wasn’t so accomplished at keeping her thoughts to herself, she might’ve reacted, giving away how her heart pounded against her ribcage. Instead she levelled her gaze and stared back at him, too proud to let him know how afraid she was.

  ‘Rolfe!’ A boy near the gate called out to him and he forgot her, his mouth splitting in a grin as he surged forward, clearly happy to see the caller.

  The warrior was attractive, but she would never admit that to her sister or anyone. It felt deceitful to acknowledge that attribute in her enemy. So instead, she focused on his hair. Ropes of the dark blond mass had been pulled back from his forehead and were secured at the crown of his head and left to fall well past his shoulders. No self-respecting Saxon man wore his hair in such a barbaric fashion. Her father would say that it was proof of their deviltry. She didn’t think it was quite so sinister, but neither was it civilised.

  Pitching her voice low so she wouldn’t be overheard, she said, ‘I would be careful what you say, Ellan. You wouldn’t want word getting back to Father that you’re thinking of aligning yourself with our enemy.’

  The ever-present mischievous spark in her sister’s eye glowed when she said, ‘What will Father do precisely? Come and take me back?’ Her arms widened as she indicated the thriving fortress around them. ‘The great and terrible Godric may rule Banford, but we are in Alvey now and this is where I plan to stay. Besides, the Danes are not our enemies any more. Lady Gwendolyn has made certain of that with her marriage to the Jarl. Father is only bitter because of what Mother did. He lives in years that have long since passed. You can go back home if you want. You always did enjoy work on the farm more than I did.’

  Elswyth refrained from pointing out that she didn’t enjoy it as much as someone needed to care for the family after their mother’s abandonment. Instead the sight of the Danes flooding through the gates, filling the yard of the fortress as friends and loved ones came out to greet them, held her captivated. Lady Gwendolyn had married the Dane Vidar nearly two years ago. Since then the pair had been doing their best to make certain the Saxons and Danes in their corner of Northumbria lived peacefully together. There was no doubt that the Danes only allowed the peace because
they had taken lands, silver and women in return.

  Saxon lands, Saxon silver and Saxon women.

  The Saxons were slowly being replaced by the invaders, or so her father claimed. She could understand his fear as she looked down at the powerful warriors below. They were formidable.

  Elswyth and her sister had spent the autumn in Alvey at the request of Lady Gwendolyn, helping with her household. Elswyth had seen first-hand how the people co-existed within these walls. The Danes and Saxons could get along, but only here. Outside in the farms and villages there was still strain. Every week brought more stories of the Danes’ brutality to the south of England. Even in Alvey lands there were stories of men fighting over the women, who numbered too few to meet the demands of every Saxon and Dane warrior. Then there were women like Ellan—women like their mother—who willingly chose the Danes over the Saxons. Many Saxons were bitter about that.

  A fight was likely to happen soon. Lady Gwendolyn might refuse to see it, but Elswyth had heard the discontent with her own ears. Her own family, with the exception of Ellan, it seemed, would champion a fight.

  ‘You speak blasphemy. Father would never agree to you marrying a Dane.’ Elswyth crossed her arms over her chest and met her sister’s eyes which were green like the waters of the lake back home. Sometimes it seemed their eyes were the only thing they had in common. Instead of hair as dark as her own, Ellan’s was striped with honeyed tones. Her sister had always been happy and free from the worries that plagued the rest of the family, while Elswyth had assumed the mantle of responsibility. Ellan was like their wayward mother in many ways and it was worrisome.

  ‘As I said, Father doesn’t have to agree. I’ll choose my own husband, thank you very much.’

  While Elswyth was certainly fine with Ellan choosing her own husband, their father and brothers would not agree to a Dane. Danes were not to marry.

  ‘I think it best to get below,’ she said, giving her sister a dubious look. ‘Lady Gwendolyn will need extra hands for tonight’s feast.’ Elswyth led the way along the rampart to the steps set into the corner of the wall. The fires had been burning all day in preparation for the men arriving, so that the air was filled with the aroma of roasting meat and vegetables.