Marrying Her Viking Enemy

by Harper St. George

  * * *

  They had ridden hard for over an hour—the sides of his horse were already lathered in foam and he heaved in deep breaths—when they broke through the edge of the trees to see a single horse on the path ahead. The gathering sunlight glinted off its golden coat as it grazed on the grasses of the valley floor. Even from this distance, Rolfe could tell that it was Gyllir. His heart gave a leap in his chest as he urged Sleipnir even faster.

  As soon as he approached, he vaulted down before his horse had even stopped, landing hard on his feet. He ran past Gyllir, expecting to see Elswyth resting in the tall grasses, but she wasn’t there. A quick survey of the small valley found that it was empty.

  ‘Elswyth!’ He yelled her name over and over, but there was no response.

  ‘Rolfe!’ Aevir’s hand on his shoulder finally got his attention, but Rolfe could tell from his expression that it wasn’t the first time Aevir had called his name.

  ‘She has to be here,’ Rolfe said.

  Aevir shook his head, then said very carefully, ‘She’s not here, Brother.’ He led Rolfe back to Gyllir where it was obvious she was wounded as she favoured a foreleg. Dried mud caked one side of her as if she had fallen. She must have thrown Elswyth as she fell. An image of his wife, hurt and broken on the ground, came to mind.

  With more than a day’s travel to Banford ahead of them, there was no chance she’d reached the village and sent the horse back on its own. Something had happened to her. Either the horse had spooked and thrown her or she had come across the Scots.

  Fighting nausea and a bone-deep fear he’d never felt before, Rolfe gave the order to keep riding.

  * * *

  They had been forced to a slower pace, so it was a few hours later when they reached the area where she’d been taken.

  It was obvious a skirmish had occurred. Horse hooves had made deep prints in the mud left from the snow earlier in the week. There were at least a score of horses, maybe more, it was difficult to tell. One horse had taken a tumble, probably hers given the mud on Gyllir’s side and her injury. The disturbance in the mud where the horse had lost its footing and slid on to its side was unmistakable. It appeared that Elswyth had been ambushed or had run right into the unaware Scots. Either way, they had her. He couldn’t think too deeply about what that might mean. He only knew that he had to find her.

  * * *

  Elswyth had been lucky. Her arm had been scraped when Gyllir had fallen, tearing the sleeve of her underdress, but she’d managed to jump free to avoid the horse landing on her leg. It had been small consolation, because she’d had no chance to gain her footing before the Scots had captured her. It had happened so fast that she’d not even had a chance to pull her axe. One moment she’d been racing through the trees and in the next she’d come upon them. Her impression had been that they had been just as surprised as she had, but it hadn’t changed the fact that they had taken her.

  They had stuffed a cloth into her mouth to keep her silent. She hadn’t made it easy, fighting until one of them had boxed her ear, sending her into a world of pain and stars. When she’d regained her senses, her arms had been tied to a horse and a Scot rode behind her. Struggling only sapped her strength and bruised her body, so she’d resolved to wait until they stopped. Turned out that struggling with the Scot behind her had hurt her worse than falling from the horse.

  She had counted a group of seventeen. All men. All warriors. She didn’t know what they were doing this far south. Were they scouting? Had they become lost? Surely they hadn’t come for battle with so few men? After they had taken her they’d travelled fast, as if they were afraid of pursuit, but after a few hours it had become apparent that they’d succeeded in their crime so they’d relaxed. A few of them had even given eerie calls of victory that had made her blood run cold.

  If she had to guess, she would say this was no sanctioned jaunt to the south. They had probably escaped their leaders, hoping to return home with a Dane prize. They reminded her of adolescent mongrels testing their boundaries with the way they jested and spoke to one another, and they all seemed fairly young. The oldest and apparent leader was probably only a few years older than her. He was clean and well dressed, making her think he was someone of power. It was only later in the day when someone had spoken his name that she realised he was Domnall, the King’s son. Though the most frightening thing about him was that he wore the bloodstone she had stolen from Rolfe on his cloak. She recognised its size and the gold filigree, though it was missing its chain.

  She had debated if it would be better to tell them her identity or to keep quiet. Not that there was much time for talking. It appeared they were trying to make it back to their own territory with all possible haste. They had stopped only briefly a couple of times to water the horses and eat a little bread. Night had long since fallen and they’d shown no signs of stopping to camp, which was a relief. She feared what would happen to her if they made camp. But she was also starting to fear what would happen if they didn’t. Snow had begun to fall the farther north they travelled and as day had become night a layer of it had accumulated on the ground. Somewhere during the struggle she’d lost her fur so her limbs were numb from the cold and the Scot at her back showed no signs of taking pity on her.

  * * *

  Light of a new dawn was just beginning to crest on the horizon when a shout from behind them drew the attention of Domnall. He pulled up short and all the other men stopped to watch as he doubled back. A figure rode out of the darkness and she recognised him as one of the group who had dropped off some time back. Apparently he’d been left behind to watch for Danes. She’d been so tired that she’d drifted in and out of sleep on the horse, so she wasn’t entirely certain where they were. She’d guess they were north of Banford, perhaps already in the Scots territory.

  Domnall shouted back to his men and she cursed herself for not being able to understand his words. There was no mistaking the change in momentum that ran through the group, a potent mix of anticipation and bloodlust, but all of it was tinged with fear. The fear was in how the men darted glances from one to the other as if attempting to draw strength from their own arrogance. A battle was coming. Her heart pounded and she knew the man had brought news of the Danes coming. It was Rolfe.

  Domnall rode back, dismounted and walked straight towards her. She tried to keep her fear in check, but she couldn’t control the shaking of her limbs as he cut the bonds attaching her to the horse from her arms and dragged her off. He set her on her feet, but they were numb from the cold and the hard ride, so she sank down before she could find her strength. He left her there and walked back to his horse. Her heart leapt as she thought that maybe he’d decided to leave her. Perhaps he thought she wasn’t worth the risk and if he left her here the Danes would halt their pursuit. Her hopes fell when he walked back to her holding another set of rope and she realised he meant to tie her up again.

  By this time she was able to get to her feet and she tore the cloth from her mouth. ‘Let me go and I’ll make sure you are not followed.’

  He grinned and spoke in her language. ‘How will you ensure that?’

  ‘I am Elswyth. My father is Godric from Banford and I am the wife of Rolfe from the Danes of Alvey.’

  He paused in his approach, but his smile only widened. ‘Godric’s daughter.’ Then he tapped the bloodstone affixed to his cloak. ‘I’ve you to thank for this. Those Danes killed my brother and took this from his dead body. Your brother, Galan, says that you retrieved it from them. He did not say that you had married one of them.’

  She hesitated, uncertain how much glory she wanted to accept for an act that she despised. ‘Aye, I took it,’ she finally said. ‘But only because you had Baldric. I did it to save him, not to help your cause.’ The last thing she wanted now was to help the Scots. All she wanted was peace.

  He watched her curiously, his head tilting to the side. ‘Baldric? The boy?’


  She nodded and a feeling of unease came over her as she remembered her father and the peculiar look on his face the previous night when she’d asked about Baldric.

  ‘We never had Baldric,’ the man said easily. ‘Godric secured the bloodstone as a gesture of his loyalty.’

  Her knees nearly went out from under her again as the pain of her family’s betrayal tore through her. Baldric had never been in danger. They had told her that to make her steal from Rolfe. She’d betrayed Rolfe’s trust for nothing. For a foolish test of loyalty to a king she had no love for.

  ‘Your father lied to you,’ he concluded, taking a menacing step closer to her.

  Despite the fact that she knew she would get no help from his men, she looked for it anyway, only to see that they were all busy scurrying in every direction. They were planning to hide and lie in wait for whoever was coming.

  ‘Tell me, Elswyth, to whom do you give your allegiance? Your father or your husband? You cannot serve both of them.’

  She flinched from the question. Dear God, was it meant to follow her always? But what else had she expected? She was a Saxon who had married a Dane. Tangled loyalty and distrust would haunt her for ever.

  Her family needed her and Rolfe...even thinking his name brought physical pain. He’d spent hours worshipping her body, but that alone wasn’t enough to earn her devotion. Nay, he’d earned that with his noble strength, his sense of honour and gentle teasing. He’d earned that with the way he had always made her feel safe and protected. The memory of the way he had looked at her as he’d spoken the words that would make him her husband came back to her, as if she were the only woman he wanted, as if he had truly meant every one of them.

  It was all those tiny moments added up to create a bond that she had known would only grow stronger in the days to come. Until it had all come crashing down around her.

  ‘What does it matter to you?’ she asked him coldly.

  ‘It doesn’t, but we’re about to find out whether it matters to your husband.’

  His eyes gleamed cruelly as he came for her. She screamed, hoping that the sound would warn Rolfe and the others, but it was cut off short by his open palm against the side of her head. It hadn’t been terribly hard, but the strength hadn’t yet returned to her legs so the blow knocked her to the ground. Her knees landed with a heavy thud on the hard ground, followed by the nearly dead weight of her exhausted body. The cold wet snow seeped through the fabric of her tunic and leggings. He tore the cloth from her hand, intending to tie her mouth again, but she refused to make it easy.

  Drawing on the last of her reserved strength, she lashed out, catching him in the groin. He groaned in pain and fell to his knees, but he was only momentarily slowed, enough to allow her to rise, but not escape him. He grabbed her arm and with his greater strength was able to pull her beneath him so that he could tie the cloth behind her mouth and then wrench her arms in front of her to tie them. She fought him mercilessly so that by the time he’d finished, galloping horses could be heard coming up the slight hillside.

  Her heart gave a leap of joy the moment she saw Rolfe’s beloved face in the pale sliver of the coming dawn. His hair had come loose from the usual way he wore it pulled back from his face to swing in a wild mass around his shoulders. His eyes widened with visible relief when he saw her. In that moment everything became clear to her. She hated what he’d done and she despised the coldness with which he’d treated her, but she should have stayed and talked with him. Anything to keep him from danger. The rest of the Scots were out there hiding. One of them might even now be waiting to jump him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rolfe drew his mount up short the moment he saw Elswyth with Domnall, heir to the Scots King. Her eyes were round with terror. The sleeve of her dress was torn and much of her hair had fallen from her usually tidy braid, but otherwise she looked whole and unharmed. Domnall stood behind her with a dagger at her throat. It was only one of the many reasons Rolfe wanted to see him dead.

  ‘You’ve taken my wife, Domnall. You will die for the crime.’

  Domnall’s laugh sent a chill through Rolfe’s body. It was said the man was touched in the head and, looking at him now, Rolfe could believe it. His eyes were those of a man unconcerned with his current situation, which was an unbelievable show of arrogance in one so young and undermanned. Rolfe knew that he had at most twenty men. Aevir had split off a while back and had managed to pick off a few, but the rest were probably spread out in the shadowed dawn, watching them. Rolfe had ten men at his back, the rest silently closing in from the other sides. Domnall had to know Rolfe would come with more than ten men.

  ‘If I die, then so does she.’ Domnall pressed the tip of the blade closer to her tender neck, drawing a bead of blood. However, Elswyth didn’t flinch, she stared at Rolfe as if attempting to warn him with her eyes.

  Rolfe wanted nothing more than to attack and pull her away from Domnall. He’d take her in his arms and thank the gods she was safe while vowing to never let her out of his protection again. But he couldn’t think of that now. First, he had to get her away from the madman.

  ‘Why were you on Alvey lands? It’s an act of war,’ Rolfe said, attempting to distract the man while showing no sign of the rage that pounded through him at the sight of his wife’s blood.

  ‘We’re already at war, Dane. You know that. The truth is that I didn’t come with the intention of taking such a prize, but I’m glad to have found her.’ He ran his hand over her torso, from her breast to her hip. Elswyth’s wrists were tied in front of her but she still managed to send a sharp elbow into Domnall’s side.

  Domnall grunted and tightened his arm around her in what looked to be a merciless grip.

  ‘I doubt you could handle her.’ Rolfe forced an unconcerned grin.

  ‘It seems that you couldn’t handle her either. What was your wife doing wandering the forest on her own in the night? Did she get away from you or was she going on a spy’s mission to report to her family?’

  ‘She’s no spy and it’s none of your concern what she was doing unaccompanied. Hand her over and I might let you live.’

  Domnall laughed again. ‘Your words are very compelling, but I’ll keep her. I quite like her. Had I known Godric’s spy was such a beauty, I’d have demanded he give her to me as a sign of his loyalty rather than the bloodstone.’

  The words were so odd, that Rolfe had to ask. ‘What bloodstone?’ From across the distance he met Elswyth’s gaze and the guilt shining out at him nearly stole his breath. He didn’t want to believe it was his bloodstone, but there was no denying the pained way she looked at him, as if her heart was breaking this very moment.

  Domnall shifted her slightly to the side, revealing the stone fastened to his cloak. A surge of blinding anger tore through Rolfe. It was the same stone he’d brought home, set in the same gold-filigree design. It was supposed to be in the chest beneath his bed.

  The guilt stamped into her features told him that Elswyth had taken it. When? Had she delivered it tonight? Was that the true reason for her mad dash in the middle of the night?

  If he’d had any doubt about her guilt, he only had to look back to his wife to see the way her face scrunched with pain—or perhaps it was anger that her game had been found out—and the way she would not meet his gaze. It was clear that she had used him and chosen her family in the end. He had allowed his feelings for her to blind him to her true character. First Hilde and now his wife. He let out a bitter laugh.

  He didn’t want it to make sense, but it all came together perfectly. Her family had wanted her to wed him, probably in an attempt to eventually control him, or at the very least to gain insight to his plans. It was the perfect plan, because she was so unlike any seductress he’d ever come across. Instead of using pretty words and her body, she had used her innocence to seduce him.

  The breath wheezed out of him in a hiss. The lies she’d
fed him hurt far worse than the theft. Hilde had left him broken, but Elswyth’s betrayal cut far deeper. Down to his core where it mangled him.

  ‘Do you recognise it?’ Domnall’s voice had turned bitter. ‘You took it from my bastard brother after you ran him through with your sword.’

  The anger was followed by a very real and a very hated surge of fear that the man would kill her before Rolfe could save her. Rolfe shouldn’t care any more. He didn’t want to care, but he couldn’t stop himself. Not yet. Perhaps soon he would be able to wrest control of the flicker of tenderness that still lingered for her and extinguish it like the hated spark that it was, but for now it was there and he could no more put it out than he could allow it to live.

  Despite her crimes, she didn’t deserve to die for them. He could devise a far better punishment than death. Besides, like it or not she was his wife and he’d vowed to protect her, to give his life for hers if need be. He’d honour that commitment.

  ‘Aye, I recognise it.’ He did not, however, recognise his own voice. It had gone soft and menacing with a raw thread he’d never heard in it before.

  ‘Shall I cut off her cloth?’ Domnall ran his dagger up her neck and over her jaw, coming to a stop on the cloth that had been put between her lips and pulled cruelly around to the back of her head and tied so tight that it bit into the tender flesh of her cheeks. ‘She can tell us how she came to have it and how she delivered it. Perhaps she could also tell you how we came to know where your sentries were so that we could avoid them.’

  She finally deigned to meet his gaze again and Rolfe held it, refusing to allow her to hide from him. He’d get answers from her, but it wouldn’t be with Domnall watching. It would be when they were alone and he would get the truth from her whether she wanted to tell him or not.