Tyra & Bjorn (Viking Glory Book 3)

by Celeste Barclay

  The most recent way they got under one another’s skin was about Tyra’s recovery. The near-death experience convinced Bjorn that he owed her a life debt. Tyra refused to accept it, saying they were even since he carried her to safety and stayed with her while she was unconscious. Bjorn wanted Tyra to take more care with her return to fighting, and Tyra wanted Bjorn to leave her alone.

  “I would rather no one discussed how I feel about Tyra. I certainly don’t want to talk about it. I said all I have to say,” Bjorn hoped Erik would take the hint, and when he looked at his friend, Erik nodded.

  “I spoke to Strian this morning. He’s gone to the winter lodge for the next week,” Erik gave Bjorn a pointed look. Bjorn nodded before turning to watch Tyra again.

  “The anniversary of their parents’ death is today.”

  Bjorn would never again forget that day. It was that day that changed everything. It was the day he lost the only woman he ever loved. He wanted to speak to Tyra, but this one day of the year seemed to be the most inappropriate for him to go near her.

  Freya jogged over to them and threw her arms around Erik’s neck. Erik, in turn, lifted his wife off her feet and lowered his head for a kiss. The kiss was just like every other one the couple shared: far too long and far too intimate for public. Bjorn tried to look away, but he did not miss Tyra’s attempt to ignore the couple. Her gaze met Bjorn’s, and he watched the wall drop just as it did every time they were near one another. Tyra looked at Erik and Freya, then grimaced.

  “Since you haven’t anything better to do, or no one better to do, let me knock you on your arse a few times,” she jutted her chin up as she looked down her nose at Bjorn, an impressive feat since she still came to the middle of his chest.

  Bjorn felt like a homeless dog gobbling up any scrap of attention she offered, even if her waspish tongue hurt him. Her biting words never ended, but he was aware he had done little over the years to improve her impression of him. He had lived up to the reputation she accused him of, but it was never for the reason anyone assumed. It was the loneliness that grew from his parents’ death that first drew him to his bed partners, then it was an attempt to forget Tyra. It never made him less lonely, and it never wiped Tyra from his mind.

  Tyra led the way to the training ring, where they faced one another as Tyra assessed Bjorn. She took in the arm that the enemy broke the day her connection to Bjorn changed for a second time. She would never forget the giant snapping Bjorn’s arm like an oatcake, then drawing his sword back to cleave him in half. Tyra would remember forever the mind-numbing fear she experienced as she watched the only man she had ever loved stand next to death. She pushed her way in front of him and barely blocked the berserker’s ax from cutting her in two, but she was not able to stop the blade from sinking into her chest. The wound was deep and broke several bones. Bjorn gained his footing and plunged his sword into their opponent’s chest seconds after Tyra drove hers into the man’s belly. Tyra slid into unconsciousness with Bjorn’s name on her lips. She woke once in his arms as he carried her back to their camp despite his broken arm. She remembered nothing for several weeks after that except hearing his voice. Once she awoke, Tyra learned that Bjorn had been driven to the point of violence more than once when people suggested he leave her bedside. He claimed it was the blood oath he made to repay the debt he owed. She tried to discharge that debt because she loathed his controlling nature, but he would not relent.

  As Tyra looked him over again, her strategy was already forming. Their swords engaged as they moved on the offensive at once. Bjorn attempted to use his size and strength to make her knees buckle, but she was more agile than Bjorn. Tyra swung at his shield as she danced away. She reset her stance, then lunged for him again. She lifted her sword to bring it down on Bjorn’s weaker arm, which held his shield. When he raised his shield high enough, she used her own shield to swipe across his belly, knocking the air from his lungs. He stumbled backwards as Tyra continued her onslaught. Bjorn regained his footing and his breath. As Tyra prepared to swing again, Bjorn twisted sideways to come around her back. She had expected this move and stopped short before swinging. She twisted the other way and brought her shield down toward Bjorn’s head. He ducked, giving Tyra the opportunity to lean all her weight forward to push him forward and off his feet. Her momentum, along with Bjorn grabbing her wrist, caused her to follow him to the ground. Bjorn felt her falling and twisted to land beneath her, which meant she sprawled across him. Tyra looked down at the shock in Bjorn’s eyes as he lay there with one arm wrapped around her waist.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “For what?” Tyra was unable break her gaze.

  “I didn’t mean for you to fall.”

  “That’s silly. We were fighting. You should have meant to do more than that.”

  “That’s different. I didn’t want you to land facedown, not on your chest.”

  Tyra’s trance broke at the mention of her injury.

  “Don’t, Tyra. Don’t snark at me because I care.” Bjorn was aware the words were exactly what he should not have said as soon as they left his mouth.

  Tyra scrambled to her feet and grabbed Bjorn’s hand. She tugged with all her strength and brought him to his feet. Then she spat at his feet.

  “I don’t need or want your protection. I don’t need or want anything from you.”

  As he had so many times before, Bjorn watched her storm away. He could have beaten his own head in with his shield. Unlike so many times before, he did not let Tyra race off, leaving him behind. He followed her as she wound her way through the homestead and out the back wall. He was certain he knew where she was going, and he had a moment of doubt as he followed her to the fjord. He watched her break into a run as she moved further away from their homes. She still carried her sword in her hand, and it relieved him to watch her scanning from side to side. He, too, carried his sword as he followed her, checking over his shoulder several times. He wanted to yell at her for once more leaving herself vulnerable. All these years later, and she was still wandering off on her own, but now they had an enemy bent on destroying both their tribe and Erik’s. She ran to the water’s edge, but not where Bjorn expected. The place where she stopped was not somewhere she might wade in. Instead, she stopped by a rune of stones, a stone arch with bones laid out beneath it. There was the hilt of a knife Bjorn recognized as her father’s, and a comb beside the bones. Bjorn considered for a moment leaving her to the solitude of her parents’ memorial, but when she dropped to her knees and sobbed, he refused to abandon her. He watched her shoulders shake as tears streamed down her cheeks. He wanted to wait until her tears abated before he made his presence known. He did not want to embarrass Tyra in addition to violating her privacy, and he did not want to add to her list of his transgressions. But as the minutes began to add up, he inched from behind the trees.

  Tyra was aware Bjorn had followed her, but she needed to escape everyone else’s eyes before she collapsed into a puddle of tears. She wished he would leave her alone, so when she heard him approaching, she whipped around with her knife drawn. She came to her feet as she pointed the blade at him.

  “Can’t you just leave me alone? Just for an hour? Gods. Why can’t you just stop?” She choked out.

  “You know that ever since Hakin Hakinson started attacking us for Rangvald and Ivar’s homesteads, it’s not safe for anyone to leave alone. He’s no neighbor to us, and he would love nothing more than to capture one of us. We could assume he bled to death, but Freya severing his arm is no guarantee.” Bjorn did not, could not, hide the frustration from his voice.

  “Just because he’s been the bane of our lives no matter how often we fight him doesn’t mean you can’t give me some privacy!” Tyra screamed as tears continued to stream down her cheeks.

  Bjorn sheathed his sword and edged toward her. His heart broke as he watched the woman he not only loved, but admired for her physical and mental strength, fall apart before his eyes. She had not cried despite the
excruciating pain from her chest wound, but now she stood there looking lost and hurt. When he was within arm’s length, he pushed her wrist done, and she did not resist. He pulled the knife from her hand and dropped it to the ground, pulling her into his arms, and she dissolved. She drew her arms in as she grasped the shirt he wore. He tucked her head against his chest as he rubbed her back and ran his hand over her hair. He said nothing. He had no words, and he was sure nothing would make it better. It had been eleven years since she lost her parents, but Bjorn recognized that the pain was as fresh as if it had just happened.

  They stood together for what seemed like forever to Tyra, but she could not bring herself to pull away. She spent every day in torment, in conflict between her love for Bjorn and her dislike of him. As they stood together, she allowed her love to win out and she absorbed the comfort he offered. She clung to him as though he was the only thing anchoring her to the earth and keeping her from floating away. She breathed in his pine and musk scent, his muscles flexing as he stroked her back and hair. She listened to his steady heartbeat, which calmed her. She turned so she could press her forehead against his chest. She noticed his semi-aroused rod. A sliver of her mind relished knowing he was still attracted to her. A louder part screamed he was attracted to anything he could slip his cock into, but mostly she was relieved that he just held her.

  When Tyra lifted her head from his chest at last, Bjorn pressed the same feather-soft kiss to her forehead that he had been scattering on the crown of her head. He said nothing, and she appreciated it. She struggled with what to say, but she knew she should say something.

  “This day doesn’t get any easier no matter how many years pass. I’ll never forget returning home from that first raid to find my mother and Strian’s mother dead. Our people go raiding in Scotland to come home and find our neighbors killed our mothers and Lena lost her last babe. Our people go to avenge the ones we lost, and Strian and I both lose our fathers. It’s so damn unfair.”

  “I know. Strian goes to the lodge.” Bjorn looked out at the water. “When my day comes, I take out a fishing boat and don’t return for two days. I take enough ale to keep me warm, but not enough to end up drowned.”

  Tyra’s hands released his shirt and pressed flat against his chest.

  “I forget that you understand what this is like. You never speak of them, so I admit I forget. I realize not talking about them doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

  “It doesn’t. I don’t have a shrine to them, but I sail out to where my father used to take me when he taught me to fish and sail. It’s the same spot where Uncle Ivar and I towed their pyres before sending them to Valhalla. That is my memorial.”

  “I never found out that’s what you did. I’ve seen you come back drunk, but I always assumed you were doing something else.”

  Bjorn froze as he looked down at her.

  “You assumed I went to screw on the anniversary of my parents’ death? You assumed I dishonored my parents’ memory by thinking only of my own pleasure?”

  “No! That’s not what I meant. I figured you did something more like Strian.”

  “I doubt that. I think you can only believe the worst in me. Sorry to disappoint you once again.”

  “Don’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth. You are who you are, and I know that. I really did think you were in the woods or at the cliffs to be alone.”

  Bjorn did not miss the distress in her voice as she tried to convince him she was telling the truth. He did not intend to make the day worse and upset her more.

  “I’m sorry. I’m more sensitive about my parents’ death than anyone realizes. It’s been so long I have a hard time remembering them, but twenty years falls away very fast whenever that day rolls around.” Bjorn took a deep breath, and Tyra felt his chest expand. Her fingers clenched his shirt again as she held on. “I’ve lived a good life and been well taken care of. Uncle Ivar and Aunt Lena have treated me as though I’m their own child, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not. It doesn’t change how much I miss having what Leif and Freya have.”

  “I know,” Tyra whispered.

  She looked up at Bjorn, and her heart lurched when she saw the tenderness in his gaze. Her eyes shifted down to his lips as she remembered the kisses they shared all those years ago only feet from where they stood now. When she looked up, she was certain that he was thinking the same thing, because his eyes darted to the beach.

  “Tyra,” he murmured as his lips grazed her temple. She tilted her head back further and parted her lips. Bjorn took the invitation and poured his love into his kiss. It was languid and gentle as they reacquainted themselves. Bjorn pressed his tongue forward and groaned as she sucked lightly. Their kiss continued until Bjorn tasted the salt of her tears mixed with the sweetness of her breath. He pulled back and saw the tears that soaked his lips. His thumb brushed them away, but she grasped his wrist, stepping back.

  “Why couldn’t you be the man I need?”

  Tyra took several more steps back before running back toward the homestead. This time Bjorn let her go. He watched her as she became into a speck in the distance. His heart had a vice cinching and shrinking it; he was fairly certain it had shriveled up and left nothing behind. He had wanted nothing more than to be the man Tyra needed. The last two years had seen him grow more and more hermit-like as he could no longer stand taking a woman to bed who was not Tyra. His dry spell caused rumors and was even a source of taunting from Tyra, but he would not admit to anyone—other than Erik when he was drunk—why he no longer bedded women like he once did.

  After his afternoon with Tyra and the disaster that followed, he spent years trying to replace her or at least distract himself. But three years ago, Tyra became the companion of Knud, one of their fellow warriors. While she never moved into the man’s home, she slept there most nights. Their arrangement lasted almost two years, and it was during that time Bjorn gave up. He found he did not want to replace her or forget her. He did not want anyone else. It was on rare occasions, mostly feasts, when he would allow himself to drink to the point where he could use the dark to imagine any woman was Tyra. He had too many demons he wanted to keep hidden to continue living as he had.

  Two

  Tyra wiped the tears from her face and took several deep breaths before she opened the door to the jarl’s longhouse. She heard the women’s voices coming from the living quarters, so she turned to the door where she recognized Freya, her mother Lena, and Erik’s mother Lorna all laughing. She knocked and entered when a familiar voice summoned her. Freya stood, her brow creased, and came to Tyra. She pulled her best friend into a tight embrace.

  “You’re sadder than when you left, and I saw you were upset after sparring with Bjorn,” Freya whispered.

  “I am.”

  Freya cupped her friend’s face and looked at her, but she was unsure of what had upset Tyra. It was more than just grief. When Tyra’s face began to crumple, Freya pulled her into another tight embrace. Tyra welcomed the solace Freya offered after the emotionally charged training with Bjorn, the overwhelming need to escape, and the conflicted exchange with Bjorn near the fjord. When she was prepared to face the others, she looked up and nodded at Freya. They walked back to the women and only then did she notice that Sigrid, Freya’s sister by marriage and Lorna’s niece, was also with them. She sat with her hands on her rounded belly, watching Tyra. Sigrid offered her a smile and a slight nod, and Tyra was aware Sigrid had had a vision of her. Sigrid’s gift of sight had saved their lives more than once, but those visions that involved their private lives were disconcerting.

  “Tyra, come sit with me,” Lorna spoke softly.

  Tyra had grown to admire and respect Lorna not only as the frú—the jarl’s wife—of her tribe and as Erik’s mother, but also as a warrior in her own right. Lorna had lived in the Trondelag for thirty years, but her coloring and accent gave away her Highland homeland. Now, Lorna made space for Tyra. She slid her arm around the younger woman, who in turn leaned into
the embrace in a way she only ever did with Lena. There were other motherly women in their village, but none made her feel like Lena, and now Lorna, did.

  “Lass, I think it’s time you and Freya listened to the story of how I came to wed Rangvald. Sigrid knows it since she is my niece, and Lena was there for much of that piece of history. It’s a long tale, the start of our saga, so bear with me.”

  Freya and Tyra both perked up at the mention of a story they had heard hints of for months, but the telling of the tale had never happened. Even Freya, Lorna’s daughter by marriage, had not heard it.

  “You both know that Rangvald Thorsson, the mighty warrior,” she grinned, “and I met when his tribe, led by his older brother, raided my clan, the Mackays. To understand how things came to pass, you should know who I was before I met Rangvald. I was only six-and-ten at the time, and the daughter of the laird. I only had brothers and I was the youngest of the laird’s five children, so I followed them everywhere. When I was a child, my brothers laughed when I wanted a wooden sword to be like them, but my father allowed my second oldest give me his when he moved on to a real sword. I carried my wooden sword everywhere with me and watched each training session my brothers had. I would copy their moves and then practice in my chamber. My parents humored me for years, but my mother insisted I learn how to be a proper chatelaine for our keep and our clan. When I was not in the keep, I was either watching my brothers in the lists or on my horse with my bow and arrow. By the time I was ten summers, I was a far better archer than any of my brothers. The winter of my eleventh year was when my first brother was killed. He was on a raiding party, and he never returned home. His loss devastated my parents, and I was filled with guilt being a girl rather than a boy. I felt like a waste after my parents lost their oldest son, so I pushed myself harder and trained more. My parents never made me feel that way. It was all in my mind. At three and ten summers, my second brother, who was the youngest of the four, died when he fell from his horse. That left my middle two brothers and me. I begged Aiden and Andrew to train me. It took a week of hounding them until I threatened to have some of the other older boys teach me, but I warned them it would have to be away from the keep. They both knew better than to let their thirteen-year-old sister go anywhere away from the keep with a group of boys. They agreed, and I joined them in the lists the next morning. They teased the three of us when I showed up in a pair of trews and a leine I’d made for myself earlier that year. The laughing ended when I launched a dirk at the boot of one of the oldest boys. It landed at the tip of the leather and trapped it to the ground. I was fortunate the boots were slightly big, or it would have landed in a toe. I challenged my brothers in front of their friends and the older warriors. I embarrassed both brothers, but they decided they would humor me. Neither expected I would be able to hold a sword, let alone wield one. No one was aware the blacksmith’s son was sweet on me and made me a sword for my saint’s day the year prior. I had given up the wooden sword and trained with a double-handed broadsword designed for my size. As I began to move through the sparring, my brothers discovered I was far stronger than I looked. Since I had grown up watching them train, taking note of each of their strengths and weaknesses, they realized they would have to fight in earnest if I wasn’t going to show them up. I fought one, then the other, both ending in a draw. Then I challenged them to fight me at the same time. I was far too confident for my own good back then, but I was confident that I had skill. I held my own against them, and some of the other boys decided it would be fun to humiliate me. They claimed my brothers were being easy on me. By the end of the first day, I’d broken one arm and two noses. It wasn’t my intention, but I was backed into a corner more than once. After that, some of the older warriors spoke to me and asked how I learned so much. I was honest and told them of the years I spent watching and training. They allowed me to come back day after day, and they made sure the younger warriors treated me with respect, just as any other warrior would be. My third brother, Andrew, died one sennight before the raid that brought Rangvald and his men. A fever sickened him and took him in his sleep.