A Deal With Her Rebel Viking (HQR Historical)

by Michelle Styles

  * * *

  ‘What do you think you are playing at?’ Moir asked Bjartr when he entered the byre. ‘Screaming like a fury?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all that you need to be concerned about.’ Bjartr gave a huge sigh. ‘You were far too busy looking at the sunset to wonder about my health.’

  Bjartr sat with his back towards everyone. The cheerfulness at the return of both Hafual and Bjartr had given way to tension crackling in the air as though a storm was about ready to burst. Hafual muttered a comment that Moir didn’t quite catch. They were breaths from a serious quarrel, one which could irreparably damage the felag. He was going to have to work these men until they had no strength left to do anything except sleep.

  ‘Nothing appears to be something to me.’

  ‘I wanted more food and a soft place to sleep. You should never have taken me from the infirmary. Return me immediately.’ Bjartr made an imperious gesture.

  Moir scowled fiercely. ‘Do you ever think beyond your own selfish desires?’

  Bjartr’s mouth flew open. ‘You dare speak to me like that!’

  The pendant swung against Moir’s chest, reminding him of his duty to Andvarr. ‘Do you understand what being a captive means?’ he asked in a quieter voice.

  ‘I want to find the blonde goddess of my dreams, the one who brought the ointment.’

  Moir pressed his hands together. ‘Elene is a daughter of this house and deserves your respect.’

  Bjartr leant forward. ‘Where is she, this goddess made flesh? Bring her to me.’

  ‘She has gone to court with our brooches,’ Moir replied truthfully. ‘When she returns, we go, prisoners of whichever warlord paid the highest price for us. I only hope she took my advice and sought your father out, rather than seeking Guthmann.’

  ‘The goddess is the woman who left. Oh.’ Bjartr sat silently for a long time. ‘I haven’t been well, Moir. It’s harder than you might think to be my father’s son.’

  Moir blinked in surprise to hear the faint note of humility in his voice. Ansithe spoke true. Maybe the lad could learn if he was given a chance.

  ‘You need to remember that we are being treated far better than we could ever hope for. We’ve worked hard to earn our limited freedoms. I don’t intend to jeopardise that now.’ He glared at the other men who rapidly examined the straw which served as their bedding.

  ‘My father will ransom me, won’t he?’

  Moir opted for a version of the truth. ‘Most fathers would.’

  Bjartr collapsed back on the straw. ‘My father can never abide a failure and that is what I am.’

  Moir regarded the lad. He was in truth little more than a boy, a boy with a powerful father who alternately praised him, berated him or ignored him in favour of his own ambition.

  ‘I promised your father your safe return and I intend to do that. Trust my methods.’

  ‘I see what you are on about with your little conversations with that fearsome woman.’ Bjartr hoisted himself up on his elbow. ‘Romance the Valkyrie and then betray her when we escape. That’s what I’d do.’

  Moir started towards Bjartr. ‘Stop your mouth. You know nothing about it.’

  ‘Don’t like to hear the truth, do you? Funny that,’ Bjartr said snidely. ‘There again, your family excel at betraying their comrades. Maybe you intend to betray us as well.’

  Moir flinched. Bjartr always seemed to know how to thrust the dagger into his soft underbelly. He thought he had kept his feelings for Ansithe well hidden. He needed to forget what her mouth had tasted like and to concentrate on important matters like keeping up his men’s morale. He was not going to become his father and jeopardise the felag for a woman. He knew where his loyalty lay. ‘I will keep my oath, Bjartr.’

  * * *

  After being released from the byre by the stable hand in the early dawn, Moir went to find more material for repairing the threshing barn’s roof. The sound of the thump of straw hitting the ground surprised him.

  In the nearly dark barn, Ansithe was moving great bundles of hay with a fork.

  ‘It’s a bit early for that,’ he commented, trying to work out why she was out here, rather than tucked up safely in bed. He had thought to keep himself too busy to think, but now his mind teemed with images of Ansithe lying on a fur-covered bed with her auburn hair spilling out over the pillow, her eyes heavy-lidded with passion and wearing nothing but a smile.

  ‘I need more straw for repairing the skeps. I must be prepared to collect more swarms.’

  ‘Did you not want to be in the hall with your sister?’

  She pitched another forkful of hay. ‘What, doing things a lady should be doing? I prefer to do this. Since my father left with his warriors, it has become a necessity.’

  ‘There are servants remaining to do it. My men and I are here.’

  She paused. A wisp of straw was stuck in her hair. Moir itched to reach out and pluck it. He forced his hands to remain at his sides. ‘I woke early, checked the animals and saw this needed to be done. I think better when my hands are moving. Owain and the stable lads have been busy guarding you. Between making sure you can bathe, and the byre is guarded at night, there has been little time.’

  ‘I gave you my word we would not try to escape from you.’

  ‘It pays to be cautious.’

  ‘Are the animals sickening?’ he asked, trying to discern her true reason for working that hard.

  ‘The pigs remain in the forest and the cows are fattening on the grass. But the heat means it is ripening early.’ She wiped a hand across her face. Her gown caught, revealing the contours of her breasts. Moir’s mouth went dry. How could anyone think she was unattractive? ‘We could do with some rain or otherwise they will eat all the winter feed before winter.’

  ‘The atmosphere is rather heavy. Perhaps there will be another thunderstorm later.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She turned back to her fork. ‘If you don’t mind, I have work to do and you have barns to repair.’

  ‘One of my men could do this for you,’ he pressed.

  ‘It helps me to think,’ she said again.

  ‘Or keeps you from thinking? Did your dreams wake you?’

  Her cheeks went rosy. ‘You might say that. The heat makes sleeping difficult and Wulfgar is teething. Cynehild tries to keep him quiet, but his screams can be piercing. It is just as well that I will never be a mother.’

  ‘It might happen one day.’

  ‘It did not happen with my late husband and I am determined to avoid any future entanglements.’

  Moir frowned and fought against the urge to draw her into his arms. She needed to come to him. He had offered her the choice in their physical relationship and he had to abide by her decision. It bothered him that he felt awkward and unsure. She looked at him as if she expected him to go.

  ‘I wanted to speak to you about Bjartr,’ he blurted out.

  ‘Your jaarl’s son?’

  ‘He fears returning to his father as a failure. I told him that it will make for a good story around the fire at Jul, in the winter. He pretended to listen.’ He breathed again. A safe topic—winter.

  ‘Will you winter on this island again or do you return North?’

  ‘Nothing remains for me in the North. My jaarl negotiates for land.’

  ‘And he is crucial to a successful outcome?’

  ‘He is my jaarl. I trust his word.’

  She rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘Will you take land or do you plan to be a warrior for the rest of your life?’

  ‘Some day I want a family, children about my knee.’ An unfamiliar ache developed in his chest. He had been alone since his parents died and had never thought it would change, except now the ache was there. This woman had put it there and it frightened him because there was no use longing for things which couldn’t be. Ansithe had a life here. People
who depended on her. He put his hand against his pendant and remembered his vow. ‘But not yet.’

  ‘I see,’ Ansithe uttered before she remembered last night. Kneeling beside her bed, she had solemnly vowed to stop confiding in Moir. But before the sun had risen on a new day, she was practically inviting herself to be his wife. They had kissed, twice. No one had seen. She was safe, but she dreaded to think how Cynehild would use that knowledge.

  She was supposed to be forgetting that she had enjoyed being in his arms. This was what doing the chores were about—keeping busy with her normal routines. In another breath, she would be throwing herself at his feet and begging him to kiss her again.

  Now they were standing in a nearly deserted barn and she was intensely aware of the dream that had woken her, the one which had filled her with an intense longing to be cradled in his arms. Her entire being had thrummed and ached. She longed to feel his mouth against hers again. Hard, fast and engulfing. The work had been supposed to banish the dream.

  Now he was here, standing far too close for comfort and looking better than any dream could. And her body ached anew.

  ‘About yesterday,’ he said and rubbed his hand against the back of his neck. ‘I acted rashly. I don’t want anything that happened between us to change things.’

  ‘I, too, have reflected on it and it won’t be repeated. We are best forgetting it ever happened.’ The words sounded forced to her ears and she knew she said them partly to inform her own heart. Since they had kissed, she had been unable to think of little else. Surely forgetting would become easier as time went on?

  ‘Can you forget?’ he said, uncomfortably echoing her thoughts. ‘It has preyed on my mind all night—I want to kiss you again, but I will abide by your decision. The last thing I want to do is to hurt you. You saved my friends’ lives.’

  ‘You didn’t hurt me,’ she said around the lump in her throat. ‘Someone has to be sensible and I am always sensible. I look for the practicalities in every situation.’

  He gave an uncertain nod. ‘Then everything is fine.’

  ‘Of course.’ She turned back to the stacking of the hay. The rhythm of the task normally soothed her. ‘I wonder that you even bring it up.’

  He took the fork from her slack hands and placed it down. ‘You appear upset. You shouldn’t worry. I have never forced myself on a woman. I live for the present, remember. What may or may not happen is not worth worrying about. I value our friendship for as long as it lasts.’

  Friends, not lovers. Friends. The word tasted bitter in her mouth. ‘We can never be friends, Moir. I believe I made that clear earlier.’

  ‘A pity as I was beginning to think of you as one.’

  ‘Then have another think,’ she said tartly.

  ‘Lovers, then?’

  She went completely still. She must have misheard. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘If you refuse to be my friend, will you consider being my lover?’

  She remembered the young warriors her stepson had enticed into trying to steal kisses from her when she was a bride to show his father she was unworthy of him. Several had made improper suggestions like this one, while her stepson stood sniggering behind a post. The knowledge washed over her like a bucket of ice-cold water.

  Her heart protested that she should stop because there was no comparison between them and Moir, but she refused to listen.

  ‘This conversation ends now.’

  ‘I beg your pardon. I was merely trying to discover what we were. I know what I’d like us to be.’

  Rather than answering, Ansithe gave vent to her frustration by jerking the fork up from the ground, attempting to shovel more hay and having the fork fly out of her hands. It fell to the ground with a clang. She pressed her fingers to her temple and gained control of her temper. She was not sure who she was angrier with, him for attempting to use her or herself for wanting to believe him.

  ‘You attacked my home,’ she bit out, staring at the fork. ‘There can never be anything between us except the life debt. My father’s welfare must come before everything.’

  ‘Why does your father come first?’

  ‘Because I destroyed his life once and this is my opportunity to save it.’

  He went over to the fork and held it out her. ‘What did you do? I am trying to understand, Kyrie. Help me.’

  She wrapped her arms about her waist. If she touched him, she’d fall into his arms and demand his lips, demand to feel safe again. It was far better that he looked at her in disgust. ‘I thought Danes were coming to attack us. We were escaping and my mother in her haste mounted a horse that was too strong for her. It reared up and she fell, heavily pregnant, and broke her neck. My father ordered the baby to be cut from her, but the little boy lived only for an hour. The worse thing was that it was only a group of monks from Wessex who approached, not Danes at all that I saw.’

  He did not recoil, but looked at her with concern. ‘How old were you?’

  She tightened her grip on her waist and tried to banish the image of her mother’s body with her baby brother beside it from her mind. ‘Nine.’

  ‘And your father blamed you for it?’

  ‘I know what I did.’

  ‘Did you make your mother get on that horse? Did you cut the baby from her? Your father must share some of the blame.’

  ‘That is not the point.’ She pressed her hands against her eyes before continuing. ‘My father blames me. But this way he will have to be proud of me. He will have to listen before he tries to use me like a counter again to further his own standing.’

  ‘It seems to me that he should already be proud of you.’

  ‘Moir, you have never met my father.’

  ‘But I know his daughters, particularly his middle one.’ His lips parted, but he smoothed a lock of hair from her forehead before stepping away from her. Then he bowed. ‘I will return to get the men ready. Today’s task—rethatching the threshing barn. Be prepared for Bjartr’s complaints to echo out over the yard.’

  Ansithe exhaled. A hard knot within her eased slightly. He didn’t consider her a monster after her confession. ‘I will tell Cynehild to stop her ears.’

  Ansithe sat down on the pile of hay. Forgetting that kiss and disliking Moir was proving far harder than she had considered. Telling him about her dark secret and hearing his reaction had made her wonder—was it truly all her fault? Or had it been easier for her father to blame someone else? She winced a little at the disloyal thought, but it remained.

  Becoming lovers with Moir could not happen. It must not happen. She put her face in her hands and banished the traitorous thoughts about how his mouth had moved over hers and how he made her feel alive instead of a shrivelled-up barren woman like Eadweard had claimed she was when her womb had failed to quicken.

  She dusted her hands on her gown and peered at her face in a bucket of water. The same awkward features she always saw peered back up at her. She knew what Moir was trying to do—he wanted to use her, to soften her up so she’d betray her family by looking the other way when he and his men escaped. He probably thought that a woman who looked like her would easily be swayed by a few kisses, just like picking a ripe plum.

  She buried her face into her hands again. Just once, she wanted someone to like her for who she was, instead of what she could bring to the relationship.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Baldwine has sent word. He requires advice and assistance. Urgently,’ Cynehild said the next morning when Ansithe uncharacteristically had decided to stay indoors and concentrate on her long-neglected weaving rather than finding an excuse to see Moir. Cynehild sat next to her, spinning. ‘He claims outlaws or Northmen broke in and stole his sheep during the night.’

  ‘Baldwine actively dislikes me and thinks anything I say is suspect. Normally Ecgbert goes.’ Ansithe put the shuttle down. Her heart sank when she thought about t
he ceorl who had once saved her father’s life and had been rewarded with the tenancy of a farm nearby. And he would blame everyone but himself for the lost sheep.

  ‘Ecgbert is busy doing your bidding.’

  Ansithe ground her teeth. Cynehild had that superior older-sister expression on her face again, the one which she wore when she wanted to force Ansithe to do something against her will.

  ‘You remember when I accidentally let the cows out of the top pasture and they trampled all over his vegetable garden. And he has never forgiven me for the incident. He was the one who proudly captured the monks that I had thought were Danes.’

  ‘You were only nine.’ Cynehild set her drop spindle whirling. ‘That was over a decade ago, Ansithe. Few people recall your part in that now.’

  Ansithe gaped in astonishment. That incident had defined her whole life and Cynehild was dismissing it as if it were nothing with a wave of her hand. ‘Our mother died!’

  ‘Our mother died because she fell off a horse that was too spirited for her to handle.’ Cynehild’s eyes softened. ‘I know Father blamed everyone but himself, but our grandmother used to say that our mother should not have been on that uncontrollable horse in the first place. She used to advise us not to speak to you about it because you were apt to weep.’

  Ansithe stared at her older sister in astonishment. They had never really spoken about that day. Elene was far too little to remember it, but Cynehild was right—their grandmother had always changed the subject.

  ‘Cedric mentioned it when he called. His reason for why I could not be trusted to work out our prisoners were warriors from the North.’

  Cynehild mistimed the spindle and broke the thread. She gave an annoyed grunt. ‘Cedric should keep his opinions to himself and stop making mischief. And in any case, you shouting about the Danes was not why our mother mounted that horse.’

  Ansithe stared open-mouthed at her sister. ‘And you know this how?’

  ‘Because I was there. I begged her not to get on that horse, but Father was screaming at her to do it, so she did as he instructed and then it reared up and threw her.’