Taming His Viking Woman

by Michelle Styles

  Sayrid firmed her mouth and silently vowed that she’d find a way to explain about her lack of womanly skills before things became too complicated. Panic seldom solved anything. ‘You intend to leave your daughter with me when you depart? How soon are you planning to go east? I need to make plans.’

  ‘Shall we greet the well-wishers?’ Hrolf cupped her elbow and prised one of her arms away from her waist. ‘A smile wins more friends than a scowl—something my mother used to say and it has proved true more times than I can count.’

  ‘Save me from pithy wisdom.’ She forced her mouth up into a smile. ‘Is this better?’

  ‘It will have to do.’ His fingers tightened on her arm, sending a warm pulse throughout her body. To onlookers it had to appear that he was being the attentive bridegroom, but Sayrid knew he was just keeping her next to him. He thought she was going to run.

  Sayrid moved as if she was in a waking dream, barely hearing anyone’s words of congratulations as everyone crowded around her and Hrolf, blocking and confining her.

  A violent shiver rocked her. And another one. Her entire being felt as if she had been encased in ice. The world started to go black at the edges. She churned her arms, trying to keep her balance.

  ‘My lady is cold,’ Hrolf said, lifting his brow. He gathered her hands between his, but she pulled away.

  ‘Very.’ Sayrid wrapped her arms about her middle and seized the excuse. ‘The dress is far thinner than I’m used to. It will pass once we get to the hall. It is nothing really. I shall ignore it.’

  ‘I’d be a poor excuse for a husband if I allowed that.’ He undid his cloak and put it around her shoulders. ‘I need to make sure my wife is well looked after. I take my responsibilities seriously.’

  ‘Another lesson?’

  ‘A demonstration.’

  ‘You have such a way with words.’ Sayrid glared at him and somehow the anger kept the blackness at bay. ‘Is this how you treat your men? Like little children?’

  ‘I want to know if you are unwell or injured.’ Something glinted in his eyes. ‘I say the same to all my men when they start serving under me. A felag is only as good as its weakest member.’

  ‘And you consider our marriage a felag?’

  He shrugged. ‘It works for me.’

  She pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to concentrate. The lingering warmth from his body sunk into her bones, clouding her mind. She knew she should be grateful, but Hrolf wanted everyone to see that she now belonged to him. It was nothing to do with her personal discomfort. All for show, like her father had been. In public her father and stepmother had pretended to be concerned, but in private, she rapidly learnt not to talk about her own discomfort and to never ask for help.

  Change a habit of a lifetime? That was something she refused to do.

  She forced her lips to turn up in the imitation of a smile. ‘I will walk to the feast. Without assistance.’

  He laughed.

  She took a step and the ground seemed to wobble beneath her feet. Hrolf’s face went in and out of focus.

  ‘I need air.’ She put her hands on her knees and tried to gulp a breath. The tight bodice of the dress prevented her and the world started to go black at the edges. ‘Help me.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘Sayrid? Can you breathe? Where are you hurt?’

  At Sayrid’s faint cry, Hrolf turned back towards her. In the space of a heartbeat, all colour drained from her face. She made a wild grab for support as her knees began to buckle.

  Before she fully crumpled to the ground, Hrolf captured her about her middle and hoisted her on to his shoulder to general approval. Silently he kicked himself. He should have known she’d stubbornly refuse to admit any injury and would carry on regardless. She was like him in that way, but it stopped now.

  ‘Next time tell me before you faint,’ he murmured. ‘I have you.’

  The movement seemed to revive her. Hrolf breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘I walk on my own,’ she said, striking his muscular back. One fist landed straight on a bruise, but Hrolf paid it little attention. ‘There is no need for this pretence. I’m far too big to be carried like a normal bride.’

  He shook his head at her stubbornness. The woman had practically fainted away and then insisted she was fine. She was his responsibility now and he refused to lose everything he’d won simply because Sayrid Avildottar didn’t look after herself properly. He tightened his grip on her kicking legs and strode away from the hall where the feast was prepared.

  She hit her fist against his back, harder this time. The pain ratcheted through him. ‘You’re going the wrong way!’

  ‘You are my bride and you go where I go.’ Hrolf drew his sword. ‘And I will fight any man or woman who says differently.’

  She stopped squirming. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I wish to enjoy my bride. Alone!’ he thundered.

  The crowd parted in front of him.

  He carried her to the deserted street and carefully lowered her down. Her front slid along his. Her breasts touched his chest, making his flesh ache with desire. It was wrong. He knew she wasn’t well and he still wanted her. He had never felt this way about a woman before.

  ‘You can walk if you wish.’ His voice rasped with banked passion.

  ‘I do wish.’

  Sayrid hated that she had enjoyed how her curves moulded to his hard muscles for that all-too-brief instant when he lowered her down. She stepped hurriedly back and made a show of straightening the pleats in the skirts so it concealed more of her legs.

  ‘Why did you feel the need to carry me?’ she asked, studying the ground with great intensity.

  ‘You asked for help. I obliged. You may thank me properly later.’

  She risked a glance upwards and saw something in his eyes which made her draw her breath in, but it vanished so quickly she couldn’t be sure. Her mind kept remembering how his tongue had darted into her mouth during the kiss after the ceremony. Was that the sort of thanking he wanted? She curled her fists, tensing her body as she imagined how he’d laugh if she gave in to the impulse.

  ‘That wasn’t the help I meant…the crowd was far too close…I just needed air.’

  ‘You fainted.’ His face became full of uncompromising planes. ‘Kettil will understand that my first duty is to my bride. I’ve no wish for her to drop dead on our wedding night.’

  ‘You’re overreacting.’

  ‘How badly injured were you in our battle? The truth.’

  Sayrid drew on her years of experience and jutted her jaw forward. Her touch-me-and-I-break-your-arm face, as Auda once called it. ‘I’ll live. Two years ago on the way to Birka, the mast broke in a storm and landed squarely on my shoulder. I kept going then and steered the boat to safety. I can certainly keep going now.’

  He captured her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. ‘This is not about the safety of your men or anyone else but you. I will not have my bride keeping secrets about her health. I know how quickly people can die.’

  ‘Bruises, nothing more.’ She wrenched her chin away. Keeping secrets indeed! He was the one who hadn’t informed her about his daughter. If she had known… Sayrid curled her fists. ‘The crowd hemmed me in. And the gown is far too tight. But fainting was a mistake. I should have been stronger. I will do better next time.’

  Sayrid concentrated on a spot above his right shoulder and carefully composed her face. How could she begin to explain the sheer terror which had washed over her when she encountered his daughter? How all the memories of her stepmother flooded back?

  ‘Can we go to the feast? People will be disappointed if the bride and groom leave before the feast starts. They might whisper that it shows disrespect.’ She forced her feet to move.

  ‘Either I carry you over my shoulder again, which will aggravate the injury you inflicted on my back, or you walk to where I am staying.’ He reached out and plucked a wilted flower from her hair. ‘We aren’t going to the feast because you l
ook as exhausted as I feel.’

  Looking at the flower, she knew how she must appear—not radiant, but bruised and battered, a parody of a bride. Her insides twisted. So much for hoping he might desire her. ‘You have such a way with words.’

  ‘And you, Valkyrie, have a tendency to want your own way. I know what you are like for disappearing.’

  A flash of understanding went through her. He actually thought she had planned on vanishing during the feast! She gritted her teeth. As if she’d play a shabby trick like that. Too many people depended on her.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Kettil has loaned me a house to use for as long as I wish.’

  ‘Am I to have more lessons in being a woman?’

  A flame flickered in his eyes. ‘Only if you require them. But not all lessons are painful.’

  Sayrid pressed her lips together. Lessons were generally painful in her experience. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘Do.’

  Sayrid tried to peer around Hrolf’s bulk. All seemed quiet, but the back of her neck prickled, just like it always did before an attack. It was nonsense. Who would attack them?

  Her breath stopped. She hadn’t seen Regin since she ordered him out of the hut before the wedding.

  ‘Even now, your attention wanders.’ He put an arm about her waist and started to draw her close.

  Sayrid tore her eyes away from the shadows as her heart started to beat double time. ‘I was thinking of something…’

  ‘We have company.’ Hrolf adopted a wary pose. ‘Friends of yours?’

  A group of men had gathered in the street. Sayrid recognised her brother’s outline. Sayrid’s stomach plummeted. He’d been busy gathering men to rescue her, when she thought he’d been sulking because of her earlier sharpness. Why did her brother specialize in futile gestures? Particularly when she had everything under control.

  ‘You left before the feast began, Hrolf Sea-Rider,’ her brother said, stepping forward. ‘And I spy the tracks of tears on my sister’s cheeks.’

  Sayrid furiously scrubbed her cheeks. She knew her brother used the ritual words, but even so!

  ‘If there are any tears, they are tears of joy.’ Hrolf used the ritual reply.

  ‘We want to know that Sayrid goes willingly. She is not one to insult our jaarl in this fashion—leaving before a feast has begun,’ one of the men shouted.

  ‘What does Kettil say? Is he insulted?’ Sayrid asked.

  ‘He sends his regards to the winner of the bout.’

  ‘No one held a sword to her back when she made her vows,’ Hrolf answered, keeping one hand on her shoulder and preventing her from moving. Sayrid attempted to shrug him off, but his grip tightened. ‘Wedding feasts are for the enjoyment of friends and relations, not for the couple! It is the wedding night they long for.’

  One or two guffaws rang out from the crowd. The muscles in Sayrid’s neck relaxed. No blood would be spilt. She would just have to survive the wedding night.

  ‘You were arguing just now,’ her brother protested, silencing the laughter and the mood instantly turned ugly. ‘The sound of raised voices echoed around the harbour. You will hand my sister over to me. We can protect you, Sayrid, like you protected me all those years ago. I have a debt to repay. I am ready to be the warrior you proclaimed I could be.’

  ‘I go willingly with Hrolf,’ Sayrid shouted and stamped her foot heavily on the ground to punctuate the point. Her brother was taking idiocy to a new height. She wished he’d consulted her instead of acting. ‘Allow us to pass, brother. You have done your duty as Svear custom requires.’

  Regin motioned to his friends and they blocked the street. ‘For your own good, Sayrid. You will thank me later.’

  ‘We should all return to the feast,’ one of her men said. ‘And lift our horns of mead together.’

  Sayrid glanced at Hrolf. Put in those terms, he had to refuse. Her brother had threatened him beyond the bounds of wedding custom. ‘But I’ve no wish to return. Like Hrolf Sea-Rider, I wanted to leave…’ Her cheeks burnt fire. There was no need for Regin to know about her fainting. He’d be even more mother hen–like.

  ‘I, too, was eager for the night to begin,’ she choked out, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her. ‘I demanded to leave and start our private celebrations.’

  ‘I suggest you heed your lady’s request and treat her with respect,’ Hrolf thundered. ‘I for one wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her.’

  Regin stuck his chest out and his face took on a stubborn cast. ‘Sayrid would never raise her sword against me. She is only saying these things because she doesn’t want to see me injured in a fight.’

  Sayrid winced, knowing what Regin said was true. She might bluster, but she could never attack Regin or for that matter the men who stood behind him. They had served her family for too long and too well.

  The men beat their swords against their shields in agreement with Regin and shouted ‘Sayrid! Sayrid!’

  Regin circled his arms, encouraging them.

  ‘The numbers may be on your side.’ Hrolf stroked his chin. ‘What about a contest between you and me? Here and now? Settle the matter once and for all. I fought your sister for the right to marry her. But I will fight you as well.’

  Her brother’s hand twitched over his sword.

  ‘Think about Blodvin and your child, Regin,’ she whispered, staring at him hard and speaking to him like she used to when he was a boy and their father had just asked him to do something impossible. ‘Let me take care of it. In my way and in my fashion. Trust me.’

  Sweat trickled down her back and each heartbeat took longer. Silently she willed Regin to see sense and leave his sword in its hilt.

  ‘You think I’m a useless warrior, Sayrid. Is that it? Deep down, you believe the same as our father?’ Regin drew out his sword and swayed. The stench of sour ale wafted over Sayrid. ‘You will see, Sayrid, I can fight. Your little brother is better than you think. I challenge you, Hrolf Eymundsson!’

  ‘Regin! Respect my wishes! It is my wedding day.’ Sayrid turned towards her new husband. Hrolf stood completely still, but his stance remained one of a warrior about to go into battle. ‘My brother reeks of drink. Where is the glory in fighting a drunkard?’

  A muscle jumped in Hrolf’s jaw. ‘He is old enough to know when it is appropriate to issue such a challenge.’

  ‘It would be an ill omen to start the marriage with a feud.’ She concentrated on Hrolf’s face. ‘Allow him to sober up. He will apologize then. Today is about celebrating the joining of two families.’

  ‘He drops his sword first. At my feet.’

  ‘Go, Regin, leave,’ she whispered into the silence which followed.

  Instead there was a sharp hiss as Regin drew his sword. Giving into instinct, Sayrid put her hand out and blocked his wrist. The fragile dress material gave way under her arm and across her back with a loud rip. Regin froze.

  Sayrid clutched the remaining bit together, grateful for Hrolf’s cloak which would hide any scars or flesh.

  ‘Just bother,’ she muttered.

  Hrolf turned around with a glower. At the sight of her difficulties, he lifted his brow. ‘Problems, Valkyrie?’

  ‘What were you going to do with that?’ she asked her brother, wrenching the sword away from him. It was far easier to concentrate on her brother’s misdemeanours than to worry about her ruined dress or how she looked. Righteous anger filled her. ‘Since when are you that sort of warrior? Since when have you become like a sea king? We agreed peace. Ironfist’s children never dishonour oaths.’

  Regin hung his head. ‘I wanted to do something for you, Say… What was done to you was wrong and it is all my fault. I wish I’d never fallen in love with Blodvin, then everyone could have been happy.’

  A huge great tide of misery rose in Sayrid’s breast. Some day her brother would go too far. ‘I know you did, but this was the wrong way to go about it. Just as it was wrong to bed Blodvin before
you wedded her.’

  ‘I’ve no wish to start a blood feud, Avilson.’ Hrolf plucked the sword from Sayrid’s grip. He balanced it lightly on his hand before returning it to her brother, hilt first. ‘What is past remains in the past. You have a wife and child on the way. Enjoy them. But allow me the bride I won in peace and friendship.’

  Her brother gulped twice. ‘You return my sword? Unbroken?’

  ‘I am in a good mood. Wedding days are a time of celebration. It is your sister’s wish that we be joined in matrimony. No one forced her. Respect her and do not seek to dishonour her again.’

  Regin’s mouth took a bitter twist. ‘I was willing to die for you, Sayrid.’

  ‘Then be willing to live for me as well. You have a new wife and a baby on the way. Consider their future before you attempt to avenge imagined slights.’ Sayrid nodded towards some of her more loyal men. ‘Sober him up before he sees his wife.’

  The men grabbed Regin’s arms and hustled him away.

  Sayrid adjusted the cloak more firmly about her shoulders. ‘Shall we go, husband?’

  Hrolf glowered at her as the men dispersed, leaving them once again alone. ‘What else must I endure before our wedding night? Or is that the extent of your escape preparations?’

  Sayrid raised her chin and met his furious gaze head-on. ‘A simple thank you would have been pleasant in the circumstances.’

  His brow furrowed and he seemed genuinely perplexed. ‘Why?’

  ‘I—I—I prevented things from escalating,’ she stammered. ‘You were outnumbered. My brother may not be a brilliant warrior, but he can hold his own.’

  ‘Did I ask for your assessment of the situation?’ His voice was as cold as ice.

  She shook her head slowly. ‘I used my own judgement.’

  He put his hand under her elbow. ‘I gave my pledge to look after you. I married to gain a wife, not a warrior or an advisor.’

  ‘But you married me,’ she whispered. ‘And I don’t know how to be anything but a warrior.’

  ‘Are you ready for the next lesson…in pleasure?’

  Chapter Six

  Hrolf heaved a sigh of relief as they rounded the corner towards where he was staying. The show of bravado by Sayrid’s brother had been the only difficulty.