by Anthology
Wow. I was so ashamed of myself that I wanted to jump into the bucket and hide. Was I really getting possessive over my bucket? Like some homeless man with his cart?
She reached for the bucket again.
I snapped. "What's your problem!"
"My problem?" she repeated, her eyebrows shot to the top of her forehead. Damn, she had pretty eyes.
I nodded. Words weren't really my thing since I was shamelessly checking her out.
"My problem…" She laughed bitterly. "Is that the minute your punk rocker self got into this town, our business has suffered, and you don't even take it seriously! And now you're working my corner!"
"Whoa!" I laughed. I couldn't help it. "I'm sorry. Your corner? What? Is this Pretty Woman or something?"
"Did you just call me a prostitute?"
Yes. Yes I did. "Nope, more like a call girl. Prostitutes don't dress like blind middle schoolers."
"Agh!" She swatted my bucket, making all the candy fall to the ground. Amused, I crossed my arms and watched the fire blaze in her eyes. Really, it was a pity she dressed so horribly, and that she was wearing that awful hat. Though, I guess my visor wasn't any better, but still. I made it look good.
"Just watch it."
Brawl alert. I almost expected people to start coming out of the alleys with toothpicks in their mouths and newspapers in their hands.
How the hell did I get stuck in a Broadway musical?
Since I was committing to the whole Seaside Taffy act, might as well commit to this one too. "Noted, Shop Girl. Noted. Now run along."
Her eyes widened, and for a second I was shocked at how pretty she was. With a grunt and a cute little curse, she stomped off across the street.
I waved in her direction and started the jingle all over again. This time really committing, by way of throwing in a few AD2 dance moves that I knew would likely land me in prison if I moved to hastily in the wrong direction.
Three hours later, I was seriously rethinking this whole job business. It started to rain shortly after my dancing began. No doubt people thought it was because of my inability to keep my hips from moving with the stupid candy bucket.
With a sigh I adjusted my visor and tried to protect the taffy bucket. If my only job was to sell taffy and get people into the store, I didn't want to be the one loser who got the taffy wet and single-handedly took down the longest running taffy store in the history of Seaside, Oregon.
Thankfully, Bob must have sensed my plight, or maybe he was tired of me texting him every two seconds asking him for an umbrella. I knew it was pathetic, and okay, maybe a little bit ridiculous, but I was beyond drenched.
My teeth were chattering, and I was giving everyone with two eyes an unobstructed view of my nipple ring through the wet t-shirt.
If the mom from earlier was to come by now, she'd be horrified. And I'd be put in prison.
Ah, prison. Such a pipe dream. At least it's warm there.
"You're getting the taffy wet," a female voice said behind me.
Slowly I turned around. It was the big-eyed girl from before. Only now she was wearing a slick rain coat and rain boots.
"Caught that did you?" I sneered. I wasn't sure why I was so irritated. Maybe it was the rain? Maybe it was withdrawals from drugs. But I was pissed that the same girl who verbally attacked me from earlier would not only come back for more, but would blatantly tell me something I already knew.
"I'm not stupid," I said, shaking my head while still trying to shield the bucket with my body.
"You sure about that?" she asked, folding her arms.
"Did you seriously come back out here in the rain just to challenge my intelligence?"
"That depends." Her lips turned upward into a shadow of a smile.
Fine. I'll bite. "On what, Sweetheart?"
"Are you going to stand in the rain or move two feet and stand underneath the overhang?"
Shit. I looked up. Sure enough. There was a healthy overhang that could have been shielding me from the rain for the past two hours.
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I like the rain."
She bit her lip and looked around. People walked around us with their umbrellas, all trying to duck into the shops until the rain stopped. I shivered in response and waited for her to say something.
"You chose the right place to be then."
If she only knew I had no choice whatsoever in the matter. "Yup, guess I did." Seriously. I was getting nowhere with this girl. All flirting genes apparently died in the car accident, while I was left very much alive — and very much a loser. What a bright future I had!
Author Note:
I had so much fun writing this book. I think every author says this when they are done with a huge project, but there are so many people to thank that it would take pages for me to actually get through the thank you's, and by then you'd be wanting to throw your e-reader, so I'll start with the most important.
I thank God every day for allowing me to live my dream! It is because of Him that I'm even able to do what I do.
Laura Heritage. Editor extraordinaire. You are not only an amazing editor, but a fantastic writer and a wonderful friend. Thank you for believing in this project and helping to make it a reality.
Stephanie Taylor, Editor-in-Chief of Astraea Press and my publisher when I'm not doing a self published project like this one. Thank you for not only allowing me the freedom to do something crazy like self publish a book, but supporting me in the process and walking me through it. I don't know many publishers that would stand by and do that. I'm constantly in awe of you!
Thanks to my family and my sexy husband for putting up with me when I ignore everything but my computer for hours on end.
And finally, thank you to my readers. I love you guys so much! If you haven't already, add me on Facebook and Twitter and check out my website: www.rachelvandyken.com. As always, if you liked the book write a review. If you hated it, write a review. I love to hear the good and yes, even the bad.
Other books by Rachel Van Dyken:
The Devil Duke Takes A Bride
The Ugly Duckling Debutante
Every Girl Does it
Compromising Kessen
Savage Winter
The Parting Gift
Waltzing With the Wallflower
The Seduction of Sebastian St. James
Beguiling Bridget
The Redemption of Lord Rawlings
Upon A Midnight Dream
Whispered Music
An Unlikely Alliance
Coming Soon:
The Bet
The Wolf's Pursuit
Pull
Taming Wilde
Divine Uprising
Irresistible Terms
About the Author
Rachel Van Dyken is the USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary romances. When she's not writing you can find her drinking coffee at Starbucks and plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor.
She keeps her home in Idaho with her Husband and their snoring Boxer, Sir Winston Churchill. She loves to hear from readers! You can follow her writing journey at www.rachelvandyken.com.
The Temperate Warrior
by
Renee Vincent
The Warrior Sagas, Book One
Website ~ Facebook ~ Newsletter
Dedication
For God, who is my strength and my constant companion.
For Kim Jacobs,
As I took those first steps in my writing career, you were always beside me, and I will never forget that. Your encouragement, guidance, and friendship are beyond compare. Thank you for taking me under your wing.
The Temperate Warrior
He was her champion. She was his weakness.
Together, they loved with wild abandon.
Gustaf Ræliksen lives by the blade of his sword. After avenging his father’s murder and reuniting with his family, he wants nothing more than to settle down and have sons of his own. Only one woman will do�
��a fiery redhead he saved from the spoils of war.
No longer forced to warm the beds of the men who’ve taken everything from her, Æsa has nothing to offer the noble warrior but her heart.
When someone with a deep score to settle seeks revenge upon her, Gustaf’s world is torn asunder. He has but one vow—saving the woman he loves from the ignorant fool who dared to best the temperate warrior.
Glossary of Norse Terms
Berserker: Elite force of Viking warriors, often cloaked in animal skins to portray an image of intimidation and fierceness.
Boxbed: Long bed for sleeping that ran along the lengths of the outer walls of a longhouse, oftentimes doubling as benches during the daylight hours.
Drakkar/Langskip: Viking longship (swift warship with very shallow draft.)
Freyja: “goddess of love and beauty.”
Hel: Viking hell.
Hirdmen: Army of Viking men.
Loki: “god of lies” “promoter of deceit.”
Mørketid: Also known as “polar night.” A season of winter above the Arctic Circle where the sun, even at its highest, doesn’t rise above the horizon.
Odin: “god of victory and wisdom.”
Passager: Any young bird that can already fly and is taken while it is still in its first-year plumage.
Seið-kona: Practitioner of witchcraft, from shamanic magic to prophecy, from healing to channeling and more.
Skerpikjøt: Wind-dried mutton native only to the Faroe Islands.
Straw Death: To die at home in bed. It was considered a dishonorable death among Vikings, for fighting men were expected to show contempt for any death short of dying fearless in battle if they wished to enter into Valhalla.
Thor: “god of thunder and justice.”
Thrall: Slave.
Valhalla: “Eternal Heaven of Heroes.”
Chapter One
923 A.D.
North Atlantic, West of Norway
Gustaf Ræliksen crumpled the pretty embroidered cloth in his fist and brought it to his nose, breathing in the lingering scent of lavender and primrose one last time before tucking it back inside the sleeve of his tunic. He looked out over the calm deep-blue water as he approached the Orkneys, torn between steering his longship toward the Faroe Islands and sailing eastward toward Skíringssalr. On the Faroes waited the woman he hadn’t seen in over a month—his dearest Æsa. In Skíringssalr waited the families of his loyal men who hadn’t seen them in over twenty-three years.
Gustaf and his men had been scouring the known world for ten cowards hired by King Harold the Fairhair, who had killed his father. He had never dreamed that hunting down an ensemble of spineless men would take most of his adult life. Though the small band of freelance murderers were anything but stealthy, they certainly knew how to make themselves scarce, often taking refuge in places unfit for humans—lands so cold and barren, only a marked man would dare to go there.
Desperation does that to a man, especially when one knows a dreadful fate awaits. No one in his right mind would want to die in the manner Gustaf had deemed necessary. His father had been hung from the rafters in his barn by his own intestines and nothing less had been dealt forth toward his foes.
From the time he left home to avenge his father at the age of eighteen, Gustaf had not stopped until every last one of them had been found and left to die in the same agonizing manner. However, if not for his seven hirdmen aboard the vessel, he would not have been able to fulfill his duty as a loyal son. It was because of their dedication to his cause that he made haste to reunite his steadfast friends with their families now. It was the least he could do for their undaunted devotion and service. But his heart ached to throw duty overboard and storm up the east coast of Skúvoy, seeking out the owner of the kerchief in his possession.
He’d been fortunate enough to find Æsa when he barged into the longhouse of one of his father’s murderers a few months prior. He’d given Ragnar, son of Thorrstein, the chance to offer up the last coward’s name in exchange for a swift death. Ragnar refused and, thus, his gruesome fate had been handed to him without delay.
Though Gustaf had not gained a name, he didn’t leave empty handed. He’d taken the young, shapely redhead from the dead man’s possession. And why not? A dead man has no need for a beautiful woman in his bed.
Gustaf smiled as he recalled the way Æsa had looked at him as they sailed away from Iceland’s inhospitable shores. There was wanton lust in her eyes, but even he could see the underlying relief hiding behind their bewitching color. She’d been a slave to Ragnar’s wishes, forced to be a harlot for many years of her life, and he could only imagine the disgrace and abuse she underwent.
Those days were over.
Gustaf had claimed Æsa for his own and his equal. He’d made it very clear he would never share her with another man. To his delight, she’d promised to take no one but him, as well, to her bed.
Perhaps he was a fool to believe her, but he did. During the few weeks he’d spent with her, taking refuge in a deserted longhouse along the outskirts of the small settlement of Skúvoy, she’d given him no reason to deem otherwise. The conversations they’d fallen into and the intimate moments they’d shared warmed by crackling fire were things he had never given up for anyone, save her. By rights, she should have been sickened by the brutality of his past actions if not intimidated by the determination of his mission, but she seemed to see through his warrior façade and uncovered the real man behind the chain mail and leather.
No amount of armor could have guarded him from the sweet invasion of Æsa’s innocent love. She was like a child, youthful and pure. Yet, by the same token, a skilled seductress, shameless and brazen. In his heart and mind, they were a perfect match. She’d even bestowed unto him a pet name—her temperate warrior.
The thought of that endearing term coming from Æsa’s supple lips warmed him, though he was anything but temperate. He hadn’t hidden his terrible past from her or the wicked things he’d done to avenge his father’s murder. By the time they’d parted, she knew everything and still she touched his cheek with delicate hands, whispering her sweet promises in his ear before he’d left.
I will wait for you, my temperate warrior. No matter how long you are absent from my arms, I will wait.
Gustaf took a deep breath of the crisp sea air, trying to push aside his longing for the woman he so missed. He glanced one last time at the islands behind him and made a silent vow that he would return for her.
Affirming his grip on the steerboard, he looked ahead, dutifully staying the course. The wind had picked up on the open sea and the need for rowing had diminished. Several of his men had resorted to keeping themselves busy within the hull of the ship. A few were sharpening daggers, a couple more were quietly discussing the simple pleasures they missed and which ones they planned to treat themselves to first. But Jørgen, his closest friend, looked as if he were fighting boredom. He had been eyeing Gustaf ever since they’d hoisted the heavy pine mast into its chink hole and rigged the single woolen sail against it.
Jørgen finally arose from his rowing bench and approached Gustaf at the stern. “Permission to speak, my lord.”
The corner of Gustaf’s mouth slightly raised in a smile. “Your service to me ended the moment Gunnar Havlocksen took his last breath. There is no need to address me as your master. You are free to speak your heart’s content, my friend.”
An air of haughtiness overtook Jørgen. “Noting your request, I demand you turn this langskip around.”
Gustaf cocked his head, regarding his friend’s terse statement. “And why would I do that?”
“I am not a fool. I have seen the magnitude of yearning for the woman you are leaving behind as you navigate us toward home. If not for this burden, you would have already burst through her door.”
“If not for you, I would not have a woman to come home to.”
“Indeed,” Jørgen admitted. “But ’tis not fair to put your men before yourself. You have been more than gen
erous to us. Not only with payment for our services but for the sacrifices you have made on our behalf.”
“My sacrifices pale in comparison to the ones you and the others made for me. I will not ask any of you to offer more, so that I may selfishly gratify my desires. You have been kept from your families far longer than I care to admit and I will not coerce you to wait longer.”
“What you say is true. We have been without the comfort of our families, the embraces of our children while they were small, and the warmth of our women in our beds. Through the years it has felt as if forever has passed since we’ve taken in those simple joys. We have withstood eternity. What is one more day?”
Gustaf felt his resolve slip. The sound of Jørgen’s offer weighed heavily on his right hand, the temptation to steer the ship southward encumbering his sense of duty. He shook his head in adamancy. “One more day is one more too long. If I could steal control of the wind from the gods, I would have already dragged keel in Skíringssalr by now and we would not be having this discussion.”
“If you could steal any power from the gods, my lord, I doubt it would be something as frivolous as the wind. I would imagine you would have robbed Thor of his hammer and taken out your father’s murderers single-handedly with one swift blow and none of us would be slave to this bloody ship.”
Gustaf laughed, pondering that image. “There is a thought.”
Jørgen glanced over his shoulder at the eager men who grew intent with the conversation at hand. Speaking for them, he turned back around and looked Gustaf in the eye. “Through the many years we have spent together, are we not your brothers?”