The Northman's Bride (A Sons of the North Romance Book 3)
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Titles by Sandra Lake
The Warlord’s Wife
The Iron Princess
The Northman’s Bride
The Northman’s Bride
Sandra Lake
INTERMIX BOOKS, NEW YORK
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
THE NORTHMAN’S BRIDE
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2016 by Sandra Lake.
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eBook ISBN: 9781101989463
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / May 2016
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Acknowledgments
I would like to dedicate this book to my editor, Julie Mianecki, for her hard work, passion, and patience for my stories; working with you is truly a collaborative experience. To quote an eighth grader I know well, “She just gets me.” And, I would add, you just get my characters.
Thanks as well to the entire InterMix and Berkley staff.
To my friend AnnMarie Spiby: thank you for being the perfect balance of a critical ear and cheerleader, at a time when I needed it most.
Contents
Titles by Sandra Lake
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Historical Note
About the Author
Chapter 1
Szczecin Fortress
West Coast of Polska—1177
Sovia rejected the generally held opinion that she was a whore. After all, it was an arguable term. Men were forever complaining that she had too many lovers, yet, at the moment, she was preoccupied kissing a particularly handsome young Norrlander and didn’t have time to concern herself with such inelegant judgments. Whore was simply a term, a distinction used as a tool crafted by men to suit their own ends.
Anyway, lust was a part of the natural vitality of men, and if Sovia knew anything at all about herself, it was that she had a talent for raising a man’s . . . vigor. She wouldn’t go so far as to say that her lovers couldn’t live without her, simply that she made their lives more . . . diverting.
As the heated tongue of Stål Magnusson, her very handsome, very eager young suitor, flicked up against hers, he groaned in a deep, growly sort of way.
“Oh, Stål,” Sovia breathed, tumbling backward onto the bed and pulling the young man down on top of her as she went.
“By my word, Sovia, you are the most beautiful woman in the world.” He rocked his lean, tapered hips into hers. Spreading her legs wider, she nestled him into the right spot—well, not truly the right spot—her many layers of thick fabric hindered his progress. He was being far too careful and progressing far too slowly. Sovia would have to take matters into her own hands.
But before she could take action, Magnusson pushed up off the bed with a lopsided, boyish grin. “I shall go speak to your father, my love. I will have you as my wife before the sun sets on another day.”
Stupid, foolish whelp, she thought and sighed.
She wrenched at his sword belt and it dropped to the floor with a loud clang, sending him the message that he was not going anywhere just yet.
“I swear to honor and love you until my last breath, my sweet . . . ,” he said while trailing kisses down her throat, “sweet, delicate, beautiful Sovia.” He stopped only to pull his tunic off over his head. The lad was built from Norrland steel, all right. The sharp edges of his rippled abdomen could slay any maiden. He halted for a moment, his face scrunched up in an enchantingly mischievous sort of way. “There is just one small thing I feel we should clear up.”
“Less talking, Stål. More undressing. Help me with this lace, will you? I can hardly breathe it is so tight. Try not to tear it—it is my favorite one.” Her last journey to Constantinople had been a prosperous one for her collection of rare and exquisite gowns. No female at court, or anywhere in the northern kingdoms for that matter, could boast of such an assortment of silks, furs, and fine Egyptian linens. The princesses of Denmark and Norway all held a hot hatred for Sovia, envious of her selection of opulent and varied attire. Yet her father always said that a maiden needed the right kind of bait to catch the right kind of fish.
Her bodice gave way at last. She rolled her bare shoulders, and her opaque, golden under-tunic fell to her waist.
Her suitor’s body became rigid, his mouth opening and closing, but no words came out. She opened her arms to him and he dropped his head to her chest, kissing and whispering his homage to her breasts. She had never quite understood why men became such blubbering fools at the sight of a woman’s breasts. It was true that hers had increased in size and were more tender since she’d discovered that she was with child, but they were still simply fatty flesh as far as she was concerned.
Stål grabbed both breasts and buried his long, narrow nose between them. The stubble of his chin tickled, and she giggled, a sharp shot of pleasure racing to her core. Sovia instructed her sensory system not to pay attention to the momentary surge of pleasure. She needed to stay focused on the task at hand.
At any moment, her father would burst into her chamber with the jarl from Norrland at his side, and she needed to have her wits about her to perform her role to the fullest. Moaning like a dairymaid would surely ruin her disguise as a ravished, innocent maiden and therefore reduce her father’s bargaining power for her hand at the contract table.
Anyway, contemplating the current political mess of civil war her cousin, King Magnus V of Norway, was in was a useful tool to keep her mind off the stirring sensations and concentrate on her assignment. Since the death of Sovia’s grandfather, King Sigurd the Crusader, civil war fueled by rival kings had pla
gued her homeland, and the lands of their neighbors. The world was in a mess, really, and the latest land to be lost was the very fortress she was in, gone to the ever-expanding empire of Demark.
It was remarkable to Sovia how a series of seemingly unrelated political events had led her to this very moment, with the mission of seducing the lovely Stål Magnusson, Prince of Steel and wealthy heir to Tronscar. Civil war was an expensive business, and her cousin, the king, was in need of wealthy allies. Namely, Stål’s father, Jarl Magnus Knutson of Norrland, one of the most powerful warlords in the north, if not all the known kingdoms. Kinsman to both the Kings of Sweden and Denmark, his steel empire was said to turn the tide of any war or conflict that he chose to support.
A focused marriage alliance with the powerful Swedish house would place Sovia and her father in a position of influence—or at the very least, perceived influence—over the jarl, which was precisely what had brought her father to the peace talks here in Polotsk: the chance to ensnare yet another powerful man and extort political and monetary gain.
For more winters than Sovia cared to remember, she’d served her father at court, been obedient in all things, and at last, this spring he’d promised she could return home to Toraslotte, in Norway. That was, of course, after she performed this one last small favor for him. The timing of her pregnancy could not have been better even if she had arranged it, which she couldn’t have, of course. She could never have dreamed of any blessing coming out of her encounter with that degenerate rapist, and yet, something wonderful had. She had come to crave a child of her own—someone to love and be loved by. Motherhood would render her ruined and useless to her father’s schemes, and therefore she would be free from him once and for all.
“Sovia,” Stål said, interrupting her musings. “Sovia. Your name is prayer upon my lips. I will write volumes of poetry in your name. Compose sonnets that will be known in every corner of the world. For all must hear of your beauty.” He raised his face from her chest and tenderly kissed her lips.
She stroked his delightful prickly cheek, enjoying the scratchy gold whiskers that were hardly visible to the eye. Poor lad. He actually appeared sincere. She ran her fingers into his unruly blond hair. He smelled of pine soap and sea air. By far he was the handsomest and most delightfully scented of all her conquests.
“Sweet words, my dearest Stål. Yet I have no need for poetry.” She slid a hand down the front of his leather trousers. “What I need from you, my lover, is you between my thighs. No wonder your parents named you after steel.” She squeezed him slightly and the poor fellow went cross-eyed.
“Have mercy, Sovia.” He kissed her with bruising force, rocking into her hand. “We must speak—I—” She squeezed a little harder and he groaned louder, his movements becoming more urgent.
He covered her hand with his own and held her still. He looked into her eyes and said, “I have loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you. I will speak to your father this very eve and we shall be together for always, but first we must talk.”
The look in his eyes became pained. Something was terribly wrong. “What is it, Stål?” She cupped his cheek and he turned his face to the side and kissed her palm.
“Nothing serious, my love. Only that you, like most, have mistaken me for my twin brother. I am Hök, not Stål.”
“Nay! You lie. You have a scar on your chin.” She gently traced the scar while searching his eyes. He must only be a year or two older than she. Young lads often liked to tease their girls, but she never understood why. It suited nobody’s interests.
“Aye and my brother has a scar on his right brow.”
She kissed him lightly on the lips. “’Tis cruel to tease me at such a time. Come, take me from this longing.”
“Your wish is my command, my sweet love.” He kissed down her throat. “This night and every night thereafter, but”—his lips stilled against her skin—“if it is all the same, I prefer you moan my name and not my brother’s.” He pulled back a little and grinned at her, emphasizing the jolly, boyish charm that he had been plying her with just minutes ago in the main hall.
The blood drained out of her head, her heartbeat echoing violently in her ears.
“Sweet mother of Mary,” she whispered. “You’re speaking the truth.” She had seduced the wrong son. “My father will murder me,” she said to herself.
“Nay. Nay. Nay. You are Stål, the heir to the jarl’s seat.” She pulled up the top of her gown and covered her breasts.
“Sovia, fear not, my love. You will want for nothing as my wife.”
“Nay. Nay,” she said louder, twisting away to cover herself. The scar on his chin that marked the firstborn from the second was there. Her father’s informant told her the scar was on the chin, not the brow . . . this was a gigantic mistake. Her father would never let her go home now. What good was a second son to him politically? He would ship her to Ryazan and wed her to Prince Voinovich as he’d quite seriously threatened when she’d tried to get out of this plan to seduce Stål. She clutched her stomach.
Nay! She couldn’t let that happen. Voinovich was a vile, merciless boar, and if he were to know that he had gotten her pregnant, he would make a claim over her land, her child’s royal blood, and her dowry—and what of her babe? Suffering through Voinovich’s humiliating, violent claiming of her body was one thing, but allowing her child to be exposed to such a demon was quite another. She was prepared to do anything to prevent that from happening.
A panic swept through her as her mind scanned quickly over her options for escape. She must get out of this chamber. There was still time to seduce the right son and mend her mistake. “Nay. Nay. I must—”
The young man she now realized was Hök captured her hands. “Sovia. My love. All will be well. I will speak to your father and—”
“Nay. Nay. I beg you. Release me!”
Suddenly, the chamber door was flung open, and her father appeared, sword drawn.
“Unhand my daughter, you fiend. Prepare to die, Magnusson!”
Chapter 2
Hök thrust his arms out, shielding Sovia from the men that now streamed into her chamber. “I will fix this, my love,” he whispered to her.
“I wish you could.” Sovia pushed her skirt down, covering her legs, and quickly slipped her arms back into the sleeves of her gown. “Forgive me, Hök. You seem like a good sort of fellow,” she whispered and then leapt off the bed and ran into her father’s arms. “Oh, Father. I was so frightened,” she said, loud enough for all the guardsmen to hear.
“Hök! Explain.” The mighty Jarl of Tronscar’s voice clapped like thunder through the door. The small chamber had become a sea of raised voices. Her father’s guards were demanding blood while the Tronscar guards were circling young Hök, shoving him protectively behind them. Hök’s twin brother rushed past, coming to stand next to her shirtless suitor. Now that she saw the twin sons side by side, the resemblance was striking but not exact. A proper formal introduction could have had this entire mess easily avoided.
“My daughter’s honor has been decimated. There must be blood to answer for this treachery,” her father, Baron Losna, said, his speech well rehearsed. He turned his head slightly as he spoke to ensure that their host heard every word.
Jarl Magnus Knutson pushed his men aside and tugged his son forward. “What say you, son?”
Young Hök’s hair and clothes were disheveled, but he straightened his spine and stepped forward toward Sovia’s father, bowing his head. “Your servant, baron. I came to her chamber to speak with her and hear her wishes before petitioning for her hand. I beg you to allow me the honor of taking her as my wife.” Though bright red in the face, he spoke with a strong, bold voice. “I love your daughter with all my heart, sir.” He dropped to his knee, submitting himself to her father’s mercy. “Sovia has returned my affections and made me the happiest of men.”
Sovia closed her eyes.
Hök had caught sight of her only three days before in the courtyard. This was not love. This was infatuation. Though his body was ideal in all ways—flat hard belly, splendid broad shoulders—perhaps he had been dropped on his head at birth. Professing love so quickly and easily was a clear sign of foolishness.
“Father,” she said. “I agreed to naught. He followed me to my chamber and forced his way in. I swear it to you. Hök took advantage.” She caught her father’s eye when she said the lad’s name. He needed to adjust his plan accordingly.
“Hök! ’Tis the second son who assumes to steal my only daughter, and presumes himself worthy of her royal bloodline?” Her father gave Sovia a little shove toward the door, leaving her with no doubt that he was displeased with her blunder.
Now the negotiations would begin—her father would leave the Danish ambassador’s peace talks much richer than when he’d arrived. Sovia hoped that some miracle would occur during their talks and that she and Hök would be forced to marry. There was still time to take him to bed and conceal the truth of who had sired her babe. Her father had assured her that her new husband would take her back to Toraslotte and await the birth of the child, who would safely be born a few months early. There was still a chance all would work out.
“My lord,” Hök said. “I take full responsibility. It was not Sovia’s fault but mine.”
“Of course she is blameless! Yet she has been ruined, soiled by your unworthy hands. Jarl Knutson, I demand satisfaction!”
“And you shall have it, Baron Losna,” said the Jarl of Tronscar. “The young people shall be wed after the morning mass.” Sovia’s heart soared. He raised his arm out, extending his hand to her father. “Let us join hands, baron, and in so doing join our houses.”
Her father glared at the offered hand. “She is the granddaughter of the great King Sigurd the Crusader, or have you forgotten? Her connections will not be wasted on the dishonorable second son of a northern jarl. She is a princess of Norway and only a man of equal birth will do. You think too highly of yourself, Jarl Magnus. Her cousin, the honorable King Magnus Erlingsson, would never allow such an inferior alliance.”