A Yuletide Kiss

by Glynnis Campbell

  A YULETIDE KISS

  The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch

  by

  A half-Viking shieldmaiden has until Yuletide to choose a bridegroom…or one will be chosen for her.

  A YULETIDE KISS

  Copyright © 2017 by Glynnis Campbell

  Glynnis Campbell – Publisher

  P.O. Box 341144

  Arleta, California 91331

  ISBN-13: 978-1-63480-031-0

  Contact: glynnis@glynnis.net

  Cover photo courtesy of Armstreet, makers of medieval clothing, http://www.armstreet.com. If you like the outfit, you can own it!

  Cover design by Richard Campbell

  Formatting by Author E.M.S.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This work is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Learn more about Glynnis Campbell and her writing at www.glynnis.net

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  A YULETIDE KISS

  Dear Reader

  More Books by Glynnis Campbell

  About Glynnis Campbell

  Contact Information

  From the Jewels

  A YULETIDE KISS

  Late 9th Century Pictland

  On his eleventh pass across the upstairs room of the alehouse, Brude MeqqUvan cursed softly and pounded the side of his fist against the plaster wall. The impact rattled the cup of ale on the table beside him. He caught it before it could spill. Then he took a bracing swig of the bitter brew and set it back down.

  This was all a mistake.

  He should never have listened to his brothers.

  It was Taran who had wrung the drunken confession from him last night in the first place.

  Then Drest had convinced him of the merits of never going into battle unprepared.

  And before Brude even had time to consider the wisdom of their proposition, Galan had made the arrangements this morn. He’d stopped at this questionable establishment to drop silver into the palm of the alewife, telling her he needed the best harlot she had for the deed.

  Now, behind a closed door and still fully dressed, Brude paced the oak planks, more anxious about the woman he was about to face than any warrior he’d ever battled.

  He ran uneasy knuckles over his black-bearded chin, eyeing the bed with mistrust.

  It was too short for him. His feet were going to hang off the end.

  He scowled at the frame. He wondered if it was sturdy enough. He took hold of one of the four wooden posts and gave it a jiggle. It seemed well-built. But then he wasn’t sure how energetic things might become.

  The brown wool coverlet was threadbare. He supposed it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to spend the night. Once the task was accomplished, he’d continue on to the keep at Rivenloch. And there he would meet the heiress he was to marry.

  Like the ale, the thought of marriage left a bitter taste in his mouth. A wife seemed like an unwelcome burden for a warrior like him. The idea of a mewling, helpless lass standing in the way of his ambitions held no appeal.

  He narrowed his eyes at the bed linens peeping out from beneath the coverlet. He hoped the pallet didn’t harbor fleas.

  Then he let out a heavy breath. He supposed his brothers were right. He would be wise to prepare for his husbandly duty. Before facing his betrothed, he should test his weapon—at least once.

  He smirked in self-mockery.

  The truth was, despite being seasoned in battle, Brude was yet untried in bed.

  He was sure the soldiers he’d defeated over a lifetime of waging war would be astonished to know that.

  Brude the Brutal was the most feared warrior in Pictland. His name was whispered to children to make them behave, bellowed in battle to frighten the enemy. It was the stuff of nightmares. Fierce and merciless, Brude fought with a vengeance born of wild barbarian blood.

  Surely it should come as no surprise then that no woman had ever dared come close enough to speak to him, clasp his hand, or press her lips to his, much less come to his bed.

  He supposed he could have forced himself on a woman somewhere along the way. But that seemed unmanly, like killing a child in battle. What victory was there in conquering a foe so obviously inferior?

  He could have paid for the services of a harlot before now. But his mind and his body had always been preoccupied with more important things. He was too busy waging war, administering justice, and learning to lead the clan—which would be his responsibility when his father left this world—to think about trysting.

  Indeed, if not for the need to unite the two kingdoms of MeqqUvan and Rivenloch, Brude might never have married. Hel, if not for his upcoming nuptials, he might well have gone to his grave a virgin.

  After all, he reasoned, tussling between the covers with a maid couldn’t possibly be as thrilling as crossing swords with a champion. No woman in soft sendal could compare to a skilled warrior in chainmail. Nothing could match the fire that surged in his blood when he vanquished a worthy opponent. And no maid’s kiss could be as sweet as the taste of victory in war.

  Something suddenly bumped the door, and Brude’s heart leaped into his throat. His sword was halfway drawn before he remembered this was not the battlefield.

  The laughter outside indicated a couple passing by. He sheathed his sword and sank onto the bed on unsteady legs.

  “Shite.”

  What was wrong with him? His heart was racing. His breath was shallow. Sweat slicked his brow. His jaw was clamped as tightly as a clamshell. He was more nervous, waiting for the harlot, than he’d ever been in combat.

  What if the wench was old and withered? What if she had the pox? What if she laughed at his inexperience?

  Or more likely, what if, once she laid eyes on him, she ran from the room, shrieking in fright?

  Brude had never shied away from battle. But now he gazed morosely at the closed window, wondering if it was too late to throw open the shutters, drop onto the snow below, and escape into the winter morn.

  Kimbery pulled the edges of her gray woolen hood across her face to hide the plumes of her warm breath on the cold air. She’d managed to slip the pursuit of her da’s men, a pack of broad-shouldered Vikings who’d landed on her shores two decades ago and never left.

  The Northmen had been heroes to a four-year-old lass with no father. They’d quickly adopted her—a half-Viking child of rape—as their own. But now that Kimbery was a grown woman, their ubiquitous presence was smothering.

  It wouldn’t be long before they discovered her tracks in the snow. She couldn’t stay in the woods. Though her fury was fiery enough at the moment to keep her from feeling the biting frost, she had to find a way to escape—permanently.

  She supposed the situation was her own fault. She simply hadn’t believed her parents capable of such a calculating and coldhearted scheme.

  When they’d said they expected Kimbery to find a husband before Yuletide, she’d taken it as a friendly suggestion.

  Never had she imagined it was a threat.

  Her mother, Avril, the head of the clan of Rivenloch, had decided it was time for twenty-five-year-old Kimbery to start a family.

  Kimbery didn’t see what the hurry was.

  She realized, of course, that even though she had younger brothers and sisters with babes of their own, the line of succession went through the firstborn women
of the clan. Ultimately, it would be Kimbery’s daughter who carried on the Rivenloch title.

  But Kimbery figured she had plenty of time. After all, her parents were healthy and would rule for decades to come. Kimbery had many childbearing years left.

  Besides, it wasn’t like she could find a suitable husband at Rivenloch. She’d grown up as a shieldmaiden, sparring beside most of the eligible men. They were brothers-in-arms to her. She couldn’t imagine kissing them, let alone wedding and bedding them.

  Did her mother think Kimbery could just conjure a groom at will?

  She supposed that shouldn’t be surprising. After all, her mother’s husband had literally washed up on the beach, like some gift from Aegir, the sea god.

  But not everyone was as lucky in love as Avril and Brandr, her shipwrecked Viking, the man Kimbery had called Da from the very beginning.

  And now, just this morn, the day before Yuletide, Kimbery’s parents had given her a very unwelcome gift. Avril had announced that, since Kimbery had failed to procure a husband in the allotted time, they’d sent for one.

  Kimbery had naturally flown into a rage, demanding they send him back.

  Brandr had said it was too late, that the betrothal had been arranged and that her husband was already on his way.

  She was shocked by their callousness. For over twenty years, she’d been allowed to live freely here as the daughter of the laird. She’d slept in a Rivenloch bed, supped at a Rivenloch table, fought with the Rivenloch forces. How could her parents oust her from her idyllic life and into a marriage she didn’t want?

  They couldn’t, she decided. Kimbery was nothing if not headstrong. She refused to be backed into a corner. Let her bridegroom come then. She’d make his life so unbearable, he’d beg to be released from the betrothal.

  Then her da had revealed the name of her husband-to-be, and the blood had drained from her face.

  He was the most feared villain in Pictland. A dark, massive warrior with barbarian blood, he was considered more beast than man. One glare from his black eyes could chill bones. One curse from his twisted lips could damn a person’s soul to Hel.

  It was said he’d butchered a fearsome giant with his great blade, singlehandedly slaughtered an entire company of Romans, and slain a rabid wolf with his bare hands.

  How could her own parents have chosen such a monster to be her husband?

  Avril had made light of Kimbery’s alarm. Brandr had insisted the rumors were unfounded. They seemed utterly oblivious to the danger they were putting her in.

  Desperate to escape a horrific fate, Kimbery decided she would have to take drastic measures.

  It wasn’t yet Yuletide, she’d argued. There was still one day left for her to find a husband.

  Of course, Avril and Brandr had laughed at that. Kimbery hadn’t found a suitable groom in twenty-five years. What made her imagine she could find one in one day?

  But the truth was she had no intention of finding a suitable groom. Or any groom, for that matter. She only told them that to buy time.

  Meanwhile, with no real plan except to run away before her monstrous husband-to-be could arrive, Kimbery threw on her cloak, grabbed her dagger, and stole out of the keep into the forest.

  Her parents must have expected her to flee. Not long after she began slogging through the snow, Kimbery had spied six of her da’s best men following her. And now they had picked up her trail.

  “Shite.”

  How could she lose them? Where could she go?

  She bit the corner of her lip.

  This far from Rivenloch, there was only one place close enough to seek refuge. About a mile up ahead, if she cut through the forest, stood a roadside alehouse. It was a place of ill repute. Aebbe Cambeul, the alewife there, employed a few maids of questionable virtue. She was known to supply men with more than ale.

  It was the last place the Vikings would think to look for the respectable laird’s daughter.

  All Kimbery had to do was throw them off her scent.

  She scoured the ground until she found a hefty rock and tested its weight in her palm. Then, waiting until the men were facing away, she hurled the rock as hard as she could in the direction she’d just come.

  While they rushed to investigate the sound, she slipped silently onward through the trees, careful to cover her tracks.

  By the time she emerged on the road, it was snowing again. Despite the icy air, she was breathless and sweaty from the exertion of running.

  The disreputable thatched alehouse looked remarkably inviting. The golden glow of firelight leaked through the cracks in the shuttered windows of the lower level. And above the upper floor, thick white smoke curled from the chimney into the gray sky.

  Kimbery hesitated. If anyone in the alehouse recognized her, they’d report her to her da’s men. But chances were, on the day before Yule, the only people inside were travelers, strangers who had no idea who she was.

  With a hasty glance over her shoulder, she hurried forward. Pulling her hood closer around her face to conceal the one feature that would surely give her away—her white-blonde hair—she pushed through the door.

  Trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible, she quickly perused the room. A russet-haired youth warmed his hands by the peat fire. Three big, black-bearded men swapped stories at a table, guzzling ale and laughing loudly. Aebbe the alewife served buttered bread to a young couple with a babe in swaddling. Meanwhile, Modwenna, one of Aebbe’s harlots, minced up the stairs.

  Kimbery figured she’d follow Modwenna and hide in one of the upstairs chambers until she was sure her da’s men hadn’t spotted her.

  She’d begun edging casually toward the steps and climbed three stairs when Aebbe suddenly called out, “Here, lass! Where are you going?”

  Fearful the alewife would expose her identity, Kimbery scurried up five more steps.

  The alehouse door opened with an abrupt bang under the power of a Viking arm. The sound distracted the alewife long enough for Kimbery to finish taking the stairs and slip out of sight.

  Damn! How had the Northmen gotten here so soon?

  There were four chambers along the upstairs hallway. Modwenna the harlot was rapping on the door to the third room. Hiding her face, Kimbery knocked at the first door. Nobody answered. When she tried the latch, it was locked.

  From downstairs, she could hear the boom of demanding Viking voices. Modwenna frowned at the noise, then shrugged at Kimbery and lifted her hand to knock on the third door again.

  Kimbery swiftly moved to the second chamber, pounding on the door. To her dismay, again there was no reply, and the door wouldn’t open.

  Now Modwenna was staring at her, puzzled. Just as the harlot lifted her hand to knock a third time, Kimbery heard heavy footfalls on the steps below. The Vikings were coming upstairs.

  The harlot’s knuckles were still touching the third chamber door when it was suddenly snatched open.

  Thinking fast, Kimbery shoved the harlot aside and slipped through the crack of the door, barreling into the chamber and its occupant. She turned long enough to slam and latch the door.

  “What the devil?” someone growled behind her.

  “Shh!” she hissed, pressing her ear to the door and holding up a hand to silence the occupant.

  They were coming. She recognized Axlan’s bold voice, demanding to know where the laird’s daughter was.

  She could also hear a soft reply, probably Modwenna, telling them some wench had pushed her. But Kimbery was sure the harlot hadn’t recognized her.

  Behind her, the occupant of the room grumbled, “Is that my brother at the door?”

  “Hush!” she bade him again.

  “If it is, I’ll speak to him,” he stated, ignoring her command, “because if you’re not here of your own accord…”

  Exasperated, she turned to him with a scowl.

  Her angry oath instantly dissolved on her tongue.

  Before her was the most magnificent creature she’d ever seen. He w
as gigantic, more wide-shouldered and broad-chested than Axlan, her da’s best warrior. Beneath the epaulets of his leather hauberk, she could see solid, well-muscled arms that strained the fabric of his brown woolen shirt. His thick hair and beard were as black as midnight. His mouth was grim. His jaw was resolute. His brows were furrowed, and beneath them, his eyes were as deep, dark, and unforgiving as the midnight sky.

  Perfect, she thought. If anyone could protect her against a pack of Vikings, it was this beast.

  When Brude finally mustered the courage to answer the knock at his chamber door, he was relieved. Whatever conflict was going on, it was a welcome distraction and a more familiar battleground.

  But the way the harlot had burst in, as if chased by demons, made him think his brothers had forced the woman to do their bidding. And that he couldn’t allow.

  Then, when she turned and he saw her delicate features—her fair and beautiful face, framed by the soft gray of her hood, her wide and innocent blue eyes, her tender pink lips—he knew this had been a mistake.

  Now that she’d laid eyes on him, she would surely run in horror from the room.

  But she didn’t.

  In fact, after she’d given him a cursory glance from head to toe, as if she were sizing him up for a coat of chainmail, she gave him a fearless nod of approval.

  For an instant he was stunned.

  Then a loud banging against the door made her curse in surprise.

  He clapped a hand to the hilt of his sword.

  But before he could draw steel, the lass threw herself at him.

  She was stronger than she looked. His shoulder blades hit the wall with a thud as she knocked him backward, clinging to his hauberk. He raised his hands defensively, not wishing to do her harm.

  When another pounding broke the latch on the door, he expected his brothers to come charging in.