Sirens of the Northern Seas: A Viking Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Will you…will you tell me something of yourself? I wish to learn more about the man who seems to already know me so well.”

  A warning voice rang in the back of his mind. He shouldn’t let himself draw closer to Eyva or grow more attached than he already was. She was not to be his.

  Yet the voice grew smaller as he continued to gaze down at her. “Walk with me awhile,” he said, extending his arm toward her.

  As she entwined her arm with his, a jolt went through him. Suddenly, he didn’t care that he couldn’t have forever with Eyva. He was like a starving dog—he’d take whatever scraps he could get, and that meant being with her here, now.

  “Now,” he said, leading them toward the docks. “Tell me what you want to know.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Does your father have dark hair like you?”

  Eyva smiled a little. “Nei.”

  “Your mother, then.”

  A lock of the dark tresses in question wound around Tarr’s finger.

  “My mother and I couldn’t be more different.”

  “Then where did it come from?”

  Eyva shrugged, letting Tarr continue to play with her hair. They were perched on a large boulder that overlooked the village from one of the steeply rising rock outcroppings pinning Dalgaard against the fjord.

  “Who knows? I tried to dye it with lye once, just to be like the other girls, but it burned so badly that I gave up and resigned myself to this unfortunate color.”

  Tarr straightened, letting the lock slip from his fingers. “Unfortunate? Nei, it sets you apart.”

  She nudged him playfully with her elbow. “And what does a simple farmer’s son know about being set apart?” she asked mock-incredulously.

  In the hours since they’d begun their walk, he’d told her all about his life on the farm. It wasn’t so different from hers, she supposed, except for the fact that his family seemed to have been a warm and loving one. He clearly felt their loss sharply, for when he’d spoken of his parents and siblings, he’d squeezed her hand tightly, his voice dropping lower.

  But now the painful memories were at bay, and Tarr picked up her jest. He arched an eyebrow at her. “Judging by your gaze earlier at the rope pull, I managed to set myself apart enough to garner your attention.”

  She rolled her eyes at him but actually felt a giggle rise in her throat. His hard, honed body certainly had kindled a fire within her, as it had when she’d watched him emerge several days ago from the fjord looking like Aegir the sea god himself.

  He grew serious once more. “I would never want you to change, even if it was just your hair color.”

  Her heart pinched. He had asked her again as they made their way along the fjord’s edge and then up into the rocks above the village what secret dream she was hiding. But she’d evaded giving an answer.

  She longed to confide in him, just as he had with her about his hopes to join Madrena’s brother, Alaric, to sail west and to make a new life for himself. His dreams were not so different from hers. But while he was free to pursue his goals, she was not. She was a daughter and beholden to marry whomever her parents decided.

  If only she could choose her own fate. But becoming a shieldmaiden was a silly girl’s folly that would never come to fruition. Soon Tarr would be gone, for she had no doubt that Alaric would choose him as part of his crew. Tarr was strong and earnest, hardworking and steady. And while he was sailing the North Sea, she would be wed to a stranger.

  Just then, Tarr’s large, warm hand brushed the spot between her brows. She hadn’t realized it, but a crease had formed there as she’d drifted in her dark thoughts.

  “Have I said something wrong?”

  His deep voice caressed her like the richest fur pelt.

  “Nei,” she said softly, her throat pinching. “Everything about you is right.”

  Tarr’s eyes held her and, suddenly, she felt like she was being swallowed by a winter night’s sky. The air stilled in her lungs as his gaze silently communicated all the desire between them.

  He leaned forward slowly, giving her time to regain her wits and put a stop to this madness. But reason had already fled her thoughts. Her mind and her body were both consumed with longing. Her eyes drifted down to his lips as he drew nigh. She remembered with raw clarity the feel of those lips on the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist. What would they feel like pressed against her mouth?

  She inhaled a trembling breath when a mere hair’s width separated their lips. Her senses were flooded by the clean pine scent that drifted from him. She closed her eyes, which only seemed to increase all the other sensations hammering through her.

  At last, his lips brushed hers. They were surprisingly soft, given that every other inch of him she’d seen was as solid and chiseled as the rock upon which she sat. The fluttering in her belly, which she always seemed to feel whenever Tarr was near, intensified into a hot, squeezing knot.

  His lips moved slowly, softly, yet the fact that he held back only made her hungry for more. She leaned into him, her breasts brushing against the hard wall of his chest. He exhaled sharply through his nose, tilting his head to claim her mouth more fully.

  Eyva’s lips parted on a sigh and his tongue flicked inside the recesses of her mouth. His velvet heat stole her breath as he caressed her. She was vaguely aware that his arms had wrapped around her and held her against him. Her fingers curled into his muscular shoulders, relishing the feel of his strength, even as he tamed it so as not to hurt her.

  Their mouths continued to mate slowly, sensually, and all the while her body grew increasingly taut with desire. His hands brushed her hair, slid down her back, and gripped her waist. Somehow his touch was both the cause and the solution to the neediness building within her.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, shifting restlessly against him. This drew a groan from his throat. It reverberated through his chest, sending little waves through her where her breasts pressed against him. Heat jolted through her at the contact, racing through her veins and pooling low between her legs.

  This was madness. Nothing could ever grow between them. And yet her body seemed not to care as it came to life with his.

  Tarr broke their kiss and pulled back, panting for breath. His dark eyes flickered over her face and unbridled hunger that mirrored her own shone there.

  She blinked, trying to clear her lust-hazed vision. All at once, her eyes registered the increasing dimness settling around them. Realization struck her. They’d been together for hours, walking, talking, and now kissing. But the setting sun meant the arrival of the final festival game.

  “The skaldic competition!” she said, bolting to her feet.

  Tarr cursed as he took her hand to help her down from their rocky perch. Blessedly, their sudden rush didn’t allow her time to blush over their kiss—and her desire for more.

  “You don’t think we’ve missed it, do you?” she asked as she hurried after him toward the longhouse. So caught up had they been in conversing that they hadn’t even noticed the sun setting behind a bank of clouds and twilight beginning to fall.

  “I hope not,” he said over his shoulder as he interlaced their fingers. Even that little gesture sent heat curling through her belly.

  She pushed the longing aside. The skaldic competition was important to Tarr—so that he could leave Dalgaard and go voyaging. The thought was like a cold splash of water, but a necessary one. As she quickened her pace to keep up with Tarr’s long strides, she forced her mind to focus on the truth.

  Tarr was not hers, no matter how much she wished it to be different.

  Chapter Eight

  The sounds of merriment drifted from the longhouse as they approached. Tarr yanked open the wooden door and a flood of warmth, firelight, and jocular voices flooded around them. The longhouse was already crowded, and servers moved around the long wooden tables and benches to fill up ale horns.

  Jarl Eirik and his wife, Laurel, sat on the dais, their babe likely asleep in the co
nnecting private chambers. Eyva didn’t see Madrena as she scanned the sea of unfamiliar faces around them.

  Tarr seemed to recognize a few of the men competing in the games and began weaving his way toward their already-full table, still holding her hand.

  “There you are, lad!” a red-haired giant bellowed as they approached.

  Several sets of eyes shifted from Tarr to Eyva and there were a few knowing looks and whispers exchanged. She could feel the heat of a blush creeping up her neck. She was unused to all the attention she’d received in the last sennight as the bride prize. Yet it was more than that—it was the implication that Tarr favored her, and she him, which she had to admit was true.

  “Everyone has been paired already,” said the man Eyva thought was called Geirr, the man who’d bested Tarr at the rope pull. Geirr’s blue eyes danced mischievously. “I suppose that means the two of you will have to be paired together.”

  Before Eyva or Tarr could respond, the hall fell quiet and she turned to see that Jarl Eirik had risen.

  “On this, the final night of the celebration of the birth of my son, Thorin, I wish to thank you all,” he said loudly. “This has been a joyous sennight, filled with plentiful food, ale, and rousing competition. But we have saved the best for last!”

  The longhouse erupted in cheers.

  “Being a man worthy of the gods’ favor requires more than just brawn,” Eirik went on, a smile on his face as he scanned the hall. “It requires wit, quick thinking, and a tongue not easily blunted by ale.”

  Many laughed at that, but Eirik continued. “In keeping with the traditions of skaldic competition, each of you men participating in the games has been paired with a woman who will be your drinking partner for the evening.”

  The men around her chuckled and exchanged bawdy remarks as several women peeled away from the walls and began filtering through the crowd. As each woman reached her partner, she took up a seat next to him on one of the wooden benches—or sat in his lap.

  “Each pair is expected to compose a verse of poetry in the time it takes for you to share a horn of ale,” Eirik said. “And no dallying or you’ll be disqualified.”

  The crowd laughed again and a wide grin split the Jarl’s face. “Of course, simply out-drinking your competition isn’t enough,” he added, holding up a hand. “The goal is to maintain—or even improve upon—the sharpness of your tongue. My wife will be the ultimate judge.”

  Laurel bobbed her head in acknowledgement behind the Jarl, her own merriment shining in her eyes.

  Eyva had seen such a competition before and knew that the real goal was to boast about oneself while also cutting into the other men. But bald insults wouldn’t do—they had to be clever.

  “Let the game begin!” Eirik shouted.

  Tarr drew her to the edge of the bench where Geirr sat. “Make room,” he said, nudging Geirr. The man shifted over and Tarr led Eyva to the wooden bench where they sat pressed together tightly in the packed longhouse.

  Just then the men’s partners arrived at their table. The red-headed giant, whom Eyva thought was called Olaf, pulled a buxom blonde firmly into his lap. The woman laughed and tugged playfully on his beard. A pretty young girl approached and squeezed onto the bench across from Eyva next to a lad who could barely be old enough to compete in the games. And a smiling woman with nigh white-blonde hair took her place next to Geirr.

  “Have you ever done this before?” Tarr asked, leaning in to be heard over the crowd. She shook her head just as someone handed Tarr a horn brimming with ale. “Nor have I, so we’ll have to find our way together,” he said, shooting her a little grin that sent flutters deep in her belly.

  “You missed a thrilling end to the rope pull, lad,” Olaf said to Tarr, his eyebrows wagging conspiratorially at Eyva.

  “I’ll save you the suspense,” Geirr inserted dryly. “I lost. So you still have a chance at winning the games—and the prize.” His blue eyes skipped from Tarr to Eyva, but she sensed no heat of desire directed at her. Nevertheless, the man seemed to enjoy getting a rise out of Tarr.

  Before Tarr could respond, one of the remaining competitors stood, his ale horn raised and a laughing woman on his arm. “I shall start!”

  The man spouted a clever verse about his fellow competitors being more willing to sit on their bottoms than find the bottom of their ale horns. He ended with a flourish about his competitors’ inability to hold on to their women’s rear-ends during lovemaking, sending the hall into uproarious laughter.

  Eyva buried her reddening cheeks in the ale horn Tarr had passed to her. She shot a glance at Laurel, who also blushed at the bawdy verse, but who laughed heartily and gave the man a nod of approval. The final contest was underway.

  As another competitor rose to answer the first skaldic verse with one of his own, Geirr began nudging Tarr.

  “Scoot over,” Geirr said, pushing Tarr hard enough that he bumped Eyva halfway off the bench.

  “There’s no more room,” Tarr shot back.

  “Well I’m not going to sit with one cheek hanging off,” Geirr said, though he was fully planted on the bench. “Pull the girl onto your lap.”

  Geirr’s eyes sparked with laughter as they darted to Eyva. She was sure of it now—Geirr was intentionally trying to get under Tarr’s skin, likely for his own amusement. She would have chuckled at his mischief-making had the thought of sitting in Tarr’s lap not sent a bolt of heat through her.

  Tarr glanced at her and his gaze slid to her cheeks, which she was sure were bright red. His dark eyes silently asked permission and, after a moment, she gave a little nod. He scooped her up as if she weighed nothing and settled her onto his lap, his arm wrapping snugly around her back to steady her.

  His hard thighs were unyielding under her bottom, his arm like a band of iron around her waist. His chest, against which she leaned, was like a stone wall. But he was so warm. His clean scent of fresh, piney air and male skin seeped into her, intoxicating her more thoroughly than the ale she’d just imbibed ever could.

  “All right?” he asked just loud enough for her to hear. His chest reverberated with the words, sending ripples through her body.

  She could only manage another nod, for suddenly her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth and her stomach twisted strangely.

  The verses continued, and as the ale flowed more freely, they grew bawdier in their insults and more overblown in their espousals of the speaker’s prowess. A few of the men stumbled over their words or hesitated too long. Then Laurel would smile and give a little shake of her head from the dais, and the man would slump down in disappointment, or more often than not, turn his attentions to his willing female partner.

  “We’d better start forming our composition, lest we get eliminated,” Tarr said next to her ear. His deep voice sent a little shiver through her.

  Eyva caught her lower lip between her teeth in thought, but as she gently chewed it, she felt Tarr stiffen beneath her. Glancing at his face, she found his eyes riveted on her mouth. Suddenly she took notice of a rigid length pressing against her bottom and realized that he was growing hard under her.

  Their eyes locked and she knew the truth with the clarity of a rung bell. The desire they both felt could not be tamed. Yet they both knew that such a longing was futile.

  Eyva had never wanted a man as she wanted Tarr. A mere sennight ago, she would have been content to become a shieldmaiden and devote her life to battle and adventure. Yet that was incompatible with her sudden and fierce longing to remain in Tarr’s embrace for all her days. And even if she could somehow have both the life she dreamed of and Tarr’s love, he had already made it clear that his fate lay elsewhere.

  Their unspoken communication was broken off when the young lad sitting diagonally from them rose uncertainly. He cleared his throat to garner the attention of those in the hall and settled his gaze on Olaf, who sat looking up at him curiously. The lad opened his mouth to speak his verse.

  “‘Skull Splitter’ Olaf has been
named,

  But ladies he cannot nick.

  For though the sharpness of his axe is famed

  That can’t be said for his prick.”

  The crowd in the longhouse froze, waiting to see Olaf’s reaction to the insulting verse. Olaf’s bushy red brows drew down and he slowly rose until he towered over the young lad. He drew back a tree trunk of an arm, and the lad flinched, but instead of leveling the boy with a blow to the face, he landed a brutal pound to the lad’s shoulder.

  “Well spoken, Vestar!” Olaf roared and the longhouse erupted in cheers for the lad’s verse.

  Over the noise in the hall, Olaf made sure to shout a similarly ribald verse detailing Vestar’s small male parts, which only drew more laughter and cheers from the spectators. Both the giant and the lad sat again, Olaf dragging his buxom drinking partner onto his lap once more and Vestar exchanging a red-faced glance with his comely girl.

  Suddenly Geirr stood, turning his gaze on Tarr and Eyva. The longhouse hushed in eager anticipation of another humorous verse. Geirr began, his eyes mischievous.

  “A true Northman seeks the pleasures in life:

  Riches, honor, and women—

  A wise man will take his favorite to wife.

  And clothe her in silks, not linen.”

  A few chuckles sounded in the crowd, but Geirr wasn’t finished. He went on.

  “But what do we call a man who refuses

  To claim what he wants most by far?

  What do we call a winner who loses?

  The answer is simple: it’s Tarr.”

  Rumbles of approval for Geirr’s clever verse burned Eyva’s ears. Tarr’s arm tightened reflexively around her, but it was clear, both from the crowd’s reaction and Tarr’s, that Geirr had hit a nerve of truth.

  Though Eyva was uncomfortably aware that she had been watched this last sennight, and that many in the village had already taken note of the fact that both her and Tarr’s eyes followed each other, she realized now that everyone knew they desired one another wholeheartedly. And perhaps, given Geirr’s line about Tarr being both a winner and loser, they also knew that it could never be between them.