Tied, captive and forced to watch a stunning siren commandeer the Mackenzie ship, Aulay burns with the desire to seize control—of the ship and Lottie. He has resigned himself to a life of solitude on the open seas, but her beauty tantalizes him like nothing has before. As authorities and enemies close in, he is torn between surrendering her to justice and defending her from assailants. He’ll lose her forever, unless he’s willing to sacrifice the unimaginable...
Join these sinfully seductive Scottish heroes and sensual yet headstrong heroines as they surrender their hearts to love in the lush, green Scottish Highlands. Don’t miss the other titles in this series:
Wild Wicked Scot
Sinful Scottish Laird
Hard-Hearted Highlander
Complete your collection!
“London’s new Highland Grooms series will be well worth following if this first novel is any indication.... An absorbing read from a novelist at the top of her game.”
—Kirkus Reviews on Wild Wicked Scot (starred review)
www.JuliaLondon.com
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The Warrior’s Viking Bride
by Michelle Styles
Prologue
865 A.D.—Bjorgvinfjord on the west coast of Viken, Norway. Modern-day Bergen, Norway
‘You should allow me the honour of winning. It’s my tenth name day,’ Dagmar Kolbeinndottar argued with her father’s best friend. ‘It could be your present to me—telling my parents how accomplished I’ve suddenly become at swordplay. A good idea, yes?’
Dagmar gave a hopeful smile and batted her lashes. Not that she was very good at swords or warfare yet. Not that she’d ever be any good. She preferred playing with her dolls and weaving to practising in the dusty yard with a wooden sword. How her father, who was one of Viken’s most-feared warriors, and her mother, who was a legendary shield maiden, had produced someone like her who kept making simple errors was one of life’s mysteries, as her nurse would say. And she wanted to show her father how much she’d improved since he’d been away. She wanted to show him that she deserved the grown-up blue gown, the one he’d promised to buy her for her tenth birthday if she worked hard at her lessons.
‘Your mother would use my guts for bowstrings if I said such things.’ Old Alf rubbed his belly. ‘To tell the truth, lass, I am quite fond of my innards. They are the only ones I’ve got.’
Dagmar screwed up her nose. ‘My mother likes you too much to do that. She depends on you, now that my father is away so often. You’re valuable to her. A precious jewel among men.’
Old Alf merely laughed and sent Dagmar’s wooden sword flying from her hand for the fourth time that morning. ‘You would be better if you actually practised, instead of finding excuses and using idle flattery. The gods seldom help a quitter.’
‘I keep getting distracted.’ Dagmar pursed her lips. ‘I heard my mother crying again last night.’
Old Alf’s face hardened. ‘Kolbeinn should be here to dry Helga’s tears.’
‘Yes, everything will be much better when my father arrives.’ Dagmar tilted her chin upwards. ‘You will see. He will get here in time for my name day. He promised me a proper gown with an apron and brooches...provided I pay attention to my mother and do my lessons. He won’t break his promise, will he?’
‘I can’t rightly say where his head is at, lass.’
‘Attached to his body, I trust.’ Dagmar gave a hiccupping laugh. Her father was alive. They knew that. Some of his men had returned, but for the first time in for ever, her father had not been the first one to step foot on the pier. He had not even been in the longboat. He was staying in Kaupang, dealing with important business, was what her mother had uncharacteristically snapped when Dagmar asked.
‘Your mother has many troubles, but no one is born clutching a sword, lass, not even your mother. You will get there, Dagmar, if you focus when you practise instead of gathering dreams. Try once more for your old friend?’
Dagmar nodded and picked up the sword. Old Alf had faith in her. If she could conquer this skill before her father came home, then maybe everything would be right once again.
‘Jaarl Kolbeinn’s ship is coming,’ the cry went up before her sword connected with Old Alf’s. Dagmar instantly dropped her weapon.
‘My father does keep his promises.’ Dagmar lifted her chin upwards. ‘He will bring me my gown. My mother will smile again. My father will see to it.’
The wind whipped Old Alf’s greying hair from his face. ‘Aye, lass, we can but hope that he has seen sense.’
Her mother stalked past them, not even acknowledging Dagmar in her hurry to reach the waterfront. Dagmar considered her mother had never looked as lovely. The dark-red gown with its gold embroidery and the sleek fur cape she wore about her shoulders set off her colouring precisely. Her eyes appeared brighter than normal and her mouth held a determined cast, as though her mother was about to go into battle instead of greeting Dagmar’s father.
Dagmar hurried to match her mother’s stride. ‘Old Alf says that I will be as good as you soon.’
A stretching of the truth, but she wanted her mother’s intent expression to relax.
Her mother put a hand on Dagmar’s shoulder. ‘It is good that you want to be.’
‘I want to please you. I want to be like you,’ Dagmar whispered.
‘Ah, Dagmar, you are such a good child. You are truly the light in my life.’
Dagmar basked in the sunshine of her mother’s unaccustomed praise. ‘It is my name day today.’
‘We will do something special for it, but first your father must be welcomed.’
When her father came ashore, he greeted her mother very formally without his usual warmth. Her mother failed to throw her arms about his neck. Dagmar frowned. She’d never understand grown-ups. Everyone knew about their love story—the skalds sang about it and how her father had tamed the frost giants to win his bride. Dagmar never tired of hearing the tale. It was the principal reason why she wanted to linger at the feasts.
‘You returned.’ Her mother’s voice resembled a frost giant’s.
‘I gave Dagmar a promise that I would be back for her birthday, Helga.’ Her father’s voice, if anything, was far colder than her mother’s.
‘Did you bring my blue gown?’ Dagmar asked, giving into her impatience. ‘I’ve worked ever so hard. Ask Old Alf. He’ll tell you. Some day I will be as good a warrior as my mother.’
Her father bent down and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Something even better. I brought a woman who will teach you to be a true lady. You want that, don’t you, Dagmar? To be someone to make your father proud?’
Beside her, her mother stiffened and drew in a sharp hiss of breath. Dagmar glanced up and saw a dark-haired woman with cat-like eyes and a large pregnant belly
.
‘You must be Dagmar. Your father has told me a lot about you. I am sure we will be great friends.’
‘You brought her here? On such a day?’ Her mother’s screech hurt Dagmar’s ears.
‘Now, Helga, easy. She wanted to come.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘It is like this—I need children.’
‘You have a child, our daughter.’
‘A daughter is not the same as sons.’ The woman looped her arm through her father’s and leant into him with an easy intimacy.
Dagmar wanted to scratch the woman’s eyes out for being rude. The man she lolled over belonged to another woman—her mother. However, her father did not seem to mind; instead, he seemed to welcome her touch, placing a large hand on the woman’s belly.
‘You understand,’ her father said, bestowing one of his special smiles on the woman.
‘I see,’ her mother proclaimed. ‘You have made your choice. And I have made mine.’
Her mother stripped the gown from her back. Underneath she wore her trousers and tunic, her shield maiden clothes, the ones which were kept in a trunk and were supposed to be for Dagmar when she turned fourteen.
An ice-cold hand went around Dagmar’s heart. Her mother had clearly known about her father and his new woman before they’d even arrived.
‘Mother?’ Dagmar whispered. ‘What is happening?’
‘We are leaving, Daughter.’ Her mother placed a firm hand on Dagmar’s shoulder. ‘I refuse to stay where I am unwanted. I divorce you, Kolbeinn, here in front of everyone. I will take my warriors and my daughter and I will carve a new life.’
Her father’s face became carved from ice as he stepped in front of her mother. ‘Dagmar remains here. My daughter belongs to me.’
Her mother shoved her father and he stumbled backwards, nearly falling. ‘Get out of my way, you miserable worm. Dagmar goes where I go.’
‘You may take any man who will pledge allegiance to you, a second–rate warrior long past her prime, but you leave our daughter here.’
‘Why?’ Her mother put her hand on her hip. ‘So she can become the fetch-and-carry handmaiden of your latest fancy? I know what that is like! I endured it!’ Her mother’s voice echoed over the fjord. ‘My daughter is not and never will be second-best. She is worth ten of any sons you will ever have.’
Dagmar crossed her arms and stood next to her mother. Her mother wasn’t going to abandon her. Her father wanted her. Maybe her parents could work something out. They had fought before.
Her father’s cheeks became tinged with red. ‘I have the law on my side. My daughter belongs to me to dispose of as I see fit.’
Her mother banged her sword on the ground. ‘I challenge you. I will show you how second-rate I am, you puffed-up over-the-hill windbag!’
‘You challenge me for what?’
‘For the right to bring up our daughter as I see fit.’
Her father spat on his palm and held it out. ‘Done! I can beat you with one hand tied behind my back.’
‘No, Kolbeinn, no. You must not. The she-witch will trick you.’ The woman clung to Dagmar’s father’s arm and rubbed her big belly against his side. ‘Think of my dream. You will be the father of many kings. Our unborn son and I need our strong protector.’
Dagmar wanted to be sick. Surely her father would fight for her. She had seen her parents practise fighting before. At some point during that act, her parents would start laughing and they would realise that they still loved each other. This woman with her baby-swollen belly would be no match for her mother.
‘Hush now.’ Her father put an arm about the pregnant woman. ‘I am a great jaarl now. I have responsibilities.’
Her mother made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. ‘Choose your champion then, Kolbeinn, pusillanimous coward that you are, and I will fight him. I will protect my daughter until all the breath has left my body. I will carve a new life for us.’
‘You do this, Helga, and you will leave with only the clothes on your back rather than any ships. I need to be able to provide for my growing family.’
Dagmar clenched her fists. Her father wanted to steal her mother’s life work. That woman had put him up to it. ‘My mother brought fifteen ships to this marriage—all the skalds say so. My mother built this felag the same as you. Have you forgotten so quickly, Father?’
‘You mustn’t believe everything the skalds say,’ the woman said, giving Dagmar a look of pure hatred. ‘But I predict you will lead a miserable existence should you leave your father.’
Dagmar shrank back against her mother.
‘Hush, Dagmar. You are the most precious thing in my life, worth far more than gold or even land,’ her mother said in a low voice before holding out her hand to her father. ‘Agreed. My daughter is worth that and much more besides. My daughter will have a brilliant life. My daughter will be the best warrior the world has ever encountered.’
Dagmar watched in horror as the fight began in earnest between her mother and the champion her father chose. All she had wanted was a blue gown for her name day and instead this had happened—she had lost her family and her home, the place where she knew she was safe. Somehow, she was going to have to find a way to make her mother proud of her as her father wanted nothing from her. She would find a way to give her mother a new home.
Copyright © 2018 by Michelle Styles
Keep reading for an excerpt from DEVIL IN TARTAN by Julia London.
Devil in Tartan
by Julia London
CHAPTER ONE
Lismore Island, The Highlands, Scotland, 1752
THE CAMPBELL MEN landed on the north shore of the small Scottish island of Lismore in the light of the setting sun, fanning out along the narrow strip of sand and stepping between the rocks and the rabbits that had infested the island.
They were looking for stills.
They also were looking for a ship, perhaps tucked away in some hidden cove they’d not yet found. The stills and the ship were here, and they would find them.
Duncan Campbell, the new laird of Lismore, knew that his tenants—some two-hundred odd Livingstones—were gathered to celebrate Sankt Hans, or Midsummer’s Eve, a custom that harkened back to their Danish ancestors who had settled this small island.
The Livingstones, to the Campbell way of thinking, were laggards and generally far too idle...until recently, that was, when it had come to Duncan’s attention that this hapless clan had begun to distill whisky spirits without license. He’d heard it said in a roundabout way, in Oban, and in Port Appin. Livingstones were boastful, too, it would seem. Rumor had it that an old Danish ship had been outfitted to hold several casks and a few men.
Where the Livingstones lacked godly ambition, the Campbells fancied themselves a clan of superior moral character. They were Leaders of Scotland, Pillars of the Highlands, Ministers of Social Justice and they distilled whisky with a license and sold it for a tidy profit all very legally. They did not take kindly to illicit whisky that undercut their legitimate business. They were downright offended when someone traded cheap spirits against their superior brew. They disliked illegal competition so much that they took great pains to find it and destroy it by all means possible. Fire was a preferred method.
The Campbell men creeping along the beach could hear the Livingstone voices raised in song and laughter, the strains of a fiddle. When night fell, those heathens would be well into their cups and would light a bonfire and dance around it. Bloody drunkards. But alas, the Campbells did not make it more than a few dozen steps into their search when they heard the warning horn. It sounded so shrilly that it scattered rabbits here and there and, frankly, made Duncan’s heart leap. He hardly had a moment to collect himself before buckshot whizzed overhead.
Duncan sighed skyward. He looked at his escort, Mr. Edwin MacColl, whose clan inhabited the south end of Lismore, and who w
as diligent in paying his rents and not distilling whisky. Duncan had pressed the very reluctant Scotsman into service by threatening to raise his rents if he didn’t lend a hand. “That’s it, then, is it no’?” he asked MacColl as another shot rang out and sent up a spray of sand when it hit the bit of beach. “They’ve seen us and warned the others.”
“Aye,” MacColl agreed. “They keep a close eye on what is theirs. As any Scot would,” he added meaningfully.
Campbell recognized the subtle needling, but there was no opportunity to remind MacColl that illegal whisky was bad, very bad, because four riders appeared on the hill above them with long guns pointed at their chests. Naturally, Miss Lottie Livingstone, who, as daughter of the chief here, ran wild on this island, led them. If she were his daughter, Campbell would have taken her in hand and ended her feral behavior tout de suite.
“Laird Campbell!” she called cheerfully, and nudged her horse to walk down the grassy slope to the beach. “You’ve come again!”
Campbell groaned. “Must it be so bloody difficult to root out corruption and illegal deeds?” he muttered to MacColl. “Must the most beautiful lass in all of Scotland be the most unruly and untamed of them all?”
Apparently, Mr. MacColl had no answer to that, and in fact, he turned his head so that Duncan could not see his face. Duncan rolled his eyes and addressed the woman who lived like an undomesticated cat on this island. “Hold your fire, aye, Miss Livingstone? I am your laird after all!” As if that needed explaining.
“How can we help you, laird?” she asked.
“No’ you, lass. I’ll have a word with your father.”
Her eyes sparked, and above another glittering smile she said, “Oh, but he’ll be delighted, he will.”
The lass had a way of giggling sometimes when she spoke that made Duncan wonder if she was laughing at him or was just a wee bit off her head. He called in his men, and motioned for them to follow along as he and MacColl trudged up the hill toward the Livingstone manor.
If they couldn’t find the stills and Livingstone would not own to them, then by God, Campbell would inquire about the past due rents. He’d have something for his trouble.
Rescued by the Earl's Vows Page 23