A blur of motion caught her eye, and she threw the knife from sheer instinct. Without thinking, she unsheathed the second blade beside her ankle and poised to fight. The first soldier stared in disbelief at his dead companion.
“If you move, you’ll join him,” Aisling warned. She stepped backwards into the light, keeping the blade ready. Her heartbeat raced, while she searched the settlement for a way out.
There was no time. The first soldier sounded an alarm, and while she fled toward the gates, a row of warriors moved to block her exit. Aisling halted, the knife locked in her palm.
As they advanced upon her, she prepared to meet her death.
* * *
Tharand’s fury had reached its limit. He hadn’t expected King Magnus to refuse Aisling. It nearly snapped his control, watching the men take her, while he was helpless to do anything.
If he showed any sign that she held value to him, Magnus would exploit it. And Aisling, like Jóra, would be lost.
She can protect herself. She has weapons, he told himself. But his hand curved over his battle-ax, while he waited for the chance to defend her.
The surge of possession drowned out all reasoning. He needed to keep her safe, needed to keep her at his side. He didn’t even realize he’d taken a few steps backwards until the king addressed him again.
“You seem restless,” Magnus commented. Jóra paled, and Tharand forced his attention back to the dais. It was as if the king had torn him in half, forcing him to choose between Jóra and Aisling.
And though his loyalty should have belonged to his sister, he couldn’t let Aisling go. Not anymore.
Tharand’s knuckles whitened, and he chose his words carefully. “The slave was meant for you alone. She was not intended to be treated thusly.” And if any man does, I will sever his head from his body.
“Such is the fate of a captive.” Magnus underscored his words by resting his hand upon Jóra. His sister’s innocent eyes grew worried. He wanted to reassure her, but he no longer knew what he could do to save her.
A din of noise interrupted them, and Tharand spun around. Aisling tore into the hall, her eyes wild. In her hand, she held one of the blades he’d given her.
Behind her, he saw the soldiers. Somehow she’d broken free of her captors, and the ensuing chaos gave rise to fighting.
One of the hird strode forward, the warrior lifting his battle-ax to strike her down. Tharand blocked the blow before it could threaten Aisling. The crash of metal sent a reverberation through his arm, and he forced her behind him.
“Take my knife,” he ordered, and she unsheathed the weapon from his belt. Back to back, he defended her.
“You left me with them.” In her voice, he heard the anger and hurt.
“I was trying to negotiate for your release.” His ax swung wide, and she moved with him.
“You said you would try to save both of us. Instead, you let them take me.”
“What would you have me do? Betray my king and risk your death?” His ax cut into the flesh of an enemy. He defended another blow. “Already have I shed the blood of my own people. For you.”
She fell silent, the warmth of her back pressing against him. “What will happen to us?”
“I don’t know.” He didn’t tell her that their lives depended upon his ax now. Even if he emerged victorious, he doubted if Magnus would spare them.
Abruptly, Aisling left him. The distraction caused him to turn his attention away from the soldiers. Only instinct protected him from the sword slicing toward his gut.
The Irish chiefs had joined together against the hird, the hall becoming a battlefield. Tharand searched for Aisling and found her moving toward the dais.
In horror, he watched her pull back and aim the knife toward the king. He was too far away to stop her. The blade spun from her fingers, while a roar resounded from his own throat.
Aisling’s blade lay embedded in the throat of an Irish chief. The dead man held a spear in his palm, his body sprawled upon the dais.
King Magnus’s face was black with rage. He jerked the spear from the chief’s hand. “Cease your fighting!” He punctuated the order by hurling the spear into the crowd.
The men halted, swords and battle-axes poised in mid-air. Tharand lowered his weapon, and moved to Aisling’s side, pulling her to him.
No doubt Magnus would sentence her to death. She’d thrown a knife toward him; all had seen it. The thought of watching her die was like a blade tearing into his own throat. He couldn’t let it happen.
“My king.” He dropped to his knees, knowing that Magnus would never grant her mercy. “Let whatever judgment you pass upon her fall upon my shoulders instead.”
Aisling paled, and knelt beside him. She buried her face in his tunic, and he threaded his hands through her dark hair.
“Why?” the king asked sharply. “She has committed treason, attempting to take my life. And she killed one of the hird, as well.”
“I saved your life,” Aisling asserted, lifting her face in defiance.
Tharand knew it, but the king had no knowledge of her skill. Magnus would believe only that she’d attempted to murder him.
“She speaks the truth, sire.” Tharand lowered his head once more. “But regardless of your decision, I ask that you grant me her punishment.”
“And if I sentence her to death?” Magnus asked.
Tharand expelled a hard breath. “So be it.”
* * *
A knot closed up in Aisling’s throat. No. She couldn’t let him die. His hand gripped hers, as though he couldn’t let go. She embraced him, holding fast. “You cannot do this.”
His only answer was to rest his palm upon her cheek. The roughened skin was callused from years of holding a sword. His blue eyes held no regrets.
The knowledge shattered every barrier, filling her up with the need to be with him. Whether in life or in death no longer mattered.
“If he dies, let it fall upon me as well.”
Tharand tried to speak, but she touched her fingertips to his mouth. “You will not make such a journey alone.”
When the king spoke at last, she barely heard his command to come forward, so intent was she upon remaining with Tharand.
“Rise, Aisling.” Her warrior took her hand and led her up the dais.
King Magnus offered no leniency. To Tharand he demanded, “Give me your sword.”
Icy fear filled her up inside, and she knew there was no escape. Tharand gripped her hand so tightly, he nearly crushed the bones.
“I am not afraid,” she whispered.
Tharand offered the king his sword, hilt-first. As the blade left his hands, Aisling saw the smear of blood upon his palms. Then he knelt beside her once more.
“She means much to you, this slave.” The king lifted the sword, testing its balance.
Tharand inclined his head. “She does.”
The words held intensity, and when he looked upon her face, Aisling saw the feelings he did not name. And though she had spent naught but a few days at his side, she would willingly surrender her life to be with him.
King Magnus lowered the sword. “I accept this sword as payment for the soldier she killed.” He regarded Aisling next, his expression softening. “In return for my own life, I grant you your freedom.”
Nothing could have stunned her more. The relief upon Tharand’s face mirrored her own, but behind the king, she spied Jóra. The young girl would remain the king’s hostage, a failure that would haunt Tharand.
But there was something she could do.
“Sire, I would ask that you release Jóra Hardrata instead.” Aisling bowed her head in deference. “Grant her the freedom to return home.”
Hope filled up the young girl’s face, and Aisling knew she had made the right decision. The king deliberated for a long moment, not at all willing to let her go.
“What of the marriage offers?” King Magnus asked, his reluctance clear.
“Please, my king,” Jóra begged. “If you
would but let me see my family again, I give you my vow to return.”
Tharand did not look happy about such an offer. It seemed to appease the king, however. “One moon, then. You may visit your homeland and then return.”
Though it was not what Tharand had wanted, it was a single step forward, Aisling knew. It would be enough for now.
The king gestured for Jóra to join them, and the girl flew into her brother’s arms. “I will expect your loyalty, as commander of my troops at Vedrarfjord. And your sword, whenever there is need.”
Tharand acknowledged the king’s command. “You have it.”
* * *
Aisling waited alone in Tharand’s bed, inside his longhouse. She lay naked beneath the coverlet, although she kept two daggers nearby, in case anyone arrived before he did.
The door swung open, and she gripped the hilt.
“Don’t throw it. Please.” Tharand’s mouth curved in a slight smile. “I know your skill and there is no need to demonstrate.”
She set the weapons aside. “I wanted to be sure it was you.”
He hung up his cloak. The garment slipped from his fingers when she sat up, revealing her bare skin. The hunger in his eyes raised her confidence.
“Were your parents glad to see Jóra?” she asked.
He nodded, removing his tunic. His muscled chest gleamed in the firelight, making her long to touch him. He prowled toward her, shedding clothes as he walked. “You could have come to meet them.”
“I am only a slave.”
He tore back the coverlet, revealing the rest of her body. “My slave.” The mattress sank beneath his weight as he drew her body to his. Skin to skin, she welcomed the length of his shaft and parted her legs to cradle him.
The hot satin of him nestled against her secret place, and already she was slick with moisture. “I waited for you,” she murmured.
He raised her body up until he slid an inch inside. “Kjæreste.”
The endearment washed over her and she framed his face with her hands. “I want to stay with you. Even without my freedom.”
He filled her up, his hardness caressing her in a way that warmed her blood. “I want you as my bride, Aisling Ó Brannon. No longer my slave.”
His offer was completely unexpected. She couldn’t find the words, and when his mouth covered her nipple, he added, “I suppose I’ll have to convince you.”
“You could try.” The teasing words were cut off when he withdrew from inside her. She pulled at his hips, trying to bring him back. “Or you could tempt me.”
He shackled her wrists with his hands, penetrating her heat once more. Helpless, Aisling could only accept him as he thrust deeply, ravaging her body and filling her with a desperate pleasure. Her skin grew damp with sweat, her womanhood welcoming him as he claimed her for his own.
“Tharand,” she cried out as the first tremors shook her.
It wasn’t enough for him, and he took her down, forcing her to accept the wild spasms of ecstasy. “Say yes.”
She held out a little longer, weeping with the dark torment. At last he shuddered in his release, plunging within until she clenched him to her breast. She held him, her body and mind filled with such longing. For him and him alone.
“Yes,” she whispered.
* * *
The charred remains of Duncarrick crowned the hilltop, and Aisling’s heart ached to see it. Would Kieran and Egan be there? Had her brothers managed to break free of the slavers?
Tharand slowed his horse when they reached the entrance, his hands still resting around her waist. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“I’m afraid of what I’ll find.” She turned and kissed him, gathering strength from his arms.
Tharand captured her lips, kissing her until she lost sight of where they were. Her body melted against his, liquid with wanting him. But she forced herself to break free of his embrace. “I want to see my family again,” she admitted. “I need to know what happened to Kieran and Egan.”
“Go to them.” He dismounted and lifted her down. “And when you return, I will be waiting.”
Aisling shielded her eyes from the sun. Her warrior rested his hand upon the flanks of his stallion, and she knew with a certainty that he would never leave her. “Let us go together.”
* * * * *
ISBN-13: 9781460339961
THE VIKING’S FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE
Copyright © 2008 by MICHELLE WILLINGHAM
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HER WARRIOR KING
MICHELLE WILLINGHAM
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
CHAPTER ONE
England, 1170
Every woman considered stealing a horse and running away on her wedding day, didn’t she?
Isabel de Godred fought the restlessness building within her. It was her duty to obey her father. She understood it, even as she clenched the crimson silk of her kirtle and eyed the stables.
In her heart, she knew an escape was futile. Even if she did manage to leave the grounds, her father would send an army after her. Edwin de Godred was not known for his tolerance. Everything was done according to his orders, and woe to anyone who disobeyed.
The marriage might not be so bad, part of her reasoned. Her betrothed could be an amiable, attractive man who would allow her the freedom to run his estates.
She closed her eyes. No, highly unlikely. Otherwise her father would have paraded the suitor before her, boasting about the match. She knew little about him, save his Irish heritage and rank.
‘Are you ready, my lady?’ her maidservant Clair asked. With a conspiratorial smile, she added, ‘Do you suppose he’s handsome?’
‘No. He won’t be.’ Toothless and ageing. That’s how the man would look. Panic boiled inside her stomach, and Isabel’s steps felt leaden. Her rash escape plan was looking more and more appealing.
‘But surely—’
Isabel shook her head. ‘Clair, Father wouldn’t even let me meet the man at our betrothal. He’s probably half-demon.’
Her maid crossed herself and frowned. ‘I heard he’s one of the Irish kings. He must be wealthy beyond our imaginings.’
‘He isn’t the High King.’ And thank the saints for that. Though she might rule over
the tribe, at least she did not have the burden of ruling a country. As they walked down the wooden staircase outside the castle donjon, she wondered how her father had arranged a betrothal in such a short time. He’d gone to aid the Earl of Pembroke’s campaign only last summer.
‘If I could, I’d take your place,’ Clair mused with a dreamy smile.
‘And if I could, I’d give him to you.’ Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible.
Isabel’s imagination conjured up a monster. The man must be unbearable to require such secrecy. Though she knew it was unfair to pass a judgement before she’d met her intended, she couldn’t help but imagine the worst.
‘You’ll be mistress of your own kingdom.’ Clair sighed. ‘Imagine it. You’re to become a queen.’
‘I suppose.’ And that added even more fear to the forthcoming marriage. What did she know about being a queen? She knew how to run an estate and make it profitable, but that was all.
Her father Edwin de Godred, Baron of Thornwyck, awaited her outside the chapel among a small crowd of guests and servants. Tall and thin, his greying beard and moustache were neatly groomed. He examined her with a glance, and Isabel felt like a mare about to be traded. She resisted the urge to show her teeth for inspection.
No, it did not bother her to leave this place. But what should she expect from the Irish king? Was he kind? Cruel? Her nerves wound tighter.
‘Is he here?’ she asked her father, staring at the men waiting near the church.
Edwin gripped her cold fingers, keeping them in a tight grasp as he escorted her to the church. ‘You will meet him soon enough. My men sighted his travelling party a few hours ago.’
‘I would rather have met him at our betrothal,’ she muttered. Her father only grunted a response.
Isabel shivered. Until she saw this man with her own eyes, she’d not surrender her escape plans. With each step, she felt more alone. Her sisters were not here to lend their support. Edwin had not permitted it, and it had hurt more than she’d thought it would.
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