Three Book Collection

by Vane, Victoria

  Voices just outside the tent distracted her from her thoughts. Had the count changed his mind or had he sent an executioner? She cocked her head but couldn’t understand the conversation. Her pulse quickened at the low laughter that followed.

  The tent flap suddenly parted. She strained to see into the darkness, but the brief flicker of firelight from outside revealed only a large, ominous shadow. Who was this? Her heart surged into her throat. If the count had sent someone to release her, he would surely have brought a torch. Her stomach knotted as the shadow approached.

  She heard his every movement, the stealthy footfalls, the rasp of his breath, and the soft scrape of metal. Should she cry out? Budic had not yet stirred, but he could do nothing to save her.

  She gasped as a calloused hand came over her mouth. His other hand pawed at her tunic. Her spine stiffened at the sound of renting linen. Tears burned her eyes but struggling would do no good. She prayed that it would be over quickly and that he would spare her life. She didn’t want to die, but she also didn’t want to see his face. She shut her eyes, unable to bear the thought of remembering it in the nightmares that would surely haunt her.

  Knowing he’d be too conspicuous wielding his sword, Ivar entered the enemy camp with his dagger hidden in the folds of his mantle. Though small, the knife was deadly in his skilled hands and easily concealed.

  Bearing a wineskin and a smile, Ivar feigned a drunken stagger as he approached Emma’s prison tent. He paused to take a long swig, mumbled something lewd, and then offered the skin to the guard. Every muscle tensed with anticipation. His attack must be swift and lethal. The moment the guard tilted his head back to drink, Ivar sliced his throat.

  Shoving back the tent flap, he dragged the body inside.

  “Damn you, Knut!” a voice growled in the darkness. “You will wait your turn!”

  Ivar’s eyes hadn’t quite adjusted, so he let the voice guide him. Although he itched to draw his sword, he couldn’t afford to attract attention to the tent.

  “Perhaps I don’t like your leavings,” Ivar replied softly.

  The man froze. Ivar had never before attacked an enemy from behind, but the animal ravaging Emma deserved no honor. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, Ivar jerked his head back and sliced. With his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, Ivar held his thrashing, gurgling victim, until the body went limp and then tossed it aside.

  “Emma?” he rasped as he knelt by her side.

  “I-Ivar?” she sobbed his name. “Is it you?”

  “Aye, tis me.”

  “B-but I thought…”

  “Shh…” He placed a finger over her lips and began slicing through her bonds with his blade. “There is no time now.”

  “Budic is with me,” she whispered.

  Ivar rose and plied a booted foot none too softly into the ribs of the sleeping fool.

  “My lady!” he cried out.

  “Quiet, Budic!” Ivar chided softly as he cut the man free. He feared discovery at any moment. “Take their clothes,” he commended and began stripping the two bodies. Disguise was their only hope of getting out of the camp.

  His mind raced as he led Emma and Budic through the darkness and into the woods. His plan had one fatal flaw. Ivar hadn’t planned for Budic, and he only had one horse. He considered stealing another mount, but it was unlikely he could do so without alerting the army.

  “Take her to Quimper,” he commanded Budic. “Don’t stop until the horse fails you.”

  Emma’s eyes widened. “What about you?”

  “I’m not finished here,” he replied. “I must cut off the head of the snake.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked with a look of panic. “You must come now, Ivar. They will surely find you and kill you.”

  He shook his head. “It is not my time to die, Emma. The gods have clearly revealed another destiny.”

  “And what is that?” she asked breathlessly.

  He cupped her face in both hands and kissed her hard. “You, Emma of Quimper.”

  When he returned to the enemy camp, Ivar was relieved that his handiwork had not yet been discovered. But it was only a matter of time until the original guards returned and sounded the alarm. After that, the army would come to life like a nest of angry hornets. He couldn’t allow that to happen until he knew Emma was safe.

  He needed a new strategy and needed it quickly. There was only one guarantee to ensure Emma’s safety. Ivar waited until the guards returned and then silenced them as he had the others. He then waited until the darkest hours when the fires smoldered, keeping a watchful eye as he crept through the sleeping camp. He would never have allowed his own men to grow so over-confident and complacent.

  Cutting a slit in the back of the tent, Ivar entered the count’s quarters. He found Ebles in his bed entwined with a woman, both lost in deep and sated slumber. The woman turned in her sleep. Ivar recognized her face immediately. Gisela! He should have taken her threat more seriously. He should have warned Bjorn to keep her close at all costs.

  Ivar wrestled with indecision. He needed to put an end to this invasion and return to Emma. The easiest solution was to take both of their lives, but the thought of killing anyone in their sleep churned his stomach. Only the lowest craven did such a thing. Another option would be to take Ebles as his hostage and use him for escape, but once more, the idea reeked of cowardice.

  Ebles himself was the coward. As her betrothed, he should have come to Emma’s aid and fought for her. Instead, he’d betrayed her to align himself with Duke Rudalt’s whore. In truth, he didn’t deserve to call himself a man.

  He rubbed his chin with a smile. Perhaps there was another way to deal with this after all? With a dagger in hand, Ivar lifted the bedcovers.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Quimper, Cournaille, West Brittany

  Emma spent two agonizing days on her knees in the chapel praying for Ivar’s safe return and appealing to the Virgin for intercession, should his life be taken. For the second time, he’d saved her, but this time, at risk to his own life. Pagan he might be, but she’d never known such a brave, selfless, and honorable man.

  “Emma?” Adèle’s soft-voiced echoed off the cold stone walls.

  Emma startled and rose shakily to her feet. Could there be news? “Is there word of Ivar?” she asked.

  “No,” Adèle shook her head with a look of pity. “I’m afraid not.”

  “What of Count Ebles’ army?” Emma asked. “They could only have been a day behind me. Two at most.”

  “There is no news,” Adèle answered. “But we are well prepared for the attack. Valdrik owes you a great deal for rallying your father’s men. Thank you, Emma.” Adèle laid a hand on her arm. “I know this isn’t what you wanted.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Emma confessed, “But bloodshed in Brittany was inevitable. My father was conspiring to overthrow Duke Rudalt, which would surely have led to civil war. At least now we are united against a common foe. Count Ebles is a treacherous weasel who can’t be trusted. He would surely sell our sovereignty to the Franks.”

  “Valdrik would never do such a thing,” Adèle said. “He came to Brittany because he refuses to pay fealty to the Franks.”

  “I have a hard time picturing Ivar paying fealty to any man,” Emma said dryly. Was he dead? Emma almost couldn’t breathe at the thought. “He should have returned by now.”

  “Valdrik is even now preparing a scouting party. He intends to search for Ivar. Come, Emma.” Adèle took her hand. “There is nothing more you can do for him.”

  “But this is my penance,” Emma insisted. “If he is dead, the guilt rests upon my shoulders. If not for me, he never would have gone into that camp alone.”

  “It was his decision to make, Emma. Ivar knew the risks.”

  Emma choked back a sob. “And none of this would have happened if I’d only heeded your counsel.”

  “No one blames you, Emma. You did what you thought was right.”

  “Did you know he was one o
f us?” Emma asked.

  Adèle’s gaze narrowed. “One of us? What do you mean?”

  “A Breton, or at least his mother was,” Emma explained. “She was taken as a young girl from Rennes.” Emma saw no need to reveal her fate as a bed slave.

  “Is that so?” Adèle’s brow wrinkled. “My family was also from Rennes.”

  “He told me all of her family were killed by Vikings. He believes that she was the only survivor.”

  “My family was almost wiped out as well,” Adèle said. “My grandfather, Gurwent, was Count of Rennes. He was killed at Questembert, my father was gravely wounded but survived. His younger sister, however, was taken by Vikings.”

  “Questembert?” Emma repeated incredulously. “He mentioned this battle.”

  Adèle’s green gaze widened. “Do you perchance know her family name?”

  “No,” Emma shook her head. “Only her Christian name. Rachelle perhaps. Her family lived at Ille-et-Vilaine.”

  “Could you mean Roscille?” Adèle asked, growing pale.

  “Yes! That was her name!” Emma exclaimed. “I’m certain of it.”

  Adèle began to tremble. “It cannot be!”

  “You know of her?” Emma asked.

  “My grandfather’s seat was at Ille-et-Vilaine and Roscille was the name of his youngest …my father’s sister …” Adèle reached out to the altar to steady herself. “Had she lived, she would have been my aunt. If Ivar is indeed the son of Roscille of Rennes…” Adèle blinked. “Why are you staring at me?”

  “Your eyes,” Emma whispered. “Why did I not see it before? There can be no doubt about it! Ivar is your kinsman!”

  Emma’s head reeled with the revelation that also appeared to have stolen the air from Adèle’s lungs. “What does this mean?” Emma asked.

  “It means Ivar is the grandson of the Count of Rennes, which also places him somewhere in the line of succession for Brittany,” Adèle said. “It also means I have wed my first cousin’s half-brother. I am very relieved the connection isn’t any closer.” She continued with a laugh. “The Norse may not care about such things, but our Mother Church surely would.”

  Ivar’s heart beat faster with every stride of his horse’s iron-shod feet. Had Emma arrived safely? Was she even now waiting for him? As the keep of Quimper came into view, a party of riders exited the bailey. Recognizing his brother at their head, Ivar spurred his horse into a hard gallop. For the first time in his life, Ivar felt like he was coming home. Minutes later, the band of men came together in a burst of laughter and cheers. Ivar could hardly contain his own joy at the reunion.

  “Well met, brother!” Valdrik exclaimed with a grin. “We had begun to fear the worst. Lady Emma said you returned alone to the camp. Seven-hundred-to-one is terrible odds.”

  “I’m not so easy to kill,” Ivar said.

  Valdrik squinted into the distance. “Is there perchance an army chasing at your heels?”

  “Ebles is no longer a threat,” Ivar replied.

  “You killed him?”

  “Nay.” Ivar shook his head. “He didn’t deserve the honor.”

  Valdrik’s brows met in a puzzled look. “Then what did you do with him?”

  Ivar couldn’t hold back a burst of mirth. “Let us say that even the mercenaries won’t fight for him now.”

  “I don’t follow you,” Valdrik said.

  “I cut off his bollocks.”

  Valdrik raised a brow. “’Tis harsh, even from you.”

  Ivar shrugged. “I first thought to gift them to Emma, but then decided the Danes would better understand my message. They will never fight for a man who isn’t truly a man.”

  “Surely, they will not,” Valdrik agreed with a grin. “It seems Lady Emma has rallied all of Brittany for naught.”

  “Emma?” Ivar repeated incredulously. “Are you saying she has finally sworn allegiance to you?”

  “I would not go so far,” Valdrik replied, “But we have indeed achieved a truce of sorts. I leave it to you to finalize the treaty.”

  Ivar glowered. “She won’t have me.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so,” Ivar replied.

  “Then what am I to do with her?” Valdrik asked.

  “If she will swear allegiance, give it to her.” Ivar inclined his head toward the keep.

  “A woman?”

  “A Valkyrie,” Ivar corrected him. “She has the heart of one. She deserves this honor.”

  “We will speak of it later,” Valdrik said. “For now,” he clapped Ivar on the shoulder. “Let us celebrate your safe return.”

  As Emma exited the chapel arm-in-arm with Adèle, a commotion sounded from the outer bailey. Horses and riders returned? Her stomach lurched into her throat. Was Ebles’ army approaching? Raising her tunic, Emma raced from the chapel toward the armory. Halfway through the bailey, she froze.

  In the midst of the riders, sat Ivar, covered in dirt and blood and grinning from ear-to-ear. Her heart stood still for what felt like an eternity. The moment he saw her, the grin vanished. Her chest squeezed even tighter. For four days she’d lived in both hope and fear of this moment.

  Never taking his eyes off her, he leaped off of his horse and flung his reins to a stable boy. She stood as a statue, unable to move, unable to breathe as he strode toward her looking like the same monster who had entered her bailey a mere fortnight ago. The breath she’d been holding exited her lungs in a painful rush as her stomach collided with his shoulder. For the second time, Emma found herself hanging upside down staring at his broad back. This time, however, she didn’t shriek and flail but gritted her teeth. She’d endangered his life. She deserved whatever punishment he’d decided to mete out.

  He carried her straight up the stairs to her chamber where Havoise met them with wringing hands. “Hot water,” Ivar demanded as he set Emma on her feet.

  They were the first words he’d spoken since entering the bailey and he hadn’t even directed them to her.

  “Water?” Havoise repeated with a blank look.

  “Aye. And a tub for a bath.” He looked then to Emma. “The lady finds blood and dirt offensive.”

  “Aye, milord,” Havoise bobbed and scurried out the door.

  “Perhaps it depends on whose blood,” Emma suggested softly.

  “I did not kill him,” Ivar replied gruffly. “I regret it if that disappoints you.”

  “I didn’t mean Ebles,” Emma said, stepping closer. “I meant I would be sorely offended if it was your blood that stained your face and tunic.”

  He cocked a brow. “Is that so? What of my smell, Lady Emma? I have been four days on a sweating horse. Surely that is odious to you.”

  Emma gazed straight into his eyes. “There is nothing odious about your return… I longed for it, Ivar.”

  Something flickered to life in his green eyes. “Nevertheless, you will bathe me.” He unbuckled his weapon belt and let it drop to the floor and then sat on her bed to pull off his boots.

  “You expect me to wash you?”

  He eyed her slowly up and down. “I will expect many such things of you… You may even grow to enjoy it.”

  Emma swallowed hard. Did he intend to make her a bed slave as his mother had been? Was this to be her punishment? She’d resigned herself to accept her sentence, but this was too much!

  She spun away. “I swore I would accept my punishment, but I cannot, I will not ever be your slave, Ivar!”

  “I have no intention of making you my slave, Emma.” She felt the heat of his body standing at her back. “I have a far worse punishment in mind.”

  “What?” Emma asked, wondering what heinous torture he intended to inflict upon her. “The cage?” she whispered.

  Ivar released a rumble of laughter that vibrated through her body. “You really believe I would have done that to you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I believe it?” Annoyed at his burst of mirth, she turned to face him.

  “That was naught but a farce meant to
scare you into submission.” He reached for her face and stroked his thumb over her cheek. “As to your punishment for running away—“A knock sounded on the door. “Enter,” Ivar called out.

  Budic entered with a towel over his shoulder, carrying a wooden tub. He averted his gaze as if embarrassed and mumbled. “Water and soap be coming.”

  Several servants followed, bearing bucket upon bucket of steaming water until the tub was half full. Ivar nodded in approval and closed the door. Emma couldn’t tear her eyes away as Ivar stripped off his tunic and shirt.

  His chest was well-muscled and marked with inked symbols and two long scars. His gaze met hers as he reached for the ties of his breeches. She’d never seen a fully naked man. Even when they had almost bedded together, Ivar had still worn his short braies.

  She heard the soft splash of water as he immersed himself in the tub. “Come to me, Emma.” He beckoned softly. “Wash me.”

  “No,” she replied. She was curious to see the full glory of this man unclothed, but modesty made her turn away.

  “Are you so repulsed that you cannot even look upon me?”

  “I’m not repulsed at all,” she whispered. “I’m a coward.”

  “You fear me?” he asked.

  She turned around. “The truth is that I fear myself. I’m afraid that I am about to abandon my Christian beliefs and revel in sin.”

  His ginger brows met in a frown. “Is it a Christian sin to bathe someone?” he asked. “Did not your own Lord wash his disciples’ feet?”

  “How do you know this?” she asked in amazement.

  “I told you,” he said. “I know many stories about your god.” He dunked his head in the water and then threw his head back, scrubbing the dirt and blood from his face.” He extended his hand to her, offering up the cake of lye.

  She came toward him, quoting, “Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.” Taking the soap in hand, she knelt beside the tub, gaze averted.

  “Come now,” he cajoled. “You cannot wash what you cannot see.”

  He reached for her hand and placed it on his chest, and held it there. He then moved their joined hands slowly over his body. His skin was warm and wet and the hairs on it coarse to the touch. As her trembling fingers moved over his chest and shoulders, he dropped his head back, shut his eyes, and sank deeper into the water. Her gaze shifted lower down his body, taking in inch-by-inch of sculpted muscle and sinew.