Vikings' Brides Box Set

by Jessica Knight

  Aye, maybe this is who I am after all.

  Chapter Seven

  Thyra

  I hang the linens on the clothesline in the lavender field next to the castle. It smells so good and bright. It is such a great way to start the early morning. The sun has barely peaked over the horizon. A few stars still linger in the sky. It may be odd to hang linens so early, but if I want that lavender scent on them, they must be here all day.

  I whip my blanket in the air, ready to hang it, when I hear a pounding of hooves charging on the ground. Goddess, it reminds me of thunder. I peek around the blanket and see Grim and Einarr coming up on the castle on horseback.

  “Oh my.”

  I throw the linen down, grab the sides of my dress and run toward them when I notice how bloody they are. “What happened? Are you hurt?” I ask, gasping for breath once I get across the field.

  “Lady Thyra, perfect timing.” Grim hops off his steed and pats its thick neck. “I believe Einarr needs some help.”

  “I’m fine.” The big brute waves me off.

  “What of you, Lord Grimkael?” I ask.

  “Any wounds my wife will heal.” Grim tosses his head back and laughs, pulling his horse forward in the direction of the stables.

  My face heats when I understand his meaning. I clear my throat and place my hand against my neck, suddenly feeling a bit feverish. I bring my eyes up to see Einarr breathing heavily, and his chest covered in blood, but I cannot tell if it is his own. There’s a large wound on his chest. His face is covered in blood too, but he smells of—I take a sniff—ale.

  “Are you drunk?” I ask with a bit of shock.

  “I wish,” he grunts as he slides off his beast. “Grim’s temper got the best of him down at the pub. Before I knew it, I took a goblet to the chest and threw someone against a wall.”

  I cover my mouth with my hands and let out a gasp. “Are you hurt? Let me check you over. You might need stitched up.”

  “Aye, I’m fine. I’ve gotten worse.” He points to the scar on his face.

  “I do not care if you have gotten worse, you will let me tend to your wounds, and I won’t hear another word about it!” I shout, with my chin high. I snatch his arm with my hand and stomp inside the castle.

  “I’m fine, Lady Thyra. Really. I’ve been stabbed, cut, and had arrows pulled out of me. Little cuts like this are child’s play.”

  “I don’t care what kind of play you make it out to be. They can get infected. You could die. Now sit down and shut up.” I push him down by the shoulders in the old, wooden chair in our small medical room.

  “Yes, my Lady,” he says, and even with my back turned, I can hear the smile playing on his lips.

  I know he is just being formal and gentlemanly, but there was something about the way he called me his lady. His. It makes my stomach do something funny. I happen to like how he calls me his. I wish there was more to it than formality, but a girl can dream.

  Grabbing a small cloth off the shelf, I wet it with warm water, wring it out, and turn around. Einarr is sitting. Half his body in the sun coming through the windows and the other half hidden in the dark. His impressive chest rises and falls with each breath he takes. His long hair has come out of his braid and covers the shaved sides of his head that show tribal tattoos. It looks wild and untamed. Just like him.

  His chest shines, from sweat or ale, I’m not sure, but it makes all the lines and ridges of his muscles seem bigger. Perhaps they are just that big. I swallow my nerves and reach my hand out, dripping water on his skin. The drop of water falls down the planes of his chest, finding a valley in his ribs.

  Finally, the cloth touches his skin. I rub the water over it, cleaning off every inch of blood and dirt I see. We are quiet. There’s no need to speak. It isn’t awkward. I do not feel the need to fill the silence with useless small talk. Just being near him is loud enough, because he makes my heart beat frantically. I’m surprised he can’t hear it.

  I wring out the cloth in the bucket, place it in fresh water, and start cleaning off his face. He jerks away when I touch his scar.

  “Oh, stop being a baby. I don’t care about your scar. The only one that cares so much is you.” I grab ahold of his chin and wipe his face clean.

  He has uncertainty in his eyes as he watches me. Those copper eyes gleam the reflection of the sun. Yellows and oranges pop around the iris. I run the cloth over the brow with the scar. There’s a small cut next to it, but it isn’t deep enough to worry. The one I’m most concerned about is on his chest.

  “You really don’t care, do you?”

  I shake my head as I gather some herbal paste from the bowl and smear it on the wound along his ribs. He doesn’t flinch. It’s impressive.

  “Thank you; you didn’t have to do that. A bath would have been just fine.”

  “Oh, you’re having that, too. But sit with this paste for a moment. I’ll go get the bath ready and put some herbs in there, some lavender too. You can’t go off and get into pub fights anymore,” I berate him and pump the handle to the well to start filling the tin.

  “Why not? I must protect my manhood, my dignity.”

  I scoff, open the trapdoor on the floor, and throw pieces of wood on top of one another. The tin sits above the wood-burning stove. It’s how we get the water hot. With some kindling, I get the fire started, without help from a man. I’ve never needed help from a man, not since I was a little girl, and my father taught me how to be strong on my own. I dust off my hands on my apron and climb out of the trapdoor.

  “Manhood,” I mock. “You and I both know you do not need to protect your manhood. You have proven yourself. Someone could kill you. You can be too drunk to protect yourself. You never know what could happen.” I toss lavender in the tub and a few other herbs that relax me, along with some mint.

  “You say that as though you care.”

  “Of course, I care. Friends care.”

  “Is that what we are now, Lady Thyra? Friends?”

  “I would love to think so.”

  “What kind of friends?” He stands up and starts to unlace the ribbon of his trousers.

  “The kind that worry.” I watch with wide, innocent eyes as he drops his pants. I turn away a moment too late.

  I see his long, thick, uncut cock. Again, chills run through me. Again, I fantasize of holding it, of melting into his arms. My thighs heat up from the sight. It’s impressive, just as the rest of him.

  “I don’t think friends see each other naked.”

  I startle when he is suddenly right behind me. His breath ghosting over my neck.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to look,” I stammer.

  Suddenly his heat is gone, and I hear water splashing. When I peer over my shoulder, I lift my lashes. He is against the side of the tin, watching me. The paste starts to come off from the water boiling around it. Small flecks of green flake off his body and float around in the basin. Einarr’s arms are stretched wide, showing off his rope-like muscle.

  “Do friends join friends in the bath?” he asks.

  “I…well…no…I…” I stammer speechless.

  His lips tilt to the left, stretching the scar tight. The ends of his hair dance along the top of the water. Einarr runs his fingers through his beard, wetting the dense, coarse hair. The braid hanging below his chin has the bead. It’s silver and has an engraving on it. I’m not sure what. I can’t see it from here.

  But if I got closer…

  No, I mustn’t. I do not trust myself around him.

  He launches to the edge closest to me, folds his arms across, and leans his chin on his forearms. Well, I can see the bead now. It’s a beautiful design of the sun. Now, I don’t need to go into the tin.

  Even if my body disagrees with me.

  I blink. And somehow, I’m in front of him. His lips only a breath from mine. The steam from the tin flows up my nose. My skin captures the condensation. Water drips down my chest.

  I cannot stop staring at his lips. They see
m so soft. Can he be my first kiss?

  “I should be going.” I spin, taking a step away from what my heart desires. My soul screams at me to stop, to turn around, to just be brave and kiss the man for goddess sake!

  But my father’s voice yells in the back of my head. Yells all the horrible things he thinks of Einarr. I do not believe a word of them. What I want is to give in, to turn around, cup his face, and feel his lips move against mine—my father will kill him.

  And that’s why I can never be with him. I’d rather live a lifetime alone, aching for Einarr the way I’ve never ached before, than to ever have him hurt because of me.

  “Lady Thyra, I apologize. I shouldn’t have been so forward. I thought… never mind what I thought. Please, forgive me.”

  “All is forgiven, Warlord.” Yes, I must call him that again. I must make a divide between want and need. I want Einarr, but I do need him? No.

  Yes.

  Wet fingers wrap around my wrist and pull me around until I’m in front of him again, body against the warm tin and his lips, close and inviting, breathing in my ragged exhale.

  “Thank you for caring. No one has in a long time,” he whispers against my cheek and presses a kiss near my mouth. Not close enough to brush my lips, just close enough to leave me wanting more.

  A lightning bolt enters my cheek, and it tickles my face. My heart pounds against my chest, rattling my bones. “You’ve been around the wrong people,” I reply breathless.

  “They led me to the right people,” he whispers, pushing from the tin to propel himself to the other side.

  I don’t say anything. I blush a bit and push a piece of my hair behind my ear. “Have a good day, Warlord.”

  “Aye, you do the same, Lady Thyra.”

  I close the door of the medical corridor and lean back against the steady wood. I close my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart and control the yearning in my body. I want to turn around and march back in there and give in to my carnal desires.

  The sight of my father talking to Grim makes anything I feel for Einarr disappear into dust. I rub my hands down the bodice of my dress and push my hair behind my ears. Folding my hands across my stomach, I make my way up the steps as if nothing happened.

  I’m quiet, careful not to alert anyone of where I was moments ago. When I get to the top of the steps, I run down the hall as fast as I can and push through my door. I spin around in a circle, a real smile gracing my lips for the first time in ages.

  “Oh, wow. He makes me feel more than I ever have in my entire life,” I whisper in a dreamlike trance.

  My hand touches my cheek, and I grin like a girl with a crush. And, to be fair, I am one.

  It isn’t a first kiss on the lips, but I consider it my first. It has my mind all jumbled up. I can barely think of anything besides his lips. Before I know it, I’m falling on my bed, and a wistful sigh escapes my lips.

  Einarr. Warlord of our kingdom. He wanted to kiss me.

  Oh, I must tell Sassa!

  Chapter Eight

  Einarr

  Oh, goddess. Abram has a long way to go. The young bloke can hardly pick up a sword.

  “I have it, Einarr. Just… I need a little,” he grunts, using two hands to thrust the blade in the air.

  I’m impressed for about a half-second before he starts stumbling and the blade starts wobbling. Suddenly, he is going left, right, up, down, trying to balance the blade. Before I know it, he is halfway across the field and finally trips.

  Hopefully, not on the sword.

  “I’m alright!” He shoots up from the tall grass. Sword-free.

  “Shite. This will be much harder than it looks.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, wondering if I should train him at all. Abram truly desires to be a warrior. He wants to fight, and I respect the passion he has. I want him on my force, but the little fellow needs to bulk up. He’s a growing young man, but his body is that of a child. I could lift him above my head with one hand. War won’t be kind to a man if he has a moment of weakness with his blade.

  “Bring it in!” I shout.

  Instead of running back, Abram’s head is down, dragging the sword behind him. Pure defeat has encompassed him. The metal against the ground makes a loud ringing noise. It also creates a small slice in the grass for about fifty yards, but that is fine. Nothing rain and sunshine can’t fix to get the grass growing back.

  “Why the long face, Abram?”

  “I can’t…” he mumbles the last bit of the sentence so I can’t understand him.

  “Raise your head, look me in the eye, and talk to me.”

  When he does, his eyes are rimmed red, fighting not to cry. His age shows in this moment. How can I keep forgetting he is nothing but a boy of seventeen? He has had a rough life. Thrown into the Jackals as a child, forced into their cruel ways, branded and kicked around for sport. But he ran from them, which took courage, and is starting his life over.

  I place my hands on his shoulders. “Talk to me.”

  “It’s too heavy.” He throws the blade down, hard. The metal vibrates from the force.

  “It isn’t the end of the world, Abram. You’ll get it. It takes time.”

  “I bet it didn’t take time for you. I bet you were born with a sword in your hand,” he mumbles as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

  The lost soul in the boy reminds me a lot of myself. It’s why I’ve taken him under my wing. He needs someone to help guide him. Something I never had. And I want to make sure he has that.

  “Want to know something?” I sit down on the ground with a hard plop, disturbing the grass.

  “What?” Abram sits next to me. We watch the sun fall over the lake, rippling the dark water with oranges and yellows.

  “I wasn’t born with a sword in me hand. In fact, me entire family was killed when I was a wee boy. I ventured into the village where Grim was.”

  “Lord Grimkael?” Abram asks with wide eyes.

  “Aye, but he was just a wee thing then. Maybe…” I put my hand in the air. “Maybe ye high? His father was the Warlord then. A cruel man. Truly evil. I fumbled through the darkness of so many days. I was hungry, starving really. I was skinny.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Lad, I was smaller than you. My bones were showing.”

  “No!” he gasps.

  “Aye. I thought I would die. When I came across Hohlt’s village, I thought I would be safe, but he wouldn’t help me because I wasn’t Viking.”

  “You aren’t Viking? But Lord Grim lets you—”

  “He is my brother.”

  Speak of the Devil. Grim comes trotting up to us on Beast and hops off, tying the large beast to a tree.

  Abram seems confused. “But you just said—”

  “He wasn’t born Viking, but he was raised Viking. When I defeated my father, Einarr lived in a cave nearby, and I asked him to join me. For years, I had snuck him food and water. Believe me, boy; he was your size when I first met him. We trained together. We fought together. Spilled blood, laughed, cried, and buried our men together. He is my family. There are no questions about it.”

  “I trained hard, Abram. I grew more. I got bigger. And the sword weighs nothing to me now. It’s like a feather in my hand when I swing it, but it took work and a lot of disappointment.”

  “He’s the finest warrior I’ve ever seen.” Grim sits on the ground next to Abram, and the young boy scoots a bit closer to me.

  Odd.

  It’s hard to believe Abram had been a part of a life so cruel. When we first came upon him, and he lashed out at us in anger, I realize now he wasn’t acting tough, but he was prepared to die because he was so tired of fighting. He cooperated and helped us liberate the people who had been under the Jackals’ cruelty, but in the end, he thought we would kill him no matter what.

  He turns to me, wide-eyed with shock. “How can I train to be like you?”

  The question takes me aback. I’ve never had someone ask me that before. “You don’t want t
o be like me, Abram. You’ll end up looking like chopped up beef,” I try to joke.

  Neither Grim nor Abram laugh.

  Abram stands, his small chest puffed out. He tries to grab the sword again, but stumbles forward, almost striking me by accident.

  “Whoa.” I duck, missing the blade by a fraction of a hair.

  He is still trying to control the sword when it swings again, this time in Grim’s direction. Grim, the crazy bastard, grabs the blade with his palm. Blood starts to drip from the metal.

  Abram pauses and then starts to stammer when he finds his breath, “Lord Grimkael, I’m sorry. I was just trying to hold the sword. I swear. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

  “Calm down, Abram. I know. Drop the blade before you kill one of us, aye?”

  “I’m sorry I disappointed you, Einarr.” He drops the blade, and Grim catches it before it hits the ground. Grim stares at me with a raised brow, and then Abram, then back at me. Just what is he thinking?

  I place my hands on the ground and push myself up from the ground. “Look at me, lad.”

  I place my hands on his shoulders again and shake him a bit to have him lift his head. “I’m not disappointed. You are nothing but a boy. It will take time to train, especially since you have never had anyone train you before. But you have me now. I won’t stop training you until you can wield that sword with one hand.”

  “Really?” His eyes light up with hope and fire.

  “Really.”

  “Thank you, Einarr! I swear, I’ll be the best warrior you’ve ever had. I want to be just like you. Big, strong, and brave. You just wait! I’ll do it. I’ll make you proud.” He slams against me, wrapping his arms around my waist.

  The air leaves my lungs, and my arms are spread out, not knowing what to do. I look toward Grim, who has a big smile on his face.

  I mouth to him, “What do I do?”

  He motions with his arms, signaling me to wrap my arms around the young boy. I’ve never held another person in an embrace before. With hesitation, I wrap my arms around Abram, unsure if I’m doing it right. I look toward Grim for confirmation, but he is gone. What… where did he go? I check the tree for Beast, but the horse is gone too.