Vikings' Brides Box Set

by Jessica Knight

  So time goes by. I sit here, my heart in a cage, my mind screaming to be let out, and I suffer silently. The only thing that makes me not give in to my father completely is the hope that the man of my dreams will come sailing through the ocean and take me away from a place that doesn’t allow me to be myself.

  My mystery man’s ship will be big, huge even. He will be standing proud at the bow, the wind blowing in his hair as the waves bring him to me. Once he is onshore, he will run to the castle and climb the tower I’m in with ease because he will be so strong and powerful. I’ll let him in through my window and have my first kiss. He will pull me close to his hard, muscular body, and we will dash down the walls and flee on the wind over the horizon.

  Sigh. It’s so dreamy. I’ve imagined in a hundred times. Every night I look out the window toward the sea and imagine it. My father says I daydream too much, but it’s my way of escaping the reality I live in. It’s the same thing every day in the castle. I get up, bathe, and then the maidens help me get in a corset, and let me say, they are awful. I hate the way my entire stomach is squished, and I can’t breathe. The contraption is terrible. After that ordeal, I practice my reading, writing, and painting. Father insisted I learn more languages and an instrument.

  I’m not interested in most of it. I do love painting, but I’m absolutely terrible at it. When I’m done, it looks more like a child made it than a grown woman, but what’s that matter when I love it so much?

  My father doesn’t understand that people can do things that make them happy. He is rule-abiding. He believes that anything less than proper is a fool’s way of living. But if it were up to me, I’d be living a fool’s life instead of this one. I love my parents. I’m close to them. I have no idea what I’d do without them in my life, but sometimes—goddess—sometimes they drive me so mad I almost bolt to Finland.

  It isn’t easy being their daughter, no matter how much I love them. They have such high expectations of me, so many standards, so many hopes. Most of the time, I feel like I fail them. I know I don’t meet their expectations. My mother is kind about it, but my father doesn’t hesitate to tell me when I need to get my head on straight. It’s always about the family name, and apparently having a daughter like me is bad for it.

  No matter how much love they send my way, sometimes love isn’t enough. It doesn’t fill that gap in my heart for not being enough. They can love me all they want, but all my life they have tried to lift me up to make me better, smarter, and prettier. It only makes me feel worse about myself every time they want more from me.

  Here I am, complaining about this wonderful life I have when there are people out there living in damn shacks and dirt. I’m in a castle, sitting on a windowsill looking out toward the sea, watching the moon shine its white glow across the waves. I have nearly everything I could ever ask for. Does that make me shallow? Does it make me a bad person that I would give away all of the fancy gowns, the food, the jewellery, the parties, just to be myself? I’d love to live a day where the guilt of not measuring up doesn’t eat away at my soul.

  I know that slowly, the wild heart that my father dislikes so much will get tamed and tired of fighting. Eventually, I’ll cave in and everything that makes me different then everyone else will fade. I’ll become exactly what he wants me to be. And that scares me so much. My worst fear is to be confined and caged, and that is exactly what he is doing to me. I want my freedom. I want the ability to think for myself, do for myself, and love for myself.

  The thought of having love handpicked for me makes me nauseous. The thought of always being told what to do and wear for the rest of my life makes me angry. So damn angry.

  I exhale and knock my head against the side of the wall, the stone slightly scratching my skin as I turn my head more to the right to see the old pine tree I used to climb as a girl. It’s so tall now, nearly touching the stars with its pine needles. It’s odd to take a step back and look at everything from a different perspective—a more appreciative one.

  I’ve grown up, and so has everything around me. Everything looks different, but it’s still the same. The sand dunes that have always been there seem bigger, the water seems higher, trees are most definitely taller, but the moon, while still gigantic, doesn’t seem as big now that I’m older. Perhaps it’s because I’ve lost the innocent magic children see everything with. I know there isn’t a man on the moon anymore. I also figured out the moon was not made out of cheese like my father told me for so many years when I was ten and asked why we couldn’t eat it.

  He said it was because it was too far away, but that made no sense to me because something out there at some point would have eaten it.

  I let out a sad chuckle, remembering how mad I was at him. I kicked him in the shin, and I ran to the ocean, screaming at the sky for not allowing the moon to be made of cheese. I miss that undeniable innocence. I miss the feeling of knowing nothing of the world before it expected too much from me.

  Ah, the moments when I thought the moon was made of cheese. Good times.

  I place my chin on the curve of my shoulder to make sure my mother isn’t still on the other side of the door. My gaze drops to the crack between the floorboard and the door and see no shadows. The coast is clear. Taking the edges of the window frame, I scoot myself on the edge and swing my legs over onto the roof and hop down, tucking my dress under my butt before the wind blows it up, and I end up flashing someone.

  Goddess, I can imagine the look on my father’s face if he found out one of his guards saw me in my undergarments. I giggle, putting my hand over my mouth to make sure no one hears me. If my parents ever found out I climb out my window to sit on the roof, my father would nail my window shut, actively securing my fate inside the castle for the rest of my life.

  If I ever got this taken away from me, the night sky, the stars, the brightness of the moon, I’d never forgive them. It’s my sanctuary. It’s where I come to daydream about the life I wish to have. I wrap my arms around my legs and let my cheek fall to my knees, transfixed on the image in front of me. The shore goes on and on, sand and trees tunnelling into the night, and the ocean fades into the black sky.

  I shut my eyes and let the salty air whisk over my body. My hair tickles my cheeks as it blows. I’m not sure how much time passes, but I sink into a relaxed state and fall backwards. My back hits the roof, and I open my eyes to take one last look at the stars before having to get up and go inside.

  But I can’t seem to get myself to move. The salt soothes and relaxes me as I breathe it in. I lace my fingers over my stomach and blow out all the stress and fall into a deep sleep.

  Only to wake up with the sun beaming down on me and my mother yelling on the other side of the door; threatening that she will get the guards to knock it down if I don’t unlock the damn thing right now.

  I look out onto the horizon, watching the sun cast its oranges and pinks across the sky, but still, the ocean sits empty. No ship. No man of my dreams. No nothing. I suppose that is why my father always says dreams are nothing but silly wishes that never come true.

  Another day in paradise, I suppose.

  Chapter Two

  Trident

  Gray clouds threaten rain, and the wind picks up every so often, howling. The gusts make Hank, my loyal horse, blow raspberries and sneeze. I pat his neck as we ride to the village. “Bless you, boy. The breeze tickling your nose?” I ask, chuckling a bit. His nose has always been so sensitive for some reason.

  “Sir Trident! It’s good to see you.” Fletcher, the local butcher, waves his cleaver at me before slamming it down with a hard thump, cutting a thick piece of meat.

  “Fletcher, how have you been?” I pull back on the reins and swing my leg over to hop off Hank. I really should make my way down to the village more often. I love seeing the people I grew up around, settling well into the town after such a long haul from our old village. It makes me so happy. “Still cutting the finest meats, I see.”

  He flashes a knowing grin. “Only the
best in the land, you know that.” He slams the cleaver down again, and my mouth waters. It gets me thinking. An entire hog roasted over a fire with a big pint of mead sounds delicious.

  “Aye, you’ve always had the finest cuts, Fletcher.”

  “You want anything, Sir Trident? On me,”

  Fletcher has always been so kind when it comes to sharing meat. A man can’t provide for his family like that.

  “Nay, Fletcher. I’ll buy it. You work too hard just to give things away. I must go see my parents, but save me an entire pig, okay?” I dig into my pockets and hand him a few coins that pay for more than just the pig, but he deserves it.

  His eyes widen when he sees the silver on the table. “I’ll give you a few steaks too. Goddess, thank you, Sir Trident. You’ll get the finest pig around. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “I don’t doubt it, Fletcher. I can’t wait to pick it up. I have to go. Mother is cooking breakfast, and you know how she gets if I’m late.”

  “Aye. That woman has always been full of fire. Don’t want to make her mad. Here.” He turns around and grabs a whole chicken. He grips it around its neck and hands it over to me, the long legs jiggling a bit. “Give her this. Hopefully she will be more forgiving if you bring home a meal.”

  “You know my mother well, Fletcher.” Gratefully, I accept the chicken and tie it to my saddle. I slap his shoulder a little hard before getting back on my saddle. “I’ll see you after noon for that hog.”

  He salutes me with his bloody hands and his face wrinkles when he grins widely, showing off the several missing teeth in his mouth. “Yes, Sir Trident. It will be here.”

  Placing my foot in the stirrup and my hand on the saddle horn, I lift myself up on Hank. I click my tongue and start on my way to my parents’ home. Looking around the village, I’m impressed with how much Lord Grimkael has put into it. It’s nicer, and the paths are cleaner with not so many holes. A few houses have been rebuilt, and the businesses in the middle of the village have grown since Lord Grimkael and Lady Sassa have put a lot of her family’s money back into the town. No one is hungry. No one is dirty. Everyone seems happy.

  It’s a nice change.

  Not that King Leif wasn’t a good leader. He took care of his people the best he could with how sick he was. No one blames him, but now he is resting in peace, and we can take care of everything now. These are our people. Our home. Somehow when Lord Grimkael came to threaten King Leif, everything ended up working out in our favor. I don’t know how or why, but I’m not complaining.

  I pass a few more people I haven’t seen in a few weeks on my way to my parents. The wind picks up, and a few women come running past me, covering their faces with their sweaters. Lightning cracks across the sky, veining the gray clouds with anger. The sky starts releasing droplets of rain, something our crops desperately need. While I think the water feels great against my skin, everyone else is running for shelter to get out of the oncoming downpour.

  The dirt becomes mud. Hank’s hooves splosh through the growing puddles. Even with the storm, I should have known that my mother wouldn’t be inside, like a normal person. Instead, when I come around the corner, she’s outside with her hand covering her eyes, so rain doesn’t get on her face, but her hair is starting to get wet, and the bottom of her skirt is getting mud on the edges.

  “Mother, go inside!” I shout through the storm.

  She crosses her arms over her chest and pops her hips, letting me know I can’t tell her what to do. The stubborn woman. After tying Hank on a nearby post under a shed to keep him out of the rain, I jog toward my mother.

  “You’ll catch illness running in the rain like this,” she scolds when I run by her to get in the house, tracking dirt and mud on the wooden planks. Oh, I’ll hear about that in a—

  “Trident Xavier Karsten, what have I told you about tracking mud in my house?”

  Minute. I sigh. “I’ll clean it up when I’m all dry. I promise.” I bend down and kiss each side of her cheeks. “And just to let you know, I wasn’t the only one out there in the rain. So that means I’m not the only one that can get a cold.”

  She hustles over the couch and grabs the wool blanket that’s been warming by the fire and walks around me, placing it over my shoulders. I nearly fall to my knees as the warmth settles over my skin. It feels so good.

  “Yes, but my baby always comes first.” She takes my chin in her hand. “Is that warm enough? Do you need another? Let me go get you a set of fresh clothes.”

  “Mother, I’m fine. Stop fussing over me,” I grumble, tightening the blanket around me like I did when I was a wee boy. “But clothes would be nice.”

  “I know, sweetheart. I’ll get you a nice cup of tea too.” She pats my face and disappears into the next room. I’m a grown man. I’ve been around for twenty-eight years. But being around my mother never fails to make me feel like a boy again.

  I may fuss, but secretly, I love it. She makes the best tea, and she is the only one that knows I love my blankets warmed by the fire.

  My father’s boisterous laugh comes from behind me, and his large hand weighs my shoulder down like a boulder. “You can’t stop your mother when it comes to her only son. You know that.”

  “I know, Father. I know,” I say with a tsk. “She’s the best though.”

  “Aye. Never a better woman. I’m a lucky man. Come, sit down. Tell me about everything at the castle.”

  “You do know you and Mother could live there, right? You’re of warrior bloodline. Lord Grimkael would be happy to have you there.”

  He scoffs, dismissing me. “Your mother and I like our privacy. We like where we are. Warrior line or not. It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Here we go.” My mother rushes into the room. The teacups and kettle clank against each other on the tray she’s carrying. With slow movements, she lowers it to the table, so none of the tea spills and sits down next to my father. Steam billows from the cups, and the scent of lavender makes its way into my lungs, and I reach for the cup only for my mother to slap my hand.

  “You better wait. You know your father is first.”

  I lift my eyes to my father, who rolls his eyes, mumbling something under his breath that I can’t understand, but it brings a smile to my lips when he picks up the mug. He sets it in front of me.

  “Woman, it’s our son. I’m too old for those fancy rules. Let us drink the tea and talk about normal things that families talk about when their son comes to visit. So, son, tell us something, before your mother starts in on us about tradition and nonsense.”

  “Harold Karsten,” my mother scoffs. “I do no such thing.” She folds her fingers around the handle of the cup and slouches in the chair as she mumbles something under her breath, which makes my father lean in and whisper something in her ear. She blushes.

  “Goddess, get a room,” I chuckle, taking a sip of my own tea. What son or daughter wants to see their mother blush from their father whispering… things in her ear? No one. Doesn’t matter the age. It doesn’t matter if a son or daughter is grown, it is just plain odd to see that between them. It makes my skin crawl. And yes, it is amazing they are still in love. But they are my parents. When they do this, it takes me back to when I was fifteen and caught them having—

  “Trident, how’s my boy?” My mother’s hand is cold when it lands on mine. Even with the warm cup, her hands stay frozen.

  I’m so glad she interrupted the memory that haunted me for all of my teenage years. “I’m good. I’m great, actually. Lord gave us the day to see our families since all is quiet now, and it doesn’t seem we have invaders to fight anymore.”

  “You mean the Jackals that almost killed you,” my mother sneers, her green eyes turning cold.

  “Celine,” my father tries to silence her, but that has never worked a day in his life. If anything, it only makes her angrier.

  “Oh, don’t you Celine me.”

  Here it comes.

  She sits up straighter, pursing her lips in frustrat
ion. “Those Jackals nearly killed him. Our son, Harold. Our baby boy.”

  “I’m not a baby,” I try and defend myself, but it only makes me sound like a baby. It earns me a look that can kill from my mother. I turn my attention to my cup and bring the rim to my lips. “And I’m fine. It was months ago. I’m one of the best warriors Lord Grimkael has. And I didn’t even have a near-death experience, not like Wulf.”

  “Right, it was him who nearly killed you. The Denholm boy,” she sneers.

  I toss the blanket off my shoulders and slam my fist on the table. The cups rattle, and guilt churns my stomach when my mother flinches. “I want to make one thing clear; that man is my best friend and a damn good warrior. I would have carried him until the bones in my legs broke. He would have done the same for me. For you to say that about a man that has been a brother to me for years is vile. He has had my back. You’ve met him.” I scoot the chair back, my clothes still soaked since I didn’t change. “I’m out of here.”

  “Trident,” my father’s voice hardens. I’ve heard it before. He wants to threaten me, intimidate me.

  Well, it won’t work.

  My boots pound against the floor, and I kick the door open. It slams against the side, shaking the planks under my feet. The rain is pouring, thumping against the ground like heavy rocks. It’s hard to see what’s in front of me with the sheet of water falling from the sky.

  But a little rain doesn’t scare me. The moment I step foot in the raging storm, I’m soaked. My hair sticks to my face, and my clothes cling to my skin.

  “Trident!” my mother calls after me, but I can hardly hear her from the thunder crashing above me.

  I ignore her, stomping toward the shed with determined strides, and get Hank. “Come on, boy. We are heading out.” I grab the reins and untie them, the worn leather sliding between my fingers, leaving soft scratches behind.