The Viking's Heart

“Are you an expert on evil, Rosamund?”

When she turned back to him her eyes were a bit wild—large and round, lost in that pretty face. They startled him. So did her answer. “Aye. Of a sort. I am.”

He blinked, trying to absorb it. Trying to think what it meant. In the end, he only held out his hand. “Come. Let us go back to the hall.”

She was so artless, so utterly transparent. She hesitated. “I…I thought I might roam a bit. Get to know the castle.”

“What a poor liar you are.”

Her head whipped around. She was all fire again. “What an insulting man you are! What reason have you to question me?”

What reason had he? Only that something deep down in his gut seemed connected to this woman. Only that his soul spoke to him of her, and it told him disturbing things….

Dear Reader,

Much of the beauty of romance novels is that most are written by women for women, and feature strong and passionate heroines. We have some stellar authors this month who bring to life those intrepid women we love as they engage in relationships with the men we also love!

In fact, rising talent Jacqueline Navin could be one of our heroines. This mother of three has written six books since her publishing debut in 1998. Her latest, The Viking’s Heart, is a lively yet emotional sequel to her first book, The Maiden and the Warrior. Here, noblewoman Rosamund Clavier awaits escort to the dreaded marriage her abusive father has arranged for her. Imagine Rosamund’s dilemma when she discovers that her Viking escort is her true match—yet duty and honor still bind her to another….

Award-winning author Gayle Wilson returns with My Lady’s Dare, a sensational Regency-set romance about a woman who would sacrifice all for the life of a family member. Luckily the Earl of Dare comes to her rescue! In Bandera’s Bride, Mary McBride gives her Southern belle heroine some serious chutzpah when, pregnant and alone, she travels to Texas to propose marriage to her pen pal of six years, a half-breed who’s been signing his partner’s name…!

And don’t miss Susan Amarillas’s new Western, Molly’s Hero, a story of forbidden love between a female rancher and the handsome railroad builder who needs her land.

Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell,

Senior Editor

MILLS & BOON

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and JACQUELINE NAVIN

The Maiden and the Warrior #403

The Flower and the Sword #428

A Rose at Midnight #447

Strathmere’s Bride #479

*One Christmas Night #487

The Viking’s Heart #515

This is dedicated to Mick.

Does it ever get old when I keep saying, “Thanks”?

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 Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Chapter One

The woman who lay upon the cushions of the gently swaying litter was asleep. Beside her, a slumbering maid snored softly into the still air as if even in sleep she could not stand to be silent. Outside, the steady clatter of horses’ hooves, the occasional deep drone of a man’s voice, the clang of armaments jostling as their bearers traveled over rough terrain all blended together and filled the air with a busy, hushed din that was somehow soothing. It was this and the rocking motion that had lulled the lovely young woman after three days and nights of anxiety-filled wakefulness.

Her eyes flew open and she sat up.

The dream had come again.

Glancing about, she blinked until sleep released its hold and she recognized where she was. A sigh that was more resignation than relief stole some of her tension as she lay back again and placed a limp wrist over her forehead to push the wisps of golden curls away.

As horrid as her sleep had been, the world unchanged upon waking was no better. They were set to end this day at Gastonbury, the fortress home of her cousin’s husband.

Gastonbury. She shivered. She had heard tell of Lucien de Montregnier, a dark and fearsome lord who had conquered the lands in a sweeping campaign of vengeance and taken her cousin, Alayna of Avenford, to wife. The thought of such a man, mingled with her other fears, set her to nibbling on her fingernail.

In truth, it was not so much Gastonbury, or even its fierce lord, that sparked her dread as what lay after the visit to her kinswoman. Berendsfore Manor. Sir Robert, and her one, greatest fear.

Which brought to mind her dream. Or was it a memory? She never really knew for certain, and the wondering preoccupied her to madness.

It had begun, as it so often did, with the deceptively mild realization that she was in her bed at Hallscroft, her home since she was a child. In the dream, she was but a girl of ten and two. She could detect the soft smell of rain and wood fires that wafted in through the window. A band of moonlight fell across the pale carpet of rushes. It was so real, she often wondered upon waking how it was that each sensation had felt so vibrant, each perception clear and acute.

When the woman entered, she was only a shadow, but her scent was familiar and beloved. Soft contentment drifted over her at the woman’s presence. The faint touch of fingertips at her brow, then along her cheek, felt like cool silk.

“Beautiful Rosamund,” the woman whispered, and Rosamund reveled in her mother’s love.

Then she spoke again and the words that came across the years, borne upon the wings of memory and given breath in the netherworld of sleep, were just beyond Rosamund’s comprehension. She saw her mother’s lips move, heard sounds come forth, but could not understand.

Her mother stood and turned, her profile jarring. The protrusion of her belly was evident now, with the moonlight behind her. Her slender, delicate mother thus encumbered had been strange and somehow disturbing to Rosamund, as though she had known at the advent of her mother’s pregnancy that the visible advances in the woman’s condition would bring them both closer to loss.

Going to the window, her mother had spread her arms. She set herself adrift on the air. She was flying. The world fell away, and Rosamund knew this was no beautiful soaring of the falcon. Her mother’s hair, so like Rosamund’s own, floated and she smiled, turning her face away from the tormented visage of her little daughter and into the death before her.

Rosamund screamed, but no sound came forth. No tears came though she wanted to weep. She reached for her mother but her limbs refused to obey her will.

She always awakened with a bilious sob caught in her throat.

The wretched dream came often these days to haunt her with its truths and lies, fed by the terror of her own fearful destiny.

She was hot. Sweat glistened on her brow and made her hands clammy. The draperies of the litter were drawn against the dust of the road, blocking out the cool breezes that heralded the waning of summer. The air was so thick in the dim interior of the horse-drawn conveyance, she could scarcely breathe. She smoothed the pale blue material of her surcoat absently.

“Up ahead,” someone outside called, and the litter slowed.

“What? Who? Have we arrived?” Hilde inquired, opening her eyes. “Is this Gastonbury?” The maid stretched out her toes, extending her chubby legs in front of her. “I am starving. No doubt your cousin shall have a great repast for your reception.” She all but clapped her hands together and rubbed.

“How can you think of eating?” Rosamund’s irritability went unnoticed. Of course, no one would heed if she were screaming like a madwoman and tearing at her hair.

“Oh!” Hilde cried as they lurched forward. Branches ruffled the curtains on either side of them, poking through the slits as if sticking their heads in for a brief greeting.

“It must be a narrow part of the road, or a pass,” Rosamund explained. She hid her growing tension.

The litter drew to a stop.

“What is it?” Hilde wondered, pulling back a corner of the draperies.

Rosamund peered over her shoulder. “Nothing out there. Only trees, Hilde, as we have seen every day.”

Then a dark realization came over her. The sounds. The men talking, the movement of the horses—they had ceased altogether.

“Mayhap we have come upon some barrier,” Rosamund suggested brightly to fight the threat that seemed to pulse in the very air. “An unforged stream, possibly. Or a bridge toll to be paid.”

All at once, shouts came—sharp, harsh. Urgent. The driver seated above them called a command to the horses as he whipped the team forward. The two women were tossed back onto the velvet cushions as the conveyance quickly accelerated.

Behind them, the clash of steel against steel signaled they were under attack.

“God’s breath, Hilde, what—?” The question was cut off as they flew over a rut at breakneck speed. They were tossed into the air for a moment, then down together with a painful clash of limbs.

“Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord.” Hilde began the prayer as she wound her thick arms about her mistress. Rosamund was not averse to the comfort of the embrace, although she had to push mightily against Hilde’s clinging fingers to allow herself to breathe properly. The maid flung a leg over her, as if she were prepared to climb up onto Rosamund’s lap.

The litter picked up speed.

“Hold on to the sides, for God’s sake,” Rosamund called to Hilde over the clatter of the wheels.

“Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord,” Hilde continued.

“Hilde!” Rosamund choked as the maid’s grip tightened.

One shake of the head—meaning Hilde was not about to release her hold on Rosamund—was all the answer she received. They rounded a bend and, if not for the white-knuckle grip Rosamund had on the frame of the conveyance, the pair of them would have tumbled out the side.

The thunder of horse’s hooves next to them set Rosamund’s teeth on edge and caused Hilde to bury her face in her lady’s neck.

“Hilde, please. I cannot move. I want to see what is happening.”

“Would it comfort you to see the faces of our murderers?”

“Aye!” Rosamund shouted, and gave her companion a great shove. Once clear of the weight, she flicked back the draperies. In an instant, she drew them closed once again.

“What, mistress?” Hilde asked hysterically. “What did you see?”

Rosamund’s eyes cast about the small space as if an armory of weapons would suddenly be discovered in her hour of need. “There are not enough of them. Hilde, I am afraid…”

She did not need to finish. Her stated fears would be obvious to the servant and very similar, as well.

There was a loud crash over their heads, as if something large and heavy had hit the roof. Hilde screamed, “We are boarded!”

“Shush,” she commanded, cocking her head to listen.

“They are fighting!”

“Shh!”

The carriage took a dip in the road with a bone-jarring crunch, settling Hilde back to curling against her mistress’s side. Rosamund began to pray. Her lips moved rapidly over the Paternoster, then the Ave Maria.

They rode hard, faster and farther. The heavy clatter of the wheels jostling them along the beaten dirt path filled their ears—that and the muted thump and crash of the struggle up in the driver’s box. Suddenly that, too, stopped.

The litter was brought to a standstill.

Hilde peeked up from Rosamund’s tear-soaked bosom. “Is…is it done? Are we safe, mistress?”

“I know not.” Rosamund barely breathed the words.

There was the sound of someone landing on the ground from above them, then the soft crunch of footfalls.

Hilde made a soft squeak of terror. “My lady…”

The curtain lifted, exposing the two of them to the man who stood beside the carriage. Rosamund got a glimpse of a leather tunic, a hard, dark-complected face and cap of tight curls upon which sat a jaunty red hat with a hawk’s feather stuck into it.

Beside her, Hilde let loose a brain-scrambling scream and fainted, falling limp across Rosamund’s lap.

Chapter Two

In the nearby castle of Gastonbury two men circled each other on the lists of the lower ward, crouched, tensed, weapons drawn and at the ready. The dark one held a sword in one hand, a shorter weapon in the other. Across from him, the blond man brandished a Viking broadsword in both fists. His body moved lightly despite the massive breadth of his shoulders and his great height. His controlled movements were a match for the pantherlike stalking of his slightly shorter opponent. Sweat trickled down from his forehead and into his eyes. He dashed it away with a quick swipe of his arm.

Off in the corner, a trio of beauties giggled.

“Perhaps you would like a hair ribbon to tie back your lovely locks,” the dark one taunted. “I am certain any of those lusty wenches would be happy to offer one of theirs.”

The huge blond man only snarled, showing his teeth to be even and very white. Another man might have flinched, but his adversary only chuckled.

The dark man moved quickly. Their blades came together with a ring of steel. A single spark flared for an instant.

The blond man tossed his head. “You used that move before. Are you getting tired, or bored?”

“Shut up, you cursed Viking,” the dark man growled. “Have you something better to offer?”

“Do not force me to shame you before your villeins, Lucien.”

Again the beauties tittered. Lucien scowled. The Viking grinned.

“I should think you would wish to take more care not to goad my temper.”

“I do not fear it,” the Viking assured him.

Lucien moved, launching his body directly at his opponent’s midsection while bringing his sword up from the other side. With no room to maneuver, the Viking could only strike a short blow aimed at Lucien’s gut. Lucien saw it and brought his left hand down to the thick wrists, numbing the other’s grip.

The great broadsword fell. Before the clang of it hitting the hard-packed earth died out, the Viking took a step back and retrieved from his belt a weighted net. He laughed as he swung it back and forth. “I am just as deadly without my sword.”

“We shall see,” Lucien said. No sooner had he uttered the words than he found himself down in the dirt. Jabbing with the shorter weapon, he wrapped it around the net and yanked it out of the other man’s hand. He pulled the Viking off balance and felled him.

“A draw?” the Viking asked, flat on his back.

Lucien’s top lip curled in a sneer. “Never.” He scrambled to his knees, both hands wrapped around the hilt of his short sword, his eyes locked with the Nordic blue of the Viking’s as he raised it high. The larger man stayed on his back until the last moment. Then he reared up. The sword came a hair breadth from slicing into his side.

Lucien was suddenly furious. “Sweet Jesu, Agravar, why did you move? Did you see how close that was? It could have struck you.”

The Viking shook his head. “If the blow had been aimed to kill, the twist would have caused it to glance off my side. Since you meant no harm, it had the opposite result.”

With that blithe explanation, he planted a booted foot on Lucien’s chest and tossed him on his back. In a flash, he was over him, the same short sword Lucien had wielded against Agravar only a moment ago now pressed into the flesh of his neck. “Yield,” he demanded with a smile.

“Bastard!” Lucien swore.

“True enough,” Agravar said, withdrawing the weapon and standing. The trio of giggling nymphs waved. He turned his back on them with a grimace.

Beside him, Lucien stood and brushed himself off. “’Twas only luck you had this day.”

“Luck is the fruit of skill and preparation.”

Not a gracious loser, his friend and liege lord glared at him. “I set you on your arse last time.”

“And I laid you low the time before that. As I recall, you were spitting out dirt until supper.” He was distracted by a familiar form coming from the direction of the keep. “Pelly!” he hailed.

“Captain,” the young knight answered, bowing first to him. To Lucien, he executed a similar motion. “My lord. My lady has bid me ask if you had forgotten your promise to ride into the village and escort her cousin’s party to the castle.”

“Damn, I had forgotten.” Lucien swept a hand through his hair and gave Agravar an enigmatic glance. “Was she…did she seem…upset?”

Poor Pelly looked stricken. He glanced at Agravar for reassurance. “Never mind, boy,” Agravar said, giving him a slap on the shoulder that knocked the slight-framed youth forward a few steps. “We know the mistress’s temper is short these last days of her confinement.”

Lucien let loose a string of expletives and stalked off. Rolling his eyes, Agravar dismissed Pelly and retrieved his weapon from the dust. As he followed Lucien off the training field, the three women smiled and nudged each other, casting flirtatious glances his way.

In the stables, Lucien was working up a fine temper. “Why do you not simply bed those wenches and give us some peace?”

“All at once or one at a time?” Agravar asked innocently.

“It makes no difference to me as long as they cease their annoying simpering.”

“You shall have to get used to it because they do not interest me.”

Lucien grumbled something intelligible.

“Is my lady in good health?” Agravar asked with studied nonchalance. “I have noticed your normally disagreeable nature even more trying of late.”

Lucien gave one shake of his head. “Agravar, by the blood of Christ and all that is holy, the woman is more precious to me than my own life, but I fear I will go mad before this babe is brought into the world. She is not herself. Never content, fickle to the extreme, and apt to spring into tears at the slightest frustration of her whims. She is fast becoming a tyrant.”

“She will be restored when the babe is born,” Agravar said blandly. He was a great admirer of the Lady Alayna and knew her to be a gentle lady with a heart as fierce as her husband’s, but never petty. And though Agravar could understand his friend’s impatience at Alayna’s uncharacteristic moodiness, he had no tolerance for any complaint Lucien might make.

For, as Agravar knew, the kindness of the Fates was fickle. Lucien had been gifted with the miracle of a peerless love. It was something the Viking had never known in any form. And he had, at the advanced age of thirty and four, resigned himself to the disappointment that he never would.

These thoughts kept him in sour company as he threw the saddle over his destrier and tightened the cinch. When Lucien spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “I cannot think straight until she is delivered safely of the babe. Her restlessness…it has given me a bad premonition. I am…I…” He bowed his head.

Chagrined, Agravar said nothing to his friend’s mangled confession. He had been thinking Lucien consumed with self-pity when it had been worry that tore at him.

Recovering quickly, Lucien asked, “Tell me where you learned that maneuver you used back there? It might be useful, if one is unlucky—or unskilled—enough to find oneself on one’s back in battle.”

“I learned it from the gypsies.” To Lucien’s incredulous look, Agravar shrugged as they mounted their horses and kicked them into action. “I gather techniques wherever I can.”

Lucien grunted, pointing up ahead. “Pass yonder, Agravar. As we speak of techniques to be tried, it has reminded me that I had the smithy forge finer, lighter weapons from the steel I had imported from Spain. I am told it is far superior to our domestic blends.”

“Impossible,” Agravar scoffed, but he was happy to oblige the change of direction when he noticed the three women lying in wait who would be avoided by a diversion to the forge.

“Garron!” Lucien called, and the smithy shuffled out to see to his lord’s bidding. “Show my captain the new swords you have fashioned.”

“Oh, lovely beauties, they are, sir,” Garron exclaimed, fetching one of the blades.

Despite himself, Agravar was impressed. The weapon was sleek and quick, cutting through the air like a whisper. “I doubt it would cleave a man in two as deftly as this,” he said, tapping the heavy broadsword resting at his hip. “But it feels extraordinarily clever in one’s hand, almost as if it has a life of its own.” He passed it to Lucien, who made a few swipes with it and gave it back.

Untouched in Lucien’s scabbard was his father’s sword. There was no question of him relinquishing that blade, even for an exceptional weapon. It was a symbol of what he had come back from hell to recover, along with his lands, his life, his soul.

That quest had given Agravar something to believe in for the first time in his lost, uncharted life. He had become Lucien’s right arm. Good God, he had even committed one of the most heinous acts known to mankind in order to save the friend he counted as brother.

But now, in this time of peace, he would gladly trade his bloodletting broadsword for this delicate instrument, a weapon as elegant as the soft, peaceful life it bespoke. Aye, he’d once told Lucien he’d be content to mount his weapons upon the walls as monuments to his bloody past, and it was true enough.

True enough.

“I shall test the weapon,” Agravar said. Tossing his broadsword to the smithy, he ordered, “Give it a good sharpening while I test this and I’ll tell you what I think of this new steel.”

The soldiers took the short but roughly cut route through the woods as they were dreadfully late. Lucien, anxious not to further upset his disgruntled wife, had assured Alayna that he and his men would beat a quick path to see her cousin escorted from the edges of his lands to inside the castle gates.

They were just about to clear a scruffy copse into a meadow when, to their astonishment, two riders appeared, a man and a woman, cutting across to disappear into the woods.

“Strange,” Lucien said in a low voice.

Agravar exchanged glances with him. Then a sound from behind caught their attention. Twisting in his saddle, Agravar listened. Was that weeping?