Stolen By The Viking

Bought for his vengeance

But claimed for his bed!

Battle-scarred Viking Alarr is a broken warrior who expects to die carrying out his oath of blood vengeance. He saves maiden Breanne Ó Callahan from slavery only with the intention of getting close enough to kill her foster father. Until their spark of passion ignites a desire to keep her close…and presents Alarr with a gut-wrenching choice—his revenge or his heart?

RITA® Award finalist and Kindle bestselling author MICHELLE WILLINGHAM has written over forty historical romances, novellas and short stories. Currently she lives in south-eastern Virginia, USA, with her family and her beloved pets. When she’s not writing Michelle enjoys reading, baking and avoiding exercise at all costs. Visit her website at: michellewillingham.com.

Also by Michelle Willingham

Forbidden Vikings miniseries

To Sin with a Viking

To Tempt a Viking

Warriors of Ireland miniseries

Warrior of Ice

Warrior of Fire

Warriors of the Night miniseries

Forbidden Night with the Warrior

Forbidden Night with the Highlander

Forbidden Night with the Prince

Untamed Highlanders miniseries

The Highlander and the Governess

Sons of Sigurd collection

Stolen by the Viking

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Stolen by the Viking

Michelle Willingham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90129-5

STOLEN BY THE VIKING

© 2020 Michelle Willingham

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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To Kat Schniepp, for your daily encouragement,

words of wisdom, and for being my friend all these years.

You have walked a difficult road and come out stronger.

And, with your help, so have I.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

The kingdom of Maerr, Norway—ad 874

It was the morning of his wedding. Although most men would have welcomed the day, Alarr Sigurdsson had the sense that something was not right. The shadowed harvest moon last night had promised an ill omen, and the wise woman had cautioned him to delay the marriage.

Alarr had ignored the volva, for he was not a man who believed in curses or evil omens. The union would bring a strong alliance for his tribe. He had known Gilla Vigmarrsdottir since they were children, and she always had a smile and was even-tempered. She was not beautiful in the traditional way, but that didn’t matter. Her kindness made him amenable to the match. His father, Sigurd, had negotiated for her bride price, and the mundr was high, demonstrating their family’s wealth.

‘Are you ready to be chained into the bonds of marriage?’ his half-brother Danr teased. ‘Or do you think Gilla has fled?’

He didn’t rise to Danr’s bait. ‘She will be there.’

Alarr had worn his best tunic, adorned with silver-braided trim along the hem, and dark hose. His black cloak hung over his shoulders, but it was the absence of his weapons that bothered him most. His mother had asked him to leave them behind, claiming that they would only offend the gods. It was an unusual request, and one that made him uneasy, given all the foreign guests.

Her beliefs did not mean he intended to remain defenceless, however. During the wedding, he would receive a ceremonial sword from Gilla as a gift, and at least he would have that. Weapons were a part of him, and he took comfort in a balanced blade. He felt more comfortable fighting than joining in a conversation.

It was strange being the centre of attention, for he had two brothers and two half-brothers. As the second-born, Alarr was accustomed to being overlooked and ignored, a fact that usually allowed him to retreat into solitude and train for warfare. The intense physical exertion brought a strange sense of peace within him. While he practised with a blade, he didn’t have to compete with anyone, save himself. And now that he had earned his status as a fighter, the men respected him. No one challenged him, and he had confidence that he could win any battle he fought.

Not that Sigurd had ever noticed.

Although his father tried to behave as if they had no enemies, Alarr was no fool. There was an air of restlessness brewing among the tribes. He had visited several neighbouring jarls and had overheard the whispers of rebellion. Yet, his father did not want to believe it.

Danr shot him a sidelong grin. ‘Are you afraid of losing your innocence this night?’ With that, Alarr swung his fist, and Danr ducked, laughing. ‘I hope she is gentle with you, Brother.’

‘Be silent, unless you want me to cut out your tongue,’ he threatened. But both knew it was an idle threat. His half-brother was never serious, and he often made jests. Fair-haired and blue-eyed, all the women were fascinated by the man, and Danr was only too willing to accept their offerings. Alarr knew that his half-brother would find his way into a woman’s bed this night.

The scent of roasting meat lingered in the air, and both cattle and sheep had been slaughtered for the wedding feast. Sigurd had invited the leaders of neighbouring tribes, as well as their daughters. Undoubtedly, he would be trying to arrange future weddings to advance his own position. Although Sigurd was a petty king, it was never enough for him. He hungered for more status and greater power.

Alarr walked towards his father’s longhouse and found Sigurd waiting there. The older man had a satisfied expression on his face, though he was wearing only a simple woollen tunic and hose. His hair was greying, with threads of white mingled in his beard and hair. Even so, there was not a trace of weakness upon the man. His body was a warrior’s, lean and strong. Sigurd had bested many men in combat, even at his advanced age. ‘Are you ready?’

Alarr nodded, and they walked alongside one another in silence. Outside their settlement, his ancestors were buried within the Barrow. The graves of former warriors—his grandsire and those who had died before him—were waiting. There, Alarr would dig up a sword from one of the burial mounds. The weapon would become his, forged with the knowledge of his forebears, to be given to his firstborn son.

After a quarter-hour of walking in silence, Sigurd paused at the base of the Barrow and gestured for Alarr to choose. He was glad of it, for he already knew whose sword he wanted.

He climbed to the top of the Barrow and stopped in front of the grave that belonged to his uncle, who had died only a year ago, in battle. Hafr had trained him in sword fighting from the moment Alarr was strong enough to lift a weapon. There was no one else whose sword he wanted more.

He and his father dug alongside one another until they reached the possessions belonging to Hafr. Alarr tried to dispel the sense of foreboding that lingered while he respected the ashes of his uncle. The sword had been carefully wrapped in leather, and Alarr took it, uncovering the weapon. The iron glinted in the morning light, but it would need to be cleaned and sharpened.

‘Do you wish to take the sword?’ Sigurd asked quietly.

‘I do.’

His father then reached out to seize the weapon. Once he had given it over, Sigurd regarded him. ‘Much is expected of you with this marriage. Our kingdom of Maerr has risen to great power, and we need to strengthen our ties with the other jarls. You must conceive a son with Gilla immediately and ensure that our alliance is strong.’ He wrapped the sword in the leather once more and set it aside. ‘Perhaps my brother’s wisdom and strength will be yours, now that you have his sword.’

Alarr gave a nod, though he didn’t believe it. He wanted the sword because it gave him a tangible memory of his uncle. Hafr had been more of a father to him than Sigurd, whether he’d known it or not. Alarr had spent most of his life trying to gain Sigurd’s approval, to little avail.

They reburied the ashes of his uncle, along with Hafr’s worldly possessions, before returning to the settlement. Alarr walked towards the bathhouse, for it was time for the purification ritual. He had not seen Gilla since her arrival, but he had seen several of her kinsmen and a few others he didn’t recognise.

When he entered the bathhouse, the heat struck him instantly. Steam rose up within the air from heated stones set inside basins of water. Wooden benches were placed at intervals, along with several drying cloths.

Alarr stripped off his clothing and saw that three of his brothers were waiting. His youngest brother Sandulf was there, along with his older brother, Brandt, and their half-brother Rurik, Danr’s twin. Unlike Danr, Rurik was dark-haired and quiet. In many ways, Alarr found it easier to talk with Rurik. They trained together often, and he considered the man a close friend, as well as a brother. Their youngest brother, Sandulf, had a thirst to prove himself. He had dark-blond hair and blue eyes and had nearly put adolescence behind him. Even so, Alarr didn’t like the thought of his brother fighting in battle. Sandulf lacked the reflexes, though he’d trained hard. He feared that only experience would help the young man gain the knowledge he needed now.

‘Whose sword did you choose?’ Sandulf asked.

‘Hafr’s,’ Alarr answered. At his answer, Rurik met his gaze and gave a silent nod of approval. His brother had also been close to Hafr, since Sigurd had distanced himself from his bastard sons.

Alarr strode towards the wooden trough containing heated water. He began the purification ritual, pouring the warmed water over his body with a wooden bowl and scrubbing off the dirt with soap. As he did, Brandt remarked in a low voice, ‘There are many strangers among the guests. Did you notice?’

‘I did,’ Alarr answered. ‘But then, our tribe is well known across the North. It’s not uncommon. And we know that Sigurd wants to make other marriage alliances.’ He sent a pointed look towards Rurik, which his half-brother ignored.

Even so, Brandt looked uneasy. ‘He’s endangering our tribe by bringing in warriors we don’t know. Some were from Éireann.’

The island was several days’ journey across the sea. Sigurd had travelled there, years ago, and had brought back a concubine. She had given birth to Rurik and Danr a few months after her arrival and had never returned home, even after Sigurd set her aside. Although Saorla had died years ago, this was the first time any visitors had come from Éireann. Alarr wondered if there was some connection between the visitors and his half-brothers.

Regardless, he saw little choice but to let the foreigners witness the marriage. ‘They are already here now. We cannot deny them our hospitality.’ With a shrug, he added, ‘Sigurd likely invited them in the hopes of wedding one of their daughters to Rurik or Danr.’

‘Possibly.’ Brandt thought a moment. ‘We cannot deny them a place to stay, but we can deny them the right to bring in weapons. We will say it is to abide by our mother’s wishes.’

It was a reasonable request, and Alarr answered, ‘I will see to it.’ He reached for his clothing and got dressed.

‘Wait a moment.’ Brandt approached and held out a leather pouch. ‘A gift for your wedding.’ Alarr opened it and found a bronze necklace threaded with small pendants shaped like hammers. It was a visible reminder of Thor, a blessing from his older brother.

He stood so Brandt could help him put it on. Then Alarr looked back at his brothers, unable to cast off the sense that something was not right at all. Perhaps it was the unknown warriors, or perhaps it was the knowledge that he would be married this day.

A sudden premonition pricked at him, that he would not marry Gilla, as they had planned. Alarr knew not why, but the hair on the back of his arms stood up, and he could not set aside his uncertainty. He tried to dispel the restlessness in anticipation of the wedding. Like as not, every bridegroom had those feelings.

Sandulf trailed behind him. ‘May I join you, Alarr?’

He shrugged. ‘If you wish. But we are only exchanging the mundr and Gilla’s dowry. You may want to wait.’ The wedding activities would last most of the day, and there were enough witnesses without needing Sandulf there. ‘You could return when we make the sacrifices to the gods. That part is more interesting.’

His brother nodded. ‘All right. And in the meantime, I can watch over our guests and learn if any of them are a threat.’

‘Good.’ He understood his youngest brother’s desire to be useful, and it might be a wise idea to keep a close watch over the visitors.

Alarr departed the bathhouse and watched as his brothers went on their way. Brandt joined him as he approached the centre of the settlement. His older brother said little, but his face transformed when he spied his heavily pregnant wife, Ingrid. There was a moment of understanding that passed between them, along with joy. Alarr wondered if he would ever look upon Gilla’s face in that way when she was about to bear a child.

‘It won’t be long now,’ he said to Brandt. ‘You’ll be a father.’

Brandt nodded, and there was no denying his happiness. ‘Ingrid thinks it’s a boy from what the volva told her. I hope they are right.’

Alarr walked alongside his brother until he reached Sigurd and Gilla’s father. It was time to discuss the bride price and dowry. But before they could begin, they were interrupted by his mother. She hurried forward and whispered quietly to Brandt, whose face tightened. Then he gave a nod.

‘I must go,’ he said to Alarr. ‘There is a disturbance with tribes gathering to the north. I should be back later tonight for the wedding feast, but I’ve been asked to intervene and prevent bloodshed, if possible. I am sorry, but it cannot wait.’

Alarr inclined his head, wondering if this was the ill omen the volva had spoken of. It also struck him that his mother had spoken to Brandt and not to him or to her husband. She did not like Sigurd, but then again, it was possible that the king already knew and had ordered Brandt to go in his stead. Sigurd’s presence at the wedding was necessary.

‘Do not go alone,’ Alarr warned his brother.

‘Rurik will accompany me, along with a few other men,’ Brandt promised. His gaze fixed upon his wife, who was walking towards the other women, and his features softened. ‘I will return as soon as I can.’

‘Go then,’ Alarr said. ‘And return this night for the feasting.’ He clapped Brandt on the back before turning his attention back to the negotiations.

Sigurd was already bargaining with Vigmarr as the two exchanged the dowry and mundr. Since they had already agreed upon the bride price, it was hardly more than a symbol of the union to come.

Alarr saw Gilla standing behind her father. She wore a green woollen gown with golden brooches at her shoulders. Her dark hair hung below her shoulders, and upon her head, she wore a bridal crown made of woven straw, intertwined with flowers. Her smile was warm and welcoming, though she appeared slightly nervous.

Beside her, the volva was preparing the ritual sacrifice to the gods. The wise woman began chanting in the old language, supplications for blessings. Several of the guests began to draw closer to bear witness, and the scent of smoke mingled with the fresh tang of blood. The slain boar was offered up to Freyr, and the volva took a fir branch and dipped it into the boar’s blood. She then made the sign of the hammer, blessing them with the sacrificial blood, as well as the other wedding guests.

Although Gilla appeared amused by the ritual, the sight of sprinkled blood upon her face and hair made Alarr uneasy. He watched as the wise woman then sprinkled the boar’s blood on each of the guests. But instead of the guests revering the offering, there seemed to be an unspoken message passing among several of the warriors. Alarr could not shake the feeling that this was an omen of bloodshed to come.

Let my brothers be safe, he prayed to the gods. Let them come back alive.

Alarr watched the men, his attention caught by the tall Irish king. He didn’t know if Feann MacPherson had come as an invited guest, or whether he had arrived of his own choice. It might be that he wanted an alliance or a wedding for his daughter, if he had one. The king wore a woollen cloak, and there were no visible weapons. Yet the man had a thin scar along his cheek, evidence of an earlier battle. His dark hair was threaded with grey, but there was a lean strength to him.

When he saw Alarr staring, his expression tightened before it fixed upon Sigurd. The hard look was not of a man who wanted an alliance—it was of a man itching for a fight.

Someone needed to alert the guards, but Alarr could not leave in the midst of the ceremony. He searched for a glimpse of Danr or Sandulf, but they were nowhere to be found. He only saw his aunt nearby, and she could do nothing.

You’re overreacting, he tried to tell himself. But no matter how he tried to dismiss his suspicions, his instincts remained on alert. He could not interrupt the ceremony, for it would only humiliate his bride. This was meant to be a day of celebration, and Gilla’s smile was bright as she looked at him.

She was a kind woman, and as he returned her smile, he forced his thoughts back to the wedding. Friendship was a solid foundation for their union, and he inwardly vowed that he would try to make this marriage a good one.

He stood before her, and Sigurd brought the sword of Hafr that they had dug from his uncle’s grave. Alarr presented it to Gilla, saying, ‘Take this sword as a gift from my ancestors. It shall become the sword of our firstborn son.’

She accepted the weapon and then turned to her father to present their own gift of another sword. ‘Take this sword for your own.’

The blade had good balance, and he tested the edge, noting its sharpness. Gilla knew of his love for sword-fighting, and she had chosen a weapon of quality. It was a good exchange, and he approved of her choice.

Alarr placed the ring for Gilla upon the hilt of the sword, and was about to offer it, when he caught a sudden movement among the guests. Feann cast off his dark cloak and unsheathed a sword from where it had been strapped between his shoulder blades. His men joined him, their own weapons revealed. The visible threat made their intentions clear.

Sigurd’s face turned thunderous at the insult, and he started to reach for Alarr’s sword.

He handed the weapon to his father and commanded, ‘Take Gilla to the longhouse and guard her.’ The last thing they needed was his father’s hot-headed fighting. ‘Vigmarr and I will settle this.’

He took back his uncle’s sword from Gilla, and her face turned stricken when she murmured, ‘Be safe.’

His father heeded his instructions and took Gilla with him, along with a few other men. His aunt joined them, running with her skirts clenched in her hands. He heard his mother scream as she fled towards another longhouse in the opposite direction. Only when the women were gone did Alarr breathe easier.

It was a mistake. Chaos erupted among the guests as his men hurried towards the longhouse where they had stored their weapons. King Feann uttered a command in Irish, and his men surged forward, cutting down anyone in their path.

Alarr ran hard, and iron struck iron as his weapon met an enemy’s blade. He let the familiar battle rage flow through him, and his uncle’s sword bit through flesh, striking down his attacker. The weapon was strong, imbued with the spirt of his ancestor. Alarr swung at another man, and he glimpsed another warrior behind him. He sidestepped and caught the man in the throat before he slashed the stomach of his other assailant.

The volva was right, he thought. It was an ill omen.

Already, he could see the slain bodies of his kinsmen as more men charged forward in the fight. Alarr searched for his brothers, but there was no sign of Sandulf or Danr. By the gods, he hoped they were safe. If only Brandt and Rurik had been here, they could have driven off their enemies. He caught one of his kinsmen and ordered, ‘Take a horse and ride north as hard as you can. Find Brandt and Rurik and bring them back.’ The man obeyed, running hard towards the stables.