Before he had even quite realised he was doing it, his thumb was stroking over that plump lower lip and he was watching it tremble beneath his touch.

His breath came fast, matching the accelerated beat of his heart. It would be so easy to lose himself. The lust firing his blood wanted to claim her. It was that part that took charge as he leaned down to her.

His hand moved from her chin so his fingers stroked her neck, revelling in her heat and the rapid beat of her pulse under them. Her scent overpowered him. Just one taste of her, the demon within him urged. Just one taste and it would be enough. He breathed her in as his head lowered to her. His eyes fastened on her coral mouth.

When his lips were just a breath from touching hers she turned her head. He stopped just short of colliding with her cheek and paused, his breath harsh against her skin as he struggled for control.

HARPER ST GEORGE was raised in rural Alabama and along the tranquil coast of northwest Florida. It was this setting, filled with stories of the old days, that instilled in her a love of history, romance and adventure. At high school she discovered the romance novel, which combined all of those elements into one perfect package. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband and two young children. Visit her website: www.harperstgeorge.com

Digital short stories by Harper St George

His Abductor’s Desire Her Forbidden Gunslinger

This is Harper St George’s powerful debut novel for Mills & Boon® Historical Romance!

Visit the author profile page at millsandboon.co.uk

Enslaved by the Viking

Harper St. George

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my family.

Thank you to Kathryn Cheshire, my wonderful editor, for all of her insightful advice and her willingness to help guide me. I’d also like to thank Linda Fildew for her support. Thank you to my agent, Nicole Resciniti, for her enthusiasm and encouragement. A huge thank you to my amazing critique partners Erin Moore and Tara Wyatt. This story would not have been finished without them. Thank you to Jessica Brace, Andrea R. Cooper, Rachel Ezzo, Brandee Frost and Nathan Jerpe for reading, offering advice and commiserating with me!

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Northumbria—AD 865

Eirik had never taken a captive before, but the idea that she could be his was nearly overpowering. He closed his eyes in an attempt to fight back the dark thought, but when he opened them and she still hadn’t seen their boats, his heartbeat quickened. The longing sent his blood thrumming through his body so that it roared in his ears and blocked out almost everything else except his awareness of her.

For two years he’d been the leader of this fleet of longships. Even before that, he’d travelled under his father’s command to far-reaching ends of the world. He’d become adept at reading signs, at picking up on cues that would go unnoticed by most, at trusting his instincts. It was why his men trusted him so explicitly. And now his instincts were telling him to take her.

She should have noticed them by now—after all, he could see her through the fog, so she should be able to see them. But she twirled in the dark mist as if she hadn’t a care in her world. Perhaps the gods had left her there just for him. He blinked and banished the thought, his warrior’s instinct taking over. There were no signal fires along the beach. Either the guards were asleep or there were no guards. Someone should be out walking with the girl, but she danced alone, a gift to be plucked from the desolate shores and taken home.

Eirik looked up and down the beach, searching for signs of an ambush, some shape that would emerge from the gloom and reveal itself to be an army of Saxons. Perhaps the girl had been planted as an enticement. Or perhaps something more sinister was at play. He’d heard tales of sirens who lured men to their deaths. They usually inhabited mythical islands that the sea swallowed up again, but it was possible the Northumbrian coast offered its own sirens. But the beach was empty and a quick look at the men rowing assured him that no one else had been enthralled by her as he had. Perhaps she was his own personal siren.

Her lithe form swayed as she twirled, luxuriating in abandon and unrestraint. The spell she wove pulled at him, promising freedom from the bonds of duty and the shadows of his past that had always held him in such rigid control. He wanted to join her and was struck by the absurdity of the thought. She was just a girl, like any other he’d seen in his travels, but he could name the exact moment she’d picked his shape out of the dense fog. Her gaze ignited small flares of awareness, and when it met his, he was struck by a strange shock of recognition. He’d never seen her before, never been this far north on these shores, but the feeling that she was his was there all the same.

The fleet’s approach had been planned to coincide with the veil of the approaching dawn and his men were carefully trained in the art of stealth. It would be easy to take her. The terrible anticipation clenched tight in his gut. But he pushed it away and reminded himself that their journey up the coast was a scouting mission. There would be no captives.

Finally understanding the danger coming towards her, she turned to run. Blood rushed through him, powered by the need to stop her before she warned everyone. His booted feet splashed in the water and his men followed, dropping their oars and disembarking to pull the ship onto the shore.

* * *

It had stormed the previous night, but that didn’t stop Merewyn from her morning ritual of walking on the beach. If her older brother’s repeated threats on the matter hadn’t deterred her, a little rain wasn’t going to stand in her way. She lived for her mornings away from the manor, when she could be alone with the sunrise. It was probably silly, but in those brief moments she felt like anything was possible. That with the new day, the drudgery of her life could become something more than caring for her brother’s children and being relegated to performing the household tasks of a servant.

She loved the children dearly, but they weren’t hers. Blythe made sure that she remembered who had borne them, who was really in charge of the household. And she was right. As his wife, she should be in charge, but Merewyn couldn’t help feeling slighted. On the beach, though, all of that fell away. She was free. She was happy. Her life was her own.

She smiled as she twirled in the mist, letting the moisture collect like tiny diamonds shining in the dark strands of her hair. Despite the cold, she put her arms up high and held the fur wrap aloft to catch the breeze. The salty wind made her think of freedom. She adored it.

But in the next moment, she saw the ship cutting through the surf, saw the wooden dragon’s head set atop the prow and knew that freedom would never be hers again. The beast was so close she could have counted each of his pointed teeth where they protruded from the curve of his grotesque smile, promising death and suffering. She could have if she hadn’t already noticed the other ships accompanying the first one, each drawing her attention as they emerged from the shroud of mist. The boats spread out wide before her, creating the illusion of dark wings, like a giant beast taking flight in search of its prey.

The beach was a long, flat stretch of sand that gave way to gentle, rolling grassland. Her figure standing at the sea’s edge was surely as conspicuous as was that of the Northman standing in that first ship. The others blended into one mass of muscled humanity bending and rowing, but he stood tall with one foot resting on the gunwale as he stared directly at her. She had been spotted. He was coming for her.

Alfred had been right. He’d warned her all along to keep close to the manor while he was gone, that the Northmen were growing bolder, but she’d disregarded him as an overly protective older brother. But he’d been right, and now nothing could save her from them. Every story she’d ever heard of the horrible things they did to their captives sped through her mind in an instant. The terror was enough to paralyse her.

But she forcefully pushed her fear away and made herself move. At first in slow, wobbling steps backwards and then, after a half turn, in wider, faster strides that took her towards the grass. She had trouble tearing her gaze from that giant on the first boat. He moved, arms uncrossing from his chest, lord of all he set his eyes upon as he readied to jump from the boat.

The horrible certainty that he would catch her made her sprint faster towards the manor. It stood on a gentle slope about a half mile inland. It was too far away to reach before the boats touched the beach, but maybe she had a chance to warn everyone of the invaders. They wouldn’t see the monsters coming without her warning. Even knowing where the fortress stood, she could hardly make out a light through the heavy fog.

Her legs pumped, toes digging deep into the sandy shore as she struggled to run, her blood prickling and settling heavy in her calves. She already had a painful stitch in her side, but Merewyn forced herself to keep going. She imagined she heard the wind striking the leather of a Northman’s cloak. It spurred her to move faster and sooner than she had imagined possible she was running through the open gates of her home.

‘Close the gates! The Northmen have come!’ She barely managed to get the words out before she collapsed in a heap, struggling to catch her breath while her lungs constricted painfully in her chest.

Someone grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet as the gates swung closed.

‘How many?’ a voice called out. She had no idea who had spoken in the chaos.

‘Five ships, perhaps more.’ She shook her head in frustration. She’d been too frightened to count and unable to see them clearly. There could have been more hiding in the fog.

‘Dear God, they’ll overrun us!’

A low roar filled her ears, and she realised it was the sound of the beasts just outside the gates. Their battle cries were fierce and almost inhuman. Her knees trembled and her blood ran cold. The horde had been so close on her heels it was a miracle she’d made it within the walls before they caught her. She immediately offered up a prayer of thanks and tried to remember what Alfred had told them to do if they were attacked while he was gone.

‘Merewyn! What in God’s name have you done?’

Merewyn turned to see Alfred’s wife, Blythe, approaching. There was no denying the censure in the woman’s eyes. ‘The Danes are here—’

‘How dare you lead them to us? This is what comes of your morning walks. Didn’t Alfred forbid them?’

‘They were coming straight for the beach. They already knew where the manor was.’

The blow was so unexpected, Merewyn staggered. The imprint of Blythe’s hand burned hot on her cheek and her eyes stung with tears.

‘Get below. I’ll have to deal with this.’ Blythe was already looking past her to the gates.

‘Wh-what of the children?’

‘Alythe has them all except Annis and Geoff. They just ran to your chamber. Take them with you.’

Merewyn ran to find her brother’s youngest children. She was thankful she never allowed them to follow her to the beach in the mornings. Already she could hear the banging at the gates and the wood groaning as it struggled to withstand the assault. The hollow echo of the initial chop of an axe splitting into the gate reverberated through her and made her stomach clench with the knowledge that it was only a matter of time before the wood gave way.

* * *

Eirik used the thick hilt of his sword to bash through another door. Another empty chamber. He bit back the sour disappointment and stalked to the great hall. It, too, had been abandoned by the Saxons, but was now filling with his men. The lady of Wexbrough Manor stood glaring at him from her place in the far corner. Her guard had been disarmed and knelt, tethered, at the other end of the room. The servants and workmen had been gathered in the yard. Only young boys, women and old men—none capable of putting up much of a fight. That only left the family members, who were conspicuously absent. He knew they were hiding.

It shouldn’t matter. They weren’t here for captives. This was merely a scouting trip. The location was prime for a command post for the spring invasion and it hadn’t yet been thoroughly assessed. Eirik would send men to report to his uncle, who was wintering to the south, and then leave to spend the winter at home, a place he hadn’t seen in almost two years. Taking the girl wasn’t part of that plan, and he assured himself it wasn’t why he hoped to find her. He wanted to see her up close to understand what it was that drew him to her. To appease his curiosity.

His sharp gaze took in every shadow in the hall, searching for a glimpse of the blue gown she wore or a tendril of the dark hair that had streamed out behind her as she’d run. She would be hidden with the rest of the family, wherever that was. They didn’t have time to search. The hair on his neck stood upright, a warning that they needed to make haste and had already spent enough time at the manor. Whether the lack of an adequate guard was a reflection of its lord’s arrogance or its king’s desperation in calling all the able-bodied men to him, Eirik didn’t know. But the possibility that someone had escaped from the manor to summon nearby warriors to their aid was very real. Every instinct insisted they leave now.

The need to find her pressed tight on his chest and threatened to squeeze the air from his lungs. It was madness, sheer and utter madness. Eirik recognised it and kept a tight rein on it, refusing to give up control.

He stepped over bowls and tankards, all signs of an interrupted breakfast, and stopped when he stood before the lady. Two chests of tribute, danegeld the lady had called it, were spilled on the floor between them. ‘This is all you offer? You’ve already told me of your household’s relation to your king. Doesn’t your lord husband rank high enough to deserve more generosity from his king?’ He kicked a gilded tankard so it came to rest at her feet.

If the woman had been shocked that he spoke her language, she never revealed it. Even now, she regarded him with the contempt he assumed she reserved for the lowest slaves.

‘What more do you want from us, dog? Your hounds are already tearing apart the chapel.’ Her words were punctuated by a loud crash coming from the general direction of that building.

‘If you have nothing else to offer, we’ll take your grain.’ The tribute was no more than what she should pay. The lord of the manor had led a particularly brutal offensive against his uncle’s men to the south just months ago. It didn’t bother him at all that the loss of the grain meant she and her lord would face a particularly harsh winter. He repeated the words in his own tongue and they were greeted with sounds of disgust. Gold was exceedingly preferable to grain. Eirik smiled and raised his hand to a group of men who stood nearby awaiting his command. It was the signal to carry out his threat.

‘Nay!’ she yelled when the group moved to leave for the granary.

Almost at the same time, a shrill scream pierced the still morning air. The smile dropped from his mouth and his heart picked up speed in his chest. It was the girl. Eirik knew it without even knowing how he could be so sure. His feet were leaden, but moved faster as he followed the sound through the wide doorway that led to a pantry.

Shelves stacked with sacks of foodstuff lined the walls. Oak barrels had been stowed three deep against the wall, but a portion of them were pushed aside revealing a hidden chamber in the floor. A door that led to the underground chamber was thrown wide, leaving a yawning black hole in the earth.

His half-brother, Gunnar, had just ascended the steps inside. A figure was slung over his shoulder, struggling to be released.

‘What have you found?’ Eirik lowered his sword and took in the sight of the slender girl in the dark blue gown thrown over his brother’s shoulder. Her chestnut hair spilled down his back and her fists beat futilely against him. Possessiveness, hot and fierce, rose up within him.

‘There’s nothing down there but children and old women.’ Gunnar smiled. ‘This is the only treasure.’ His hand moved over her buttocks in a rough caress.

‘Put her down.’ The command was so harsh and forceful that even the girl stopped fighting to raise her head and look at him. Her dark eyes widened, and he watched the ivory column of her throat move as she swallowed. She recognised him. The pull he’d felt on the beach was stronger now. Eirik gritted his teeth and demanded control as he stowed his sword in the sheath strapped diagonally across his back.

‘I found her.’ Gunnar’s voice was almost a growl. ‘You have Kadlin.’ Despite his harsh words, he was gentle as he allowed her to slide slowly from his grasp to land on her feet.

‘Leave her to me, Gunnar.’

‘Ah, finally, brother...’ His brother’s gaze was fierce, but clearly amused as if he held the secret to some jest that Eirik had yet to share. But the girl wasn’t fighting now. She watched Eirik with those fathomless eyes.

Gunnar opened his mouth, no doubt to taunt him again, but was interrupted before he could even start.

‘Take her!’ The voice was clear and steady as the manor’s lady entered the pantry.

All eyes turned to her. Eirik was sure he heard a gasp come from the girl.

‘Take her instead, and leave the grain,’ the woman urged.

‘I could take both,’ Eirik countered as he wondered what the woman was about.

‘Aye, but you don’t have time for both.’ Her clever eyes seized his before she turned them on the girl. The gaze was hard and assessing as it travelled her length. ‘She’s unmarried and unmarred from childbirth. She could fetch you a price worth more than a winter’s worth of grain. Take her and go while you still can.’

Eirik didn’t have time to weigh her words. In the next instant, the girl found her legs and surprised them all by running out the back way.

His blood thundered again, pounding through him and demanding he catch her.

Chapter Two

Merewyn ran even though she knew it was futile. Even though every figure she passed was a Northman and the only way out was through the front gates. She ran because she couldn’t stand the idea of allowing them to take her. She ran to outpace the betrayal of those two words so bitterly spoken.

Take her! The words repeated themselves over and over in her head until they were meaningless. A chant. A curse. Words that she would remember for ever. But, most of all, she ran because she knew she would be taken.

She’d heard the stories of the Northmen often repeated in reverent voices by travellers around the fire in the great hall. They made slaves of their enemies and raped the women. She couldn’t bear the thought. And if they didn’t keep her after they finished, there were Eastern cities with whole markets devoted to the trade of humans where they could sell her. Merewyn couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t live as a slave.

He was coming to get her. In her mind’s eye, she saw the golden giant from the dragon ship following behind her. She knew it would be he who would give chase. Though she hadn’t understood his words, she knew that he’d laid some sort of claim to her. She had felt it on the beach. His eyes had claimed her as surely as his hands would if he caught her.

His footsteps were hard on the ground and getting closer, no matter how fast she ran. His heavy gaze bore into her, touching her with its power. It crawled up her back like fingers clawing at her gown and reached for her neck. As he drew nearer, the visceral potency of his scrutiny made her heart leap into her throat and left her knees weak. When she couldn’t take it another moment, when she was sure he would grab her, she ducked around the safety of the forge. But he was there, already rounding the opposite corner of the massive stone hearth to block her path. There would be no hiding from him.

He stood tall and wide before her, bent slightly at the knees, hands ready to grab her. He was larger than any of the men she knew; she was small and slight next to him. His eyes blazed with his intention to have her and she realised there was nothing left to do but fight him. She would long for death eventually if he took her; it was better to have it meted out to her now. She held no illusions of walking away from the fight. He would smite her out as easily as he would an insect. With that realisation, Merewyn’s heart stopped its frenzied beating and a cold certainty descended over her body, bringing with it a calmness she had never experienced.

Her decision made, Merewyn’s fingers closed around the hilt of the seax she kept in the belt at her waist and pulled it from its leather sheath. The long, thin blade would be useless against the chain mail he wore on his torso, so she’d have to aim low...or go for his throat. Just as she debated, he reached out for her, taking the choice from her by making her slash at his arm. She was rewarded with his low grunt of pain. Merewyn immediately pulled back to try again, but he recovered and lunged for her.

She swung blindly, only to have him grab her wrist and twist her arm behind her back. He yanked the knife from her before his other hand grabbed her free wrist and held it pressed to the stone hearth at her back. It happened too fast. Before she knew it, she was staring up into his face, so close that it left her breathless.

Death didn’t seem to be an immediate option. The relentless pound of her heartbeat returned to send the blood whooshing through her ears. It rushed through her so fast and hard, it urged her body to action, but she was stuck, forced to await his judgement. As his gaze raked her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was somehow appraising her worth, perhaps wondering how much she might fetch him in the slave market, or if he should just kill her now.

But then she met his eyes, and she realised it was neither of those. The look of fiery possession was unmistakable, and it seared her where it touched. It licked across her face and down her neck, a living flame, burning her up as though she was fuel for the fire. She’d never seen someone look so focused, so resolute. He meant to keep her for himself. He meant to own her...to violate her. She closed her eyes tight against the knowledge.

He didn’t move.

Inches separated his broad chest from hers, but he made no attempt to touch her further. His breath brushed her cheek, calm and steady—not erratic like hers—and she observed it smelled of winter, cool and mild. It was foreign and uninvited, but not repugnant. The hands that held her were firm, but not hard. Nothing was happening as she’d imagined it might.

Confused by his inaction, she chanced opening her eyes to see the sun had finally found an opening in the clouds and was glinting along the knit mesh on his shoulder. Her gaze followed along the corded muscle of his neck, noting absurdly that it was clean shaven. Weren’t the Norse barbarians supposed to be unkempt?

She followed the bearded curve of his strong chin to the hard, straight line of his mouth and upwards over the bizarrely graceful curve of his cheekbones. The man could have been a Viking god. The small lump at the bridge of his nose was his only flaw. She took a deep breath and found the courage to meet his eyes. The blue was vivid in its intensity. It made her stomach twist in fear, but at the same time she realised there was no rage in those eyes. She couldn’t quite identify the emotion that burned there.

He wasn’t a god, she had to remind herself. The small creases around his eyes had been put there from years of squinting into the sun, or maybe it was possible someone had made him laugh enough to create those lines. Merewyn took another long, deep breath and felt his warm breath fill her lungs. It shifted something within her. Faster than her heart went from one beat to the next, she was no longer overwhelmed by her fear. He was real. No longer just the monster sent to tear her world apart. Maybe he would listen.

‘You don’t have to take me. You can leave me here. I haven’t been trained in any skill, so I won’t be of any use to you.’ The words tumbled out before she could get a grasp on them to make them into something compelling. She tried to keep her voice steady as she reasoned with him, but it still trembled near the end. And when his gaze left her face to flick downwards over her body, she knew without a doubt the skill for which he was assessing her. Another pang of terror shot through her, but she forced herself to stay calm and focused her gaze straight ahead. It landed on his hair where she studied the contrast of a single sun-bleached strand against the dark wheat of the rest of it, still damp from the morning’s mist.

‘You would choose to stay with your family when they would give you away?’

He looked to the bruise she knew had formed along her cheekbone. His voice was low, not mocking as she might have imagined it, and the words were his first spoken solely for her ears. The rough texture of it awakened something inside her, and she had no idea what it was. Only that its sound seeped in through her skin and warmed her in the pit of her stomach, claiming some part that hadn’t been given, leaving her startled and disturbed.

She closed her eyes to force it out, but that only made Blythe’s words sound louder in her head. Take her! They hadn’t been forgotten in her fight with the Northman. They still echoed in her mind. What would it mean to stay with her family? Could she stay, knowing that she was expendable to them? Today’s blow wasn’t the first from Blythe. It wouldn’t be the last. But how could she go...willingly? How could she leave Alfred and everything she had ever known and loved? She wouldn’t. She couldn’t submit to being owned by him. Couldn’t resign herself to a fate where she was nothing. Whatever it meant to stay, it would be preferable to the uncertainty of belonging to him.

‘I would stay with my family rather than go with a Dane.’ This time, she made sure her voice was strong.

He was silent as he looked her over, his gaze touching every feature of her face, lingering on the bruise. Merewyn shifted so her hair partially covered it, hating that he could see it. His eyes settled on hers again. She would have sworn he saw deep inside her to that place he had awakened. It didn’t seem fair that he could see so much of her when his face was stoic and closed.

‘If you stay, you will be given away again. To a Dane, to a Saxon. You won’t know until it’s happened.’ He sounded so certain. She hated him for that above all other things.

The words created a fissure in the, until now, pristine tapestry of her mind. Madness lazed in that tiny abyss. She resisted the pull in that direction and tried to shut out his words, to convince herself that he was lying, but there was a profound and underlying truth to them that she couldn’t deny. If someone had told her yesterday that Blythe would utter those hated words, she wouldn’t have believed it. But they had been said. Was it a stretch of the imagination to think she might offer her again?

Nay! Alfred wouldn’t allow it.

But Alfred wasn’t here, came the answer in her mind. She jerked her wrists to try to break free and when that didn’t work she kicked him in his booted shin. It was a fruitless attempt, but she struck out at him as much to deny his words as to get away from him.

His grip tightened and he twisted her around so that her crossed wrists were held tight against her belly and his arms held her within their prison. His chest pressed solidly against her back, holding her front pinned to the forge. The rough stones pressed into her cheek. It was useless to struggle; he completely engulfed her with his size.

‘Deny what you will, but you know I speak the truth.’ The words were harsh against her ear, rustling the hair at her temple. ‘I won’t harm you. That’s something you can’t trust from your family.’

Merewyn bit her lip to stifle the sob that begged to come out. He wasn’t right, damn him! He wasn’t. One last futile push back against him caused him to squeeze her tight and made his hips push her forward so she was flush against the stones, held immobile by his body. Her mind rushed to find a way out of it, to figure out some way to make him leave so her life could go back to the way it was before her walk on the beach that morning. But it wouldn’t be the same, even if he left her. Those horrible words would always be there, eating her alive.

Blythe hated her. It would happen again. Merewyn knew that he would take her with or without her cooperation. If she could somehow buy some time, maybe she could figure out a way to get away from him before anything horrible happened. But even as she contemplated the possibility, she recognised that there was a strange sense of security in the prison of his arms. He was so stoic and candid that she couldn’t help but believe his promise of safety.

‘Do you vow it? Can you promise I won’t be harmed?’ Even if he was a barbarian, she wanted to hear him say it.

* * *

Eirik could feel her heart fluttering beneath her ribs like the wings of a small bird locked in a cage. It beat beneath the wrist he held over her chest, and he would have sworn he felt it through the chain mail that covered his own. She was so small and fragile pressed against him. He could feel the delicacy of her bones beneath her flesh, and the softness of her body evoked indescribable visions of comfort and a need to protect her.

He’d known the rush of fear and anticipation when facing down an enemy. He’d known the triumph of vanquishing that enemy. But he’d never known anything like what he was feeling now. The triumph was there. It rushed through him, a roaring in his ears. But the fear was there, too. It wasn’t anything like the fear of a battleaxe splitting open his skull. It wasn’t like the fear of ordering a command that would result in the death of the men he led. It was the unknown fear of what she would do to him and why he wanted to have her. He wanted her in ways he couldn’t even begin to comprehend, ways that went beyond the physical comfort she could offer him.

He’d been shocked and furious when he discovered her face marred by the bruise. His first thought was that Gunnar had put it there when he’d retrieved her in the cellar, but it was already a purple stain marring the ivory of her skin. Too dark to have been placed there moments ago. And although Gunnar was fierce in battle, he’d never known his brother to physically harm a woman. The lady at the manor had done it. There was no doubt in his mind. There was no denying the fierce need he felt to protect her from her own family.

Eirik’s hands reflexively gripped the fabric of her gown as they sought the heat emanating from beneath, before he pushed away from her. He fought for the control that had been struggling to slip from his grasp the moment his gaze had found her on the beach. The need to touch her, to possess her, to make her know that she belonged to him, was strong. But it was enough now that she was his. There would be time later. Now he needed to focus on getting the men back on the boats before more Saxons arrived. They sailed for home today. Once there, he would decide the future of his pretty slave.

‘You won’t be harmed in my care. From this day forward, you are mine.’

Chapter Three

Merewyn tried to make her mind cooperate and think of some way out of her captivity. It wouldn’t accept what had happened, even though she sat in the back of the boat, her gown sodden with seawater and her hands bound before her. There was nothing she could do short of throwing herself over the side. Froth formed as the oars churned the blue-grey water, each stroke taking her farther into the unknown, but a watery grave held no appeal. So she gave up looking at the water and sat with her knees drawn up to her chest and her face buried against her bound and shaking hands. Anything to stop herself from looking at him.

She hated her growing fascination with the man who had taken her, and had been stunned when she realised she’d done nothing but watch him from the time he put her in the boat. He was the clear leader of these men; even the men in the other boats seemed to obey him. He stalked gracefully up and down the centre aisle between them as they rowed, shouting commands, heedless of the treacherous sway of the boat as it rode the waves. Power clung to him like the crimson cloak that flapped in the breeze with his every turn. Even with her eyes closed tight, she saw him. She could still feel the press of his chest at her back.

The crew gave a shout and she opened her eyes to the dark red sail rising above them. The sail flapped in the breeze until it was fully extended and caught the wind, causing the ship to lurch as if an invisible string had been picked up and was pulling them along. They were out on the open sea now; the land had long faded to a tiny blight on the horizon. The old string, the one that connected her to home, had been broken.

Merewyn turned and took one last look towards the land, but it was impossible to make out. She was lost. For the first time in her life she was set adrift on her own, moving away from everything she had known and the people who cared for her. Blythe had refused to look at her when the Northman had brought her back inside. The others had followed her lead and turned their eyes away, but in sadness and shame more than disdain. It was as if she had already been cut from their lives.

She hadn’t even been able to say goodbye to Sempa, her old nursemaid, who had been out in the forest. If only Alfred hadn’t been called away. He would have protected her. But she couldn’t stop herself from wondering if he would be angry with his wife or if he would agree with her actions. Yesterday she would have thought he’d feel sorrow, but now that her world had been turned on its head, she didn’t know what to think. He had seen the bruises left from Blythe’s blows before and done nothing.

For the thousandth time she wondered what could have made the woman so quick to give her away. Had the loss of grain really meant starvation? Nay, it would be more than the grain. A sick thought, one that she had tried to banish, bloomed inside her and began to twist its bitter roots through her heart. Alythe was approaching the age of betrothal. Getting rid of Merewyn would eliminate competition, would make it that much easier to ensure she had the pick of bridegrooms and a sizeable dowry. Just before he’d left, Alfred had promised to see Merewyn married in the New Year. Had Blythe been so desperate to secure her daughter’s future? Had she been such an impediment to that plan?

A bitter laugh threatened to escape, but it brought about tears that she forced herself to blink back. Despite Alfred’s intention, Merewyn didn’t care about finding a match that would see her in the king’s company. She didn’t want that life. She wanted the quiet life of running a manor; she wanted the care of an attentive husband and the time to devote to her family. Blythe would have known that if she hadn’t spent her days thinking up ways to make life miserable for her.

A shrill whistle drew her attention across the water until it fell on the red-haired Northman who had carried her from the cellar. He was hard to miss standing near the prow of his ship, with his hair glistening in the sun. He was staring at her with a furrowed brow and sharp eyes. Though he was at least the width of five ships away with no hope of immediately reaching her, those eyes still had the power to ignite a chill within her. She remembered how he’d looked at her when he’d pulled her out of the cellar.

She jerked her face away before anyone could see the tear that had slipped down her cheek. She refused to cry before these heathens, no matter how much they frightened her. Her gaze landed directly on the giant who had taken her, the one the men called Eirik. The chain mail he’d worn was gone now, but his size hadn’t diminished for the lack of it. His was a brawny strength, not the sinewy slimness she was used to in the men of her acquaintance.

Eirik’s eyes narrowed, and he glared at her as he made his way down the narrow aisle between the men on his way to her. Her heart threatened to thrum out of her chest, and with the fear came anger. What had she done to deserve such a look? Why had she gone with him so easily?

* * *

Eirik dropped into a squat in front of the girl. Her eyes were seething with anger as she watched him, but her cheeks were pale from fear. He was glad to see it. That terror would do her well on their journey. It would make her less likely to fight or do something equally stupid. He’d learned from his years of fighting that fear was the finest binding, far more effective than hemp or sealskin. It kept men in their place and he assumed it would work on women. The girl needed to hang on to a healthy dose of it in order to stay safe on the crossing.

‘What is your name, girl?’ He slipped into her native Northumbrian tongue.

She spat in his face instead of answering.

It was an admirable and unexpected gesture. A corner of his mouth twitched up in what might have become a smile of appreciation had he not been so irritated at her exchange with Gunnar. His brother had been a rival since birth, and he knew the whole ship speculated that a fight between them was imminent. But it would happen after their father’s death, when the next jarl would be decided. Eirik refused to allow it to happen over something as paltry as a woman, and a slave at that.

He let her stew while he wiped the spittle away with the back of his hand. She chewed her bottom lip, possibly regretting her impulsive response. The girl should be reprimanded for her disrespect, but Eirik knew it for the distress it was. There would be time for punishment if she didn’t come to heel on her own. ‘Without a name, I’ll have to call you slave.’

‘You could return me and we wouldn’t have to bother with social niceties.’

He had to swallow back the urge to smile again. Amazing, given that just moments ago he’d been ready to toss her back to shore with the strength of his anger. If only Gunnar didn’t want her, too. She was too pretty. She had the delicate face of a woman who had been taken care of. Her skin wasn’t creased or roughened from working in the sun or the dry, winter wind. Her brow was finely formed above eyes as wide and dark as chestnuts. Ivory skin was smooth over defined cheekbones and a narrow chin. But it was her lips that ultimately held his gaze. Whether they were red from the cold or if it was their natural colour, he didn’t know. But they were lush and soft and he had the peculiar urge to know their taste.

He took a deep breath and forced his mind away from such thoughts. His instincts had won on land, but on the sea, he had to maintain control. He grabbed her bound wrists harsher than he intended, but she only winced without muttering a sound.

‘My brother is the lord of that manor. He’ll pay you for me if you take me back now.’

He’d guessed that she was of noble blood, given her hiding spot with the family and the clothes she wore. The dark blue gown was of a fine-spun wool no peasant could afford, and he guessed the amber piping along the hem of the sleeve and shoulder to be silken velvet. It was no surprise her brother was lord.

‘And what would he buy you back with, slave? I’ve taken everything.’ Eirik didn’t even bother to point out that if the man’s own wife had given her away, he’d be unlikely to bargain for her.

He didn’t have to. The doubt was written clearly on her face. Just before she looked away, Eirik got a glimpse into those deep eyes and saw just how hurt and alone she felt. The knowledge twisted something deep inside him and made him angry in a way he couldn’t grasp. He cursed it as he withdrew his knife from the sheath at his boot. She gasped then and tried to pull away, but his fingers tightened and held her immobile.

‘The sea is there.’ He pointed with the knife. ‘And Gunnar is there.’ Her wide eyes darted in his brother’s direction before settling again on Eirik. ‘If the water or a sea monster doesn’t claim you first, he will.’ He paused, allowing the significance of those words to sink in before continuing, ‘If you attempt to harm one of the men, you’ll be at their mercy. Do you understand? There is no escape.’

‘Aye.’ The word came out harsh between her clenched teeth. Eirik welcomed the fire that had returned to burn fierce in her eyes. Her anger, he could understand.

When her hands relaxed, he set the knife to the hemp binding and began to saw through it. His pace was fast and efficient, because already her close proximity was beginning to weaken him. The air was being squeezed from his chest, causing his breaths to become more frequent, and his limbs felt wrong. Heavy near the ends and alive with sensation. She unbalanced him—a dangerous state for a warrior—and it made him angry that someone so insignificant could hold so much power over him.

He was Eirik, son of the jarl Hegard. He had amassed a fortune raiding and trading while leading his men to victories in the lands south of the North Sea. He would one day be called jarl in place of his father. When the day came that he, too, went to take his place in Asgard, the skalds would write verses of his heroic deeds.

Who was this girl? She was no one. She’d probably never been more than two leagues from her home and knew only the coarse words of her own Northumbrian tongue. She had no right to have any effect on him.

When the bindings fell away, he threw them into the water and meant to leave her there in the stern of the boat. He would have, except that when he moved to rise, the red welts the rope had left on her wrists caught his attention. And when he looked at her face, he noted the ivory skin and knew from experience that it wouldn’t stay that way with the sun and wind beating down on it.

He left her to return to his chest at the bow of the boat. Some of his men watched him, but he ignored them and their speculative looks as he dug through the chest for the ointment. He refused to ponder why he cared so much about her welfare. Leather pouch in hand, he returned to once again kneel before her. She regarded him suspiciously as he untied the opening and dipped his fingers inside. The moment he withdrew his hand with his two fingers piled high with the oily, fishy-smelling goo, she pulled back in disgust.

‘Ugh! What is that?’

Eirik ignored her and grabbed her hand in his. He couldn’t help but notice how soft her skin was compared to his callused palm. He wanted to stroke it, to luxuriate in the satin texture, but he forced the thought out of his mind and rubbed the ointment on the scrapes, first one wrist and then the other. When he grabbed her chin to repeat the process on her face, she wasn’t so docile. Her arms came up to knock him aside and even managed to loosen his grip. She grabbed his forearm and would have forcibly pushed him away, except that he lurched forward and wrapped his hand in her hair to pull her across his lap.

The brief skirmish ended to the cheers of the men nearest them when his arm closed around her, holding her chest tight to his. Eirik’s breath came harsh and fast as he looked into the dark depths of her eyes. He tried to tell himself that it was from the fight, but he was a seasoned warrior who didn’t wind easily. Besides, a tightness had begun in his groin. It was her. The darkness in him that had been appeased by her capture was awake again, bringing with it a desire that he despised.

‘Take me back,’ she whispered, her eyes wide and pleading. She must have felt the tension within him, because she sat stone still atop him.

‘You are mine!’ The words ripped from him with such vehemence, she startled. ‘Even if your lord brother sent two boats laden with gold, I would not sell you back.’

The words shocked her into silence. She didn’t protest when he rubbed a coat of the ointment over her face, just stared at him with those too-big eyes that made him want to reassure her. To stop the things she was making him feel, Eirik needed to get away from her. He moved to his feet so fast that he dumped her none too gently on the deck and didn’t bother to look back as he made his way to the bow of the boat. The girl was dangerous to him. He vowed to stay away from her lest she weaken him.

Chapter Four

There came a time, over the next several days, when Merewyn would have welcomed death as the only escape from the constant rocking of the boat. It made her stomach roil in protest. Even the thoughts in her head seemed to rock and shift with the movement of the vessel. They floated from anger to fear to despair and back again as if a wave had pitched them around. The men on the boat didn’t seemed to notice that constant moving and walked around as if on land. She’d glared at them at first, but soon her physical discomfort had turned her thoughts inwards so that she barely noticed them.

And they barely noticed her, a small favour for which she was eternally grateful, since she spent a good portion of the first couple of days retching over the side of the boat. But after she became too weak to move, it happened where she lay. By then her retching was dry heaves and the water forced on her; it mixed nicely with the seawater that constantly sloshed around the bottom of the boat, soaking her gown and freezing her to the bone. It felt as though she would never be dry again, and was caked in a layer of salt and grime that she feared would be fused to her skin for ever.

She didn’t even know how long she’d been on the cursed boat, only that the light became dark in a nauseating cycle she couldn’t keep up with. Every morning when the sun broke over the side of the boat to touch her face, the boy named Vidar, who’d been told to watch over her, offered her smoked fish. It tasted awful. The boy couldn’t be but a few years younger than her, probably the same age as Godfrey, Alfred’s eldest son. But he seemed much older, leaving her to wonder if these people only produced giants.

He was the one to supply her with water, but after she refused Eirik had been summoned. He appeared every time her thoughts turned to death and despair to stand over her with that ever-present look of disappointment. Apparently, she wasn’t as well behaved as a good captive should be. Perhaps she wasn’t supposed to be sickened by the constant motion. He never reprimanded her, though, only spoke to her in quick commands to eat or drink, but she could never get much of the smoked fish down. Not even after the nausea had subsided.

* * *

By the time land was sighted, Merewyn could barely rouse the interest to lift her head at the sound of the cheer that went up in the boat. But as the longship drew ever closer to the shoreline, her stomach crept further into her throat until she could barely swallow and the trembling in her limbs returned. What demands would be made of her in this new place? Was this their destination or simply another stop on the journey?

Before she realised that she had moved, she clutched the gunwale with a white-knuckled grip and searched the approaching shore for some clue as to her fate. She saw a long stretch of a sandy beach with slight green hills in the background; as they drew closer, she discerned the outline of what appeared to be a village. Numerous buildings were clustered together, most of them squatty and slight, but a few were a more substantial, rectangular shape. Farther past the village dark spots that she assumed were animals grazing littered a slight rise in the ground.

She hoped the perfectly tranquil setting didn’t house something darker, such as a market that dealt in human flesh. She had always imagined those cities to be bigger, not villages with shepherds tending sheep and mothers tending hearths.

‘This is home.’ Eirik’s deep voice was so near her ear, it made her jump.

She turned her head slightly to see him leaning close to her as he looked out at the shore. Her gaze traced the strong line of his jaw. The weight of his body was warm behind her, though he didn’t touch her. His face wasn’t cold and disapproving now as he watched the village get closer. Nay, his blue eyes had definitely taken on a glow of excitement, and for the first time she found herself wondering about his life. Who was he to this village and what did these people mean to him?

He looked down at her, his gaze raking her face before settling on her own. ‘This is your new life. You’d do well to forget the old one.’

‘You mean forget the life where I was free, to accept being your slave?’ Her eyes flashed her anger, even as the words rang false to her ears. She’d gone to the beach in search of her elusive freedom, but had only managed to find a slavery that was more absolute than the drudgery she’d faced at home.

His strong jaw clenched, and the blue in his eyes burned with fire. ‘Acceptance will make your life here better. Aye, accept that you are no longer the sister of a Saxon lord. You are mine to command now.’ With those harsh words, he grabbed her shoulder and turned her to face him. Before she realised what he meant to do, he coiled a rope tight around her wrists and bound them together.

‘You may command me, but I will never be yours.’

He glanced at her face and didn’t reply. But the glance lingered and his thumb traced over the bruise she knew must be fading. There was no pain from the touch, just a strange trembling within her that made her jerk her face away. His hand dropped back to her wrists.

Merewyn looked at his fingers as he worked, noting that he made sure the bindings stayed on the outside of her sleeves. His nails were clean and trimmed, and she wondered how he had stayed so groomed while she was a mess. But then her thoughts moved to what was ahead. Despite the horror of being taken captive and the gruelling seasickness that had claimed her, there had been a strange reassurance to the routine of the boat. Eirik had stayed true to his word and hadn’t harmed her. She was surprised to realise that she’d even come to rely on his strong presence as a sort of security to the unknown. Now that could change.

What demands would be placed on her in this new environment, his home? The look he’d given her when he’d held her against the stone was still a vivid memory. Then there was the way he’d just touched her. It meant things she didn’t even want to think of, but an image from a morning she’d gone into the stable to visit a newborn baby lamb came to mind. She’d thought the place deserted. Everyone should have been in the fields. But there had been a sound.

At first she’d mistaken it for an animal, but as she’d approached the stall, she’d recognised it as human. It had been a moan followed by a series of groans that had heated her cheeks even when she’d been unsure of the source. Then she’d found them. A couple in a carnal embrace. White buttocks, luminous in the darkened space, worked between thighs equally as pale against the straw. Merewyn had watched for two heartbeats longer than was necessary to know what was happening. And she’d left with a strange feeling twisting deep in her belly and had promptly buried the memory.

But it had never really left her and came out to haunt her at odd times, such as nights when she couldn’t sleep or when she’d catch one of Alfred’s men looking at her with an odd expression. His men were universally disgusting creatures with bad manners and coarse habits. The idea of them having such thoughts about her had filled her with revulsion.

The memory of that day came out from hiding now as the Northman attended her. She knew his thoughts were similar to those of Alfred’s men, but she wasn’t filled with revulsion. But, fear? Aye, the fear was there.

‘Why did you take me?’ The white of those buttocks flashed in her mind. She couldn’t banish them. Was that what he meant to do to her? His eyes had claimed her against that stone forge, even if his body hadn’t had the opportunity. He’d wanted to. She’d felt the hard proof of his manhood as he’d pressed her hips against the stones.

Eirik’s gaze touched hers briefly, giving nothing away, before he turned to see to their arrival. The fissure he’d opened widened and she slid ever closer to that abyss in her mind.

* * *

Eirik had been fighting for so long that he had almost forgotten what it was to stand on friendly shores, to not expect an arrow or the thrust of a sword to come his way. The air was heavy with salt and exhilaration as they pulled their boats ashore to be greeted by the villagers. They’d been spotted as soon as their boats had become visible on the horizon. By the time they reached shore, everyone in the village knew they had returned and stood on the beach to welcome them. It didn’t matter that most of the men were from farther inland, from farms and villages farther along the river. A fleet of warriors returned home was cause for celebration. The high spirits always made the men willing to part with small tokens of their treasure to a pretty girl or an eager child.

The boats were unloaded amidst the curious villagers with the bulk of the treasure locked and guarded until it could be divided later. Then the boats were taken around to the river, where they would stay harboured for the winter.

Eirik approached his homeland with the excitement of a man who had been gone for too long. As much as he had anticipated his trip abroad, his first as leader of a fleet, he realised it had been nothing compared to his eagerness to return home. His flesh fairly tingled with it, something he hadn’t experienced since he’d been a young boy awaiting his father’s return.

He searched for Kadlin among the well-wishers, but wasn’t surprised when he didn’t see her. She’d likely be at her home, not staying with his father to await his return. An image of her as he’d last seen her passed through his mind. A goddess come to life with grace and beauty no mere mortal could hope to attain. She’d been a pretty child, but as a woman she was breathtaking. With hair that rivalled the silver moonlight in its radiance and eyes that shone the palest blue, he’d yet to see a woman more beautiful or good.

Why, then, did the face of another intrude on his thoughts? The slave’s defiant eyes replaced those of Kadlin’s to taunt him. His gaze followed the way of his thoughts until he found the girl standing near his younger brother, Vidar. The boy stood with his hand on her wrists.

There was a prettiness about her, in the curve of her cheekbones, the delicacy of her frame. But she was pale and slight while Kadlin was radiant, striking in her colouring and height. Still, there was something that called to him, that had drawn him to her from that moment on the beach. His gaze raked her, moving to where her gown clung to the curves of her breasts and waist, weighed down by the water that drenched the skirt. She stirred the darkness to life within him. He felt it deep in his gut, and it channelled the excitement already coursing through him to his groin.

He wanted to see her without the dress. To know what colour tipped her breasts. Would her nipples be light pink or coral like her lips? He wanted to lay her in his bed and stroke the pale flesh of her thighs before he pushed them apart to reveal her centre. He wanted to see every part of her. The awareness compelled him to look away, angry that she wielded that despised power over him.

He forced a few deep breaths before looking back at her. The colour had yet to return to her face, and she seemed more fragile than when they’d set out from Northumbria. Both were indications of the weight she’d lost on the crossing. He’d have to be more careful with her.

The girl didn’t belong here. She wasn’t as hale as the women here. It was plain to see that she was different from them. Eirik cursed the demon that had made him crave her as he stalked towards her.

‘Come.’ He walked past her with every intention that she follow, but the girl didn’t move.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked when he looked back at her.

The fire that had intrigued him before was flashing in the depths of her eyes. Eirik wanted to admire the courage the question had taken. He believed in facing whatever the gods meted out as the girl was doing and might have taken the time to appreciate her pluck under other circumstances. But he was too aggravated by the untenable lust she roused within him. Instead, he barely suppressed a growl of outrage as he nodded to Vidar and turned to lead the way home.

‘I demand to know what will happen to me now. I have the right to know my fate.’ Merewyn stood firm, refusing the boy’s tug on her arm.

Eirik clenched his jaw and immediately turned back to her. He didn’t stop until he stood just before her, causing her to take two steps back to look up at him. A flash of fear briefly tamped down the fire that burned in her eyes, but it flared back up again.

‘You have no rights here. You’re a slave.’

‘I didn’t mean—’ She cut herself short and glanced away. ‘I know my station here, I just don’t know— Why won’t you tell me what it means?’

Her eyes swung back to meet his, and he was struck by the same uncertainty and loneliness he had glimpsed on the boat. It tugged at something buried deep inside him that he didn’t want to explore. Nor did he want to admit that he had no idea what her presence at his home meant or why he’d accepted her.

‘You’ll learn your place here soon enough.’

Before she could reply, he leaned down and picked her up, slipping her easily over his shoulder. She weighed almost nothing. The girl would be lucky to last the winter here. The thought didn’t help his quickly declining mood. Eirik ignored the taunts and jests directed at them from some of the men, but was happy the girl noticed and ceased her struggling.

He kept her aloft until they reached the outside cooking fires and then wasted no time in dropping her to her feet. Hilla looked up from turning the newly spitted lamb and smiled when she saw them. His father’s most trusted slave rarely smiled, and the fact that she did now was proof of her devotion. She’d spent his boyhood chasing him from every bit of mischief he’d managed to find in her domain.

‘Welcome home, my lord.’ Her gaze slipped to Merewyn, who was doing her best to look dignified after her unceremonious arrival.

Eirik had never brought a female captive home before, so he assumed he’d have to get used to the looks. ‘Thank you, Hilla.’

‘I see your trip was a success. It’s good to see you well.’

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Feed her and get her presentable for tonight. And make sure she gets meat with her gruel. She lost weight on the crossing.’

‘Looks as though she fair near withered away.’ Hilla tut-tutted.

‘Watch for Gunnar. He feels he has a claim to her, but she’s not to be touched.’

‘Aye, that one will not be a problem.’ She nodded to the long cane that was always present near her. It was almost as thick as a branch with a gnarled end.

Eirik smiled at the sight. He and Gunnar had felt the blow of that knot more than once. They’d had a lot of good times in their childhood. Standing toe to toe, they were of the same height and breadth. The only real physical difference between them was their colouring. Eirik was golden where Gunnar was blazing red. They had even been born mere months apart, with Eirik born to their father’s wife while Gunnar had been born to the wife’s sister.

It was almost as if they’d been destined to be rivals.

He turned his attention back to the girl and again noted her unnaturally pale skin. It was the fear. While it was a good thing, it could sap the life right out of people if it went too far. He’d seen it happen and found himself hoping it didn’t happen to her. It gentled his voice when he spoke. ‘Stay with Hilla. She’ll get you food and clothing.’

Chapter Five

Merewyn shook from a bone-deep chill that threatened to freeze her solid. She feared that if it did, she’d break into thousands of pieces with no one the wiser, to be swept up and discarded into the fire. That fire taunted her. She stood at the edge of the circle of light cast by the flames and watched them dancing, calling her. She wanted the warmth it offered; every fibre of her being craved it. But she stood immobile. The past days had seen her constantly damp and chilled—there was a comfort in the knowledge that she’d become accustomed to it. What would happen if she got warm only to have it taken away again? Could she become accustomed to the cold again?

‘Merewyn?’ The voice was Hilla’s. ‘Come to the fire and warm yourself, girl. I’ll not have you catching your death.’

Merewyn nodded and pushed aside her reticence to walk to the cooking fire. Hilla was bustling between the small shelter that adjoined the fire pit, where it seemed most of the cooking preparations were done, and the large longhouse. Men had been filing into it all day. The woman disappeared again towards the house before Merewyn even got to the fire.

Despite her activity, Hilla had managed to find time to see that Merewyn was bathed and dressed. Merewyn had been heartened to find that the woman spoke her language and seemed pleasant enough, even asking her name and how she’d faired on the voyage. It had been a surprise to have someone actually looking after her. But the woman had taken her into her fold as if a new captive being brought home was a regular occurrence. Maybe it was.

It almost made Merewyn laugh with a madness she was close to giving in to when she thought of how things had changed for her. It made her shiver anew to remember how Hilla and another girl had taken her behind the longhouse and poured buckets of frigid river water over her and scrubbed her hair while another had held up a blanket to shield her. Yet here she was thankful for even that much. The bath had been so cold she’d forgotten to be modest and hadn’t even noticed if anyone else had been around to see her. It was worlds away from the warm water that a servant would bring to the chamber she shared with the children and the scented soap she adored. She brought her wrist to her nose, but only smelled the river on her skin.

Merewyn put her hands to the flame and welcomed the heat that thawed her frigid fingers. Even their grandest celebration back home had never called for a fire this large. It was a pit roughly two people in length and a person wide. Big enough for several spits and an area for roasting vegetables. Big enough to walk into and never come out of again.

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she looked around in guilt, hoping no one had guessed what she was thinking. No one was paying attention to her, though, as they bustled around. She opened her palms wide and caught the tail end of an orange flame as it shot high, propelled by a crackle of grease. But it was too hot for her, and she gasped as she brought her hand back to cradle it against her breasts.

‘Not too close,’ Hilla admonished her as she came back to tend to a spit.

Not yet, Merewyn agreed silently, and checked for damage to her hand. It was fine; no blisters would form. But eventually, if living there became so horrible that she had to, she would leave this place one way or another.

It wasn’t that horrible yet. She latched on to the one bright spot in her new life. ‘How is it you come to speak my language, Hilla?’

The woman grunted, but didn’t seem inclined to answer as she pressed a wooden bowl filled with a watery gruel into Merewyn’s hands.

‘Were you taken like me?’

‘It was long ago. I speak the Dane’s tongue now. As will you, soon enough,’ Hilla said.

‘But what happened? How long have you been here?’

‘I won’t speak of that time.’

Merewyn frowned. ‘Did you teach Eirik to speak our language?’

‘Aye. Gunnar, too,’ she clarified. ‘It was required of me when they were younger.’

An involuntary shiver ran through her as she thought of the red-haired one. He’d grinned at her and told her she’d be going home with him in her language just before he’d taken her over his shoulder. Merewyn pushed the thought aside and found her gaze focused on the necklace at Hilla’s neck. Though she knew it wasn’t a necklace before she even asked. It was a slave’s collar.

‘So you’re a slave, then, too?’

Hilla’s hand automatically came up to touch the wooden chip at her neck. Her thick fingertip traced the rune carved into it. ‘Aye. I expect you’ll be getting one of these soon.’

Merewyn looked to a few of the other women who scurried about the outdoor kitchen and noted they all had the collars, but couldn’t see well enough in the firelight to determine if the same sign was inscribed on them all. Slavery wasn’t a foreign concept to her. There were slaves at home, usually prisoners and captured enemies, who helped work the land, but only servants worked in their home. She’d never seen so many slaves working in such close proximity to free men. ‘Do you all belong to Eirik?’

‘None of us belong to him. We’re household slaves of the jarl.’

‘Does Eirik own any other slaves?’ The thought had only just occurred to her that she might be the only one. What if she wasn’t? Merewyn wasn’t sure which she hoped for.

‘You’re the only one. He’s had no need of a...personal slave. Before you.’

Before she could ask what that meant, Hilla walked away towards the house again. Merewyn gently lifted the spoon in the bowl to examine its contents before taking a small taste. It was a grain porridge, but instead of milk and honey, it was flavoured with water and bits of fish and seaweed. It was horrible. But her stomach was growling, so she finished it all.

As she ate, she couldn’t help but think of Hilla’s words and the days ahead. Eirik had promised not to hurt her, but would he keep that promise now? What was a promise to a slave? Why had he been so intent to have her if he didn’t intend to harm her? Would he force himself on her? Maybe he wouldn’t think of that as harming her. The questions were endless and they wouldn’t stop. But Hilla’s next words did interrupt them.

‘It’s time to go inside now. My Lord Eirik calls for you.’

* * *

The now-familiar knot of terror returned to coil tight inside her. Merewyn stood looking at the closed door before her, knowing that Eirik, her master now, awaited her somewhere in the house. She shuddered to think of the night ahead. Would she still be chaste after this night? What new level of horror would she know? Images of what might happen poured through her mind, but she refused to give in to the panic that beckoned. It wasn’t happening yet. Besides, he had vowed that no harm would come to her. Maybe he was an honourable heathen who followed his word. Maybe Mother Mary would see fit to intervene and grant her one miracle.

Merewyn clenched her fists at her sides and held her head high. Alfred had taught her the importance of bearing, so much so that she’d felt her eyes cross with boredom when he started one of those lectures. She’d hated those lectures. Hated how he would sit her down and drone on and on for hours about the importance of living up to her station in life. Now she hated that instead of listening, she had stared daggers at him until he’d sighed and dismissed her with a shake of his head. Then she’d go back to whatever she’d been doing. Usually dancing with Sempa in the forest as they collected herbs or swimming in the stream. Tears unexpectedly prickled her eyes, but she held them at bay. What she wouldn’t give to hear him lecture her now about her morning walk on the beach, to hug him tight and beg his forgiveness for not listening.

For once, she vowed, his lectures would serve her well. With no other choice available to her, she squared her shoulders, determined to meet her fate in a manner that befitted her noble birth and would make her brother proud. She gathered her grace around her like a shield and followed Hilla inside.

Men, boisterous and loud, were packed shoulder to shoulder in the hall. They sat at benches lining the walls and tables that filled the middle of the floor near the hearth. She might have stared at them, wondering at their strange words and rowdy manner, if she hadn’t caught sight of the raised dais on the right side of the room. An older man who she assumed to be the jarl sat at the middle of the table with Gunnar seated on his far side. She started in surprise when she saw him. She’d not realised he was so important, and the realisation of how potentially little stood between her and his mercy made her knees weak.

Neither of them noticed her. They sat watching a burly man who had taken a stand on one of the benches and seemed to be regaling the group in his immediate vicinity with a tale, judging from the dramatic sound of his voice and his arm gestures. But Eirik watched her from his place beside the jarl.

He was dressed in a midnight brocade tunic that stretched taut across the breadth of his shoulders, accented with gold piping and a small keyhole opening at the neckline. A dark gemstone button winked in the light, but she couldn’t tell what it was. His trousers were tucked into calf boots, but she could see that even they were made of a finer material than most of the other men’s clothing. He wore a gold band around each of his arms. His crimson cloak, trimmed in soft grey fur, was affixed to his tunic with two gold filigree brooches at the shoulders.

He was magnificent. For the first time since entering the house, her gaze dropped to the floor. Somehow it had been easier to maintain her dignity when she’d imagined him the barbarian she had painted in her mind; not the nobleman who sat across from her. The nobleman who held her life in his power. Merewyn resisted the urge to scratch at the coarse wool of the apron dress that had replaced her own fine clothing. The knot twisted tighter in her belly.

What did her own nobility matter here where she was a slave?

‘Come.’ Hilla grabbed her arm and led her around to the back of the dais. Some of the men noticed them now and made room for them to pass. Every one of them watched her with their speculative eyes, while some leered and openly appraised her. She knew they were imagining her without clothing, imagining Eirik taking his pleasure and offering her up to them.

The thought was so unbearable, she might have stalled, but Hilla’s strong hand helped her up the wooden steps and guided her to Eirik. He nodded to the woman, who motioned for Merewyn to sit. Merewyn did exactly as she was told and sank to her knees behind his seat, instinctively wanting to hide herself from the stares coming her way.

He waited until Hilla left before turning to look at her. She forced herself to meet his fierce gaze without wavering. The look of disappointment she’d noted earlier was still present. What did he expect from her?

‘Eat.’ He shoved a wooden bowl filled with pieces of roasted meat into her hands.

Merewyn knew she should have been hungry after the gruelling crossing and the single bowl of porridge Hilla had given her, but food was not appealing. It would have smelled delicious had her stomach not been in knots.

‘I can’t—’

‘Do you intend to thwart my wishes at every step?’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘Nay, my lord, I’m just not feeling well. Perhaps if you tell me your plans for me.’

Eirik’s gaze narrowed as he watched her, making her heart flutter wildly. ‘Eat, girl. I won’t ask again.’

She felt it in her best interest to refrain from pointing out that he had never asked her to begin with. But she had intended to argue about not being hungry when he rose, and her protest stilled on her lips. It was replaced with a gasp when his hand touched her shoulder.

‘Courage.’ His gaze met hers briefly, and then he turned to address the room.

He held up his arm in a gesture for quiet until the entire hall watched what was about to unfold. The bowl of food sat forgotten in her hands. Her attention settled on the breadth of Eirik’s shoulders.

His voice carried around the room, and something about its deep, even cadence soothed her the slightest bit. It seemed as if he was telling a story because they all looked on with fascination and his speech continued uninterrupted. As she watched him, she realised that, here amongst his own kind, he was hardly a giant. Though one of the tallest, she had seen a few others that topped him. Even Alfred was only slightly shorter. It was Eirik’s solid strength coupled with his height that had made him seem so big. The men she knew from home were not as broad in the chest and shoulders.

The jarl had turned in his seat to watch his son, but stood now as Eirik finished his speech. When the older man spoke she took the opportunity to observe him. His colouring was similar to Eirik’s and he had the same strong jaw, but the face was subtly different. The nose was the same, except for the break, but the jarl’s lips were thin and firm while his eyes were amber, like Gunnar’s. It struck her then that the three of them were related, leading her to wonder if the jarl was Gunnar’s father, as well. He must be, given that Hilla had taught him along with Eirik. She should have asked Hilla more about them.

The older man stopped speaking and turned his head to look towards the door from which she had just entered. Merewyn looked to see men bringing in three chests, which were set on the floor before the dais. Eirik gave the word and they were opened simultaneously. Her mouth dropped open at the riches they contained. One held coloured silks and brocades; the second glimmered with various metals in coins and chains; while the third held packages wrapped in leather and linen. She couldn’t be sure what they held, but the aroma told her spices.

Though she couldn’t understand the conversation, Merewyn knew these were all treasures Eirik had brought back from his trip. He’d probably stolen them all just as he’d stolen her. The jarl moved to leave the dais and walk amongst the riches. The man had yet to acknowledge her, but after he completed a pass of each of the chests, he stopped and looked directly at her. She instinctively held her hands clasped against her, pressing the bowl into her belly. His amber eyes were alive with merriment when he spoke and gestured to her. Eirik stiffened, but he didn’t appear amused. Whatever the jarl had said made Gunnar laugh and drew his attention to her. They were talking about her.

She refused to look at him and instead held her gaze firmly on Eirik. His voice was low and solemn. His fingers were firm when he reached down to grab her arm and pull her to her feet. She dared not ask where they were going, but he took pity on her and answered the unspoken question.

‘Time for bed.’

Chapter Six

Eirik led her towards the back of the longhouse. It was darker there because a loft area loomed overhead and blocked most of the light from the fire and candles. Chests and bundles covered in coarse cloths were stored in the loft, but she saw some movement there, too. Just before he led her beneath it she saw a pair of eyes staring down. She barely had time to meet them before she faced the darkness underneath.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust enough to see that the area had been sectioned off into chambers on both sides, with wooden walls that rose up to meet the floor of the loft overhead. Four of the chambers had rough wooden doors, but the other two had scraps of cloth hanging down. The spaces along the walls between the doors were lined with bare wooden benches.

She had just begun to wonder, to hope, that one of those benches was meant for her, when he spoke.

‘You’ll sleep in my chamber.’

Merewyn swallowed as he pushed a door open and entered the chamber before her. She said a silent prayer for strength and followed him over the threshold. The darkness lingered for a moment, and then a lantern flickered to life, revealing the room to her. It was small in relation to the great hall, but much more lavishly decorated than she had expected. This was where he kept his personal treasures. Even Alfred didn’t have this sort of comfort in his own chamber.

The floors were covered, wall to wall, with colourful carpets and thick furs. A large bed took up almost a third of the space. It was made of wood embellished with carvings of animals and piled with pillows. Heavy curtains hung from the corners for warmth, though they were tied back with braided cords. The outer wall was hung with tapestries while another held shields, armour and weapons. She recognised the chain mail he had worn hanging there. Chests lined the floor along one wall below shelves laden with assorted treasures in gold, silver and other materials she couldn’t even name. It was the home of an exotic prince.

She stepped to the shelf nearest her to examine the figurines carved from a beautiful green rock she’d never seen.

‘Jade,’ he supplied. ‘But don’t touch them. Or take them.’

Merewyn dropped the hand she had raised to touch the one closest to her. The door closed and he slid the wooden latch into place. ‘Stealing a jade figurine won’t get me home.’ Her glare would have melted him had he been a normal man.

‘You are home.’

‘This is not my home.’

‘You live here now.’ His voice was cool as he removed the brooches that affixed his cape to his tunic and then walked over to hang the luxurious fabric on a hook.

‘By force.’

Eirik’s brow arched as he loosened the ties of his tunic and then brought it over his head to hang it beside the cape. Her eyes followed him as he walked to deposit the brooches in a small wooden chest that sat on a shelf near her. He moved like an animal, sleek and smooth, with a confidence that irritated her. Her only solace was the sight of the wound she’d inflicted on his biceps. It wasn’t deep, but the cut was still there.

When he was finished he came over to stand in front of her. She took an involuntary step backwards. ‘If you obey me, you could have a good life here.’

‘Are those my choices? Obey you, submit and I won’t be harmed or fight you and...and live to regret it?’ Merewyn couldn’t stop herself from staring at his bare chest. She’d never seen a man without his clothing this close before. His skin was golden and looked like satin covering hard muscle. She took a deep breath to steady herself, but only managed to inhale his smell. That strange scent that was him—an exotic spice she’d never tasted mixed with leather—filled her and somehow made her feel more alone than she ever had before, even on the crossing. Everything about him was foreign. A strange longing flickered to life within her, and she realised that even she felt foreign around him.

‘Submit to my commands, aye.’ Eirik’s hand came up to tip her chin upwards so she looked at him. His solemn blue gaze fixed on hers. ‘But I’ve already vowed to not harm you. I’ll never ask you to share my bed. It’s not a demand I place on slaves.’

Merewyn’s gaze flicked to the bed in a completely involuntary move, but then dropped to the floor when it only made her earlier fears return. There was no need for him to lie to her. She was here in the chamber with him, completely at his mercy. He could do with her as he would and no one would come to her aid if she screamed. She could trust him—at least in this. Then something shifted in his gaze. She couldn’t name it, but—just for a moment—the self-assurance was gone and she saw that he was unsettled. By her? The weight of fear that had held tight in her chest released the tiniest bit so that she could breathe freely.

‘I believe you.’

‘Do you?’ The corner of his mouth tipped up. It wasn’t a smile, but it was close.

‘Aye.’

She did. But he traced over her bottom lip with his thumb, causing it to tingle. Then he was moving away from her, leaving only the ghost of his touch behind to linger on her skin. Merewyn pressed her own hand to her lips to smite it out.

‘Eat.’ He nodded to the bowl she still held and sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots and woollen socks.

She chewed a piece of the meat, but only to keep the newfound peace between them. It was tender and flavourful, but she barely noticed. ‘What happened in there with the jarl? He’s your father?’ At his nod, she continued, ‘Just before we left, he asked you something. About me.’

Eirik stood abruptly and his hands went to the fastenings on his trousers. She looked away when he began to push them down past his hips. Why didn’t it bother him to strip bare before her? The man was a heathen. They were all heathens.

‘Aye, it was about you. He asked why I was keeping you for myself instead of presenting you to him like a good son should.’

Merewyn closed her eyes against the unspeakable vision that raised in her mind. ‘What did you say?’

She gave him a moment to answer, but when nothing was forthcoming she looked to him, making sure to keep her gaze from lowering. He watched her with an intensity she’d never known before.

‘Obviously I denied his request.’ His voice was laced with sarcasm, but his eyes were solemn.

‘Why?’ With that one word, his face closed. Merewyn knew she’d get nothing out of him that night and averted her eyes.

‘You’ve already begun to address me as “my lord” and that should continue. The state of this chamber will be your responsibility, but we’ll talk more of your duties and my expectations when we return.’

Merewyn studiously maintained her diverted gaze, despite the shock of that statement. ‘When we return from where? When are we going?’

‘I have to go on a short trip to visit a neighbouring jarl. No more than a week or so. I leave the day after tomorrow. You’ll come with me unless you’d prefer to stay here alone.’

It wasn’t really a choice. ‘I’ll go.’

He crossed in front of her again, completely unashamed in his nakedness, to reach into a chest at the end of the bed. She was forced to acknowledge him when he offered the woollen blanket to her.

‘You can sleep on the fur.’ Eirik indicated the dark brown bear pelt that was nearest the bed on the floor. It still had its claws.

She clutched the blanket to her chest as he walked away and couldn’t help the glimpse she got of his backside. Solid muscle worked smoothly beneath his skin. That flare of foreign longing, exciting and unwelcome, ignited within her and shamed her into looking away. She waited for him to climb into bed before she sat her bowl down on a shelf and took her place upon the fur.

‘Oh, girl?’

Her eyes shot open.

‘If you think to attack me with one of those weapons, I’ll stop you and you’ll spend the rest of your nights tethered. Think hard if it’s worth that risk.’

It wasn’t worth the risk. Even if she hurt him, she had the others to contend with and an entire ocean to cross to make it home. There had to be another way, but she wouldn’t tell him that. Let him wonder if he’d wake up to a dagger in his chest.

She thought she’d lie there contemplating the change in her living situation, but she fell asleep almost immediately. It was a deep sleep, the like of which she’d not experienced since she’d been taken.

* * *

Eirik did not fall asleep easily. Despite the fact that he was exhausted and in his own bed for the first time in nearly two years, the slave’s face haunted him. Hilla had managed an extraordinary transformation. The chestnut silk of her hair shone with health and had reflected hints of red from the fire in the hall. Highlights he hadn’t noticed in the grey light of the crossing. Her face wasn’t as drawn as when they’d arrived, but her cheekbones were still too sharp under her skin. Nothing a few days of rest and proper meals couldn’t fix. He’d even been pleased that she seemed to have regained some of her colour.

But none of that explained why she disturbed him. It didn’t begin to explain what happened to him when he looked at her. The way his body tightened with the unexpected need to possess her and protect her at the same time. The way he’d wanted to stand up in front of everyone in the hall and proclaim that she was his. Or the primal anger that had gripped him when his father had laughingly asked for her and the internal struggle he’d had to beat it down.

The girl was his. He wanted to possess her and liked the idea of her awaiting his pleasure entirely more than he should. But he couldn’t possess her. Couldn’t even let his mind take him down the path of imagining what it would be like to explore her body. It would be too easy to pluck her from her pallet and push her underneath him in bed if he let his mind wander there.

But even the mere thought caused his blood to thicken and settle low in his groin. He wanted her. There was no denying anymore that he wanted her in the primal way a man lusted for a woman. It was a visceral urge that gripped him in its tight fist and refused to let go. He knew then it was no demon that had possessed him to take her. It was his own dark needs—his desire for her.

Shame reared its ugly head, the usual complement to his damnable lust. To want any woman was not something he permitted, but to want her—a slave who could neither fight him nor accept him—made him angry. He’d known what it was to have no control of his physical being before. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, force that on another. Had never even considered it before now. Before her. He never lost control, never let himself go so that he was at the mercy of his body’s demands.

Eirik knew then that he should have left her behind. There had been no need to take her from her home. Aye, she’d been a gift, but gifts could be rejected. The girl had clearly wanted to stay, despite the bruises. Perhaps she would have been safer.

He rolled to his stomach to press the uncomfortable tightness of his erection against the blankets. He forced his mind to go black and his breathing to stay even. The lust would not overtake him. He would fight it.

Chapter Seven

The nightmares started near dawn. At first the blackness consumed him and all was quiet. But it wasn’t a peaceful silence. It was heavy and expectant, like the stillness of the sky before the torrential downpour of a storm. The air sat heavy upon his chest and threatened to choke him with its liquid weight. Eirik struggled, but was only pulled down farther for all his effort.

When the screams began he jerked with surprise. He hadn’t heard them in years, but he recognised them immediately. They tore from his own lips and filled him with shame even as they released some of the pain tearing through him. But this time, he was in control. Instead of allowing the vision to take hold of him, he fought it. Moments later, he opened his eyes to the darkness and breathed in the familiar air of the chamber.

The trembling of his limbs was nothing new. It happened with every other nightmare he’d ever had, and he knew it would subside eventually. His throat wasn’t raw, so he knew that the screams had been brief—this time. That was good. It was something.

He should have been grateful. There had been times when the nightmare trudged on for hours and he would awaken to Hilla or, when it was particularly bad, his friend Sweyn, dousing him with cold water. His throat would be inflamed and his voice rough from the screaming.

He wasn’t grateful. The nightmares were gone, beaten. He’d closed his mind to the events of the day years ago that had caused them. He’d thought that they couldn’t haunt him anymore. But they were back. Eirik breathed in and held the air in his lungs. He exhaled in a slow, steady breath of air that relaxed him and eased the trembling. Why were they back now?

Pushing up from the bed, he swung his feet over the side and hung his head until the pounding in his skull ceased. He sucked in a deep breath again and was assailed by her scent. The salt of her. Meagre light from the hall seeped around the cracks of his door to illuminate the girl. She was sleeping deeply on the rug, her hair streaming out behind her.

Eirik closed his eyes. The nightmares were back because of her. Somehow they were her fault. His fists closed and gripped the blanket before releasing it as he forced the tension from his body once more and got up to dress. To try to sleep would be useless.

* * *

He wasn’t surprised to find his father already in the hall, though he was disappointed. He’d hoped to sit in silence while the strength returned to his knees. At the moment, it was a struggle to keep his legs from trembling like a newborn foal. But there was no help for it, so he forced himself to join his father where he sat breaking his fast and drinking mead.

The man never slept. If it was because some demon haunted him and stole his sleep as well, Eirik didn’t know. Sleeping men filled the benches, but the dais was clear, so Eirik took a place there across from the jarl. He waved away the offer of food, but filled a tankard from the pitcher that had been left on the table.

‘Sleep well?’ his father asked, and looked him over. Eirik hoped the despicable weakness didn’t show on his face and breathed a sigh of relief when the man looked back down to his meal.

‘Well enough. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a proper bed. I’m not used to it.’ It was the truth. His back ached from the softness.

‘Aye, I remember that. You’ll get accustomed to it again.’ The older man laughed before taking a mouthful of porridge. ‘Go to the baths later. The hot water will help with the tightness. Take your pretty new slave. She can pound out the knots.’ Hegard used his spoon to point in the direction of the bedchambers.

Eirik took a drink of the mead to fortify himself. The last subject he wanted to discuss was his pretty new slave. She was quickly causing more trouble than she was worth. He should have left her to her family.

Silence descended over them for a while as Hegard finished his meal, but soon he was pushing the bowl away and refilling his mead. ‘Are you planning to visit Kadlin?’

‘I’ll leave tomorrow. I’d thought she would be here.’

‘Nay, her mother’s expecting again. Should be any day now.’ Hegard took a drink, but his eyes never left his son’s.

Eirik was aware of his father’s scrutiny and was afraid he knew the way the questions would lead. Kadlin was also a subject he didn’t want to discuss now. Not with his father. So he nodded and hoped the conversation would end there.

Of course it didn’t.

‘It’s time you take her to wife. You’re old enough, and with your take this last trip you can set up a household. Or even bring her here.’

His father’s interest in his unmarried state wasn’t new. Kadlin had been brought up as a likely candidate even before this last trip, but back then Eirik had hardly had the means to support a wife and family. That had changed, and there would be no putting it off now. Not that he would. Kadlin was everything a man could want and Eirik enjoyed her company.

‘Aye, she’ll make a good wife.’

Hegard smiled and continued as if Eirik hadn’t spoken. ‘Though I doubt she’ll appreciate your slave as competition. Women are funny that way. Wouldn’t you rather have a few weeks with the slave first and then pass her on to someone else before bringing a wife home?’

How could he explain to his father that he’d never intended the girl to be his bed slave? Hegard would never understand. The man had had his wife and her sister pregnant within a year of marriage and had never slept in an empty bed. Eirik could count on two hands the children the man acknowledged. There was no telling how many others existed.

But it wasn’t only that that held back Eirik’s explanation. If he hadn’t taken the girl for a bed slave, why had he taken her? It had long been expected that he would marry Kadlin. She was the eldest and most beautiful daughter of Hegard’s most trusted friend. They had spent their childhoods together. Eirik had known that marriage to her was imminent, and she wouldn’t allow a pretty slave to share their household. No woman would.

Had he been too hasty in assuring the girl that he wouldn’t harm her? He couldn’t protect her if she wasn’t his. He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair and glanced towards his bedchamber. Perhaps he’d wait until spring to wed, and that would give him the winter to figure out what to do with the girl.

It was as though Hegard had read his mind. ‘Kadlin’s been waiting long enough. The men go out of their way to stop at their farm and fjord just to catch a glimpse of her. Jarl Leif’s already dissuaded numerous offers of marriage. He’s waiting for you.’

Kadlin was lovely and kind. It was past time she became a mother. But the thought of babies made an unwelcome image flash behind his eyes of the act that created them. He’d never thought of her in that way. But then her image changed to that of the girl, and bedding her was something he could imagine all too well.

‘It was kind of him to wait,’ Eirik acknowledged.

‘That bastard doesn’t have a kind bone in his body. He wants you for his son.’ Hegard’s gaze narrowed. ‘You want to be jarl after I’m gone, don’t you?’

‘Aye, it’s what I’ve always wanted.’ Eirik had imagined himself in his father’s place since he was small enough to conceive of such a thing. But he clenched his teeth because he knew what was coming.

‘Then you know you’ll need the men to follow you after I go. There are those who would choose Gunnar when I’m gone.’

‘I’m the better warrior. I led them all on every raid for the past three years. They’re all wealthier because of me. The men will follow me when it’s time.’ His voice was hard and determined.

‘Aye, that is true. You led them well, son. I don’t mean to imply otherwise. But you must hold their trust.’ The older man let the words linger in the air between them.

There was no need to elaborate. No one knew what had happened on that day long ago. Even his father had only speculated, but he’d immediately installed a girl in Eirik’s chamber. The men had assumed she’d slept in his bed, but she hadn’t, and Eirik suspected his father knew that.

Eirik had never taken a bed slave, never once lain with any of the gypsy women who followed their camps, never taken a woman in a raid. He’d taken women into his tent, the ones who were reluctant to bed the others and grateful for his protection. But he never took pleasure with them and gently rebuffed the few who had tried to repay his protection with their favours.

‘They have no reason to distrust me.’

‘The slave was a nice touch,’ Hegard agreed. ‘I admit, even I wasn’t expecting her. You’ve never taken a slave before.’

Eirik had to look away from his father’s appreciative leer. It enraged him to have his father view her so casually, but there was no reason it should. She was only a slave.

‘Bed your slave. But Kadlin won’t wait. You need to wed her soon. Leave her with child when you return to fight in the spring. Then the men will have no reason to distrust you.’

‘They have no reason to distrust me now.’ Only the few who followed Gunnar had dared to voice any dissent against him.

‘They distrust what isn’t like them. Marry a jarl’s daughter and you’ll prove to be even better than them.’

Eirik could read his father’s eyes and knew that the seeds of distrust lived even in his own father. If it could live there, then how could he expect the men to trust him?

‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll be married by spring and there will be no reason for it to linger.’

The jarl nodded, but kept a keen watch on his son’s face. ‘Good. Gunnar is learning, but he’s not as temperate in his decisions as you are. The men need a level head to lead them.’

Gunnar was his main rival for his father’s seat. It was his duty to make his claim as solid as possible to lessen the fight. Despite the rivalry, he had no desire to harm his brother. But Gunnar wouldn’t sit by and allow what he deemed to equally belong to him to slip through his fingers. The fight was coming. It was the way of a jarl’s sons.

‘How was your bed slave last night?’

Eirik hadn’t realised his brother had come out of his chamber when he joined them at the table, but the question shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Gunnar wasn’t known for his subtlety or tact. He seemed to enjoy purposely riling both Eirik and their father.

‘Gunnar.’ Hegard shook his head in disapproval as he watched his son take a seat.

‘A fair question, father. I only wish my brother happiness.’ Gunnar grinned and raised his mug to them.

They were joined then at the table by Bram and Sweyn, who’d returned with Eirik and Gunnar, and the talk turned to the battles and raids over the past summer. The raids in Francia had been immensely successful. Much of their treasure had been paid in tribute, but the raids had been going on long enough and they were beginning to meet resistance. Which was why they had been patrolling the northern coasts. For years they had been raiding Wessex, East Anglia, Mercia and Northumbria to moderate gains. But now there was talk of more than raiding.

Hegard’s brother, Einar, claimed the land was ripe for the taking. Hegard was doubtful that men could be such fools to suffer kings unable to protect them, which was why Eirik’s trip had been so important. He’d confirmed Einar’s claim. Every stop along the coast had proved the Saxons were unfortified and unable to counter a full attack against an organised fleet. Their leaders offered tribute too easily now. It had become second nature, as if they thought no other form of aggression was possible. Leaders like that didn’t deserve to keep what they held. The only real resistance they had encountered was a skirmish just days south of where he’d taken the slave girl, and that had been pitifully organised. Judging from the lack of men at her home, Eirik suspected the group, or at least a part of it, had originated there.

Come spring, Eirik would return with even more men and join the group wintering just near Thetford. Then they would raid north to take Northumbria.

Eirik watched the excitement light up Hegard’s eyes as he listened to their stories. There was no doubt in his mind that the jarl would be inclined to commit men to the battle. The exhilaration was almost contagious. It even pulled at him, making his hands restless and his heart pound. But he could be gone for years. What would he do with his pretty slave then?

Chapter Eight

Merewyn had awakened to the Northman’s screams in the night. They had been so terrifying, she’d been convinced there was a demon attacking him until she’d risen to verify he was unharmed. Then she’d watched in fascination as he’d fought against something she couldn’t see. It had occurred to her to try to calm him lest he hurt himself, so she’d reached out cautiously to touch his forehead. His screams had quieted, and the moment his struggles had ceased, she’d moved back to her pallet. It had seemed better to not let him know she had witnessed his nightmare, so she’d pretended to be asleep until he’d left.

But real sleep had proved elusive. She’d lain there as her mind had relived the previous days. Every time it was quiet, Merewyn would hear Blythe’s words echo in the silence. She still didn’t know what had possessed her actions. After a while, the door opened and Merewyn closed her eyes, unwilling to face the day. She opened them when it was quiet again to see that someone had placed a pitcher of water inside the door—Hilla, she imagined—so she made use of it to clean herself. She managed it as discreetly as possible, afraid that the door would open at any moment. But it didn’t. She finally ventured out when her stomach began to grumble.

The first person she saw was Hilla, who directed her to an empty bench where she broke her fast surrounded by some of the men from the day before. She managed to remain unnoticed, so she slipped back to the bedchamber when she finished, where she was left alone until the evening meal.

* * *

Hilla was the one to retrieve her. This time the hall was considerably less full as she was led to the dais. Most of the men had probably left for their homes. Eirik sat eating, but didn’t even glance her way as she took her place on the floor behind him, though once she was settled he handed her a bowl filled with bits of food from his. Famished again, Merewyn ate without reservation and finished it all.

She set the bowl aside and leaned back against the wall to watch the men as they ate and talked. It had just occurred to her to wonder why there were no women—women who weren’t servants or slaves—when Eirik got to his feet. Her heart leaped, as it had a disturbing habit of doing every time she thought he might address her, but he didn’t look her way as he left the dais and headed outside.

Her mouth went dry as she looked around the room. She didn’t like being left alone in the hall without him. Despite her earlier fears of him, he was all that stood between her and them, and he did make her feel safe. She was contemplating making her way back to the bedchamber when the jarl called Hilla over. It was clear they were talking about her from Hilla’s glance her way.

That fear was confirmed when Hilla came over and knelt beside her. ‘Merewyn, you must go attend to Lord Eirik. Jarl Hegard commands it.’

‘Where is he?’

‘The baths.’

* * *

Merewyn worried the inside of her bottom lip as she struggled to find the courage to open the door. The wind was cold, as Hilla had made her take off her woollen dress so now she wore only her linen undershift, and her feet were bare. Shoes were not allowed in the baths. But the cold did not spur her to enter, even though she could feel the heat from inside seeping through the door. She was too afraid of what she would find there.

‘Go!’

She grimaced as she glanced to where Hilla stood tending the cook fire, which was a good thirty paces away from the bathhouse, but the woman watched. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself of Eirik’s vow to not harm her, then pushed the door open and stepped inside. It took a long moment before her eyes adjusted to the meagre lantern light that penetrated the steam. Her skin was immediately wet with it, but it was a pleasant warmth after the cold.

Empty benches lined two walls, and a third held a long hearth where flat stones had been laid upon a smouldering fire. Casks of what she assumed to be water sat near it, the source of the steam. She didn’t see Eirik, but she heard someone just on the other side of a partition that quartered the room, so she stepped in that direction.

His deep voice filled the silence. He’d spoken a command, but it was in his own Norse language, so she was certain he hadn’t realised that it was she who had joined him. Had the jarl really sent her without Eirik’s knowledge? But the moment she rounded the corner, her ability to speak and alert him to her presence fled as quickly as any modesty she might have possessed. He had just stepped out of his trousers, his last garment, so he stood there gloriously naked before her, though facing away from her.

Hard muscles worked beneath the golden smoothness of his skin as he folded the garment and placed it on a bench. Merewyn couldn’t help but notice how wide and powerful his shoulders were. His back was long and lean where it led to a tapered waist. It was marred by a patchwork of scars that she assumed were from battle. Perhaps from the nicks of the many blades he must have fought over the years. There wasn’t a spare inch of flesh on him. Even his buttocks were chiselled with muscle. He exuded strength and confidence. It was then she admitted that under other circumstances she might have found him handsome. If Alfred had presented him to her as a potential husband, she would have encouraged his suit—had he been Saxon.

But Alfred would probably never present a suitor to her now, and it was all because of this Dane before her. The thought made her angry, so she was standing there with clenched fists when he turned around. She caught a glimpse of male flesh framed in dark blond curls before she pulled her gaze away, her face flaming.

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