Bought for his vengeance

But claimed for his bed!

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

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

Also by Michelle Willingham

Forbidden Vikings miniseries

To Sin with a Viking

To Tempt a Viking

Warriors of Ireland miniseries

Warrior of Ice

Warrior of Fire

Warriors of the Night miniseries

Forbidden Night with the Warrior

Forbidden Night with the Highlander

Forbidden Night with the Prince

Untamed Highlanders miniseries

The Highlander and the Governess

Sons of Sigurd collection

Stolen by the Viking

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Stolen by the Viking

Michelle Willingham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90129-5

STOLEN BY THE VIKING

© 2020 Michelle Willingham

Published in Great Britain 2020

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

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

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

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To Kat Schniepp, for your daily encouragement,

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

You have walked a difficult road and come out stronger.

And, with your help, so have I.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

The kingdom of Maerr, Norway—ad 874

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that Sigurd had ever noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I do.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Whose sword did you choose?’ Sandulf asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A strange calm passed over him with the knowledge that he would likely die this day. The shouts of kinsmen echoed amid the clang of weapons, only to be cut short when they died. The Irish king started to run towards the longhouse, but Alarr cut him off, swinging his sword hard. The older man caught his balance and held his weapon against the iron.

Feann paused a moment. ‘Stay out of this, boy. The fight isn’t yours. Sigurd has gone too far, and he will pay for his crimes.’

‘This is my wedding, so the fight is mine,’ Alarr countered. He swung his weapon, and the king blocked his blow. ‘And I am not a boy.’ He was beginning to realise that Feann had travelled seeking vengeance, and his intent was to slaughter Sigurd. But what crimes was he talking about?

They sparred against one another, the king toying with him. Alarr struck hard, intending to stop the man. But with every blow, he grew aware that Feann was stalling, drawing out the fight. It was then that he saw men surrounding the longhouse where his father was protecting his bride. Gilla’s father, Vigmarr, was fighting back, trying to defend them.

And then Alarr caught the unmistakable scent of smoke and fire.

He renewed his attack, slashing with his sword as he fought to find a weakness. Feann parried each blow, and when the screams of the women broke through, Alarr jerked his attention back to the longhouse.

A slashing pain struck him in the calves, and he saw the king withdraw a bloody blade, just before his legs collapsed beneath him. Alarr met the man’s gaze, waiting for the killing blow. Instead, Feann’s expression remained grim as he wiped his blade. ‘If you’re wise, boy, you’ll stay on the ground.’ Then he strode towards the longhouse.

Alarr tried to rise, but the agonizing pain kept his legs from supporting him. He called out to his men to attack and defend the longhouse. But a moment later, he watched in horror as the fire raged hotter. Someone threw open the doors, and Sandulf staggered out. Four other men emerged from a different door, and Alarr struggled to his knees. He spied the slain bodies of his father… Gilla… Vigmarr and his wife…

His stomach lurched, and Alarr turned his gaze back to the sky, hating the gods for what they had done. A lone raven circled the clouds, and he could only lie in his own blood while his enemies cut down the remaining wedding guests and returned to their ships.

In the dirt beside him, he saw the familiar glint of a golden brooch.

Chapter One

Ireland—ad 876

The heavy slave collar hung around Breanne Ó Callahan’s throat. Her mouth was dry from thirst, and she could hardly remember how long it had been since she was taken captive. The days blurred into one another, for she had been stolen from her foster home and sold into slavery. The trader had locked her in chains, and she had travelled for days in a wagon with the other women. She knew that he intended to sell her in the marketplace at Áth Cliath, for he could get a higher price for her there.

Exhaustion weighed upon her, and her body ached from bruises where she’d been beaten. It had been especially humiliating when they had taken her to the healer. Although it had been a woman who had touched her, her cheeks still burned at the memory. The healer had verified her virginity, and Breanne knew it was the only reason she had not yet been raped. The slaver knew that he could command a higher price for her innocence. She tried to clear her mind of the terrors rising and the fear of being held down and claimed by a stranger this night.

Breanne clenched her hands together in a vain attempt to keep them from shaking. Thus far, no one had come for her. She had searched in vain for any sign that her foster father had sent men to save her. They might not know where she was being held captive. With each day that had passed, her hope had begun to fade.

Do not surrender, she warned herself. Not yet.

There might be a chance at escape with so many people in the marketplace. She held fast to the frail hope, even as they dragged the first woman to the auction block. Breanne did not know her name, but the girl began to sob at her fate.

The trader called out the woman’s value and stripped her naked in the marketplace. The girl whimpered when he extolled the virtue of her slender body and soft breasts. He turned her around, and there was no denying the lustful gazes of the men.

Breanne turned her attention to the crowd of people, searching for a way out. There were a dozen wooden carts rolling through the streets, and if she could only get to one of them without being noticed, she might hide herself among the barrels or beneath the straw. She would have only precious seconds to act, and only then if she could break free. Her wrists and ankles were chained together, but if she shortened her stride, she could still run. All she had to do was wait until the woman before her was sold. She was last among the women, a lucky place, for soon there would be no one chained to her and she might be able to flee.

Her brain warned that it would be nearly impossible to escape notice. Not if she was running with an armful of chains. But even so, she tried to keep hope. If she imagined the alternative, the panic would rise up and overpower what little courage she had left.

The first woman was sold to a fat merchant, and he seized her hair as he pulled her forward. He groped her bare breast, laughing before he covered her body with a rough shift. Breanne suppressed a shudder. During the auction, her gaze fixed upon a row of three carts. One of them might serve as a place to hide—but first, she needed to create a distraction.

An outdoor peat fire burned nearby, and she spied another cart filled with straw. A fire, she decided. It would allow her to flee unnoticed while the others attempted to put out the blaze.

The second woman was sold, then the third. But before the fourth climbed up to the block, Breanne saw a taller man drawing near. His dark hair hung to his shoulders, and his piercing blue eyes stared at her. He appeared to be one of the Lochlannach, a fierce warrior from across the sea. His skin held a darker tone, and an iron chain containing three hammers encircled his throat. He looked like a man who had spent the entire summer upon the waters.

Breanne lifted her chin and stared back, refusing to let him intimidate her. A hint of a smile lifted his mouth, as if he had accepted her challenge. Danu¸ what if he attempted to buy her? It was clear that she had caught his interest. He appeared to be a man accustomed to getting his own way.

She noticed his strong hands and the way his shoulders filled his tunic. Unlike the fat merchant, there was no trace of weakness in his body. A vision flared in her mind, of being stripped naked before this man. Her body flushed at the thought. His blue eyes never left hers, and she felt a strange pull within her, as if he had somehow caressed her flesh without a single touch.

The warrior took another step closer, and this time, she noticed his slight limp. He wore armour, and a sword hung from his side. Who was he?

Her heartbeat pounded, and she had no more time to wonder, when the slaver dragged her up the stairs towards the block. He held the length of chain in his arms, and Breanne locked her gaze with the Lochlannach, wondering about his intentions. It would not matter. She would be no man’s possession.

She feigned weakness, reluctantly drawing close to the block. Though she continued to walk forward, she waited until she could feel her captor’s grip on the chain going slack as he prepared to strip her naked.

Now.

Breanne dived forward, leaping from the block towards the crowd. As she’d predicted, the unexpected motion jerked the chain from the slaver’s hands. She lunged through the crowd of onlookers, making her way towards the wooden carts ahead.

Many tried to stop her, but she shoved her way past them. The weight of the manacles on her wrists and ankles impeded her movement, but she would do anything to escape.

But a moment later, a hand caught her chains and dragged her backwards. Breanne fought to free herself, but the chains held fast.

‘Let me go,’ she gritted out, but she could not move. When she turned around, she saw the face of the Lochlannach. His expression was unyielding, like iron.

He wrapped the chain around his arm, making it impossible for her to escape him. His blue eyes were chips of ice, with no pity in them. Her heartbeat quickened, for she knew he would never release her.

‘Please,’ she begged.

He ignored her, holding the chains with one hand as she struggled to free herself. The slaver approached and raised his hand to strike her. Before his fist could make contact, the Lochlannach caught the man’s wrist and held it. He spoke in a foreign tongue she did not understand, but his tone brooked no argument. The slaver started to argue, but the man ignored him. Instead, he reached into a pouch at his waist and withdrew a handful of coins. He placed them in the slaver’s palm, and the man’s protests were silenced.

And so, it was done. She had been bought by this Lochlannach. Hatred rose up within her at the thought of being this man’s slave or worse, his concubine. She struggled again to free herself, but it was no use. He kept the chain tight, securing her firmly at his side until he reached his horse. In one motion, he lifted her up, before he swung up behind her.

He spurred the animal and rode towards the outer edges of Áth Cliath. Throughout the short journey, he said nothing at all. She almost wondered if he was even capable of speaking her language. Her only consolation was that he had not attempted to touch her…yet.

The uneasiness inside her intensified, doubling her fears. He was a raider and a Norseman, one who would take whatever he wanted. Why had he bought her? She wanted to believe that it was only a moment of chance, a sudden whim.

But he had been watching her and waiting. He had stopped her from fleeing the slave market, and now, he had claimed her. Gods be merciful.

They reached the river, and he dismounted from his horse, lifting her down. Breanne wondered if she could dive into the water, but he dispelled any thoughts of escape by keeping her chains tight. Inwardly, she cursed the man for taking her. She wanted to return home to Killcobar, and now she might never see Feann again. He and her foster brothers were the only family she remembered, since her parents had died years ago. Was Feann even looking for her? Or worse, had he given her up for dead?

Her heart ached at the loss of her home and family. The pain welled up inside her, mingled with loneliness and fear. She knew not what would happen to her any more. It seemed as if her life had crumbled into pieces, scattering to the wind.

The Lochlannach led her towards the docks until they reached a small boat where another man waited for them. The vessel was not large, and the sail was tied up against the mast. Her captor lifted her inside, and she glanced down at the dark water, wondering if she had the courage to jump. The other man seemed to guess her thoughts, for he shook his head in warning.

The Norseman spoke to the other man in the language she did not know. Another flare of anxiety caught her, for she feared they might take her to their country. She might never see Éireann again, and the thought terrified her.

‘Who are you?’ she asked, even knowing that they might not understand her. The men lifted the anchor and began to row out to the open water. As she’d predicted, they did not answer her question. Once again, she eyed the water, wondering if she dared to jump. But then, the chains would only drag her down to the bottom of the river and cause her to drown.

Though it was still morning, the sky was dark and heavy with moisture. Clouds obscured the sun, and soon, fat raindrops splattered upon her. Breanne welcomed the water, trying to quench her thirst by opening her mouth. The Norseman seemed to notice, and he held out a drinking skin, tipping it against her lips. She took a sip, and the water was stale but welcome. When she had finished, he took it back. Then he reached inside a wooden container and pulled out a heavy fur of seal skin. He lifted it over her, and she realised that it would shield her from the rain.

She was taken aback by the gesture. Why should he care if she were drenched from the rain? It poured over him and his shipmate, soaking through his dark hair. Though he rowed steadily, he kept his gaze fixed upon her.

His attention unnerved her, reaching deep within. Though he had bought her as his slave, she could not deny that he had shown kindness. And it was difficult to reconcile the two parts of this man. What did he want from her?

She remained still while the rain fell steadily. Both men were soaked now, but they appeared indifferent to the elements. When she eyed the other man, she saw that he was watching her with interest. There was no sense of surprise, as if he had expected to have a female slave aboard the ship. It made her question what else he knew.

Breanne huddled beneath the seal skin, and they continued to row until the river met the edge of the sea. Áth Cliath was now behind her, and she could see only a light fog and the water surrounding them everywhere. Once they were further out to sea, the Norseman gestured for her to put out her chained wrists. He withdrew an awl and a small hammer, and she understood his intention. Within moments, he had hammered out the pin and her chains fell to the bottom of the boat. Next, he removed her neck collar, and she rubbed at the chafed skin, feeling relief from the weight. Last, she extended her ankles, and he removed the chains there, as well.

Her wrists were raw, and she tried to ease the soreness. She didn’t quite know what to think of this man. True, there was nowhere she could run, now that they were nearing the open sea. Perhaps he’d meant to offer her comfort, and for that, she was grateful.

Even so, she could not dispel her suspicions. She was his captive, and he had no intention of freeing her. Was he trying to soften her distrust? Or perhaps he did not want her to fight him when he forced her to share his bed. Breanne swallowed hard, trying not to think of it.

During the journey to Áth Cliath, countless hands had groped her, and she had fought to protect herself. They had laughed at her, and she’d received a few bruises when she had struck back.

Breanne gripped the edges of the seal cloak, shutting her eyes to try to blot out what was to come. Though this journey would grant her somewhat of a reprieve from his attentions tonight, she did not doubt that the Lochlannach meant to use her for his own pleasure. His blue eyes stared upon her with interest, and her body prickled at the thought of his hands upon her bare flesh. She tried to dispel the thought, but the more he stared at her, the more she sensed that he would not be a brutal lover. Instead, she imagined those rough palms caressing her skin, arousing her. Without warning, her breasts tightened against the thin fabric of her shift and she caught her breath. He was handsome and stoic, a fierce warrior with undeniable strength. At the thought of him pressing her back against the sleeping furs, she could not suppress the unexpected response from her body.

And by the gods, she knew not what he would do to her.

Alarr sailed with Rurik, grateful that his brother had maintained the silence. He didn’t know if his captive knew any of their language, and he didn’t want to take the risk. For that reason, he had spoken little on the journey, until it was in the early hours of the next morning.

He’d been tracking King Feann’s foster daughter for the past sennight, fully intending to use her as a hostage. He had paid a soldier to take Breanne and bring her to him, with the understanding that she would remain unharmed. Instead, the man had betrayed him, selling her to a slaver who had taken a shipment of women along the coast. It had taken several days to track her to Áth Cliath, and Alarr was irritated by the delay. But now, he realised that there was an unexpected advantage, for she would know nothing of his connection to Feann. He could learn more about her foster father’s weaknesses if he could coax her to talk.

Although Feann had not been the one to plunge the blade into his father’s heart, Alarr knew the Irish king had been involved in the plot. There was no question that the man had travelled across the sea, seeking the death of his enemy…but why? What had Sigurd ever done to Feann that would cause such a response? He needed to uncover the secrets that veiled his father’s death.

After the wedding massacre, his brothers had taken him into hiding to recover from his wounds. They had burned the bodies of Gilla and her family before burying their ashes. Alarr had kept Hafr’s sword as a reminder of the tragedy. King Harald Finehair had stripped his brother Brandt of his claim to Maerr, giving it to his aunt’s husband, Thorfinn. Thorfinn had declared them outlaws, and Alarr and his brothers had no choice but to leave Maerr. But not before they had all sworn a blood vow of vengeance. Every man who had played a part in the wedding slaughter would face justice for what he had done.

Alarr had asked Rurik to accompany him to Éireann, while there were rumours that others had gone to Alba and even to Constantinople. Within a year, Alarr hoped to scatter the ashes of their enemies so that they would find no place in Valhalla.

And Breanne, foster daughter of King Feann, would be used to gain the information he needed. Although his knowledge of the Irish language was not strong, Alarr had learned enough to understand it during the past year. Rurik’s grasp was better, since his mother had been Irish.

He’d understood every question Breanne had voiced, along with her frustration when he’d refused to answer. But he had given her a crust of bread and some dried meat, which she had devoured. He and Rurik took turns keeping guard until at long last, she had succumbed to sleep, curled up against the seal fur he had given her.

Breanne Ó Callahan was a beautiful woman with hair the colour of a sunset—gleaming red and gold in the light. Her green eyes reminded him of the hills in Maerr, and there was no doubting her courage. She had a strong will, and he admired her refusal to weep or yield. There were bruises on her face, neck, and arms, as well as the raw flesh at her wrists and ankles, but she had not complained of pain even once.

They had sailed through the afternoon and night, using the stars to mark their path. Rurik slept for a time, and Alarr caught an hour of rest before dawn broke across the sky, revealing the southern coast of Éireann. They would reach the Hook Peninsula soon, and Alarr intended to shelter there and rest for a few days. His father had spoken of Styr Hardrata and his wife Caragh, who had formed their own settlement near the coast. The thought of a true bed with furs and a fire were a welcome respite from the miserable rain that had not once relented. Even in morning, the clouded sky offered very little light.

‘What will you do with her?’ Rurik asked quietly.

‘She will give us the information we seek about Feann, and we will use her to get inside the gates of Killcobar. After that, I care not.’

Rurik adjusted one of the sails, and in the distance, they could see the flare of torches from the harbour. ‘Do not get too close to her, Alarr. Question Breanne if you must, but do not soften.’

He understood his brother’s warning. When it came to women, he found it difficult to remain harsh. His mother had taught him to be kind to maidens, and he could not cast off his upbringing so easily. And there was no doubting that Breanne was a temptation.

A darker voice within him whispered that he could claim her as his concubine. It would be another act of retribution against King Feann to dishonour his foster daughter in such a way. He imagined this beautiful woman curled up against him, her bare skin warming his. Her reddish-gold hair was tangled against her face as she slept, and he wondered what it would be like to have that silken length against him.

‘She will tell us everything,’ he said. ‘But only if we let her believe that we mean her no harm. We will say that we are taking her home in the hopes of a ransom.’

‘You’re going to betray her,’ Rurik said quietly.

It was unavoidable, and Alarr refused to feel any guilt. He had journeyed across the sea for many days, keeping his rage at the forefront of his mind. ‘I will do what I must. The woman should believe that we are helping her. Afterwards, I will kill Feann for what he did to our father and me.’

Alarr adjusted the sails as they neared land, and he centred his mind upon the settlement ahead. Absently, he rubbed at the scars on his calves. It was nothing short of a miracle that he’d managed to walk again. The healer had treated his wounds, wrapping them tightly so the muscles could heal. For the next year, he had struggled with every step, and even now, he had a limp. No one spoke of his fighting skills any more. They knew, as he did, that his days of being a warrior were over. He could barely keep his balance, much less defeat an enemy. It ground at his pride, a festering resentment that would never fade.

The dark memory of his wedding day lingered within him, an ever-constant reminder of what he’d lost. Alarr wanted to avenge his family’s honour, and the surest way to reach Feann was through his foster daughter. He would revel in the moment when he could avenge his family, watching the life fade from Feann’s eyes. And after he’d killed his enemy, the ghosts of his past would be silenced at last. If he lost his own life, he cared not. He was no longer the warrior he had once been, and he would rather die than be less of a man. All that mattered now was vengeance.

When they drew closer to the pier, Alarr took a length of rope. Breanne stirred from sleep the moment he touched her. ‘Where are we?’ she asked.

He didn’t answer but bound her hands tightly in front of her. Annoyance flared in her eyes, but he would not risk losing such a valuable prisoner.

‘Of course, you’re not going to answer,’ she responded. ‘You probably don’t understand a word I’m saying.’

Alarr helped Rurik tie off the longboat, and when Breanne tried to climb into the water, he jerked the rope binding her hands and pulled her back. She cursed at him, but he ignored her.

Once the longboat was secure, he stepped into the hip-deep water and reached for his captive. She fought him, but he held her tightly and strode through the waves until they reached the shore. The settlement lay a short distance from the water’s edge, closer to the river. Alarr lowered her to the sand but kept her rope in his hands, forcing her to walk alongside him.

‘If you think I am going to remain your slave, you are mistaken,’ Breanne muttered. ‘The moment you try to sleep, I will disappear. And may the gods curse you if you dare to lay a hand on me. I will cut it off first.’

She continued to voice her frustration, cursing them with every step. They walked from the water’s edge, up the sandy hillside, to the open meadows. A few sheep grazed nearby, and they continued their path towards the fortress in the distance. Only when they had reached the gates did she stop her endless words. The settlement was newly built, and even beyond the walls, Alarr could see that construction of several longhouses had recently begun.

Four warriors guarded the gates with long spears, and there was no sense of welcome in their demeanour. Alarr approached with Rurik and greeted them. ‘Tell Styr Hardrata that Alarr and Rurik, sons of King Sigurd of Maerr, have come to seek shelter.’

One of the men inclined his head and departed, but they were forced to wait until he returned with Styr’s permission to enter. Only then did the guards allow them inside the settlement.

By now, the inhabitants had begun to stir. The guard led them towards one of the longhouses near the centre, and they passed by men carrying peat for the outdoor fires. An old woman stirred a pot, adding raw meat to the stew as she stared at them.

Weariness made his vision blur, but Alarr continued walking with Breanne’s ropes in one hand and Rurik at his side. Although he had never met the Norse leader, he hoped to learn if the man had any connections to King Feann or if he had any knowledge to share.

They followed the guard inside and passed by several tables as they approached the dais. Styr Hardrata rose from his chair and came to greet them. The leader was tall, with dark-blond hair and a light beard. His brown eyes held a welcome, but there was also a sense of caution, as if he would not hesitate to strike them down if they were a threat.

‘We bid you welcome, Alarr and Rurik, sons of King Sigurd.’ His gaze narrowed upon Breanne, and he exchanged a glance with his wife. ‘Who is your hostage?’

Alarr jerked the ropes forward. ‘She is a concubine I bought from Áth Cliath. I intend to ransom her to her foster father, King Feann of Killcobar.’

Styr’s wife appeared unsettled by their captive. Her long brown hair was braided and bound at the nape of her neck, and she wore a cap. Her violet eyes softened with sympathy. ‘Let me take her, Alarr. She is hurt. I will see to her needs and talk with her.’

The leader introduced her, saying, ‘This is my wife, Caragh. Will you allow her to tend your hostage?’

Alarr considered it a moment. ‘As long as she is not permitted to leave the settlement.’

Styr gave the orders to his men and nodded. ‘If she tries, they will bring her back again.’

‘Untie her,’ Caragh ordered. ‘She will come with me. You may speak with Styr a while, and I will make a place for all of you in one of our longhouses. I know you will be wanting to rest after your journey.’

Alarr could hardly suppress his yawn, and the young woman smiled. ‘Perhaps on the morrow, you can help our men with the harvest. We would welcome your assistance.’ There was no doubting that this was how she intended them to repay their debt, by offering labour in exchange.

Even so, Alarr was uneasy about letting Caragh take Breanne with her. He didn’t trust his slave not to flee, but neither could he insult his hosts by implying that they could not keep her hostage.

‘Bring her to me as soon as you can,’ he agreed. It was the only thing he could say without offending Styr’s wife. He could only hope that allowing Breanne some small measure of comfort would be the first step towards earning her trust.

‘You must be weary,’ the woman said. Breanne was startled to hear the Irish language flowing so easily from her. Her expression must have revealed her shock, for the woman introduced herself. ‘I am Caragh, formerly of the Ó Brannon tribe. My husband is Styr Hardrata.’

‘I am Breanne Ó Callahan.’

‘And your foster father is King Feann, is he not?’

She nodded, wondering if Caragh could help her. ‘He is. I am trying to get home again. I was taken captive and sold into slavery.’

‘These men are taking you home,’ Caragh said. ‘Did you not realise?’

No, she hadn’t. But then, the men had told her nothing at all—not even their names. ‘I cannot speak their language. They have said nothing to me.’

The young woman’s eyes turned sympathetic. ‘Well, I would not say that they are bringing you home out of kindness. More that they intend to ransom you.’

That sounded more realistic. But even so, Breanne could hardly believe what she was hearing. She had tried to escape, and the Lochlannach had bought her. ‘Why would they do this? They don’t even know me.’

‘They are mercenaries. And you’re wrong—they know exactly who you are.’

Now, it made more sense why the Lochlannach had taken her captive, if he had known that she was the foster daughter of a king. But how? She had never journeyed to Áth Cliath, nor had she seen this man before.

Perhaps they had overheard something in the marketplace. Someone else might have recognised her, or he might have heard a rumour. There was no way to truly know. But the realisation that they were bringing her home—even for a ransom—caused such a wave of gratitude, she could barely suppress her smile of relief.

‘Who are they?’ she questioned. ‘They have not even told me their names.’

‘The older man is Alarr and the younger is Rurik. Both are from the kingdom of Maerr.’

She had never heard of it, but then, she had never left her homeland or travelled anywhere outside of Éireann.

‘Would you care to bathe and change into a clean gown?’ Caragh offered.

‘I would be so grateful.’ Breanne had only the rough shift that the slavers had forced her to wear and the seal fur that the men had given her to keep warm.

‘I will take you to one of the longhouses. I fear we have only begun building our settlement, and there are many shelters that are still unfinished. We hope to have them completed before winter, but we need the help of every man.’ She offered a slight smile. ‘I had thought, for a time, that Styr and I might travel across the seas. But now we decided to stay here for the winter…’ She rested her hand upon her stomach, and Breanne understood her unspoken blessing of a child to come.

Caragh led her back towards a small partitioned room that contained a wooden trunk. She opened it and sorted through garments until she chose a green gown. ‘Here. This might fit you.’ She held it out, but Breanne was reluctant to take it.

‘It’s too fine,’ she argued. ‘I cannot accept something so beautiful.’

‘You may wear it until you are home again,’ Caragh said. ‘And then send it back to me.’ There was no other choice, so Breanne accepted the woollen gown. The stitching was delicate, and she had no doubt it would be warm and comfortable.

Caragh led her back outside towards a different longhouse that was partially finished. On the way, she caught the attention of a young man and gave him orders in the Norse language. Then she took the gown from Breanne. ‘I will send you a maidservant to tend your bath. I will give her the gown, and she can help you dress afterwards.’

Breanne thanked her, and Caragh brought her towards the far end of the longhouse. Another partition hid the wooden tub from public view. It was not large, but the idea of warmed water was a luxury that she welcomed.

While they waited for the servants to fill the tub with the hot water, she told Caragh of her foster father’s ringfort where she had grown up. A hollow feeling seized her inside. Had anyone searched for her? Or had they given up, believing she was dead or ruined? It hurt to imagine that Feann had turned his back on her and discarded her as a foster daughter. But it was a real possibility, one she had to accept. She was not of his bloodline. An ache settled within her heart at the thought of being forgotten and alone.

After the tub was filled with hot water, Caragh added scented oil to the bath. A young maidservant joined them, and Breanne allowed them to strip off her garments before she settled into the steaming tub.

The warm water consoled her, and she kept her knees drawn up, sinking down as low as she could to immerse herself. She leaned back, dipping her hair into the water, and the maid gave her soap for washing. She scrubbed away the dirt, wishing she could scrub away the memories of captivity so easily. Her wrists and ankles burned from the sores made by the manacles and the ropes. The maidservant brought a linen drying cloth, but before she could help her out of the tub, the Lochlannach returned.

She covered herself and glared at him. If he had come here intending to glimpse her naked body, it would not happen. ‘Get out,’ she ordered.

His blue eyes stared at her, but instead of leaving, he turned around. ‘If you want to return home, you must learn to obey.’

It was the first time she had heard him speak her language. The sound of his words had a foreign cast to them, and she suddenly realised that he had kept silent on purpose. She motioned for the drying cloth and the maid brought it to her. In a swift motion, Breanne shielded her body and wrapped the drying cloth around herself, before she stepped out of the tub.

‘I have no reason to obey,’ she countered. ‘And I am not afraid of you.’ It was a lie, but she spoke the words with mock confidence, hoping he would believe them. It unnerved her to realise that he had understood every word she had spoken.

‘What is your name?’ she demanded, wanting to hear it for herself.

‘Alarr Sigurdsson,’ he answered. ‘Of the kingdom of Maerr.’

‘I am Breanne Ó Callahan,’ she answered. ‘My foster father is King Feann MacPherson of Killcobar.’

‘I know who he is.’ He turned at that moment, and his gaze fixed upon her. ‘I recognised you the moment I saw you. And you are worth more than a slave.’

‘How could you possibly know me?’ she demanded. ‘I would have remembered you.’ Heat flared in her cheeks when she realised what she’d said. But it was too late to take back the words. Breanne tightened her grip upon the drying cloth, and in that heated moment, she grew aware of his interest. He studied her face, his gaze drifting downward to linger upon her body. There was no denying that he wanted her.

But worse was her own response. She was caught up in his blue eyes and the dark hair that framed a strong, lean face. There was a slight scar on his chin, but it did nothing to diminish his looks. The Lochlannach warrior was tall and imposing, his physical strength evident. Only the slight limp revealed any weakness.

‘What do you want from me? A ransom?’

He reached out and cupped the back of her neck. It was an act of possession, but instead of feeling furious, his sudden dominance made her flesh warm to the touch. His blue eyes stared into hers as if he desired her, and she was startled by the unbidden response. Though she tried to meet his gaze with resentment, her imagination conjured up the vision of his mouth descending upon hers in a kiss. This warrior would not be gentle…no, he would claim what he wanted from her. Heat roared through her, and she thought of his hands moving down to pull her hips against his.

That might be what he wanted from her, after all. She was well aware of how female slaves were used as concubines. The thought shamed her, but another part of her was intrigued by this man. She could not deny the forbidden attraction, and she had the strange sensation that his touch would not be unwelcome.

As if to make his point, Alarr stroked the nape of her neck before releasing her. ‘You will remain with me at all times, obeying everything I ask. If you do this, then I will remove your bindings.’

‘When?’ she demanded.

‘When you have earned my trust. Not before.’

His arrogance irritated her. Was he expecting her to become a slave in truth, subservient to every demand? Never. She could not pretend to be someone she was not. The instinct arose, to tell him that he would be waiting an eternity. Then again, if there was any truth to his words, she would be hurting her own chances of getting home.

‘You ask a great deal of me,’ Breanne said at last. ‘I do not know you, and I do not trust you at all.’ He was no better than a mercenary, and she had no doubt that there was a great deal he had not revealed. But then, what choice did she have? She needed an escort to bring her home.

‘I have not forced myself upon you,’ he pointed out. ‘This, I could have done many times. I could also have given you to my brother.’

She reddened at his words, for they were true. He had treated her with honour, though he had kept her bound. She would not have trusted him either, were their situations reversed.

‘I am grateful,’ she said honestly.

‘If you do not run away, we will take you home to your father. But if you defy me, you will face consequences.’

She stiffened at the overt threat. ‘If you beat me, he will know of it. And you will not be rewarded.’

‘I never said I would harm you.’ His voice had gone deep, almost seductive. She took a step back, fully aware of her nakedness beneath the drying cloth. Never had a man looked at her in this way, and she could hardly breathe. His hand moved to her face, drawing an invisible line down her jaw. Beneath the drying cloth, her breasts rose up, almost aching to be touched.

And suddenly, she realised that this man was dangerous in ways she’d never even imagined.

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