A Saxon maiden

Bound to a Viking warrior

Part of To Wed a Viking: The conquering Danes have taken everything from Elswyth—even her mother. So, despite the uneasy truce between their people, she knows where her loyalties lie. Until she meets towering Rolfe, leader of the opposing forces. Her mind knows this muscled Viking is her enemy. So why is her traitorous body so tempted by his suggestion that she become his wife?

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 those elements into one perfect package. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband and two young children. Visit her website: harperstgeorge.com.

Also by Harper St George

Viking Warriors miniseries

Enslaved by the Viking

One Night with the Viking

In Bed with the Viking Warrior

The Viking Warrior’s Bride

Outlaws of the Wild West miniseries

The Innocent and the Outlaw

A Marriage Deal with the Outlaw

An Outlaw to Protect Her

To Wed a Viking miniseries

Marrying Her Viking Enemy

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Marrying Her Viking Enemy

Harper St George

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08882-4

MARRYING HER VIKING ENEMY

© 2019 Harper St. George

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 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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Version: 2020-03-02

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With sincerest thanks to

Laurie Benson, Nathan Jerpe and Tara Wyatt

for their friendship and guidance

while I was writing this book.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

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

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

‘Traitors will be punished.’ Rolfe’s words rang out over the gathered crowd, punctuated by the roar of the newly set fire at his back.

A black cloud of smoke rose high in the air, filling the village of Banford with its acrid scent as tongues of flame licked hungrily at the hut’s thatched roof. It was engulfed like kindling, half-burned to the ground by the time a blaze flickered to life on a second one. Tightening his hold on his stallion’s reins to be ready should one of the Saxon warriors dare to attempt to fight him, Rolfe ignored the sharp ache in his shoulder from yesterday’s battle. He refused to show weakness before these people, especially when he had to make certain that his words were heard.

‘We found one of your neighbours among the Scots we battled yesterday. Durwin was there as a friend to them, giving information to our enemy, and he raised his axe to us in battle.’ Durwin had been a simple farm worker with no sword to his name. He’d had no cause to meet with the Scots. No cause save the wounded pride that many of the Saxons seemed to share when it came to the Danes. On his cue, his men cut Durwin’s blanket-wrapped body down from a horse and laid him respectfully on the ground.

Rolfe and his men had come directly from that confrontation to this village on Alvey lands where the traitor lived. Cnut, Rolfe’s man in charge of the Saxon village, had quickly led them to Durwin’s house. Thank the gods that it had been empty. Rolfe didn’t relish the task of making women and children homeless.

‘But what of his brother Osric?’ An old woman’s voice rose from the people who had come from their homes to watch. They all stood huddled together, a few with blankets over their shoulders to guard against the snow that had started to fall. The flakes hissed when they touched the flames that engulfed the second hut. ‘Was he there, too?’

Cnut stepped forward. ‘They’ve been suspected of fraternising with the Scots for months. Osric hasn’t been seen in days. Can anyone vouch for his whereabouts?’

Of course no one could. Rolfe knew in his gut that Osric was fraternising with the Scots. Everyone in the village knew it, but no one would give up that information. It was why Rolfe had given the order to burn both of their houses. It was the only way to send the harsh but necessary message that traitors would not be tolerated.

‘You are people of Alvey.’ It was a simple fact that should need no reminder. ‘You were born here and your loyalty should lie with your lord and lady.’

A few in the crowd nodded along with his words, but many only stared at him. Pockets of rebellion had broken out since his Jarl, Vidar, had married their Saxon lady, Gwendolyn. Rolfe was hopeful that the melding of their people would continue, but it was inevitable to face some resistance. Their only choice was to catch it early. It was particularly disconcerting in this case because the village of Banford was the closest to the Scots who lived just north of their border. A rebellion here could have devastating consequences should they join with the Scottish army, which was why it was particularly important that he squash any seeds of uprising now. ‘Lord Vidar and Lady Gwendolyn will not tolerate traitors. Anyone known to be giving information to the Scots will have their belongings seized and risk execution.’

A grumble of unease ran through the gathered crowd, prompting his dog, who had been lying beside the horse, to get to his feet, his ears forward. ‘Easy, Wyborn.’ Rolfe kept his voice low and the mongrel settled while still keeping alert to the possibility of danger.

‘Consider that we Danes have not butchered your people. We have not taken your land from you. Will the Scots, who have haunted you for generations, be so fair? Will the Scots allow your women to choose their own mates? Will the Scots extend silver to the families who marry their warriors?’

He paused to look over their faces, hoping that his words rang true for them. The people murmured, but not one of them stepped forward or offered comment. This brooding rebellion was merely misplaced pride. If sense prevailed, they would come to understand that. For real peace to be fostered and to thrive, they would have to accept that the Danes were here to stay.

‘Your lord and lady have offered you all of these things. We have come to live in peace and to unite our people. The Scots will not offer you that. They will befriend you, only to enslave you.’

Rolfe gave a final nod and swung his horse around to walk to the edge of the village. Cnut and Wyborn walked beside him. ‘Are any other men missing besides Osric?’

‘None from the village.’ Cnut nodded in the direction of the fields and the farmhouse set with several outbuildings on the outskirts of the village. ‘I couldn’t say about the farm. Since I’ve been here Godric keeps most of his people to himself, but I will question him.’

The wheat field was fallow now with the arrival of winter and, though most of the trees were bare, a hill hindered a clear view of the house. Godric was known to dislike the Danes, but so far had done nothing that would cross the line to outright treason. However, Rolfe had been gone from Alvey all summer—first visiting Jarl Eirik to the south and then Haken up north where he’d come across Durwin meeting with the Scots—and things might have changed. He’d need to speak with Vidar before doing anything in that quarter.

‘Thank you, Cnut. Send word if Osric returns or you have more information.’

‘Aye, immediately.’

Rolfe set his heels to his horse and led the way from the village, some of his men falling in line behind him. The rest of his army had been left to return home in the longships, while he detoured to Banford. Wyborn ran out front as if he sensed they were going home. The wound from the spear Rolfe had taken to his shoulder the day before ached with every jolt of the horse. It would take over a day of hard riding to make it home to Alvey. He’d been gone for months and was ready to be home. He only hoped this show of treachery wasn’t a sign of things to come.

Chapter One
Bernicia, northern Northumbria—winter 872

‘The Danes are a fearful sight, are they not?’

Elswyth could not find the breath to answer her sister’s question. It had lodged in her throat where it held until her lungs burned. The Norsemen came out of the forest on horseback, filtering into the clearing in a stream of warriors that didn’t seem to have an end. There were thirty...forty, but even more followed behind. Several mongrels in various shades of brown and grey ran in their midst. She imagined them as bloodthirsty wolves from the tales she had heard growing up, with teeth dripping the blood of their enemies and snapping jaws clamouring for more.

The sun hung low behind the trees, a stray beam glinting off their armour and the hilts of their sheathed swords, casting their faces in the shadow of a cold nightfall. The earth rumbled from the beat of the hooves as the horde moved closer. Her heart echoed that beat of distant thunder. It knew that the days of calm were over. These men were why her father had sent her to spy on Alvey.

It was an objective she meant to carry out, not only to prove her loyalty to her family, but also to bring hope to their small village of Banford. Banford needed hope that a reprieve from the Danes would soon come. She was to bring that hope to them in the form of information about the Danes’ plans for the future.

‘Aye,’ she finally whispered when she could draw breath. ‘They are quite fearful.’ The frigid stone of the fortress wall bit into her palms as she stared down at the men approaching. The warriors were merely coming home and not here for battle, but her instinct was to reach for the short-handled axe at her belt as fear pounded through her veins. They were Danes, which meant they were her enemy.

‘’Tis good they are attractive, then.’ Ellan grinned, her eyes calculating as she looked them over.

Elswyth smiled, for once grateful that Ellan was never serious about anything. Though only scarcely more than a year separated their births, Elswyth sometimes felt far older than her often frivolous younger sister. ‘Why do you care if they’re attractive?’

‘Because I would not care for an ugly husband.’

The horde forgotten for the moment, Elswyth swung her head around to stare at her sister in shock. ‘You are not seriously considering marriage to one of them?’ Ellan surely wouldn’t, especially after the way their mother had run off with a Dane, abandoning the whole family to take up with the heathen. But something in her sister’s expression made Elswyth’s breath catch.

‘And why wouldn’t I?’ The wind caught the cloak covering Ellan’s hair, forcing her to take it in hand. Her cheeks were pink from the frigid air, while her eyes were fierce with challenge. ‘What husband is there for me once we return home to Banford? Shepherd? Farmer? I’d much prefer a warrior.’ Her gaze returned to the Danes below. ‘You have to admit they’re far more attractive than the men at home.’

Still in shock at her sister’s blasphemy, Elswyth’s gaze found the man leading the warriors. He sat proudly on his stallion with broad shoulders. His shirtsleeves had fallen back as he rode to reveal the defined muscles of his forearms flexing as he held the reins. His fur cloak hung low behind him, exposing the strong sweep of his cheekbones and his bearded jawline to the light cast by the wall’s torches. She couldn’t make out details, but she could tell—with some regret—that it was a handsome face. Much to her surprise, his gaze was fixed on the two of them. If she wasn’t so accomplished at keeping her thoughts to herself, she might’ve reacted, giving away how her heart pounded against her ribcage. Instead she levelled her gaze and stared back at him, too proud to let him know how afraid she was.

‘Rolfe!’ A boy near the gate called out to him and he forgot her, his mouth splitting in a grin as he surged forward, clearly happy to see the caller.

The warrior was attractive, but she would never admit that to her sister or anyone. It felt deceitful to acknowledge that attribute in her enemy. So instead, she focused on his hair. Ropes of the dark blond mass had been pulled back from his forehead and were secured at the crown of his head and left to fall well past his shoulders. No self-respecting Saxon man wore his hair in such a barbaric fashion. Her father would say that it was proof of their deviltry. She didn’t think it was quite so sinister, but neither was it civilised.

Pitching her voice low so she wouldn’t be overheard, she said, ‘I would be careful what you say, Ellan. You wouldn’t want word getting back to Father that you’re thinking of aligning yourself with our enemy.’

The ever-present mischievous spark in her sister’s eye glowed when she said, ‘What will Father do precisely? Come and take me back?’ Her arms widened as she indicated the thriving fortress around them. ‘The great and terrible Godric may rule Banford, but we are in Alvey now and this is where I plan to stay. Besides, the Danes are not our enemies any more. Lady Gwendolyn has made certain of that with her marriage to the Jarl. Father is only bitter because of what Mother did. He lives in years that have long since passed. You can go back home if you want. You always did enjoy work on the farm more than I did.’

Elswyth refrained from pointing out that she didn’t enjoy it as much as someone needed to care for the family after their mother’s abandonment. Instead the sight of the Danes flooding through the gates, filling the yard of the fortress as friends and loved ones came out to greet them, held her captivated. Lady Gwendolyn had married the Dane Vidar nearly two years ago. Since then the pair had been doing their best to make certain the Saxons and Danes in their corner of Northumbria lived peacefully together. There was no doubt that the Danes only allowed the peace because they had taken lands, silver and women in return.

Saxon lands, Saxon silver and Saxon women.

The Saxons were slowly being replaced by the invaders, or so her father claimed. She could understand his fear as she looked down at the powerful warriors below. They were formidable.

Elswyth and her sister had spent the autumn in Alvey at the request of Lady Gwendolyn, helping with her household. Elswyth had seen first-hand how the people co-existed within these walls. The Danes and Saxons could get along, but only here. Outside in the farms and villages there was still strain. Every week brought more stories of the Danes’ brutality to the south of England. Even in Alvey lands there were stories of men fighting over the women, who numbered too few to meet the demands of every Saxon and Dane warrior. Then there were women like Ellan—women like their mother—who willingly chose the Danes over the Saxons. Many Saxons were bitter about that.

A fight was likely to happen soon. Lady Gwendolyn might refuse to see it, but Elswyth had heard the discontent with her own ears. Her own family, with the exception of Ellan, it seemed, would champion a fight.

‘You speak blasphemy. Father would never agree to you marrying a Dane.’ Elswyth crossed her arms over her chest and met her sister’s eyes which were green like the waters of the lake back home. Sometimes it seemed their eyes were the only thing they had in common. Instead of hair as dark as her own, Ellan’s was striped with honeyed tones. Her sister had always been happy and free from the worries that plagued the rest of the family, while Elswyth had assumed the mantle of responsibility. Ellan was like their wayward mother in many ways and it was worrisome.

‘As I said, Father doesn’t have to agree. I’ll choose my own husband, thank you very much.’

While Elswyth was certainly fine with Ellan choosing her own husband, their father and brothers would not agree to a Dane. Danes were not to marry.

‘I think it best to get below,’ she said, giving her sister a dubious look. ‘Lady Gwendolyn will need extra hands for tonight’s feast.’ Elswyth led the way along the rampart to the steps set into the corner of the wall. The fires had been burning all day in preparation for the men arriving, so that the air was filled with the aroma of roasting meat and vegetables.

Ellan’s eyes were alight with an infuriating glow as she looked over the crowd below. ‘I wonder which of them I shall marry.’

Elswyth rolled her eyes. Tired of arguing, she said, ‘You’ve had months to ponder that with the Danes left behind while these were out raiding or whatever it is they were doing. Why haven’t you chosen one of them?’ She had known that a large group of warriors led by a warrior named Rolfe were due to winter here, but she had not been able to find out what they had been doing over the summer months. She was certain it was information her father would covet.

Ellan giggled. ‘Because these are new. Why limit myself when there are so many to consider?’

‘You haven’t the faintest idea how to choose a proper husband, Ellan. I fear for your future,’ Elswyth teased and stepped on to the hard-packed ground to make her way to the great hall, careful to stay near the wall and away from the arriving warriors. They were creating such an uproar with their celebratory shouts and bellows that they seemed as wild as the beasts in the forest.

‘You make it sound difficult. You simply pick a man with a pleasing look and a disposition to match and there you have a good husband,’ Ellan explained.

‘Ah, well then, I pity the task ahead of you. None of these wildlings have good dispositions.’ As if to lend weight to her words, a man was thrown free from the crowd to land with a crash against the stone wall before them. He settled on his bottom with a hard thud before standing and shaking the wild mane of dark hair from his face. Muttering something in his harsh language that made his friends howl with laughter, he tackled one of them and the two rolled on the ground in a skirmish. The rest of their group shouted encouragements and circled around them. Elswyth resisted the urge to roll her eyes again. She would never understand the Danes.

Ellan hurried to catch up as Elswyth stepped around the group. ‘Certainly not one of those. But there are some. Lord Vidar is acceptable. I thought I might make a search through the men closest to him.’

It was true. Lord Vidar was acceptable, as Danes went. In the months they had lived in Alvey, Elswyth had come to greatly admire Lady Gwendolyn. Where her family saw Lady Gwendolyn as a traitor to the Saxons, Elswyth had come to see how well she and Lord Vidar got along. He was crude and sometimes boorish, but he treated his wife well and had gained the respect of the people in Alvey, even the Saxons. She’d seen how he could be fair and reasonable. Their marriage had brought two groups of people together while avoiding the bloodshed of battle. Elswyth still pitied Lady Gwendolyn, but perhaps in this one instance marriage to a Dane had been necessary.

Still, the subject hardly bore considering for her and Ellan, but there was no use arguing with her sister. The girl did what she wanted and always had. Elswyth had no doubt that an ill-considered marriage with a Dane would send her running back to the farm within a year. ‘I wish you luck sorting through that madness. As for me, I’ll remain unwed for the time being.’

Ellan snickered, but she took Elswyth’s hand to soften her words. ‘Father won’t like that any more than he’ll like me with a Dane. You know he’d see you wed to Osric.’

‘Osric?’ Elswyth laughed.

‘Aye? Why is that funny?’

‘Osric is... Osric. He’s a dear friend, but I’d never marry him.’ Though she had to admit that it would be the natural choice. He was her father’s trusted man on the farm and they had been friends since she was born, but he wasn’t what she wanted in a husband. She couldn’t name what it was that she wanted from a marriage except that it was to be more than a farmer’s wife.

‘I expect Father will disagree.’ Ellan sniffed and took the lead.

‘Nay, he won’t like it, but he cannot force me to wed.’ Lady Gwendolyn would never stand for it.

* * *

‘I haven’t found proof, but my gut tells me that Godric is in league with the Scots.’ Rolfe tightened his grip on his tankard of mead and tossed back a swallow, savouring the honeyed sweetness. The stench of treachery might have soured his homecoming, but at least there was mead.

Vidar cursed under his breath and shook his head. ‘Godric has that entire village in his grip. Either he knew of Durwin’s treachery or he won’t believe it. The only certainty is that he will demand blood in return for the man’s death.’

Rolfe ground his molars as he remembered the fight with the Scots, anger at the Saxon’s presence there still burning hot within him. ‘They have blood in return. I wanted to take Durwin alive, but he fought, cleaving two of my men before he was felled. He’d gladly have killed us given the chance.’

‘Are they well?’

‘Aye, one will bear a nasty scar, but they’ll both recover.’

Vidar nodded and leaned back, turning his tankard absently between his palms. ‘We’ll keep Durwin’s death quiet for now. I’m certain the news will make its way here in time, but there’s no sense in announcing it.’

Rolfe was in firm agreement. Many of the Saxons within Alvey’s walls had already made peace with the Danes, but there were some holdouts. He wouldn’t have them using this whisper of rebellion as a reason to fight. ‘I’ve already talked to my men. They’ll hold their tongues about him.’

‘Good. How were the talks with Haken?’

‘He has agreed to align with us should the need arise. He has nearly two hundred men on Alba’s west coast. Says there were a few skirmishes, but he rarely sees more than twenty Scots at once. I doubt we’ll have need of his men.’ Rolfe took another long drink.

Aside from the matter of Durwin and his brother, Osric, the summer campaign had been a success. After spending most of it to the south with Jarl Eirik, Vidar’s eldest brother, Rolfe and his men had taken their boats north for the autumn. The meeting with Haken, the Dane Jarl to the north, had gone far in creating an alliance between his camp and Alvey.

Vidar nodded, but his eyes were troubled. ‘We cannot underestimate the Scots. They’ve been a nuisance to Alvey for ages and with our numbers increasing, they’re bound to be agitated. In the morning, after you’ve had time to refresh yourself, we’ll discuss plans for what to do with them. It’s time we meet and end this once and for all.’

‘You think a meeting is necessary?’

Vidar gave a short nod of his head. ‘The rumours of Banford turning to them get stronger and this could very well push Godric into it. I’d like to think they are only rumours, but we can’t take that chance. Godric is difficult. I fear we have no choice but to put an end to any potential alliance before it gets worse.’

‘You two look serious. Is there news?’ Lady Gwendolyn approached with baby Tova in her arms. Wyborn rose from his place at Rolfe’s feet, tail wagging as he greeted them both, giving the baby an enthusiastic sniff that made her babble gleefully.

‘Aye, some,’ Vidar said, shifting on the bench so that she could sit beside him. He indicated the sacks of coin on the table that Rolfe and his men had lifted from the Scots. ‘Rolfe encountered the Scots and this is what we have for the trouble.’ A smile lit his face as he took the baby and sat her on his knee.

Rolfe grinned, always happy to see the woman who had given Vidar his much-needed comeuppance. She, along with Tova’s chubby cheeks, were enough to brighten his mood. Now that Wyborn had moved back to his place at Rolfe’s feet, the baby stared at him, her blue eyes round in curiosity. ‘I see you’ve had a busy summer. She’s grown.’

Lady Gwendolyn settled herself on the bench beside Vidar, a soft expression on her face as she glanced over at her husband and child. ‘Very busy. Not yet a year old and she’s already trying to walk.’

‘Ah, she’s a determined one, like her mother.’ Lady Gwendolyn smiled, so he shifted his gaze to Vidar as he said, ‘I feared the babe would look like her father, but the gods have smiled on her and only given her his wheaten hair. She looks more like you now, Lady. She is beautiful.’ And indeed she was. Her cheeks were plump and rosy, her eyes bright and inquisitive.

Lady Gwendolyn gave him a playful glare while Vidar chuckled and the babe looked away, the sound of her father’s deep laugh drawing her gaze. An unexpected ache swelled in Rolfe’s chest at the scene. There was no doubt that his homecoming was victorious. Despite the traitors in their midst, he should feel pleased and content for a job well done. Instead, watching the little family before him made him aware of what was missing from his own life. It was a peculiar feeling, when he’d been content with his life for a while now.

To distract himself he reached forward and stroked Tova’s silken hair, stifling a grunt of pain as he pulled at the wound on his shoulder. ‘She’ll rule this place soon.’

‘You’re hurt, Rolfe!’ Lady Gwendolyn exclaimed. She rushed around to his back and pulled at his tunic. He grimaced as the blood that had dried to the linen under-tunic pulled at his wound and looked across the hall to distract himself as she prodded.

He’d been vaguely aware of the woman he’d seen atop the wall working across the hall this whole time. He found her now, trying her best to not appear as if she was curious about him as she filled cups with mead, all the while she kept stealing glances at their small group. Her expression was filled with the same wariness and grim determination he’d seen on her face outside. A thick braid of dark hair fell over her shoulder, across her lush breast and nearly down to her waist. She hadn’t been in Alvey when he’d left and he couldn’t help but wonder who she was.

‘There’s a good amount of blood,’ said Lady Gwendolyn and he grimaced as she poked the tender edges of the wound. The woman had many skills, but sensitivity to his pain didn’t appear to be one of them.

‘A spear tip, compliments of the Scots. It’s fine. It wasn’t very deep.’ It burned like fire, but a fever had yet to set in.

‘What happened?’ she asked and he gave her an abbreviated version of events.

‘A minor skirmish.’ He shrugged when he’d finished. ‘There were less than twenty of them.’ He’d leave it to Vidar to tell her about Durwin’s betrayal.

As she moved back around him to retake her seat, she followed his gaze to the girl across the hall. Giving him a knowing smile, she said, ‘Go upstairs and I’ll send someone to tend you.’

He thought about objecting, but the idea of possibly having some time alone with the girl was too pleasing to pass up. Grabbing a bag of loot that would be his portion from the stash on the table, he rose to his feet and sought his chamber.

Chapter Two

Elswyth hadn’t thought that she would be attending the warrior named Rolfe in his bath. Yet there he sat in a tub of steaming water. His chest was thick and broad, roped with muscle above the rim of the tub which was too short for his large frame. His knees were bent, sticking up out of the water so that she could see the cords of muscle that shaped his powerful thighs. Water clung to his hair, making it a few shades darker than the blond it had been earlier. It hung free from its constraints, but had been pushed back to better reveal the chiselled planes of his face. His nose was a bit too prominent, his brow line too defined, his lips too hard, but somehow taken altogether those features were almost pretty on him. A masculine pretty that took her aback.

And that was before he looked at her. His eyes were the purest blue she’d ever seen. Not piercing, but intense and so vivid the colour almost didn’t seem real. There was a kindness lurking in their depths that helped her to step farther into his chamber and draw the door closed behind her. Lady Gwendolyn had made it clear to all when they’d arrived that she and Ellan were not here for the men’s pleasure. But this man was new and she didn’t know if he’d been advised. Wounded or not, he was powerful enough to do what he wanted with her and, though she could fight him, her axe was best thrown from a distance.

A soft growl from the corner warned her to proceed with caution, as a large mongrel with grey fur rose to his feet. ‘Down, Wyborn.’ The dog responded immediately to the warrior’s command and lay back down, but his ears were standing up as he watched her.

Casting her wary gaze from the mongrel to his master, she said, ‘I’ve brought herbs for your shoulder, Lord.’

‘I’m no lord.’ His voice was somehow smooth and rough all at the same time and pitched so low that the timbre of it was quite pleasing. She was surprised at how easily he spoke her language with barely any accent at all. His gaze dropped to the axe on her hip before he turned back to the task she had interrupted and splashed more water over his head, though he only used his right hand.

His chamber was larger than she’d thought. Shelves and chests lined one wall and a table and bench occupied the corner. Behind the dog, a bed was set into an alcove that could be curtained off from the rest of the room. It was larger than the one she shared with Ellan and piled high with thick furs. In the middle of those furs a red stone set amid pieces of silver and gold glinted back at her in the candlelight. She carefully averted her eyes from that treasure. It was stolen from a Saxon, no doubt. The thought gave her the surge of anger she needed to rediscover her courage.

‘What’s your name, girl?’

She set the tray holding the poultice, linens and herbs down on a chest a little harder than she’d intended to. So hard that he paused in his administrations and looked over at her. ‘I’m no girl,’ she said, mimicking his words to her. Whenever men wanted to keep her in her place they liked to throw that word around. It made them feel stronger and she found herself disappointed that a warrior such as him would feel the need to use it.

She expected him to let those unnaturally vivid blue eyes sweep down her body. To take in the curves of her breasts and hips. To make it clear that he understood that she wasn’t a girl after all. Her body could only belong to a woman who could only be here to please him with those very same curves. But he didn’t break eye contact except to take in her expression. Finally, he gave a brief nod and a tiny smile lurked around the corners of his mouth, hinting at a dimple in his cheek.

‘Nay, you are no girl. I can see that now.’

Those words felt like a compliment. In a life that had been short on compliments of late, it was most welcomed. Her cheeks burned and she looked down at the tray to make herself appear busy.

‘What are you called?’ he asked.

‘Elswyth.’

‘I’m Rolfe,’ he said and held out his hand.

She stared at it, half-expecting it to hold some danger, which was silly. It was simply a hand, calloused and rough looking with a complement of various nicks and cuts. However, men did not generally offer a hand to her, especially in her current capacity as servant. It was suspicious for its eccentricity alone. With a glance at his bare chest and the water lapping at his hips, she gave him her hand in a brief touch before quickly turning to secure a scrap of linen for a bandage. This man had unsettled her from the first. The sooner she could be done with this task the better.

‘You weren’t here when I left in the summer. Who are you?’ He, too, seemed content to go back to the task at hand and continued to sluice water on his body.

‘My mother was a distant relation of Lady Gwendolyn’s mother. My sister and I have served here for the past few months at the Lady’s invitation.’

With a gentle hand on his shoulder, she pushed him forward to take a closer look at his wound. His hair nearly covered it, so she was forced to take the thick mass in hand and move it aside. It was wet silk against her palm, smooth, yet strangely rough, too. The heaviness of it sliding against her skin seemed too personal. Everything about this seemed too personal. She should have very little to do with this man who was her enemy, yet here she was tending to him in his bath. He was naked beneath the water and her entire body burned in awareness of that fact.

Forcing a deep breath, she leaned in closer to examine the puncture. He was lucky that it hadn’t festered yet. The edges were slightly pink, but they weren’t swollen and angry. It was clear that someone had tended it after it had happened. Plunging the linen into the water, she gently ran it over the gouge to clean out the dried blood. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, though he hadn’t flinched.

The mongrel came forward, curiously sniffing around her as she worked on his master. She tried to ignore him, somewhat confident that the warrior would intervene should the mongrel overstep his bounds. Reassured that she meant his master no harm, the mongrel went back to his spot beside the bed and plopped down. Putting his front two paws out in front of him, he dropped his muzzle on to them and watched her, his deep brown eyes glittering in the candlelight.

‘Are you a healer?’ Rolfe asked.

‘I know enough to clean wounds and mix common poultices. It is one of my tasks back home.’ Satisfied that she’d done her best to remove the dried blood, she grabbed a bit of soap from the bowl that sat on the floor beside the tub. He clearly wasn’t able to use his left arm well, so his back was still marred with smudges of dirt and old blood from the wound that he hadn’t reached. With gentle strokes, she washed his back, the linen moving over his skin in a soft caress that allowed her to feel just how hard he was beneath his skin. His strength was powerful and could have been intimidating, but he merely hummed softly in approval of her touch and dropped his forehead to his knees, lending an odd peace to the moment.

When she was finished cleaning, she laid the linen across the rim of the tub and dipped a dish into the bucket of steaming hot water that had been left beside the tub, careful not to burn her fingers. ‘This may hurt a bit.’

He smothered a groan as she trickled the hot water over his wound. The water left streaks of reddened skin down his back. ‘I’ll need to do it once more to make certain the wound is clean. It helps the healing.’ He nodded, leaning forward a bit more to give her better access. This time he didn’t make a sound save for a swift exhalation of breath as the scalding water slid over him. ‘There. It’s done.’ The wound had reopened, but only a little blood seeped from it. It was a good sign that there would be no festering.

‘You’ve been sent to exact Saxon vengeance. Admit it.’ His blue eyes gleamed at her over his shoulder, that same almost-smile hovering at the edges of his mouth.

‘I’ll admit nothing,’ she quipped, squeezing out the linen and indulging this strange urge to tease with him. ‘But if a Saxon gave you this scratch, ’tis my duty to make it hurt more.’

He laughed and sat back against the rim, his eyes stroking her face. ‘Then I’m forced to disclose the truth. It was no Saxon, but a Scot. Are you under the same allegiance to the Scots?’

She had to force herself not to take in a breath or show any sort of reaction. He was teasing, but it was as close to the truth as anyone had come in the entire time she had served Lady Gwendolyn. She was not in league with the Scots, but her father very well might be by now. There had been rumours that he’d met with them before she’d left.

‘Not to my knowledge.’ She gave a shrug, hoping the comment sounded flippant and a part of the game.

‘That’s good to know. Otherwise I would worry about your axe.’

‘You’re not worried about it regardless? Saxon vengeance, as you said.’

His eyes fairly sparkled with merriment and she found herself unable to look away from them. It was as if someone had found a way to dye them the most vivid shade of blue she had ever seen. He slowly shook his head, a drop of water running down the side of his face. ‘It’s an interesting choice of weapon.’

She stared down at the axe attached to her belt because she had to look away from him. ‘It’s more tool than weapon. It’s useful on the farm and I’ve grown accustomed to wearing it.’ She didn’t mention that she was more accurate than any man when it came to hitting targets with it. ‘Lady Gwendolyn has been kind enough to give me archery lessons while I’m here. Perhaps you should worry about that tomorrow on the practice field.’

This made him grin and that dimple in his cheek shone. He was so handsome when he smiled that she had to look away again. He was likely to think she was a fool like Ellan with how she seemed suddenly unable to hold his stare. There were many ways that this man unsettled her. What was happening? Was he flirting with her? Was this teasing usual for the warrior?

Enemy, enemy, enemy, the mantra repeated in her head.

‘I’ll look forward to seeing that.’ Something about the way he said that, so firm and exact, made her believe it. It also made her chest swell with pride. Despite herself, it pleased her that a warrior of his renown wanted to watch her skill.

‘Is that where you were all summer?’ She busied herself by sorting the items on the tray and preparing the poultice. ‘Fighting the Scots?’ She told herself that she was asking out of curiosity, but the words of her father wouldn’t leave her. They made that feeling of unease churn deep in her belly. Any news about the relations between Danes and Scots would be useful to him.

‘Not all summer, but a fair bit of it. They’ve been active, but are so far no threat to Alvey.’

‘My home is to the north. Should I be worried about them?’ It was a fair question. She had spent many nights in her bed worrying about the Scots to the north and the Danes to the south, and her tiny village caught between them.

‘Nay, no need to worry yet. And, Elswyth...’ She nearly dropped the poultice when he reached out to touch her shoulder. His eyes were deep and solemn with concern. The warmth from his touch moved down her back to settle deep in her belly, wrapping itself around that knot of unease. ‘We’ll protect you from them if the time comes.’

And what if we are the reason the Scots have come? What if Father has done something that has brought them to our door?

She didn’t ask those questions, though. She would not give her family away. ‘How do you know they won’t be too powerful?’

He smiled again and let her go. His teeth were straight and white, making his smile far too pleasing for a warrior such as him. He should be fierce, with a fierce smile to match. His expression turned to pure masculine arrogance when he answered, ‘They’ll never be too powerful for the Danes.’

She scoffed and made a show of finishing her work with the poultice, mixing the herbs in the bowl before readying a bandage with a length of folded linen. However, deep in her heart, she feared that he was right. She’d been impressed with the Danes who had spent the summer in Alvey. She’d been even more impressed by the sheer power of the army that had marched into Alvey hours ago. Tomorrow she would see them in practice, but she really had no need to see them to know that they would be fierce. Their reputation preceded them there.

‘You Danes are all alike. Too full of yourselves for your own good.’

‘It’s not conceit if it’s true. I’ve never lost a fight.’

She found it very easy to believe him. He sat in that humble tub like a king, his powerful arms stretched along the rim, his eyes shining with confidence. In that moment she had to wonder if it was possible for anyone to best him.

His eyes had gone slightly hooded as he watched her, an indolent quality coming over his face. ‘I toured the north after Lord Vidar married Lady Gwendolyn. I don’t remember meeting you.’ He said it as if he would’ve remembered.

God knew that she would have remembered him had they met before. He was too vibrant and too formidable, equal parts terrifying and fascinating.

‘Nay, we never met.’ She remembered their visit well, though her father had kept her and Ellan hidden away inside so that she’d never actually seen Rolfe. It was no secret to anyone that Father distrusted the Danes. She suspected it had been one of the reasons Lord Gwendolyn had sent for her and her sister. The woman was ever trying to make peace, but it seemed no matter what she did, Father wouldn’t approve.

He despised the fact that his own wife had run off with one of them. It ate at him constantly. Before it had happened, he’d always been stern and quiet, but something had changed in him in the years since. He brimmed with anger and bitterness. Lady Gwendolyn marrying a Dane had brought it all to overflowing. He hated that she’d married Lord Vidar and he hated all the Danes in Alvey that came as a result of that marriage. There would be no peace as far as he was concerned.

Elswyth had been surprised that Father had agreed to Lady Gwendolyn’s plan, but his reasoning had become clear on the morning of their departure. He had approached her horse where she was saying goodbye to her younger brother Baldric. Ellan had followed their older brother, Galan, out of the yard, giving them a brief moment of solitude.

Pitching his voice low, he’d said, ‘Keep your eyes open, Elswyth. We need to know what these Danes are really up to. I’ll expect your account upon your return.’ She’d stared at him in shock, but he’d only slapped the horse on the rump and called after her, ‘I’m depending on you!’

He had meant for her to spy. A lump of unease had been present in her belly ever since. Rolfe’s presence only made it worse. While everyone knew that Lord Vidar was in charge, he would not dare to lead warriors against people he was sworn to protect. Should an uprising occur, it would be Rolfe sent to dowse it. Rolfe commanded the warriors. Rolfe would raise his sword against her village and her family if it was ordered.

Knowing all of that, she couldn’t understand why he fascinated her so. She should despise him. Because of men like him, her mother had abandoned the family. Elswyth had been forced to take over her duties when she’d scarcely been able to carry a pail of water on her own. She had spent the formative years of her childhood wondering how she could have prevented her mother from leaving, questioning if she had been a better daughter would her mother have stayed and even secretly thinking that perhaps she herself was unlovable.

Yet, even with that history giving her plenty of reasons to hate him, she couldn’t keep her eyes from him. From beneath her lashes, her gaze swept over his broad shoulders and the cords of muscle that defined his arms. ‘You’ll need to get yourself dry so that I can put the poultice on your shoulder. It shouldn’t get wet.’

Without giving her a chance to prepare herself or even avert her eyes, he stood in the tub. Water sluiced down his strong body in rivulets, reflecting gold in the soft glow of the candles. The solid muscles in his back tapered down to a narrow waist and a pair of buttocks that might have been carved stone. His thighs were corded in muscle, thick as tree trunks and just as strong from the looks of them, with a light sprinkling of dark blond hair. In the slit of light visible between them, the weight of his manly parts hung—a gasp tore from her throat when a sheet of linen blocked her view, making her realise that she had been staring. Not once had she even attempted to avert her gaze. He had been decent enough to not ogle her the entire time she’d been in his chamber, his eyes had never left her face as they’d talked, but she couldn’t find the decency to look away from his nakedness. Her face burned in shame as she forced her attention to the poultice.

He stepped out of the tub on to a rug made of rushes and tied the sheet around his waist. Grabbing another sheet of linen, he wrapped it around his shoulders, though he did it awkwardly with one hand while keeping his left arm against his torso. She would have helped him had she not been too astonished at her own bad behaviour. Instead, she waited for him to get settled on the bench before bringing the tray over to set it on the table next to him, her face—indeed her entire body—still flaming with embarrassment. Slowly and with as little touch against his bare skin as possible, she used the sheet to dry off his back.

Working with efficiency, she managed to apply the poultice on to his wound and wrap linen around his shoulder. The light sprinkling of fur on his chest teased her fingertips on the first pass, sending cinders of curious sensation running down her arm. This man was nothing like she had imagined. He wasn’t a monster, or even particularly unpleasant. He was simply a man, made of warm, solid muscle and bone. Yet, that realisation somehow made him more dangerous to her. Tying off the end of the bandage, she stood back, making minor adjustments to the wrapping. ‘I’ll make you a sling. You should wear it to keep your shoulder braced until it starts to heal. You don’t want it to break open again.’

‘I’ll try.’ Wearing only the linen slung low around his waist, he walked to a chest at the foot of his bed and pulled out an under-tunic. ‘Would you help me put it on?’

With a wordless nod, she took the folded linen from him. She was tall for a woman, but he was so much taller he had to stoop down for her to put it over his head. A tightening of his jaw was the only indication he gave that he experienced discomfort as he shoved his left arm through the sleeve. She didn’t even give him time to rummage through the chest for trousers, knowing that she couldn’t handle the embarrassment of watching him discard the linen sheet to put them on. Instead, she immediately grabbed the material for the sling and stepped up to him.

He smelled good. Clean like the soap, but also like evergreen needles in the forest mixed with a rich masculine scent that was very pleasing. He was quiet as she fitted it, knotted it and then slipped it across his chest, but she could feel his eyes on her face. They seemed curious and that damnable kindness lurking in their depths made it impossible for her to summon the anger and hate that she meant to feel towards him.

‘When do you go back home?’

The question made her heart stutter. Satisfied with the sling, she lowered her arms from his shoulders and forced herself to take a step back from him. Distance seemed very good at the moment. ‘My father is meant to come before the next full moon.’

‘A fortnight, then.’ He nodded as if the information pleased him somehow, as if he was mulling something over and that worked nicely into his plans, when she shouldn’t fit anywhere into his plans.

Her heart picked up speed and she turned to quickly gather up the tray of medicinals that she’d brought. Never mind that her hands shook for some odd reason or that her knees were so weak she felt certain they would follow suit. Distance. The single word replaced the ‘enemy’ mantra in her head because she no longer believed that to be true. Or worse. It was true, but it was no longer enough to keep a wall between them.

‘Good evening.’

‘I look forward to seeing your aim on the practice field in the morning.’ His voice followed her out.

Chapter Three

‘That’s twice I’ve bested you. If these swords weren’t wooden, you’d be dead by now.’ Aevir deftly swung away, leaving several feet between him and Rolfe.

Rolfe doubled his assault, ignoring how his arm smarted where Aevir’s training sword had hit as he pushed his friend even farther back in an attempt to wipe the smug smile from his face. Rolfe had spent the entire morning running the men through their paces and taking playful digs from some of them about his sling. It was time they realised that having his left arm in a brace wouldn’t slow him down. ‘You must be jesting. You’ve yet to best me once.’

Aevir scoffed, ‘I would’ve drawn first blood had the sword been metal.’ He lunged forward again and Rolfe rolled to the side, leaving Aevir off balance.

‘And when do we ever battle to first blood?’ Rolfe asked.

‘Had the blade drawn blood, you would have cried out in pain and broken your stride, leaving yourself open so that I could skewer your gullet.’

‘You live in your fantasies.’ Rolfe laughed and renewed his attack. The truth was that he had been distracted in their sparring match, but it hadn’t been because of his wound. Elswyth had come out on to the other side of the field with her bow and a quiver of arrows and was currently shooting at targets. His gaze had been caught by her form in profile, equal parts slim and lush as she had notched an arrow and pulled back the string. He’d been waiting to see if she’d made her target when Aevir had hit him.

‘Go easy, Aevir.’ Vidar’s voice interrupted their sparring. ‘He’s an injured man. I wouldn’t have you making his injury worse.’

Rolfe groaned silently. Vidar meant well, but he’d only make the teasing worse.

Aevir grinned and lowered his sword. ‘The Jarl has saved you, my friend.’

The sling on Rolfe’s left arm restricted his balance a bit, but his wound was hardly in any danger. ‘Nay, let’s finish.’

Aevir raised his sword to accept the challenge, but Vidar stepped between them. ‘We have other things to discuss this morning, now that you’ve both had some rest.’ The three of them walked to the edge of the practice field. The clang of steel on steel and splintering wood as the warriors continued to practise filled the air around them.

‘As long as it’s the Scots and not wives we’re discussing again,’ Aevir said in a dry tone.

‘Wives?’ Rolfe asked.

Vidar gave him a telling glance before looking towards his own wife, who had made her way to them across the sparring field where she’d been leading a group of archers in practice. Lady Gwendolyn was quite possibly the most accomplished archer Rolfe had ever seen. She smiled at them as she approached, but trepidation lurked in her expression, a rare moment of uncertainty for her.

‘Good morning. How is your shoulder?’ Lady Gwendolyn asked.

After assuring her that he was on the mend, he asked, ‘Am I being offered up as a husband?’

She had the grace to look sheepish. ‘I admit the lack of marriages among the Danes and Saxons concerns me. We’ve had a few families take us up on the offer of coin in exchange for marriage to the Danes, but most are reluctant.’ It had been their hope that after their marriage others would follow suit. They wanted to unite the Saxons and Danes in Alvey through marriage and avoid as much bloodshed as possible.

‘It will take time.’ Vidar ran a hand down her back in silent support.

She nodded before continuing. ‘We would like it to be known that our highest warriors...including you...are looking for wives. I think an offering of higher-status marriages would ease some reluctance.’

Rolfe laughed, but it was a hollow sound. The very thought of marriage made the skin on his neck tighten uncomfortably. ‘You are offering me up as husband.’

Her cheeks reddened, but she didn’t back down from her stance. ‘You have to admit that many would say you are a desirable husband. Your word among the Danes is second only to Vidar’s. You are known as a great warrior with great wealth.’

‘It’s true,’ Rolfe said, mulling over her words and making Vidar laugh out loud.

‘It’s good to see you’re still humble, Brother.’

Ignoring him, Rolfe said, ‘I can see how this would be helpful for harmony.’ It would not, however, be helpful for his peace of mind. He tried not to think of the woman he’d nearly married back home, but her face came to mind anyway. Hilde had been beautiful. He’d convinced himself that she was kind and generous, everything he’d thought he’d wanted in a wife. He’d learned too late—after her thievery—that her beautiful outside had hidden a traitorous core. She’d only used him for her own gain.

Lady Gwendolyn’s smile brightened, encouraged by his words. ‘I resisted my father’s way of thinking, but I understand now how marriage to further peace is best for everyone.’ Vidar smiled at her, his eyes full of gentleness and admiration.

Rolfe wasn’t entirely surprised by the plan and it certainly spoke to that odd longing for a family he’d felt upon his homecoming last night, but he didn’t relish the idea of marrying. The amount of trust inherent in such a union was not something he was comfortable with. Of its own volition, his gaze landed on Elswyth. The same short-handled axe from last night was hooked on the belt around her waist, leading him to wonder if she wielded it as well as the bow and arrow.

Glancing back to Lady Gwendolyn and then Vidar, he could practically feel the noose of matrimony tightening around his neck. He wouldn’t shirk his duty, but neither would he welcome it. His only choice was to make certain of the only thing he could control. ‘I would choose my own wife.’

‘Of course,’ Lady Gwendolyn was quick to acquiesce. In a softer voice she added, ‘But you would have to choose someone beneficial to uniting our people.’

He gave a nod, his gaze once again shifting over to Elswyth of its own volition.

The victorious glance that passed between Vidar and his wife wasn’t lost on him. They had already discussed his marriage, it seemed.

‘Thank you, Rolfe,’ Vidar said. ‘You’ll be well-rewarded for your duty. With things to the north unsettled, it goes without saying that sooner rather than later would be best.’

‘Aevir will be called to marry as well?’ Rolfe and Vidar had known Aevir for several years. He was a renowned warrior who had fought in the south as the battle had been waged for East Anglia. He’d gained a reputation there for his fearlessness in battle and had gone on to fight for Jarl Eirik for the past couple of years. Yesterday when he’d ridden in with Rolfe had been the first time he’d set foot in Alvey. Rolfe knew the man had vowed never to settle down because of some trauma from his past, so he lived a life that was never settled, always moving from place to place looking for the next fight. Rolfe liked him and respected him, but he found it hard to believe the man was ready for marriage.

‘For the right woman it could be well worth it.’ Aevir shrugged. ‘But it’s too early in the day to speak of women.’

‘The right woman?’ Rolfe asked, unable to believe his ears. Aevir was actually considering marriage.

Still smiling, Aevir shrugged. ‘The right lands and riches to be more specific.’

That sounded more like what Rolfe had expected. Still, the idea of marriage without affection was hard for him to accept. He had pledged his loyalty to Jarl Vidar and would do it if his duty called for it, but it wasn’t what he would choose for himself. Aevir had no such pledge holding him here. ‘And what of the woman herself? Her face?’ Her heart. Rolfe didn’t say that part, but he could not imagine sharing his home and future children with a woman who was cruel or less than honourable. Someone like Hilde.

‘What does a face matter in the dark of night?’ Aevir laughed, but when he glanced away there was a hollowness in his eyes. It was the same empty resolve he brought to battle that made him a great warrior. Rolfe didn’t think it would work so well in marriage. ‘Her lands and wealth will suit me much better than a fine face.’

Rolfe shook his head, but he hadn’t expected anything else from Aevir. The man would sell his hand like he sold his sword, it seemed. He wouldn’t be the first man to do so. Once more he found Elswyth across the field. This time he watched her arrow fly and stifled a smile at her hoot of triumph when her aim proved true. She fascinated him and their banter the night before had come easily and naturally. She wasn’t afraid to challenge him. He had no idea if she’d be suitable based on Lady Gwendolyn’s requirements, but she was the only one who had stirred an interest in him in a while.

‘Do you need to find your nursemaid to check your wound?’ Aevir teased, following Rolfe’s line of sight.

‘I’d forgotten how insufferable you were,’ Rolfe growled, which resulted in Aevir’s bark of laughter.

Vidar had walked away to speak with his wife, but stepped up to them now, his gaze roaming across the field to where his wife’s charges practised. ‘Godric will arrive in about a fortnight and I hope to negotiate his blessing for a marriage. I’ve already allotted the silver needed.’

Elswyth had just landed another arrow in the target while a girl he assumed to be her sister cheered her on. Aevir’s face shone with interest as he watched her, and Rolfe felt the hair on the back of his head bristle in warning. Aevir’s interest in Elswyth alone would have raised his ire, but to have Godric’s name spoken in regard to her did not bode well for Rolfe’s intentions.

‘The sisters will be available?’ Aevir tipped his head towards Elswyth and her sister.

‘Aye, but only one of them need marry... Elswyth is the eldest. I’d prefer it if one of you marry her. The match will go far to ease our troubles in Banford,’ Vidar added in a low voice.

Rolfe froze, his hand clenched tight around the hilt of his sparring sword. The girl was Godric’s daughter. When she’d said she was from the north, she meant Banford. She meant the very village he’d put a torch to only two days ago. The very village that seemed to turn out traitors one after the next.

‘You would give the traitor silver and allow him to keep his lands?’ asked Aevir.

Vidar’s brow furrowed. ‘Traitor may be harsh. Remember that we only have rumours that Godric’s been in contact with the Scot King. We’ve seen no evidence. We do know that it will be in our favour to tie him to Alvey with his daughter’s hand. We need him on our side.’

The very idea of giving tolerance to the man who was likely at the centre of every conspiracy with the Scots didn’t sit right with Rolfe. ‘You can’t deny that Durwin’s presence with the Scots is strong evidence. Everyone knows how close he and his brother were to Godric.’ He knew in his gut that the connection was there. Rewarding Godric’s tricks with a fortuitous marriage for his daughter would not solve their problems. Indeed, such a marriage could be disastrous for all parties involved.

‘Aye, it’s a strong indication, but not evidence. We’ll see how he feels soon. He’ll arrive in a fortnight and give his permission for Elswyth’s hand unless he’d prefer to insult his Lady,’ said Vidar.

‘Is that why his daughters are here?’ Rolfe asked. Now that he knew who Elswyth was he was shocked to find Godric’s daughters within the confines of Alvey. Shocked because if the man had truly gone against Alvey, his daughters would have been locked within her walls and at the mercy of the very Danes he claimed to despise. The man had to be a fool and she had to be a spy. There would be no other reason for Godric to allow their presence here.

‘They’re distant relations of Gwendolyn’s on her mother’s side. Gwendolyn hoped to gain the girls’ co-operation by inviting them here. I’d hoped that since he allowed them to come here, he had accepted that we are here to stay. She hasn’t mentioned marriage to Elswyth yet, but she will now that you’re both here.’

Both. Thinking of her with Aevir didn’t sit well with him, but he pushed the thought aside to consider the issue of Godric. Sending his daughters to work for his Lady could have been a very solid offering of truce. Or it could have been a very clever way of appearing contrite while using them for his own gain. If Rolfe had to guess, he would assume the latter.

‘Which other brides are we to consider and which lands come with them?’ Aevir asked.

‘We’ll discuss the properties and dowries tonight. It’s only fair that you know beforehand to help you decide which girl to win over.’

Aevir shook his head and laughed. ‘Is enticing her necessary? The girl will marry who her father says she will marry, will she not?’

Vidar grinned. ‘That’s not how Lady Gwendolyn would prefer the marriages to happen. She wants the women to have a say in their choice of groom.’

‘It’s only a bride, Jarl.’ Aevir shrugged. ‘What does it matter if she approves or even if I approve of her? Isn’t it merely an arrangement for loyalty and coin?’

Rolfe and Vidar exchanged knowing glances. They’d had a very similar conversation when it was Vidar arriving to wed Lady Gwendolyn. Vidar had been of a similar opinion.

‘The girl must approve of her groom,’ Vidar said again and, like lightning drawn to the highest point on a plain, Rolfe found Elswyth again with his eyes.

He tried to see her through the eyes he’d had the night before. Eyes that hadn’t known her parentage. The belt around her waist emphasised her lean figure, and the curve of her hips. She was soft in all the places a woman should be soft. The blush on her face last night when she’d gazed upon his nudity confirmed her interest in him as a man. If she was a spy, perhaps he’d have better success seducing the admission out of her.

Once realised, the thought took up residence in his head and refused to leave. As arousing as the idea of having her beneath him was, the task left a bitter taste. If she were a spy for her father, then it would confirm Godric’s intention. And Rolfe would have lost the only woman to challenge him in a long time.

She let another arrow fly and this time hit the target dead centre. Despite himself, pride swelled in his chest. It was unreasonable that he should feel anything for her already, but there it was. He told himself it was lingering affection for the woman who had tended him last night, the woman who had sparked his interest before he’d learned her true identity. The wind tugged at the hair in her loose braid, sending a few dark strands to fly free across her face. It was actually a very lovely face, with soft lips and gently sculpted cheekbones. When she brushed the strands back, she looked up and caught him watching her, but the distance was too great for him to discern her thoughts.

Lady Gwendolyn had walked back to the sisters and started working with the other, drawing Elswyth’s attention. Free from her stare, he caught Aevir watching the sisters. ‘Leave her be, Aevir.’

‘I rather like looking at the pair of them.’ His friend grinned.

‘They haven’t the land or the riches you desire.’

Aevir stared at him in shock. ‘You’re declaring yourself already, man?’

Rolfe shrugged. ‘Nay.’ The word sounded weak. He had enough riches from his years of fighting at Vidar’s side to see him well into his old age and he didn’t particularly need or want lands. For whatever reason, he’d liked Elswyth last night before he’d found out who her father was. If she was here with honourable intentions instead of as an emissary for her father and he had no choice but to wed...why not let it be to her?

‘Let’s not quibble over women,’ Vidar said. ‘There are more than enough to go around. Besides, Aevir, I need you to go north. Watch Banford. Our skirmish with the Scots is bound to have an effect. If Banford is co-operating with them, they’ll be communicating now.’

‘I can go,’ Rolfe offered. He felt responsible for the situation and he would see it through.

‘Nay, stay and recover. Right now we’re only watching. You need to be well for the fight, if there is one,’ said Vidar.

Aevir nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘You’ll leave tomorrow. We’ll talk more tonight.’

Aevir agreed and then left them to finish sparring with some of his warriors.

Vidar chuckled when they were alone. ‘It’s good that you want her. I only hope she feels the same.’

Regret twisted inside him. He liked her well enough, aye, but why did she have to come from Banford? Some men married and were able to keep their hearts out of it. Rolfe didn’t think he was one of those men. A few moments with Elswyth last night had already touched him far too deeply. Rolfe knew himself well enough to know that if he allowed himself to become infatuated with her, then his judgement could be compromised. If it had happened with Hilde, it could happen again. ‘Do you not suspect her of being a spy?’

Vidar was quiet as he pondered that for a moment. ‘Until last night she had barely deigned to speak to a Dane—aside from me—the entire time she’s been here. It seems her father’s attitudes have indeed been ingrained in the girl. I pondered early on in her visit that he’d sent her to poison us with the meals she helped prepare and was gratified when that didn’t come to pass.’ Then he shrugged as if her being a spy was nothing. ‘Let her tell him of our warriors and our power. Perhaps the information will spur him to our side.’

‘I would find out the truth of her intentions before marrying her.’

Vidar was quiet for a moment before finally nodding. ‘How would you do that?’

Rolfe hardly thought Vidar would agree to seduction. Elswyth was his wife’s relation and under his guardianship, spy or not. ‘I’ll ingratiate myself to her...see if I can get her to open up to me.’

‘She’d hardly be a good spy if a little kindness gets her to spill her secrets,’ Vidar said as if he suspected Rolfe’s plan.

‘She’s a farm girl. She’ll hardly be experienced enough in spying to mislead me.’

‘And if she’s innocent?’ Vidar’s voice was even and quiet.

Rolfe paused, nearly choking on the words he was about to say. ‘Then I’ll marry her. But if she’s not, then we have proof of Godric’s treachery.’

‘It’s a solid plan.’

‘I’ll have your word that she’ll be mine and you won’t offer her to Aevir.’

Vidar grinned. ‘She will be yours, though you’ll have a fight on your hands if she ever finds out about your actions in Banford.’

Vidar was right. If her loyalty to her family and village was even half as fierce as Rolfe suspected, then she would hate him for what he had done. ‘Then we have no choice but to make certain she never finds out.’

Chapter Four

Notch the arrow. Pull back. Focus on the target. Let it fly.

It was a ritual that quieted Elswyth’s mind and one that she’d come to appreciate. It allowed her to ignore the very real possibility that, with threats from the Scots and possibly the Danes, she’d have to use her newly acquired archery skills in the near future. Lady Gwendolyn and Ellan had moved farther down the field to work on her sister’s aim, leaving Elswyth to her ritual. Ellan was enthusiastic, but lacked the interest required for hours of daily practice. Elswyth, on the other hand, loved losing herself in the steady rhythm of repetitive training.

She wasn’t surprised that Rolfe came to a stop near her after the women had drifted away. He’d been watching her from across the field for nearly the entire practice. Her traitorous arm trembled at his nearness, forcing her to take in a deep breath to steady herself. He had a large presence and it wasn’t simply due to his size, though that alone would have been intimidating. There was something about him that announced his arrival without him even having to say a word, as if he commanded the very air around him the way he commanded his men.

She let the arrow fly and it landed just to the left of the centre of her target. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good. She had placed the sack fifty paces out, so she’d count it as her furthest success so far. ‘Good morning, Dane.’

‘Saxon.’ She didn’t look at him, but the smile was evident in his voice. ‘You’re very good. How long have you been an archer?’

The next arrow made a soft whooshing sound as she drew it out of the quiver on her back. She took her time notching it, letting her thumb brush over the roughly carved wood as she pondered his question. It was simple enough to answer, but she couldn’t help but wonder why he was asking. Did he suspect something of her? What exactly did he want with her? Had she imagined the way he’d talked with her last night had been a sign of something more than benign friendship he was offering? Was she even capable of leading him down that path in the hopes of gathering more information from him? She wanted desperately to prove her loyalty to her father, but she wasn’t very good at artifice.

Last night Rolfe hadn’t come out and said anything inappropriate. If anything, she was the inappropriate one. But there had seemed to be something more. Even across the field this morning, when he’d looked at her, there had been an intensity there that hinted at an interest that was more than friendship.

Why her? Pulling the arrow back, she let it fly to land in the sack, but still outside the target. Evidence of how he unsettled her.

Dropping her arm, she finally turned to look at him. He was dressed casually today in trousers with a simple tunic, leaving his muscled arms revealed even though the morning air was quite brisk. His dark blond hair was pulled up again in the barbaric style he’d worn yesterday with ropes of it pulled back from his face and secured at the crown of his head. The dimple in his cheek shone when he smiled at her and it nearly hurt to look at it. How could a man so potentially dangerous to her family appear so attractively virile? The ever-present knot of unease tightened in her belly. ‘I’ve been practising archery only since Ellan and I arrived in Alvey.’

He raised his chin a notch and gave her an approving nod. ‘You’re a quick learner.’

He said it as if the trait met with his approval and that approval filled her with pride. Instead of commenting on his statement and facing that emotion, she asked, ‘How is your shoulder?’

Part of her had wondered in anticipation if Lady Gwendolyn would direct her to tend to him again that morning, while another part of her had been busy coming up with a bevy of excuses that would get her out of the task. In the end it hadn’t mattered, she’d left the little alcove she shared with Ellan at the same time a serving girl had emerged from his chamber. The white hot flair of jealousy she’d experienced had been quickly extinguished and tucked out of sight. What did it matter to her if someone else tended him? It particularly did not matter that the girl had emerged with mussed hair, making Elswyth wonder exactly how long she’d stayed in Rolfe’s chamber and to which part of him she had attended.

‘It’s sore but improved.’ His honesty impressed her. Most men she knew would not admit to any ailment. Her older brother Galan had once walked on a broken foot for three whole days before it had swollen so large that his shoe had to be cut off. Only then had he admitted he ‘might have twisted it a bit’.

‘Is there any inflammation? Heat?’

He gave a quick shake of his head. ‘Not any more than there was, but I’m nearly out of the salve you left. Can you can bring more tonight?’

She stared at him, weighing the risks of agreeing to help him again. There was no denying the fact that helping him would give her a chance to gather information for Father, but her sense of self-preservation warned her away from him. He unsettled her, making her feel interest when she shouldn’t. Yet, she understood that to refuse would rouse suspicion, so she nodded and said, ‘I’ll prepare more for you.’

‘Do you wield the axe as well as you do the bow?’ The abrupt change in topic startled her, prompting him to nod towards her hip where her axe was secured.

‘Better. I’ve been using it for years.’

‘Would you show me?’ He gestured towards the piles of wood a bit farther down the field past where Ellan and Lady Gwendolyn were practising.

‘Do you not know how to use one, Dane?’

Through his close-cropped beard she could see the dimple in his cheek when he smiled and shook his head. ‘The sword is my weapon. I can swing an axe in battle, but I can see how a smaller one for throwing could be useful.’

No man had ever asked her to show him how to do anything before. At the farm, she and Ellan ran the household and helped with the animals when it was needed. No one asked them for advice or sought them out, though that hardly deterred her from offering her opinion on matters when she saw that it would be beneficial. Still, she couldn’t stop the pleasure that welled in her chest that this warrior would ask her for a demonstration. Unable to find her voice, she nodded and set down her bow before unstrapping the quiver of arrows from her back. When she was finished, he stepped back to let her lead him farther afield.

Finding a nice, round stump, she rolled it to a clearing farther away from the practising warriors and set it in place upright. Satisfied with its position, she walked back to him and withdrew the axe from her belt. ‘As with your sword, I imagine, the trick is to keep your blade well tended. It need not be so sharp that it nicks your clothing, but it shouldn’t be dull.’

‘Do you sharpen your own blades?’ He took the axe from her and held it up, running the pad of his thumb across the edge of the blade.

‘Aye, it was necessary at home. Father didn’t approve of my use of it so forbade anyone to help me. Of course, here the blacksmith has been kind enough to see to the task.’

Grinning, he handed it back to her handle first. ‘But you didn’t let your father’s disapproval stop you.’

‘Nay, of course not.’ In some ways his censure had spurned her onwards. Her father was a difficult man, equal parts kind and stubborn. After her mother’s abandonment, he had seemed to look upon both her and Ellan with suspicion, as if they were somehow waiting to betray the family as well. That suspicion drove her now to prove to him that she could be relied upon. Growing up, it had meant that she had been forced to grab at her every freedom. Fortunately, he’d allowed her to keep them once she’d wrested them away.

‘I can tell you’re related to Lady Gwendolyn. Independence must run in your line.’ He said it with pleasure, as if it was something to be celebrated instead of criticised. An opinion in direct opposition to her father’s...and most of the men in her life, now that she thought about it. Lord Vidar was the only man she’d known to tolerate his wife’s eccentricities as he had.

Still, for all the delight it gave her, it made her feel rather like a horse. Her attributes weighed and measured against the line of her ancestors. ‘Does independence run in your line as well, Dane?’

He laughed, a deep and rich sound that was entirely more pleasing than it should have been. ‘You could say that. I have four older sisters, each one more independent than the next.’

She tried to imagine a young Rolfe with four older sisters badgering him about, but she couldn’t do it even though she liked the idea of it. She could only see him as the powerful man that he was. Every man in a position of power over women needed at least one woman in his life to answer to.

Instead of responding, she gripped the axe by the handle and held it high over her head. Aiming for the centre of the stump, she let it go, hitting her mark dead on with a smooth popping sound as the tip of the blade embedded itself in the wood.

‘That’s good. Do it two more times and we’ll call it skill and not luck.’

He was teasing her, and she couldn’t help but laugh. Twice more would be no trouble at all. She had been throwing axes since she was a child. Retrieving it, she went on to show him two more times how accurate she was. Each throw landed within a finger width of the one before.

‘Now you try.’ She grinned as she walked back to him, holding the axe out. ‘Let’s see how lucky you are.’

‘The difference, Saxon, is that I never claimed to be skilled.’

‘Now you’re retreating? Interesting. I took you for a man of courage.’

He chuckled and took it from her, his fingertips grazing her palm and making goosebumps move up her arm. Only when she stepped back to give him space to throw did she realise that they had drawn a small crowd. Being with him had made her forget everyone else and she would have sworn it was the same with him. He didn’t seem to care that his warriors watched them. In fact, he only seemed to have eyes for her. When she spoke his gaze never strayed from her face and, every time she’d thrown the axe or shot an arrow, she had felt his study of her. Being the centre of his attention was a heady thing, but no matter how important or valued he made her feel, she must remember that he was the man who would be sent to destroy her family if the need arose.

He finally looked away from her to study the stump, bringing the axe up to gauge the distance. She worried that he wouldn’t get leverage without the use of his left arm for balance, but when he threw it the axe sailed through the air, easily reaching the stump. He probably could’ve thrown it much farther. It sliced into the wood deeply, landing roughly a hand’s width below the gouges she had left.

‘Not bad,’ she said as he walked to retrieve the axe, and she couldn’t stop her treacherous gaze from roaming down his backside when he bent over to pull it out of the stump. The sight of his nude body, muscled and unquestionably masculine, was still vivid in her mind. A tiny flicker of awareness joined the tension in her belly. It gave her pause, because she’d never felt that for a Saxon man.

Had she been secretly harbouring a core of wickedness like her mother all this time? Last night she’d been able to assuage her guilt by convincing herself that her feelings had been a natural result of seeing her first nude male body. But that wasn’t precisely true, she realised now. It was him. The Dane clearly made her feel wicked things.

His next throw was a bit wide, barely clipping the stump on its right side. His third attempt was true and hit where her first blade had touched to the cheers of the small group of warriors watching them. He gave a simple nod of acknowledgement to them.

‘You’re very good for someone who doesn’t know how to throw an axe.’ Honestly, she would have been amazed had he been terrible. The man was probably good at everything he tried.

‘Not as good as you,’ he said, bringing the axe back to her.

‘Nothing a little practice won’t cure.’

Holding it out for her, handle side out, he said, ‘You’ve mastered the axe. You’re progressing at archery. How would you like to try learning the sword? Or am I wrong and you mastered the blade as a child?’

She smiled at his question and shook her head, taking the axe to affix it to her belt. ‘I’ve never held a blade. My father forbade it and a sword was too costly for me to acquire on my own.’

‘Do you want to learn?’ He asked it as if it were a simple thing.

‘From you?’ Why did her heart pounce in anticipation?

He nodded. ‘Unless you’re afraid of disobeying your father.’ There was a challenge in his eyes as he said that. ‘But you never let that stop you before, have you?’

Actually, she had let that stop her. Since her mother left, she’d been doing everything she could to prove to her father that she wasn’t like the woman. That meant that, aside from a few indiscretions such as the axe, she had done everything to find his favour. Father would not want her spending time with this man, yet she was very tempted to accept the offer.

Rolfe’s voice had been pitched too low to be overheard, but she still took a look around to make sure. Lady Gwendolyn casually glanced over at them from where she was still instructing Ellan, curiosity burning in her features. The warriors, assuming correctly that the entertainment was over, were slowly going back to their own sparring. That more than anything decided her. She couldn’t bear their audience as she practised. Slowly shaking her head, she said, ‘I cannot. I’m afraid that my pride couldn’t bear the scrutiny of an audience.’

‘There’s a clearing to the south. It’s not far from the walls of Alvey, but far enough for privacy. I could teach you there in the mornings.’

He spoke so earnestly that she almost forgot to be suspicious. Almost. ‘Why would you teach me?’

He took in a breath, his chest expanding with the effort as he thought over his answer. ‘Because you want to learn and I can see that no one else will teach you.’ She didn’t know what she had expected from him, but it wasn’t that.

She did want to learn. Every day at home felt like a threat with the Scots and the Danes on each side. The more she learned the better chance she had of protecting herself and her younger siblings. Of course, she also had purely selfish reasons. She was good at learning how to fight. She liked the training. ‘What would be the point if I’m to leave in a fortnight?’

‘You’re right. It’s not nearly long enough to master the skill, but it’s enough to give you basic knowledge.’ He paused, but she sensed that he wasn’t finished. ‘Although I understand if you’re too afraid.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ she said before she realised that he’d baited her.

Grinning, he said, ‘Then I’ll see you in the morning.’ He walked away and she was curious enough about him and what the morning would bring that she let him go without arguing. One morning with him wouldn’t change anything.

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