Enthralled: Viking Lore, Book 1 (19 page)

Light and darkness
swirled together. Voices swam around him and he saw figures, but they were
drowned out by searing, white-hot pain.

He saw his father. He
was younger, the way he remembered him as a boy, before the terrible,
mysterious accident that had taken him away. Arud the Steady’s eyes were bright
and laughing, his hair as golden as the midsummer sun.

“You think hiding will
solve your problems?”

Eirik had lost his
shield long ago, and his wooden practice sword had just split in two. He’d
bolted behind the longhouse to evade his father’s wooden sword.

“You can come out and
face your fate like a man, or you can hide back there,” his father called,
laughter in his voice. “Either way, the gods will see you.”

Eirik clenched his
small fists. His father stood nearly twice as tall as him, but Eirik had begged
him not to go easy on him in this practice match. And now here he was cowering
because he’d lost his sword and shield, which had been nigh useless in his thin
arms anyway.

He pulled himself to
his feet behind the longhouse where his father ruled as Jarl of Dalgaard.
Stepping around the corner, he faced Arud.

Arud gave him a little
nod of respect, a smile playing around his mouth. Then he motioned Eirik
forward with the tip of his practice sword.

Eirik strode back to
the site of their mock battle, but on the way he snatched up one half of his
splintered sword. With a vicious battle cry, he sprang at his father.

Arud easily sidestepped
and blocked, but Eirik launched another attack, then another.

“Good,” his father said
as he worked backward, deflecting and evading Eirik’s attacks. But then he
bound Eirik’s half-sword, twisting it so that the wooden hilt flew out of his
hands.

Eirik was once again
weaponless and squaring off against his far superior opponent.

“What now?” Arud asked
calmly. He lifted his practice sword over his head to deal what would be a
death blow in a real battle.

Without thinking, Eirik
threw himself forward in a low tumble. He rolled right through his father’s
spread legs to pop up behind him. He gave a swift kick to the back of his
father’s knees, causing his legs to crumple. Arud fell forward, landing in a
heap. The wooden sword slipped from his grip to spin in the dirt. Arud quickly
rolled over, but by the time he was face-up on his back, Eirik had the practice
sword in his hand and poised over his father’s neck.

“Never give up,” his
father panted, his face breaking into a wide smile. “Whatever you do, just
remember—keep fighting. You are destined for great things, my son.”

Suddenly the familiar
scent of juniper berry soap surrounded him, and his father’s smiling face began
to fade. He inhaled
,
and an image of Laurel’s
beautiful features floated before his eyes. Her dark hair framed her delicate
face, the cream-colored skin flawless and softer than down. Her depthless eyes
were close enough to see the little flecks of gold that sparkled in them. Her
brows were pulled together in concern, and he tried to tell her not to worry.
Those soft, rosy lips were moving, but he couldn’t understand what she was
saying.

He attempted to lift
his hand to brush along her cheek, but fiery pain shot through his arm. He
groaned and blinked, more of the hazy fog clearing from his mind.

“Madrena! Alaric!”
Laurel was shouting to his friends, but she never took those dark eyes from
him.

Light exploded around
them, and he squinted against the painful brightness. Then he heard both
Madrena and Alaric thank the gods. Their faces appeared over him, next to
Laurel’s
,
and he looked between the three of
them. Why was everyone acting so strange? And why couldn’t he move his left
arm?

He tried to sit up but
only made it halfway before three sets of hands pushed him back down. Even if
they hadn’t, his head had spun so violently that he would have fallen backward
anyway. He opened his mouth to speak and instead spiraled into a dry coughing
fit. Each jerk of his body sent blazing pain through his left arm and right
leg.

Laurel held a cup to
his lips and he drank several sips of cool water. “What happened?” he finally
managed to croak.

“The village was attacked.
You were hit by two arrows,” Alaric said.

Eirik tried to sit up
again and managed to get to his elbows. “I must get to the battle then. Why are
you and Madrena here and not fighting?”

Madrena gave him a
strange look. “You’ve been unconscious for nigh five days, Eirik,” she said. “A
fever took you, and we all feared you wouldn’t pull through.”

Eirik exhaled. “Five
days?”

Laurel nodded. Was his
sight deceiving him, or were her eyes shimmering with emotion?

“And the village?”

“Safe and still mostly intact,
thanks to Laurel,” Alaric replied.

Eirik tilted his head
to look at her more fully. “What does that mean?”

“I hid you in the
underbrush after you were shot,” she said, her eyes locked with his. “Then I
ran into the village and raised the alarm.”

“She can’t wield a
weapon to save her life, but she’s braver than most warriors I know,” Madrena
said with a wry smile.

His heart twisted in a
not entirely painful way at the revelation of Laurel’s bravery. His most recent
memories began drifting back to him. He’d been running to the village to alert
them of an attack from three approaching longships when he’d been shot. Before
that, he’d shared the bed he now lay in with Laurel, touching and tasting and
leaving so much more pleasure to be savored. Because he’d asked her to marry
him.

He exhaled again and
slumped back on the bed, allowing the three of them to fuss over him. Alaric
moved to stoke the fire while Madrena fetched more water and Laurel pressed a
cool cloth to his brow.

She was still his
thrall. Gunvald was still going to sell her in—it couldn’t be more than a few
sennights now. And he’d wanted to protect her, to secure her freedom through a
marriage to him.

But nei, it was more
than that. He wasn’t simply acting honorably for her benefit, nor was he merely
proposing marriage as a way to sidestep his uncle’s authority as Jarl.

He looked up into
Laurel’s beautiful face. He raised his good arm and ran his thumb along the
little crease between her delicately arched brows. He would die for this woman.
But he wanted naught more than to live for her.

“You never answered
me,” he said low enough for her ears only.

“What?”

“You never answered me
when I asked if you would marry me.”

Her eyes widened and he
feared he would drown in their dark depths.

“Aye,” she breathed.

Now it was his turn to
stare wide-eyed at her. He’d expected her to discuss it with him, to ask to
think it over. But judging from the welling tears in her eyes and the small
smile that was beginning to part those full, soft lips, she’d done enough
thinking already. She was sure—he could see it in those dark, shimmering pools.

He cupped one of her
downy-soft cheeks and pulled her gently toward him. As her lips brushed his, he
felt a surge of pure energy jolt through him. How could he have fought this for
so long? The lust between them was undeniable. But that lust had deepened to
something much more. He admired her strength, respected her willingness to work
hard, and was in awe of her quick mind.

He parted his lips
slightly and deepened their kiss. His tongue caressed hers slowly, savoring the
feeling of life coursing through his veins once more. Was it possible? Did he
love Laurel?

He’d never used the
word for his encounters with other women. Those times were always enjoyable,
comforting even, but not based on deeper emotion. Of course he loved his
father, Alaric and Madrena, the gods—but this utlending woman, his thrall by
law?

He shifted his hand to
the nape of her neck, letting his fingers slide through her chestnut hair. Her
mouth was so warm and wet, her tongue and lips so soft. She sighed against his
mouth, her scent, of juniper berries and her intoxicating, warm skin,
surrounding him.

He loved her.

Alaric coughed loudly
on the other side of his cottage, shattering their dreamlike moment.

“You should probably
rest, Eirik,” Alaric said. Eirik shot him a dark look over Laurel’s shoulder,
which brought a raised eyebrow and a quirked grin to his friend’s face.

“Madrena,” Eirik said
loudly. “Would you mind opening the chest at the foot of the bed for me?”

Madrena set down the
half-full bucket of water she’d been pouring into the cauldron over the fire.
She gave Eirik a quizzical look as she made her way to the foot of the bed.

“What do you need?”

“At the bottom
,
there is a small package wrapped in cloth.”

Laurel pulled back a
little and searched his face as Madrena dug through the wooden chest.

“This?” Madrena held up
the cloth bundle in one hand.

“Ja. Bring it here.” It
was an effort to keep his face calm, for keen anticipation pounded in his
veins.

Madrena approached the
side of the bed where Laurel
was
perched and
handed him the little bundle. He had to release his hold on Laurel’s nape and
hair to fumble one-handed with the linen wrapping.

As the linen slid away,
the firelight fell on the contents inside.

Madrena gasped as she
looked down at the finely wrought brooch as it emerged from the wrapping. It
was actually more of an elaborate pin, with a circle of gold the size of his
palm and a delicate little lance piercing through it to hold it in place
against
the
cloth. The gold flickered in the
low light from the kitchen fire. The inlaid pieces of amber along the rim of
the circle and in the pin almost glowed.

Alaric strode to the
bedside at Madrena’s inhale. He too took in the sight of the brooch resting in
Eirik’s hand, and his bright green eyes shifted to Laurel, widening.

“Your mother’s brooch…”
Alaric began.

“Then you…you two are
to be…married?” Madrena’s voice was breathless with shock.

His eyes locked on
Madrena and Alaric, waiting for any hint of their reaction beyond simple
surprise. Though their condemnation of the union wouldn’t stop him, they were
the closest thing he had to family—even counting his cousin and uncle. He
longed for their approval.

“That’s…that’s…”
Madrena struggled to speak. Eirik held his breath, watching as her brow
s
knit and tears filled her eyes. “That’s
wonderful
!”

She fell to Laurel’s
side and threw an arm around both of them, careful of Eirik’s left shoulder.
Alaric whooped and slapped his hands together in joy. At their reaction, a
strange weight lifted from Eirik’s chest. He hadn’t realized how much he’d
wanted their support, but to have it now made Laurel’s acceptance of him that
much sweeter.

“Let us share a drink!”
Alaric said as he strode to the small wooden cabinet above the cooking area. He
removed a clay jug that Eirik recognized as the stock of his finest mead.

With a grunt, he
managed to prop himself up to a half-seated position on the bed. He lifted the
brooch and held it out to Laurel.

“This was your mother’s?”
she said quietly as Madrena and Alaric rummaged in the corner for more wooden
cups.

“Ja,” he replied. “I
never knew her, for she died when I was just a babe. But my father gave this to
her when he asked to marry her. He always said that she wore it every day from
then on. It would have been sent with her to the gods when she died, but she
asked my father to keep it until I was ready to pass it on.”

His voice grew thicker
as he spoke. He hadn’t given the brooch much thought in the years that had
passed since his father died and left it in his keeping. Now he sent silent
thanks to both his mother and father for allowing him to give it to Laurel.
This moment was a gift from them and the gods.

She took the brooch
into her small hands and traced it with one finger. “’Tis beautiful,” she
whispered, her voice choked with emotion as well. “I’ll wear it forever.”

She removed the little
pin and held the circle of gold against her chest. Then she threaded the pin
through the material of her dress so that it was securely fastened right over
her heart.

His heart swelled and
his throat grew tight as he gazed at her in the firelight, his family’s brooch
glinting on her chest.

“To Eirik and Laurel,”
Alaric said, two cups in his hands as he halted at the bedside. He handed one
to Laurel. Madrena also bore a cup, but as Eirik reached for it, she swatted
his wrist.

“No mead for you. You
get broth until you recover more of your strength.” She handed him a steaming
bowl that admittedly smelled wonderful.