Authors: Samantha Holt
Heart of a Viking (17 page)
“I choose you,” she whispered against his mouth. “Always you.”
Keita released a scream when a strong arm wrapped around her. She knew instantly who it was but her heart raced nonetheless. She let Thorarin burrow his head into the side of her neck before muttering her annoyance.
“You startled me.”
“I could tell,” he murmured in her ear. “You looked peaceful, though.”
“I was.”
She looked out at the sea that separated their island from the land of the Picts. It wasn’t much ocean but it was enough to feel as though they were far from the world that had abandoned her. Here on the isle of Orkney, they had created their own life. Though settled by Norsemen, there were many Pictish, English and Scots women here too. This was not Viking land, nor was it anything else. They had their own world here and it was peaceful and pleasant.
“What were you thinking?” He swept aside her hair and kissed her neck.
To feel his lips on her skin there never failed to send a tingle through her. Even though she had not worn a slave collar for nearly four seasons, the sensation of his mouth on her skin still felt new.
The marks on her neck may never fade but she didn’t mind. It was simply a reminder of how precious life was. Once she had been a product to be bought and sold. Thanks to the determination of her husband, she had been freed from that. Now she would follow his determination and make a wonderful life for them.
“Keita?” Thorarin prompted and she realised she had not yet answered him.
“About how lucky I am. If my father had never given me away, I would not have met you. I’d likely be married to a stranger by now.”
“Instead you are married to a Viking.” His tone was teasing.
“Aye, that I am.”
He moved his hands down to cup her rounded belly and they waited for the inevitable kick or wriggle. The babe had been particularly active while she’d been on the beach. It seemed while its mother collected shells for her artwork, the child wanted to ensure the task was not too relaxing.
Keita curled her bare feet into the sand and rested her head back against her husband’s shoulder. She drew in several sea-scented lungfuls of air and savoured the feel of his strong arms about her before twisting in his arms and gazing up into eyes that no longer reminded her of her old home. Nay, because here was home. In his arms, looking into his eyes. Nowhere else did she ever feel as rooted.
“You are
hjartað mitt
,” he murmured, sweeping a kiss across her lips.
Keita smiled and considered the soft endearment, one that would always make her heart stretch with contentment. “And you are mine.”
A breeze whipped across the beach, kicking up a light whirl of sand. Thorarin wrapped his arms about her and protected her from the small particles. She took the protection he offered, burrowing her face into his chest. Here was a man who would lay down his life for her and their child and she knew she’d do the same for him.
He drew back and fingered the amber necklace. She glanced down at it. The slowly dropping sun caught on the gem and set it alight so that it glowed against her skin. She could not help thinking of it as a blessing upon them, as though her mother was somehow sending her a message. Not that she needed it. She knew well enough this man was perfect for her.
Keita came up on tiptoes and kissed him. He might call himself a Viking. But to her, he was so much more.
THE END
Old Norse Words
Hjartað mitt – my heart
Ambatt – female slave
Thrall – slave
Ӧ
ll – ale
Jarl – Earl
Alþing – governmental assembly
Read on for a free bonus Viking novella ALREK
Other Titles by Samantha Holt
To Steal a Highlander’s Heart (Book 1 of the Highland Fae Chronicles)
How to Marry a Rake in Ten Days
About the Author
Samantha lives in a small village in England with her twin girls and a Dachshund called Duke. She has been writing for a living for over three years now and enjoys being able to use it as an excuse to wear pyjamas during the day. While the heroes in her books are very much fictional, she likes to draw inspiration from the history around her. Living near several wonderful castles, she can never fail to be inspired.
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Copyright 2014 ©Samantha Holt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
875 Cait, Pictland
Skirts bunched in one hand, Ilisa’s feet sank into the sand as she made her way onto the beach. Crisp, salt-ripened air breezed over her. She peered out to sea and observed the rolling waves with their white tips. They surged endlessly around the sharp grey rocks, undaunted by the rugged coastline. Drawing in a deep breath, Ilisa studied the empty horizon once more and shook her head. Anticipation thread through her—a sense of
something
hung in the fresh gusts of wind.
With the sun glinting on the sea and white clouds dotting the sky, she couldn’t decide what could possibly make her imagine such a thing. The day looked to be truly beautiful. One with no threat of storms or rain—a welcome change from recent weather. She had spent too much time holed up in her leaking cottage, praying for the roof to survive the weather.
But the storms had passed and now she could enjoy a little sunshine and fresh air. Ilisa smiled to herself and began to sing as she walked. Her voice carried in the wind but it didn’t bother her. There was no one else to hear it. Another reason she enjoyed her solitude. There was no one to scold her for singing constantly as her mother always had.
She followed the beach around the headland. Here the sand gave way to more rocks and sharp cliffs loomed over her. She tugged off her slippers and placed them on a boulder before wading through the shallow surf to follow the jagged rocks, icy water pricking her feet. Ahead the rock she had secretly named the Devil’s Doorway curved out of the water. Almost perfectly arched in shape, on gloomy days the opening looked sinister, but today it tempted and beckoned. Under the midday sun, the sea on the other side appeared more blue and the land more fruitful. Ilisa had never been brave enough to walk through it. The sea was deeper there. Waves rolled around the base of the arch like great sea monsters. To go through would surely mean death.
Water sloshed over her feet, dragging her skirts into the sea and reminding her that her position next to the rocks was not so secure either. One heavy wave and she could be thrown against the sharp points. But here was where the best driftwood gathered. With few trees around, she needed it for firewood before the storms hit again—and they always did. Otherwise she would have to visit the village and barter for some. Ilisa shuddered, and not from the cold water, but from the idea of seeing Galan again. A trip to the village would be in store soon but she refused to go any sooner than necessary.
Her grin widened when she spotted some driftwood tangled in a bunch of seaweed ahead. That would do nicely. Hand to the slippery stone, she edged her way over. Grasping the pale wood, she shook her head. Another boat lost by the looks of it. Planks littered the rocks ahead—enough to keep her cottage warm for a long time. Unfortunately she couldn’t carry it all so it would take several trips. First she would deposit what she had on the beach and come back for—
She scowled. In amongst the debris, a swatch of red fabric caught her eye. A sail perhaps. She could make use of that. Ilisa snatched it and gasped. The fabric belonged to a man. She released the garment with a cry and put a hand to her chest to still her hammering heart. Swallowing, she pushed aside the wood and seaweed tangling around him like a sea monster’s tentacles and grabbed his shirt once more.
Facing upward, his skin looked pale. The rocks and weeds had prevented him from sinking or rolling onto his front. He could be alive, she concluded, but his appearance prevented her from doing anything other than foolishly gripping his shirt so he did not wash away. His long hair, strong features and manner of dress led her to believe one thing. This man was a Viking.
A raping, pillaging, murderous Viking.
Bitterness rose in her throat and she uncurled her fingers, releasing him. She should be glad his boat had sunk. No less than he deserved. And now she had firewood to keep her warm for many sennights. That was justice, surely? She turned, her wet skirts dragging heavily in protest, as if begging her to go back to him. Ilisa swallowed the knot of guilt and drew her shoulders straight, wood clutched to her chest. She owed nothing to a
Viking
.
For too long they had plagued their shores, taking people and belongings. With the Orkney and Shetland islands not far away, the land of Cait suffered the wrath of them with great frequency. The Viking pirates frequented the islands regularly. This Viking didn’t deserve her pity. They had never shown her people any.
A hand brushed her skirts and she whirled around. He remained knocked senseless. The waves had nudged him closer to her.
“Curses!”
With a shake of her head, she threw the wood down onto the nearby rocks and snatched the man’s tunic. Though not deep, the few feet of water she stood in helped her drag him back to the beach. The wash threatened to tear him out of her grip several times but he was not as heavy as she’d anticipated. That was until she reached where the sand sloped up from the sea. When his body met the bottom of the ocean, she had to grit her teeth and use both hands to tug him fully out of the water.
“He’s only going to kill you, Ilisa,” she counselled herself as she flopped down next to him.
The fair haired man showed no signs of stirring so she took a moment to study him properly. Tentatively reaching over, she swept aside the wet strands of long hair and gasped as she got a proper view of his features. A more beautiful man she had never seen. She snapped her hands back and traced his profile with her gaze. A long, strong nose and angular jaw gave the impression of great strength yet his relaxed lips and closed lids leant him a softer look. Ilisa laughed aloud. Vikings weren’t soft. He’d probably run a blade through her for saying as much without a second thought.
He didn’t have one did he? She shuffled onto her knees, wincing at the feel of cold, wet wool against her skin. She lifted the folds of his garments but saw no blade. His large hands and wide shoulders should have been enough to scare her anyway. What was she thinking? He didn’t need a blade to harm her. From the look of his arms—which were surely as wide as tree trunks, she mused—he could snap her in two with little effort. His height gave him an advantage too. Vikings were notoriously large but even lying down, this one appeared taller than most.
Drawing on her courage, she plucked at a pendant from around his neck. She turned the disc over in her hands but it gave her no clues as to his identity or where he came from. But what more did she need to know? He was a Viking. She really should just leave him. A touch of red amongst his hair caught her eye and she parted the damp strands and the small braids threaded into it to see a gash on his scalp. It was not large but she knew from experience a lot of blood could be lost from head wounds. He had likely struck his head on the rocks.
Ilisa licked her lips and considered him for a few moments more. Ear to his mouth, she gazed down the long length of him and spied the tiniest movement of his chest. Still alive then. The faintest puff of breath against her ear sent shivers from her and she bolted upright. Looking to the heavens, she muttered a prayer and snatched the man’s shirt again. God protect her from what might happen should he wake up.
***
Water crashed over him. Wood splintered. Rocks beckoned like sirens. Thor and Aegir were not happy with them. Thor had unleashed his wrath on the skies and the sea god had sunk their ship. Maybe they had been too greedy. Whatever they had done wrong, the gods intended to kill them. Several of the men couldn’t swim. They would die first. Alrek tried to swim over to Gardarr but to no avail. The waves were too strong, even for him and they were separated. The last thing he saw was Gardarr’s flailing arms as the splintering hull of their ship loomed over him. Thor wanted Alrek’s death. If only it had been a warrior’s death. He had never pictured a watery grave. He’d intended to go down with a blade in his hand and reach the halls of Valhalla.
More water. He spluttered and tried to fight the pull of the waves but they grasped around his wrists, as if they really were sirens, tugging him to his doom. A face floated in front of his vision and a soft song reached his ears. He didn’t recognise the words. Perhaps it was a siren after all. Alrek tried to turn away but the voice was too beautiful, the features too enchanting. He relaxed and let her take him.
A sharp sting to the back of his head made him cry out. What manner of siren was this? Was she intending to feast on him as some said they did? He jerked his head but her grip was too strong. More stinging pain.
“
Bi clos
.”
He scowled. Drips trickled down his neck but the waves had gone. He forced his eyes fully open. In the place of the leaden clouds was a straw roof. And beneath him was no bed of sand, but a straw pallet. And the siren…? Alrek twisted to view the singing siren. Surrounded by a halo of sunlight as it dappled in through the eaves of the roof, the red haired woman dabbed a cloth in a bowl before leaning over. He eyed the hint of breasts above her dark blue gown and coughed. Was this Valhalla? He had pictured it being a little more… grand. But he had never seen a woman so enchanting.
She dabbed his head and he hissed. “Cease, woman.”
Her pale blue eyes widened and she stopped singing. He missed the sound immediately. Her voice matched her looks, soft, with a hidden strength. Her tightly pursed lips and high cheekbones hinted at a wilful temperament though why he thought that, he did not know. Then, as if he hadn’t spoken, she began singing once more and began dabbing at the painful spot on his head. Though his ears had to be full of water, he made out several words and realised she was singing in the language of the Gaels.
Alrek bolted upright, only for his wrists to jar and he slumped back down. He peered from side to side and realised his wrists were bound to the wooden frame of the bed with coarse rope. He released a growl and kicked out with his legs. The woman dropped the bowl and jumped back, knocking over the wooden chair on which she had been sat. She snatched a sword that had been propped against the wall and thrust it out. He eyed the shaking blade and rolled his eyes. It had to be her husband’s or father’s for it was too large for her. Even if she managed to swing it, he doubted she’d have enough strength behind it to do any damage.
But her curvaceous body shook and he saw her throat work. He opened his palms in surrender and made a show of relaxing. “I will not hurt you.”
She kept the blade pointed at him and narrowed her eyes. “Of course you will not. You are tied up.”
Though tempted to point out it would be easy enough to snap the frame of the bed, he managed to suppress a response.
“You speak my language?”
“Aye. Where am I?” He sighed. “Pray, lower the blade, lady. As you said, I can do you no harm.”
Those sweet lips pursed further, practically begged for someone’s lips to press against them—his lips ideally. By the gods, it must have been too long since he’d bedded a woman. His head panged and his limbs were heavy. He was in no condition for tumbling a woman, let alone one who was clearly scared of him.
The shaking steel lowered and she rested it carefully against the wall. He tried not to smirk at her sigh of relief as she released the heavy blade.
“You’re in Cait in Pictland.”
“In your home?”
“Aye.”
“How did I come to be here?”
She inched forwards and righted the chair before taking up her place at his bedside. She snatched the damp cloth from the upturned bowl and wrinkled her nose. “You have taken quite a hit to the head. I found you in the rocks, near the Devil’s Door.”
“Devil’s door?”
Her cheeks flushed a tempting pink colour. His fingers itched to smooth over the gentle roundness of them. Maybe it was a good thing his wrists were bound.
“The arch in the rock.” She sketched a shape with her finger and her blush deepened.
“Ah I recall. Our ship foundered not far from the coast. We had hoped to make it to shore. Did you… did you see any other men there?”
“Nay, just you.”
He nodded slowly, allowing his lids to drop briefly in despair, before focusing on the woman. “Will you not release me? I swear to the gods I will not harm you.”
“Those are your gods. I would not trust them anymore than I would you.”
“What is your name?”
“I will not—what?” She blinked at him, long red lashes dashing over her cheeks enchantingly.
“Your name? I am Alrek the Bold.”
She snorted. “Well I did not expect you to be Alrek the Coward.” She shook her head. “I am Ilisa.”
“Ilisa.” He experimented with her foreign name and savoured it. He imagined calling it as he parted her thighs and lost himself in her. Alrek shook his head. For all he knew she was an innocent, though she appeared to be at least one and twenty, if not older, so she was surely married. Either way, he would not be parting her thighs. And certainly not while he was tied up.
“It seems I owe you my thanks, Ilisa. You saved me.”
“I have still to clean your head wound. You will not be thanking me then.”
“Leave it, it will mend.”
Ilisa leaned forwards and parted his hair. He flinched but not from pain. Her fingers seemed to scald him. Hot need rushed straight to his groin and he had to bite back a groan. This woman with her flaming hair, soft cheeks and curves was surely worse than a siren. Perhaps the gods were testing him, sending her to tempt him—to see if he could be a better man. Well, he would rise to their challenge. He vowed to prove to Ilisa he meant her no harm and intended to show her his thanks however he could.