A battle for power and passion

A skilled archer with the heart of a warrior, Gwendolyn of Alvey has proved herself capable of defending her homeland. But the threat of invasion and her father’s deathbed wish force her to do the unthinkable: wed Vidar, leader of the enemy.

Duty to form an alliance between two powerful clans binds Vidar to Gwendolyn, but desire tempts him to distraction. Her nature is to dominate, but he’s determined to seduce her into submission on the battlefield—and in the bedchamber...

‘With this ring, I accept you as my husband.’

Gwendolyn had neglected to put the ring on her finger, so she moved to rectify that, but Vidar stopped her by covering her hand with his. Gently, he took the ring from her and slid it on her finger. He didn’t say anything, but it felt as if he’d claimed her. Just as his ring claimed her finger, he had claimed her as his.

He moved away, only to turn back with the sword his Jarl Eirik had given him. It was ornate, with two rubies set into the gilded hilt. He held it out to her, lying flat on both of his palms. ‘I am entrusting this into your care, to be given to our firstborn son. May you bear me many.’

She nodded and took the sword from him, handing it off to Rodor. ‘I accept,’ she said, her voice low enough that only Vidar and Rodor were likely to hear her. ‘But we never agreed to children.’

Now that the ceremony was finished he’d relaxed, and he even smiled at her when she said that. ‘I’m looking forward to the challenge, my lady.’

They were well and truly wed now.

Author Note

Vidar’s story brings to a close the books I’ve planned in the Viking Warriors series. I’ve had so much fun exploring the world of Jarl Hegard’s sons, and their journeys to find love in the unforgiving Viking age. Each book has meant so much to me, but I am especially happy to bring Vidar’s story to you.

We first met Vidar in Enslaved by the Viking when he was a young teenager working on his older brother’s ship. We saw him again when he played reluctant nurse to his ailing and grumpy half brother in One Night with the Viking. Now Vidar has shrugged off the weight of his overbearing brothers and has come into his own with his very own love story.

However, his journey is anything but what he wants it to be. He’s been saddled yet again with another responsibility that he doesn’t want: a wife. No longer free to roam the seas, he must take up the responsibility of his wife and her ancestral estate whether he wants them or not. He’s in for a surprise—because Gwendolyn isn’t in the market for a husband any more than Vidar is for a wife. When these two clash, no one is safe!

I hope you enjoy Gwendolyn and Vidar’s story. Please find me on Facebook if you’d like to chat about it (Facebook.com/harperstgeorge). Thank you so much for reading.

The Viking Warrior’s

Bride

Harper St George

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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.

Books by Harper St George

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

Outlaws of the Wild West

The Innocent and the Outlaw

A Marriage Deal with the Outlaw

Viking Warriors

Enslaved by the Viking

One Night with the Viking

In Bed with the Viking Warrior

The Viking Warrior’s Bride

Digital Short Stories

His Abductor’s Desire

Her Forbidden Gunslinger

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk.

For Tara Wyatt,

who was there from the first Viking book.

Thank you!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

The hills had stood like sentinels for the past day and a half, watching over the boats as they steadily drew closer. The men’s oars cut through the murky water in a rhythm born from years of practice, a near silent heave-and-ho that kept the horde advancing with merciless efficiency. Vidar glared out at those hills, provoked by their silent taunting. Gwendolyn of Bernicia lived somewhere in the midst of them. His enemy. His bride.

He swallowed past the thickening in his throat that accompanied the thought while his palms itched to grab his sword, to do something to fight the ugly truth of the wedding that was to come. No matter how Vidar wished it, he and the men were not here to do battle. They were here to see him married.

He’d never met Gwendolyn and, if he’d had his way, he never would. Vidar wasn’t supposed to be the groom in this match arranged by his brother, Jarl Eirik. Vidar was supposed to be fighting to the south to expand their territory. The only reason he was here was because the true groom, Magnus, had decided to marry the low-born Saxon woman who’d saved him when he’d been gravely wounded.

Disgust roiled in his stomach and he turned his eyes from the hills. Somewhere in those hills his new home waited. He’d passed the winter trying to reconcile himself with this change of events, but it hadn’t worked. He’d fought with Eirik so often that he’d eventually left Eirik’s home, spending most of the winter in a camp to the south plotting the spring advancement to take more Saxon territory. It hadn’t mattered that Vidar wouldn’t be there to take part. It had helped him to feel useful.

Eirik had made this match, aligning his best warrior with the Alveys of Bernicia to help ensure the northern territory was held. There were threats even further north, so the Alvey land would be a barrier to those threats. There had also been some skirmishes with rebellious Danes who lived to the north, but there’d yet to be any evidence of a great band of them. There were the Picts and the Scots further north, but they were small tribes who’d undoubtedly be no match for seasoned Danes. Rather than fighting battles, this move north felt a lot like banishment.

Vidar knew that he would be much more effective leading a group of warriors to battle and adventure in new lands. Protecting this land was the work of old men, not that of a warrior in his prime. He had years of travel ahead of him yet. He’d die before he lived out his years in these hills tending sheep and crops.

Though the bitter cold of winter had drawn to a close, the days were still short and the sun had long since disappeared behind an endless haze of grey clouds. A slight wind blew in frosty air over those hills along with a feeling he couldn’t name. A trepidation he couldn’t place. At first he’d thought it had been his own distaste for all that the place represented to him. But Eirik, who led in the first boat, raised his fist high in the air, drawing the line of eight boats to a halt.

A chill crept down Vidar’s spine and he leaned forward, his palms on the smooth gunwale of his ship as he scanned the trees on either side of the river. He couldn’t find anything amiss. The shores were still, which might have raised alarm except it was still cold enough in the nights that many of the wild animals had already settled down in their dens.

Eirik had hoped they’d make it to their destination by nightfall, but Vidar confessed to a certain relief at not having reached it yet. Another night without a bride was one more night of freedom. Too bad there weren’t any women in their group with whom to enjoy it.

‘There!’ Eirik called back and pointed towards the eastern shore.

Vidar squinted into the gathering dusk and barely made out an opening in the trees. It might be an animal path leading from the river, but it just as well could be a human trail. He sighed and stood up straighter when Eirik’s boat made for shore. It looked as if he was to be denied his last night of freedom after all. Very well. He’d meet his bride tonight. It was probably best to sort out the particulars of their arrangement sooner rather than later.

As one the boats glided towards the eastern shore. Eirik’s boat reached it first. Two men near the prow jumped over the side, holding the ropes that would guide it to shore. Vidar called out to his own men to get them ready to disembark. Half pulled in their oars and readied themselves to jump overboard, when an arrow whizzed past Vidar’s shoulder. There was no warning, simply a hiss of air as it flew past. He would have thought he’d imagined the sensation of the air ruffling his hair if he hadn’t caught sight of it from the corner of his eye and watched it disappear into the dark water behind him.

‘Halt!’ a voice called out from the trees. There was still no sign of people on the shore, but that blasted arrow had come from somewhere. Eirik looked around, startled at the sound of the voice. It appeared no one else had seen the first arrow, but it was followed by another one that landed with a loud thunk in the open mouth of the wooden beast adorning Vidar’s prow.

‘Grab your shields,’ Vidar yelled and the men on all the ships hurried to obey the command. The two men on Eirik’s ship who had disembarked lunged back on to the boat. Before another arrow came down, the men crouched behind the walls of the ships with their shields above their heads, creating a nearly impenetrable wall of armour.

Vidar stood higher than the others with his own shield before him. He grabbed his sword from the scabbard on his back and held it, ready to jump over the side and fight whoever had dared to attack them. He didn’t have to wait long before a row of men stepped out of the trees. They held swords and pikes and wore armour that looked as if it might have been left over from the days of the Romans. Some of the helmets were rusted and tarnished, but many of the breastplates and chainmail looked solid enough. They were not armoured well enough to be the rebel Danes said to inhabit these parts.

Eirik called out to them in the common Saxon tongue and not one of them answered. He tried again in Danish, but there was no response. Vidar hadn’t thought they’d travelled far enough north to encounter any Picts or Scots, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility that they’d somehow stumbled across a group heading south. Perhaps Vidar’s seclusion in the north wouldn’t be as dull as he’d originally feared.

Nearly a score of the men had revealed themselves on the shore, but there had to be more if they were bold enough to challenge the group of boats that held over a hundred warriors. A rustling in the trees drew his attention. A high limb on an evergreen shimmied and then the one below it shook and so on as someone appeared to be climbing down. He only caught glimpses of a leather-clad figure until it had moved closer to the ground. The limbs were sparser there and he saw a set of curvy hips drop down from a limb revealing a shapely backside in a pair of leather trousers. The person dropped to the ground and pulled off the crossbow that had been slung across his shoulders. When he walked out of the trees, Vidar noted the length of braided sable hair that fell across a rounded breast that proclaimed the person was not a he at all, but a generously endowed woman. She wore a dark brown tunic that reached mid-thigh, leaving her legs free for doing things such as climbing trees. From what he could see, they were very nice legs. She wore a pair of high boots that laced up to her knees.

Her expression was fierce and unyielding as she walked to stand next to her men—and there was no doubt that the men were hers, rather than her belonging to them. They bristled with respect when she came to a stop beside them and called out, ‘I am Gwendolyn of Alvey and you are trespassing on our land. Who are you?’ She spoke in the common Saxon tongue though her words held a slight accent he hadn’t heard before.

Vidar couldn’t help but stare at the woman. His own father had never allowed women to become warriors back home. Though it wasn’t an unheard-of custom, Vidar had never fought with one of the shield maidens that other Jarls allowed amongst their warriors. The ones he had seen hadn’t been particularly attractive, seeming to take on the sometimes crude and harsh appearance of the men they fought beside. This woman, however, was striking. She was nearly as tall as the men she stood with and, from what he’d seen of her backside when she’d dropped from the tree, had a woman’s body. She stood poised beside them, her shoulders back in confidence as she held the crossbow at her side.

And if she spoke true, she was going to be his wife. He stood speechless, unable to form a coherent thought, much less a sentence.

Eirik held up his right hand in greeting, though he kept his sword at the ready in his left hand behind his shield. ‘Gwendolyn of Alvey, I am Jarl Eirik of the Danes to the south. Your father and I struck a bargain and we’re here to deliver your husband.’

Her posture stiffened. Vidar gathered that the information was displeasing to her and he nearly grinned. At least his nights might be pleasantly occupied if they involved taming the wench.

‘I have no need for a husband,’ she surprised them all by saying.

Vidar smiled at her impertinence. In all his days of dreading this marriage, he’d never once assumed the woman didn’t want to be wed to him. From what he knew of women, they bartered their bodies for position and status all the time. Although he had to admit that this particular woman seemed very different than the ones he generally kept time with. He might have sympathised with her plight had he not been so amused at the turn of events.

For his part, it appeared that Eirik hadn’t anticipated this response, because he was a moment in responding. Vidar filled in the silence. ‘Perhaps a husband is exactly what you need.’

Her gaze swept over the boats until she found him standing at the prow of his ship. She cast him a scathing glare before turning her attention back to his brother. ‘I regret you’ve come all this way, but my father was mistaken.’

‘Where is your father? I’d discuss this with him,’ Eirik said.

‘My father is dead. He died of natural causes in the autumn.’

Vidar frowned. That only partially explained why she was greeting them herself, but it didn’t explain why or how she’d earned the men’s respect. They stood as if awaiting her command. A few months wouldn’t be enough to solidify her leadership with them.

‘I regret to hear of your father’s passing. You have our condolences.’ Eirik called out. ‘The betrothal still stands, however. The agreement was signed by your father and brought back to me by messenger. I’m told by your father’s own man that this was as good as a marriage to your people. We must only now go through the formality of a ceremony.’

The woman thought that over for a moment, her brow furrowing with dismay. She was clearly not any happier with this marriage arrangement than Vidar. ‘Where is this man?’ She looked over the boats. Some of the shields had lowered so that the men were peeking out with interest at the events unfolding.

‘I am here,’ Vidar called out with some amusement. He felt the power of her gaze in his gut when it locked on his. The realisation hit him that this woman would be in his life from this day forward. Whether he ultimately decided to go back to fighting rather than stay and manage the manor, she would be there like a shadow in the back of his mind. His responsibility. His burden. His.

‘You are Magnus.’ Her expression was unfathomable. She looked like a queen and he felt the first stirrings of respect well within him.

‘I am Vidar. Jarl Eirik’s younger brother.’

She didn’t waste a moment in arguing the replacement. ‘The agreement was for a warrior named Magnus. I won’t accept a proxy or a substitution.’ She looked at Vidar as if he were a poor substitute at that.

The woman was stunning in her audacity. Vidar couldn’t stop the laughter that rolled out of his chest. He nearly doubled over as it tore through him. He’d never seen anyone like her. For all his anger over the winter, the woman didn’t want to wed him any more than he’d wanted to wed her. He’d welcome her refusal if he wasn’t so certain that Eirik wouldn’t stand for it.

‘It appears you don’t have a choice,’ he said when he could finally draw a breath.

* * *

Gwendolyn tightened her hands into fists around the wooden frame of the crossbow. Every instinct she possessed urged her to put an arrow through the black heart of the Dane who was laughing at her so hard that he nearly fell out of his ship. Perhaps she should have aimed for him sooner, instead of that grotesque beast of a mast head. If she shot him now, it would no doubt lead to an outright battle. Aside from that, the men would never forgive her taking a life in cold blood, no matter that he was a threat to her in ways she was afraid to face.

She’d been preparing for this day—along with dreading it—ever since her father had confessed on his deathbed to this secret arrangement he’d made with the Danes who controlled the land to the south. Despite her hope that somehow the Danes had forgotten her over the winter, she’d had the men on alert for their arrival since the earth had thawed earlier in the month. When the lookout had come with the news that boats had been spotted that morning, she knew that her time had come and her prayers to be delivered from this unwanted marriage had gone unanswered. She’d actually hoped that these men were not part of Jarl Eirik’s fleet and had instead come bent on battle. A fight she could handle. A new husband was a different beast altogether.

Now she had to face the fact that only one of them had come to do battle and it appeared it would be with her. With that in mind she seized on the only piece of information that might save her from the marriage. Turning her gaze back to Jarl Eirik, she said, ‘My father told me that Magnus was your second in command and the only man worthy of wedding into our family. If this Magnus has chosen not to honour this agreement, then I am afraid that I will not honour a replacement.’

The Jarl did not answer for a moment. Instead, he gave a long slow look at the men in the seven other boats that had pulled up next to his. There were at least twenty men on each one, while the two in back held a few horses. She allowed herself the tiny sliver of hope that she had saved herself. But then he spoke. ‘The agreement called for my most trusted warrior. Magnus was named verbally, but his name was not recorded in the document. Just as your name was not recorded. The text only states that my most trusted warrior is to marry the daughter of Alvey. I have the scroll if you’ll allow me to show you.’

She opened her mouth to refuse him, but Rodor stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. She met his shrewd gaze and noted the displeasure there. He’d been her father’s man from long before her birth—if anyone knew what her father’s wishes had been, it was he. He’d probably even seen the document her father had signed.

‘Do not do this thing you’re planning, Gwendolyn. If you antagonise your husband now, think of the consequences to yourself later. Think of the consequences to our people. A true leader must put everyone else before himself...or herself.’

Her heart plummeted to land with a thud in her stomach. All this time she had been so certain that something would change, but she realised now that she’d only been fooling herself. It hadn’t been certainty at all, but a childish indulgence. Nothing would save her from her fate. Her father had made sure of that before he’d passed by making his wishes known to all the men. They followed her now because she’d earned their respect, but she knew how tenuous that respect was. If she openly thwarted her beloved father’s wishes, they’d turn on her. If Jarl Eirik had chosen not to honour the agreement, then that would be one thing; but, if she were the cause of him baulking, that would be another altogether.

The men thought they needed these Danes for protection. Personally, she didn’t agree. Aye, the northern tribes were becoming bolder. That was compounded by the rebellious Northmen who’d fled the Danes pushing northward to take Alvey land. They were being squeezed from both sides, yet Gwendolyn was confident that her men could handle things alone. But Jarl Eirik had promised them gold and warriors in exchange for her hand and her father had thought the exchange necessary.

Swallowing her pride, she realised that she’d have to handle this diplomatically, so she nodded to Jarl Eirik. ‘You may come on land. Bring your proof and whatever you may need to rest for the evening. We’ll see if everything is as you say.’

From the corner of her eye, she saw Rodor nod as he stepped back to his place with the men. The one named Vidar had ceased his laughing, but only to stare at her. She ignored him, training her gaze on Jarl Eirik as he directed his men to disembark. He followed them, his boots splashing in the shallow water at the bank of the river as he jumped out of the boat and walked to shore. He was a tall man, taller than Rodor. His shoulders were broad and his wheat-coloured hair swept down past his shoulders. He was handsome and had a solemn air about him. If he hadn’t been her adversary, she saw immediately that she would have liked him.

His younger brother Vidar followed—she wouldn’t think of him as her betrothed until it was absolutely unavoidable. When he splashed down from his boat and walked towards shore, she noted that he walked with a swagger that was missing from his older brother’s walk. He was of the same height as Jarl Eirik and his hair was a similar shade of blond. It was obvious they were brothers. But the younger one’s eyes were insolent and fierce. Gwendolyn very much doubted she would have liked him at all under other circumstances.

‘Come,’ she said and turned to follow the trail home. She forced down the ache in her throat and blinked back the sting of tears. She had not cried since the day her father had died. She wouldn’t allow this Dane to reduce her to shame herself in front of him.

Somehow between now and the night ahead, she’d figure a way out of this marriage. She wouldn’t have a man dictate her future to her, especially an enemy stranger.

Chapter Two

The trail was so narrow that they’d been forced to walk in pairs, and Vidar had fallen into step beside his brother. They’d left half of the men behind to guard the boats and the treasure contained within them—the fortune his brother had been forced to part with to secure this marriage. The girl walked before them with a man he’d heard her call by the name Wulf at her side, while the rest of her men followed behind.

‘Have you considered that this might be a trap?’ Vidar asked, keeping his voice low enough that it wouldn’t travel to the others. Not that he believed any of the Saxons knew the Danish tongue, but he’d rather his own men not hear. The evergreen forest towered high above them, nearly blocking what little light there was, leaving it almost too dark to see the trail in front of them. She could be leading them anywhere.

‘Aye, but it’s not,’ Eirik said, his gaze on the trail.

Vidar had to agree that a trap was probably unlikely. As of now, they had the Saxon men outnumbered, but there could be more hiding anywhere along the trail. And their knowledge of the Alveys was nearly non-existent. They could have hundreds of warriors. Yet his brother spoke with such confidence that Vidar was compelled to ask, ‘How are you so certain?’

‘When I leave, I’m taking nearly half the warriors with me and leaving the gold behind.’ Eirik smiled, the white of it breaking through the shadows. ‘If she wanted to kill you, she’d do it then when she’d have fewer men to contend with and it would be autumn before I knew about it. Spring before I’d be able to come back to avenge you. It’s in her best interest to wait.’

Vidar scoffed and glanced through the tops of the trees, trying to find the sun. ‘Many thanks, Brother. I’ll look forward to that when you’re gone.’

Eirik laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I doubt it’ll happen.’

Somehow his brother’s ‘doubt’ wasn’t the least bit reassuring. Vidar clenched his jaw and stared at the back of the girl who walked before them. Vidar still had trouble thinking of her as his bride. None of this felt like it was really happening. By tomorrow evening the land they were walking on could very well be his, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about it. He wasn’t a farmer or a shepherd, or whatever they did up here in this remote place. His destiny was to brave new lands to find new resources and secure his fortune.

No matter what happened on this night or any other, he’d make sure to fulfil that destiny. These people had survived well enough without him. He’d leave as soon as he was able and continue his life as before. Eirik couldn’t stop him and, unless he missed his guess, his bride would rather see him go.

Though he’d probably have to get her with child first.

The thought brought his attention back to her. They had been steadily walking up an incline, traversing up the side of the hill, so the girl’s backside was at eye level. Her tunic was low enough that it covered the plump flesh, but he could still see it bouncing beneath the fabric, the swells of each cheek working with each step she took. And he remembered vividly how her tunic had been pulled up as she’d come out of the tree, allowing him a view of those rounded curves in her trousers. It could be worse, he reminded himself. Bedding her wouldn’t be unpleasant, he decided, and began to anticipate it as the only bright spot in this arrangement. It had been weeks since he’d last lain with a woman.

The flickering of fire up ahead caught his eye and he realised they were coming out of the forest. The trail ended and they walked out into a flat grassland that backed up to a fortress larger than he’d been expecting. The entire settlement was set back into the side of a hill. The river made up the west and north side, blocked off by both a stone wall and sheer drop of several yards. The stone wall continued around the south and east sides of the property, but it was far more vast in both length and height than any of the Saxon walls he’d seen. Inside the wall, set up higher on the hill, were several larger buildings and many smaller ones scattered about them. It was too dark to make out specific details, but he was impressed with what he saw. He’d imagined a few huts around a granary, but this was remarkable. If he wasn’t mistaken in the dim light, a few of the buildings looked to be made of the same stone as the wall.

Gwendolyn turned when they reached the wall, her gaze flicking over him before landing on Eirik. ‘Welcome to my home, Jarl Eirik.’ Vidar noticed that she specifically excluded him from the greeting. Did the girl think goading him was in her best interest? He smiled, already warming to the idea of taming her.

‘Many thanks, Lady Gwendolyn. I’m impressed with your fortifications,’ Eirik answered. The wall was well over two men high. Torches were set at even intervals along the top of the wall, giving a little bit of light to the early evening.

‘Thank you. My grandfather was an intelligent man with the gift of foresight. He had this built back when we’d only heard talk about the invaders.’

She didn’t say the word ‘invaders’ with malice, but her gaze slid over to Vidar just the same. It appeared the lady only considered him the invader and not Eirik. Did she not realise that he would not be here if it weren’t for Eirik? Vidar very nearly snorted, but managed to hold himself in check. There’d be plenty of time after the wedding to put her in her place.

‘A wise man indeed,’ Eirik agreed, his gaze traversing the wall. ‘Has it held up well to attack?’

‘Aye,’ the girl said, raising her chin a notch in pride.

‘It’s never fallen,’ said the man at her side. ‘It’s been tested, but not once has it failed us.’ He appeared old enough to be the girl’s father. His dark hair was streaked with grey at the temples, while his beard had patches of silver. He carried himself with the same pride of ownership as the girl.

‘Jarl Eirik, this is my father’s man, Rodor. He knows everything there is to know about Alvey. He was born here and has the charge of our warriors just as his father before him.’

Vidar watched them exchange greetings and offered his own arm for Rodor. The man hesitated, his gaze faltering for a moment as he glanced at Gwendolyn. It was true that the girl had led the men below, but Vidar hadn’t been sure if it had been a scheme. Part of something she’d concocted to make a show of her power in their first meeting. But that look spoke volumes. This older man, who’d clearly had the trust and respect of her father, trusted her. Not only that, but he gave deference to her wishes. Interesting.

She gave an almost imperceptible tilt of her head that Rodor took for consent. Only then did the man clasp Vidar’s arm in the same grip he’d shared with the Jarl and exchange a greeting. Gwendolyn turned her head away as if she couldn’t bear to see Vidar acknowledged in any way other than that of an enemy or threat. When he let go of the man’s arm, she turned and led them all to the main gate, which had been thrown open in welcome. Although it didn’t feel like much of a welcome when they walked inside.

Vidar had to suppress a shiver of trepidation as he passed through the gates. The men inside had been alerted to their arrival and stood on either side of the entrance. Though they were not holding their weapons, swords, axes, and knives were stowed at the waistbands and across their backs. He had to wonder if the girl commanded them as easily as she did Rodor.

She walked through the warriors and they parted for her as if she were their queen. Vidar realised that his original assessment of her had been hasty. This was no token respect she was given. These men respected her because somehow she had earned it.

Vidar ground his molars together, already anticipating the battle of wills ahead. It wouldn’t be fought with weapons. It would be more subtle, and fought with words and deeds. He’d have to wrest their respect away from her and earn it for himself.

* * *

‘The Danes have come.’ Gwendolyn could barely say the words before she pressed a hand to her mouth, as if they’d cut her lips on their way out.

‘Aye. I’ve heard. The news spread fast once their ships were spotted.’ Her older sister, Annis, closed the door to Gwendolyn’s bedchamber and swept her into her arms.

Gwendolyn allowed herself a moment of weakness and took comfort in the embrace. Her knees had been weak since the moment she’d climbed out of that tree and met the Northmen face to face. Her fear had only got worse as she’d led the men to her home. Now that they were inside, drinking her ale and helping themselves to her meat, she’d barely made it to her chamber before the fear overtook her.

She’d heard talk about the Danes ever since she could remember. They were large and unkempt with the slovenly mannerisms of barbarians. Her only real dealings with them before now were that band of misfit Danes who terrorised the countryside. They didn’t belong to this group of men, though. They were rebels. Rumours were that only a portion of them were Danes with the rest of the group being made up of outcasts from the Picts, Scots, and God knew who else. During that battle, she’d been too grief stricken and intent on avenging her brother’s death to notice much about them.

What frightened her so much about these Danes who’d all but taken over Northumbria was that they weren’t unkempt and slovenly at all. They were dignified and ordered. Jarl Eirik appeared just as aristocratic as her own father had. The men as a group carried themselves with pride and poise. When she looked into Vidar’s eyes, she saw intelligence and cunning, not the look of a barbarian she’d been expecting. She could handle a bloodthirsty animal much easier than a calculating nobleman, particularly one bent on claiming her for marriage and taking her property.

Her bedchamber was the only place she could indulge her emotions, even if only for a moment. And Annis was the only person she trusted enough to allow her to see her as she really was. With Annis she didn’t have to appear strong or brave. She buried her face in the crook of Annis’ shoulder and took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. However, nothing could stop her hands from shaking as she put them around her sister’s shoulders.

‘Are they so awful?’ Annis asked, her voice low as if the Danes already had ownership of everything and any words spoken against them were blasphemy.

Gwendolyn nodded. ‘More awful than I had imagined.’

‘What of your...husband?’ She hesitated on the last word as if trying to find another way to say it. But there was no other way. Gwendolyn feared that she was as good as wed to him.

‘Any man who is not Cam is horrible. But that man is worse than horrible.’ Gwendolyn took another deep breath and pulled herself up to her full height, which was a few inches taller than her tiny sister. Though Gwendolyn had two older sisters, she’d always been the tallest and the most active of the three. When her sisters were content to allow their mother to lead them in lessons in embroidery and the proper running of a household, Gwendolyn had followed their older brother Cedric everywhere. Eventually her parents had consented and he’d allowed her to join in with the weaponry and fight training given to the boys her age. It was because of him that she was more accurate with the crossbow than any of the men and could hold her own with the longbow.

In a way, it was because of Cedric that she was in this awful predicament. If he’d not been killed in battle, along with Cam—her betrothed—then she’d not be faced with marriage to a Dane.

‘I understand that you still mourn Cam. We all do.’ Annis tucked a strand of hair behind Gwendolyn’s ear. ‘But the Danes are only men. They can’t possibly be that awful.’

Gwendolyn turned from her sister and hurried across the room to the shelves where she kept the important documents that had belonged to her father. In preparation for the marriage, Gwendolyn had moved into the master’s chamber. With her brother dead, Annis married to a lowly farmer with no lofty aspirations and her other sister comfortably ensconced in the abbey and devoted to a life of prayer, there was no one left to be master except for the man Gwendolyn eventually married. She only hoped it wouldn’t be this Dane.

Grabbing the small chest from the shelf, she sat it on the table and opened the lid to pull out the scroll her father had hidden away. It was the one that had given her to that heathen. ‘They are that terrible, Annis,’ she said. ‘His name is Vidar and you can’t even imagine how he looks at me. It’s not the same way Eadward looks at you.’ Eadward fairly worshipped her sister. He’d looked at her as if he could see no one else since they were children. ‘It’s as if he already owns me and is taking measure of my worth.’

She shook her head as she unrolled the scroll, nearly ripping it in her haste to find the name Magnus. If Magnus was the one named in the document, and not Vidar, then she wouldn’t have to honour this ridiculous agreement that her father had made in haste and desperation. This was nothing more than her father’s misplaced fear. He’d been afraid to die without seeing her cared for, not realising that she didn’t need to be cared for. She could care for herself, the estate and all the land between the north and Northumbria without a man at her side.

‘Damn and blast,’ she murmured as her gaze ate up the words on the page.

‘Gwendolyn! We can get through this without blasphemy,’ Annis admonished her before turning her attention back to the scroll, squinting at the words. She’d never taken to learning the written word as her other siblings had. Her lips moved silently as she struggled to make sense of the markings. Finally, she gave up. ‘Oh, just tell me what it says.’

‘They’ve brought a man named Vidar to marry me, but Father explicitly said that the man’s name was Magnus. The Jarl Dane says that the agreement only called for his best man and a specific man had not been named. Therefore, he could substitute whomever he wanted.’ Gwendolyn dropped into the chair behind her as nausea rolled in her stomach, the scroll forgotten on the table. ‘It appears he’s correct. There is no Magnus named in the agreement.’

Annis grabbed her hand in silent support. Gwendolyn squeezed her fingers, but the gesture that was so familiar did nothing to bring her peace this time. She was well and truly bound to that barbarian. An image of his smirking face rose up in her mind and she shook her head to clear it. This was not the future she had planned for herself.

She felt like throwing a tantrum that would have left her five-year-old self in complete and utter awe. However, she realised that would get her absolutely nowhere.

Instead of giving in to the impulse, she rolled up the scroll again and put her arm around Annis. Vidar—even thinking his name was distasteful. She shook her head and said, ‘If legalities won’t save me, then I’ll have to make him cry off.’

‘How on earth will you do that, Gwendolyn? What man would say no to Alvey?’

Gwendolyn closed her eyes as dread settled like a lump in her belly. She knew she was getting desperate if she thought she could make him turn around and leave. ‘I don’t know. Your Eadward said no. Father would’ve given it to him after Cedric’s death.’

Annis laughed. ‘You know as well as I that Eadward is happiest on his farm. He goes whole days without so much as a word to anyone. He would not be happy as a ruler.’ Then she sobered and took Gwendolyn’s hand. ‘Perhaps I should’ve said what man who’s travelled weeks and weeks to find you and claim Alvey as his own would turn away now?’

And that was the crux of it. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have come all this way to simply turn around now. Even worse was her strong suspicion that even if he did, Jarl Eirik would only find someone to replace him. Despite what Vidar might want for himself, she knew that Jarl Eirik wanted this land as a barrier between himself and the tribes to the north. And he needed that to happen before the Saxons to the south claimed it for their own. Or that’s how her father had explained it to her from his deathbed.

Gwendolyn just wanted to be left alone and for Alvey to be secluded from the kings to the south and the tribes to the north.

‘You could very well be right, Annis, but I have to try something. How would you feel if Eadward had been taken from you and a strange barbarian forced upon you?’

Annis nodded and her eyes filled with so much sadness and pity that it hurt Gwendolyn to look at them. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, her eyes filling up with tears. ‘It should be me, not you. I’m the oldest and this should be my burden.’

‘Oh, Annis.’ Gwendolyn pulled her into a hug, suddenly ashamed that she’d allowed her own fears to make her sister feel guilty. ‘It’s not your fault. I suppose it’s not anyone’s fault.’ As much as she wanted to find someone to blame, it was simply the way things were. ‘I’ll have to figure things out.’

Annis nodded and drew back, wiping at her nose with a kerchief she’d drawn from her sleeve. ‘You will, Gwendolyn. I have great faith in you. You always figure out a way.’

Chapter Three

Gwendolyn had not figured out a way. Despite her best efforts, she was stuck in this marriage arrangement. Rodor and Jarl Eirik stood at the table where their tankards of ale had been pushed to the side and the two scrolls stretched out before them. One of them was from the chest in her chamber, and the other had been produced by Jarl Eirik. She could tell from her seat at the head of the table that they were identical even before Rodor stood back and gave her a solemn nod.

Tightening her grip on her tankard, she tossed back the rest of the ale and contemplated how many cups she could drink that night. If she finished off an entire pitcher, would it be enough to make her forget that this was her life now? That these men who sat at her table would be here to stay? That that man...Vidar...would be her husband? Nay, she sincerely doubted there was enough ale in Alvey to make her forget.

‘Well, Lady Gwendolyn, as you can see the documents support my earlier statement. I’m within my rights to replace Magnus with Vidar.’ Jarl Eirik pushed back from where he’d been leaning over the documents to stand beside Rodor.

For all his bluster earlier, Rodor kept his hand resting lightly on the sword at his hip. It was a casual pose, but she realised it for the support it was. If she commanded it, he’d turn on the Danes. He’d hate every moment of it, but he’d do it.

Her gaze went down the length of the table and then further around the large chamber. The candles flickered overhead and a large fire burned in the hearth, illuminating the room while keeping the corners in shadow. All eyes had turned to her and there was a tension in the room that had rarely been present in a home that was so well cared for. She counted roughly three score of the Danes. Her own men numbered nearly that many, but there were more lingering outside. Their women were suspiciously absent from the great chamber on this night, leaving only herself and Annis.

If Gwendolyn called for a fight, then her men would eventually overpower the Danes, though not without some loss of life. If they moved fast enough, they’d even be able to attack the Danes still left in their ships. Though it was anyone’s guess if the Danes would move fast enough to escape on their ships. If they did escape, then they’d return to avenge their Jarl. It might be weeks or months, but they’d come back with hellfire. She was confident in Alvey’s ability to withstand a siege, but she had no real idea of how many Danes they’d come back with. It would be a risk.

If she went through with the marriage and allowed Jarl Eirik to leave in peace, she’d still be able to attack the men he left behind. A year...maybe more would pass before he realised something was amiss, but eventually he’d send a contingent of men and he’d see what she had done. Then Alvey would still need to contend with the hellfire he’d rain down upon them. And she’d have to face the fact that she’d killed her own husband in cold blood.

Neither option was very appealing. Both of them would lead to the deaths of at least a few of her men. What Rodor had said earlier rang true. A true leader must put everyone else first.

Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she said, ‘Aye, Jarl Eirik, I can see that you are within your rights.’ She studiously avoided looking at Vidar, who was still seated near his brother’s side. He’d yet to weigh in with his opinion and she couldn’t take the smirk she was sure to find on his face. ‘I’d like to know why the substitution was necessary.’ Would Magnus have been any better than Vidar?

The Jarl inclined his head as if he’d expected the enquiry, but his grimace made her think he wasn’t completely pleased with having to relay the information. ‘Magnus is the leader of Thornby, our most powerful settlement. He was injured in battle and a Saxon woman took him in and healed him. After his stay in her village, he was able to quell a rebellion by the Saxons and decided to marry the woman. I felt his influence there was necessary for peace in the area.’

Gwendolyn wondered if the woman had agreed to the marriage, or if she’d had it thrust upon her, but she kept silent.

Jarl Eirik continued, ‘I chose Vidar to replace him because I trust him to see to Alvey’s protection. He’s learned everything he knows at my side.’

Finally, Gwendolyn allowed her gaze to move to Vidar, who was sitting at the table. He leaned back in his chair with an ankle propped on one knee, almost indolent in his regard of the situation. There was nothing for Gwendolyn to do but nod her acceptance of the Jarl’s explanation.

Jarl Eirik smiled. It crinkled the sun-bronzed skin around his eyes and made him seem genuinely good natured rather than smug. ‘Good, then let’s move ahead to talk about the ceremony.’ He took his seat and reached for the ale he’d pushed to the side. Rodor walked around the table and sat down across from him, taking the vacant seat next to Annis. ‘Unless you’d prefer a substitution of your own?’ he asked after Rodor had seated himself.

‘What do you mean?’ Gwendolyn asked.

‘Your father calls for his daughter to wed my best man. He doesn’t specify which one.’ Jarl Eirik’s gaze wandered across the table to where Annis sat with her back ramrod straight. Her fingers were laced together in front of her, but her knuckles had turned white because she’d clasped them together so hard. The colour had drained from her face as soon as she’d sat down at the table with the men. She was obviously afraid. Gwendolyn was suddenly very glad that she was the one who had to deal with this. If it were Annis, she feared her sister wouldn’t survive it.

Forcing a smile, Gwendolyn said, ‘I’m afraid that I’m the only daughter available for the task.’

‘Then I’m a lucky man.’ Vidar spoke for the first time since they’d started this meeting. His voice was deep but smooth and pleasing to the ear. It matched his appearance. He was well groomed with fine features and she suspected that he left a trail of admirers wherever he went. But it would take more than surface charm to win him any favours here.

Gwendolyn met his gaze and found that he was indeed as amused as she’d thought he might be. Though he wasn’t smirking, his eyes were lit with some inner light that told her he found the situation amusing. Of course he found her discomfort amusing. He was clearly a barbarian.

‘You’re more beautiful than I expected,’ Vidar explained, raising a brow. She recognised it for the challenge that it was rather than a compliment to her appearance.

‘You’re younger than I expected,’ she countered. He was younger than she’d thought he would be, she realised as she saw him clearly for the first time. She’d prepared herself for an older man, someone like Rodor. Jarls were supposed to be older men. But Jarl Eirik didn’t appear to be that old and his brother was obviously quite a few years younger. He was probably only scarcely older than her own twenty winters. Although there was nothing about him that said anything other than full-grown man. His chest was broad and she could tell from the way the fabric of his tunic hugged his shoulders that his muscles were well developed.

‘Young and virile,’ he quipped, somehow putting extra emphasis on the word virile. ‘Isn’t that what was called for in the agreement?’

She felt heat rise on her cheeks. An image of his nude body flashed through her mind and there was no place in this discussion for that.

Jarl Eirik cleared his throat, clearly uneasy with the direction the conversation had taken. ‘I can have Rodor, or someone else of your choosing, taken down to the ships and shown the bride price to reassure you.’

Gwendolyn nodded, having trouble getting that virile thought to stay out of her head. ‘In the morning will be soon enough.’

Jarl Eirik inclined his head. ‘Then we should speak of the actual ceremony. I must apologise, but I’d have it take place sooner rather than later. I’m needed at home.’

Her mind raced with a hundred excuses. If she could put it off for years, then she would. But much to her surprise, Annis spoke first. ‘The ceremony should take place with the new moon.’

Gwendolyn stared at her sister, certain that she had imagined the interruption from the meek woman. But then her sister spoke again, her gaze on the Jarl. ‘I know my sister doesn’t put much faith in the stars, but I believe they tell us more than most of us ever realise. Our parents’ marriage and even my own marriage began with a new moon, and I believe hers will be most fortuitous if allowed to follow the tradition.’

Gwendolyn looked at her sister, confused by what amounted to a betrayal. Annis knew how she felt about this marriage. The new moon was in three days. Three days to prepare to become that Dane’s wife. Three years wouldn’t be long enough to prepare for that. Before she could utter an objection, Jarl Eirik’s smile broadened. ‘Perfect. If your family has a tradition, then I most certainly do not want to be the one to break it.’

Annis smiled and blinked as if she was a little stunned that her suggestion had been accepted. ‘Wonderful. That gives us three days to plan and prepare a feast.’

Gwendolyn opened her mouth to protest, but Rodor kicked her leg underneath the table and she ended up swallowing a yelp of pain. Her gaze again found Vidar’s across the table and she was surprised to find that he frowned, his brows pulled together as his gaze narrowed on hers. In the light of the candles flickering overhead, she realised that his eyes were the clearest shade of blue she’d ever seen. Not grey, or flecked with green, but clear like the bluest sky. And at that moment there wasn’t a speck of kindness in them. She didn’t understand what a life with him would mean for her and that sent a wave of anxiety tumbling through her. Would he be cruel? Would he expect her to be a wife like Annis? Someone sweet and biddable and unconcerned with things outside her own home? Would he try to take away the only life she’d ever known?

‘In three days, then,’ he agreed, sending her heart plummeting to her stomach.

Perhaps it was possible that he didn’t want this marriage either. His attitude made her think he wasn’t thrilled with the arrangement. If she talked to him, perhaps he’d agree that the marriage should be in name only.

It was her last hope, but something about him...something about the way he looked at her made her think she wouldn’t be successful.

* * *

The preparations for the wedding feast began the next morning. Annis had sent a messenger off to her farm to fetch Eadward who would bring goats for the celebration. The hunters had been sent to bring venison and the fishermen were at the river to bring fish to the table. The servants began preparing the pork over the roasting fires.

Gwendolyn had barely slept the night before. She’d spent part of the night tossing and turning in her bed and the rest of the night pacing around her chamber. There was nothing for it. She was well and truly obliged to marry this Dane. Vidar and Jarl Eirik had already been at her table when she’d emerged from her chamber the next morning. She’d barely been able to bring herself to look at either one of them. After a quick breakfast, Jarl Eirik took her to the ships so that she could verify that the payment he’d brought was sufficient.

He didn’t call it payment. He called it mundr. It was the bride price her father had demanded from him. Whatever its proper name, it was the gold, jewels and horses that Jarl Eirik had paid for the privilege of having his man marry her. Apparently the barrels and chests were her worth. She wasn’t worth a coin more or a jewel less. Her stomach churned as she looked it over.

Seeing it made the betrothal suddenly seem real and it made her think of her first betrothal. Cam had asked her father for her hand on the eve of her seventeenth year. As Rodor’s son, he had nothing but the wealth his family had earned working for her family. He had his sword arm, his strong mind and his friendship with her brother that he’d use to support them and their eventual children. There’d been no talk of gold exchanging hands. She’d always known Cam and her father had approved of him. That was the way it was meant to be. These strangers were not supposed to be here.

Closing her eyes, she turned away from the treasure. It would do no good to think of the past. A quick glance at Rodor found him looking at her, the sober expression on his face seeming to repeat his warning of the previous day.

‘Think of the consequences to our people. A true leader must put everyone else before himself...or herself.’

‘Everything appears to be in order,’ she said.

Rodor nodded. ‘It does. You honour us with your mundr. I accept in place of her father.’

Gwendolyn bit her tongue lest she dispute him. As if they had any choice in accepting the payment. As if the Jarl had any intention of ‘honouring’ her with the payment. He wanted to expand his holdings and this marriage was the only way to do that. For generations the Alveys had existed comfortably in the north with no need for such arrangements.

But that era had come to an end and it was time to accept that.

Drawing herself up to her full height, she forced herself to nod in acknowledgement of the gift and Rodor’s acceptance. ‘Thank you, Jarl Eirik.’ The words tasted bitter on her tongue and nearly choked her on their way out, but she said them because that was her role here as Lady of Alvey. She would not allow these Danes to take that away from her.

Rodor continued speaking with the Jarl to make arrangements for unloading it as well as where the rest of the Danes could make camp. She waited as long as she could before making her excuses about needing to see to feast preparations and leaving. She stalked up the hill, her breath coming in short huffs as she made it to the front gate of her home.

Annis had the preparations well underway so there was no need for Gwendolyn’s help. Instead, she stormed directly to the practice yard. The warriors spent every morning sparring and she was in need of her sword to work off her anger and frustration. She practically ran to the yard, which was on the back side of the granary. Yet when she turned the corner, she skidded to a halt because Vidar was standing there with his sword strapped to his back, calling out orders to the men. Her men.

He had two score of them lined up in rows of two facing each other. Each of them stood in squares drawn off on the ground with sticks or lines of small stones. At his command, they began sparring with their swords and struggling not to step out of the box. His own men, the Danes, lazed around the edges of the sparring field, watching with amusement.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked before she could think to stop herself, rushing towards them. As she ran, some of the men had already started tripping over the walls of their boxes, hitting the ground with groans as they fell outside their designated spaces.

Vidar spared her a glance over his shoulder before he went back to instructing the men. ‘Good warriors never lose ground. You must learn to fight without backing away from your enemy. Get up and try again.’

‘What are you doing to them?’ she asked. ‘You’ll have them injuring themselves.’

The corner of his mouth tipped up in that smirk that was becoming all too familiar, but he didn’t look at her as he watched the two warriors nearest him battling each other. ‘Then it will help them to learn.’ When the smaller of the two engaged in the sparring contest stepped backwards, Vidar sharply rebuked him. ‘Never step backwards from an armed opponent.’ The man responded by holding his ground with his feet, but he bent backwards as he locked swords with his opponent who was clearly stronger. The smaller man wasn’t able to push the stronger man back.

‘What good is a warrior who is injured?’

‘He’ll be smarter for it,’ Vidar answered. Without looking at her again, he walked away from her and between the groups of men, offering critique where he thought it necessary.

Despite the obvious fact that Vidar was younger than half of them, he commanded them with the authority of a seasoned leader. He wore a leather tunic that left his arms bare so that his shoulder and arm muscles bulged as he gestured. He was definitely stronger than most of them, despite his youth.

Rage prickled her skin, washing over her in a sweep that left her skin hot and tight. It wasn’t only because he’d taken over their training without consulting with her or Rodor. It was that he did it so effortlessly, as if he was accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. As if it was already his right to have command of the warriors when they weren’t even married yet. What made it even worse was that her warriors were listening to him as if he was right in all of those assumptions.

‘Halt!’ Her voice rang out over the sparring field with authority.

Vidar whipped his head around to look at her, the smirk and swagger he wore so easily wiped from his face. She had to fight to keep herself from smiling, but she wouldn’t stoop to his level. The men closest to her stopped their sparring, but the pairs further away continued. She called out halt again just as one of the men fell over his barrier and stumbled to the ground. The others who hadn’t heard her clearly before heard her this time and stood down with their weapons.

‘This is not how we train.’ She spoke to all of them, but her gaze settled on Vidar.

‘Perhaps it’s not how they were trained before, but it’s how they’ll train going forward,’ Vidar said, crossing his arms over his chest. He levelled her with a glare that was as cold as it was hot with anger. She had no idea how the two ideas could exist in the same gaze, but he managed to pull it off.

‘That’s not for you to decide.’

That was met with a murmur of voices that made her realise the Danes were watching the display from the side of the field. Behind him, the men who’d been lounging in the grass rose to their feet to watch. Realising that she was quickly making their spat a spectacle for all to see, she inclined her head in the only conciliatory gesture she could muster. ‘Let us talk privately.’

Vidar glared at her. His blue eyes were fierce as he stared her down as if he’d not be sorry to see her engulfed in flames where she stood. ‘After the sparring session is over.’

She clenched her teeth against the harsh words that threatened to spew out whether she wanted them to or not. Despite that he was in the wrong, she was ever vigilant of her role as peacekeeper amongst her men. It wouldn’t do to antagonise Vidar more than she already had, but neither would it be wise to allow him to disrespect her in front of her men. She’d worked too hard to earn their respect—particularly after Cedric’s death—to risk losing it now.

‘The sparring session is over now.’ She made certain that her voice was loud and clear so that it would carry to the Danes at the edges of the field.

Vidar dropped his arms to his sides, his hands clasped into fists. If it was possible, a near tangible wave of apprehension moved through her warriors as silence descended.

Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, but it wasn’t from fear. For the first time since these Danes had arrived on her land, she saw an end, a release, to the impotent rage that had been building inside her. Her heart beat with anticipation of meeting him head on.

The sound of a bell ringing shattered the silence. Gwendolyn blinked to break the spell of the tension and looked away from Vidar to the source of the sound. The bell was hung from a wooden brace near the hall’s entrance. It rang three times during the day. To signal the beginning of morning chores for the warriors, to signal the start of afternoon chores and to call the men to the evening meal. Morning chores for the warriors began after their training. Gwendolyn had been so lost in the battle of wills with Vidar that she’d lost all track of the time.

But as she looked towards the bell, she saw Rodor standing beside it, leaving her to wonder if he’d rang it to end the confrontation. If the disapproval etched deeply into his features was an indication, that’s exactly what had happened.

Her warriors didn’t move a muscle. They stood in their places, watching her and Vidar until the last strains of the ringing had died out. ‘Go about your work,’ she said in a quiet voice.

For a moment no one moved and then eventually, one by one, they slowly filed away, leaving the sparring field. The last to leave was Wulf. The Danes at the edges of the field hadn’t left, but their postures relaxed and a few even sat on their haunches, though they hadn’t looked away. Vidar hadn’t looked away, either. He stared her down with that cold savagery that only he could manage to pull off.

When all of her men had gone away, he took the few steps that would put him in front of her. In a low voice laced with steel, he said, ‘You will not defy me.’

‘I have not defied you...yet.’

Chapter Four

The woman hadn’t so much as blinked at a tone that made most men tremble. With her shoulders squared and her chin raised, Gwendolyn of Alvey stared him down. Her eyes shimmered like deep blue pools beneath the long fringe of her lashes.

The woman was mad. Everyone had seen how she’d stormed out on to the sparring field and tried to usurp his authority. There was no denying it and the fact that she tried to deny it only made him angrier. ‘You came out here with the implicit goal of interfering in my work.’

She gave a quick nod of her head. ‘Aye, because your work was interfering with the training of my warriors.’

‘Ah, I see your confusion.’ He smiled as it became clear to him where the misunderstanding lay. ‘They are my warriors now. I was training my warriors and you interfered.’

If he’d have struck her across the face, he couldn’t imagine her becoming any angrier. Her cheeks flushed red and he had to admit that it made her even more attractive. Her eyes flashed with heat and she drew herself up to stand even straighter. It was only then that he realised how tall she was for a woman. The top of her head reached his chin. ‘These men are not your warriors.’ She was so angry that her voice shook.

‘The agreement your father signed makes you mine along with all that comes with you.’

She swallowed, as if only remembering that pesky document. ‘Not yet. There has been no wedding. We haven’t spoken the words.’

‘Recall the words of the Jarl—your Jarl now—from last night. You became mine with the signing. It is binding and legal and the words left to be spoken are only ceremony. I could bed you now and no man would stand in my way.’

‘If you try to bed me now there would be no need for a man to stand in your way, because I would fight you myself.’

She really was unlike any woman he’d ever met. She was full of fire and a wildness that drew him in. He had no doubt that she would fight him at every turn and for some reason he was starting to enjoy it. Some long-hidden part of him admired her strength and a tiny thread of respect wound its way through him. He grinned and felt the tension leave his shoulders as he settled into verbally sparring with her. ‘There’s no need to fight me. I’m content to wait. It’s only three nights.’

Her jaw tightened as she clenched her teeth. ‘I will never submit to you.’

He had no doubt that she meant the words now, but he had every confidence in being able to overcome her resistance. She’d come to see that he was in command now. Not her. And she’d realise her new place in this world. He’d met warriors like her before. They came under his command and saw his youth as something to be challenged, but they didn’t realise he’d been on a ship with one brother or another from the time of his tenth winter. He had more experience than most of them.

He’d overcome them and he had confidence that he’d change her mind as well. ‘Then I look forward to taming you.’

She wanted to strike him, he could see it in her eyes, but much to her credit she didn’t. Instead, she took a step back and took in a deep breath, running her palms down her tunic to smooth out imaginary wrinkles in a visible attempt to calm herself. Finally, she said, ‘Then you’ll be disappointed. I look forward to fighting you at every attempt.’ Then she walked off across the sparring field from the direction she’d come, her back as straight as the blade of his sword.

Her legs were long and lean, eating up the distance with ease. He’d bet they were just as shapely as the lightly muscled curve of her shoulder that he could make out beneath the lightweight wool covering it. Her entire body seemed firm and strong. Yet, it was the sway of her hips that called his gaze as he watched her go. They were pleasantly rounded, as were her buttocks from what he could tell. He found her body appealing. Firm and soft all at the same time. The wedding night would be interesting.

With a smile on his lips, he walked to the edge of the sparring field to gather his men for their training. Since they’d been travelling the past few weeks, they’d been unable to train. It would be a nice change and work off some frustrations for him. He hadn’t actually meant to take over the training of her warriors. The Saxons had already been on the field when he’d arrived with his own men and they’d been doing it wrong. Was he supposed to simply stand there and watch them train inefficiently?

‘Enough lying around. Get to work,’ he called to his men, sending them grumbling on to the field.

‘Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you with that one,’ said Rolfe as he slowly got to his feet, his gaze on Gwendolyn’s retreating figure.

Vidar had known Rolfe since they both were boys. They’d been on nearly every adventure together and Vidar counted himself lucky that his friend had agreed to come with him to this remote corner of the world. Vidar had given his men the choice of coming north or staying to the south to battle, and he’d been pleased when all of them had chosen to follow him. Following his friend’s gaze to the woman’s back, Vidar nodded. ‘I think you’re right. I have to admit I’m looking forward to the challenge. I’d assumed she’d be a biddable wife.’

Rolfe threw his head back and laughed. ‘By the gods, man, why would you assume that? Have you ever met a biddable wife?’

Vidar frowned. He wanted to say that of course he had, but the truth was that he wasn’t certain. He’d never had any women in his life to speak of. His mother had died and he couldn’t remember her. His older sisters had all moved away once they’d become wives. Growing up, some of the slaves in his father’s home had been women, but they’d been shadows in the background who worked to make the household run efficiently. He’d met many women in his travels, but they’d all been passing amusements easily left behind with a trinket for their trouble.

Now that he thought of it, Eirik’s wife Merewyn was the only wife he knew. Vidar had seen them argue before, but never for long before either Eirik would sweep her up into his arms and take her to their chamber, or their voices would lower at the table and he couldn’t hear them anymore. Either way, they worked out their differences and Vidar had assumed it was because Eirik had reminded her of her place.

He shrugged off his thoughts. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t met a biddable wife. It only mattered that his wife would be biddable, because he had no intention of indulging her in anything else. ‘She’ll be obedient soon enough,’ Vidar said to his friend, shrugging out of his harness and unsheathing his sword.

‘You honestly believe that, don’t you?’ Rolfe eyed him as if he were daft.

Vidar held his sword up to the meagre light, silently cursing the absence of sunlight in this dark land. If the grey light could be believed, the blade was due for a polishing. ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I?’

Rolfe only shook his head. ‘I blame this on the fact that you’ve never kept a woman in your bed for more than a few nights at a time. If you keep them around a little longer, you start to learn little things about how to keep them happy.’

Vidar laughed. ‘That’s the difference between you and me, my friend. I don’t have to work so hard to keep them happy.’

Rolfe swung at him, but Vidar was ready for him and ducked out of the way, turning in a full circle to bring his sword around. Rolfe had already jumped back out of the way, as Vidar had expected he would. This wasn’t the first time they’d come to friendly blows.

‘Vidar.’ Eirik called his name, drawing their mock battle to a stop.

When Vidar looked over to see his brother striding across the field, Rolfe laughed again and slapped him on the back. ‘May the gods be with you, Brother.’ Then he trotted out on to the sparring field, leaving Vidar alone to face what appeared to be the wrath of his brother. Eirik’s brows were drawn together in a deep frown.

‘Vidar, what have you done?’

Vidar made a show of looking around the sparring field. His men had already cleared the field of debris and had paired off, sparring with their swords and knives. They had no need of barricades to keep them in tiny boxes, because they’d come of age training to never retreat in a single-opponent battle. It was a feat that required superior upper body strength, which helped them be successful.

‘The men are sparring,’ he answered and sheathed his sword, as it appeared this conversation might take up more of his time.

Eirik grumbled and raked a hand over the back of his neck. ‘What happened with the girl?’

‘The girl? You mean the woman who wanted to rip my head off? She had an issue with the way I was training the men.’

‘The Saxon men?’

‘Aye.’ Vidar inclined his head, irritated that he was being subjected to this questioning. After his talk with his lovely betrothed, he had a lot of aggression that he wanted to work off on the field. ‘What of it?’

‘You cannot come here and simply take over. From what I can gather, their warriors are the girl’s responsibility along with Rodor,’ Eirik explained.

‘Perhaps they were, but they won’t be any longer. I’ll challenge Rodor to see if he’s worthy of the post, but no wife of mine will lead warriors. She’ll be Lady of this land. She’ll do things that a Lady should do.’

Much to Vidar’s surprise, Eirik let out a laugh that rumbled up from deep in his chest. ‘And tell me, Brother, what are the things a Lady should do?’

Again, Vidar was at a loss. What did Merewyn do with herself all day? For the life of him, he didn’t have an answer. She saw to the needs of the children she’d borne his brother and she generally called out orders for meal preparation; but if she did anything else, he hadn’t the slightest notion what it was. He shrugged. ‘Anything she wants as long as she leaves the warriors and the battles to me. I’ll gladly stay out of her way, as long as she stays out of mine.’

Eirik looked at him for a long moment before his lips ticked up in a grin and he shook his head. ‘It strikes me that you are profoundly unsuited to marriage.’

Vidar grinned. ‘It only strikes you now? I’ve been telling you that all winter. I never wanted marriage.’

‘And yet you will do your duty.’ Eirik sobered and fitted him with a level gaze.

‘Aye. I always do my duty to you, Brother. You don’t have to question where my allegiance lies.’

‘I know.’ Eirik nodded. ‘It’s why you would’ve been my first choice for this marriage. I only chose Magnus because I know you’re not ready, but due to the circumstances...here we are. Ready or not.’

Vidar nodded. He’d spent the past few months coming to terms with that. While he was still bitter, he had come to accept his duty. ‘I still feel that Magnus made a mistake. This place was meant for him.’ He spread his arms out wide to encompass the entirety of the manor and the village beyond. Magnus was a leader who had flourished building the settlement. He was meant to lead a colony. To defend rather than attack. ‘Magnus could’ve been a king here. And yet he chose a mere settlement and a lowborn Saxon.’ Vidar had struggled not to resent his friend for his choice.

‘He chose the woman who held his heart,’ Eirik said. ‘Much as I did.’

‘It’s not the same. You left our home to come to the Saxon lands and now you live as a king. You bettered your fortune. You still had adventure. You didn’t give it all away.’

‘Is that all that matters to you?’ Eirik narrowed his eyes at him. ‘Adventure? Treasure? Battle? What’s left after all of that? One day you’ll have found more treasure than you can hold and more adventure than your old bones can handle. What then?’

One day Vidar might be too old to travel, but it wouldn’t be for a very long time. The answer was simple. ‘When that day comes—I die. I’ll die in battle and take my place in Valhalla.’

‘But what if you could have a little taste of that feast in Valhalla before you go?’

Eirik had lost his reasoning somewhere along the way. Vidar shook his head. ‘You’re mad, Brother. Are you trying to say that my betrothed could provide me with a taste of the pleasures to be had after my death?’

Eirik’s eyes brightened and he smiled. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

It was Vidar’s turn to laugh. ‘The only pleasure that woman has in mind is the pleasure she’ll have when my ballocks are served to her at her table.’

‘You could change your approach,’ his brother countered. ‘She may want to be a warrior, but she’s not. You can’t win her over by defeating her.’

Vidar snorted and shook his head, walking towards his warriors on the sparring field.

‘Try it, Brother,’ Eirik called after him. ‘A warm wife is better than a cold one.’

Vidar only shook his head again. That woman wanted to be married to him about as much as he wanted to be married to her. He’d wed her, bed her and then figure out a way to leave her behind as he went on his next adventure. They’d both be happier with that arrangement.

Chapter Five

Gwendolyn stared at the people awaiting her. They all watched her, searching her face for some reaction. A tug of humour seemed to hover around the lips of the Danes, while the Saxon faces all showed pity combined with resigned acceptance. She and Rodor had spoken to them all back in the autumn after her father had passed to explain what he’d done. They’d all had the winter to come to terms with the potential for the Danes to be invited into Alvey. And on the morning after the Danes had arrived, Rodor had gone to each and every one of the families to reassure them and reaffirm her father’s word on the matter. While she was certain many of them resented the Danes, they all respected her father enough to abide by his word.

His word was still law now that he was gone. Her people would accept these Danes as allies. Gwendolyn was aware of her pivotal role in ensuring that. It was up to her to lead by example and accept her place as the wife of Vidar. Except for that morning on the sparring field, she had kept her head about her. In public she had behaved with grace and tolerance that had been acquired by never once addressing her betrothed. In private she still railed against her fate, even though she knew there was nothing to be done for it. Finally she had come to a solemn acceptance. She would marry him, but she would not submit to him.

Holding her head high, she held Annis’s hand and walked across the sparring field in the light of the late afternoon. She found it ironic that they would wed on the very field of battle where they’d exchanged words just days before. Though Annis and even their parents had been married in the hall, it made more sense for Gwendolyn’s wedding to take place outside so that more of their people could view their joining in marriage. Rodor had thought that having it witnessed by more people would help to ensure those same people would never have question to doubt or resent the Danes.

Gwendolyn had agreed, so she forced a smile as she made her way down the path created by the parting crowd to the centre of the group. The women had outdone themselves with the decorations. Torches were placed at intervals around the perimeter of the field to give off more light. It was early yet in the spring for flowers, so they’d hung strings of boughs and wreaths high above their heads to run between the torches. Most of the women wore crowns of ivy in their hair and Annis had even placed one over Gwendolyn’s head.

Once they reached the friar Annis dropped her hand and went to stand with her husband and their two young children. Gwendolyn smiled at Rodor, but couldn’t manage to keep the smile in place when she looked over at Vidar and Jarl Eirik standing beside him.

They were both handsome. Vidar’s golden hair had been pulled back into a knot at the crown of his head, while his hair in the back fell in loose waves to his shoulders. Those broad shoulders were encased in a midnight-velvet tunic adorned with gold braiding and embroidery along the seams. She had to admit he had the look of a nobleman more than that of a barbarian. He also had the look of a hardened warrior, one who was accustomed to getting his way in things. It appeared allowing his wife to continue her responsibilities as they’d been before he came along wasn’t part of his plan.

He was nothing like Cam. Cam had been carefree and content to allow her to do as she wanted. Vidar was the complete opposite. Intense and powerful. With Cam her life would have been calm and predictable. Nothing was predictable with this man.

His strong jaw tightened and, when he turned to look at her, his strong brow line was furrowed. She couldn’t understand why he tolerated the idea of this marriage. Annis had helped her to realise that it didn’t matter if he wanted it or not. If he’d called off, Jarl Eirik would have called some other man in to take his place, so it was a moot point.

His eyes widened when he took in her gown, making her realise this was the first time he’d seen her clothed in such feminine attire. Her father had brought back the velvet fabric on his last trip years ago to barter with the Scots. The sapphire colour had matched her eyes, so she’d had it made into a gown with the intention of wearing it on her wedding day, but that had been when she’d imagined Cam to be the groom. She’d almost decided against it in some sort of silent protest against the man she was forced to marry, but Annis had pointed out it would be a shame to let the gown go to waste. Gwendolyn had agreed. If she were being forced into this marriage, then at least she’d have one thing that she wanted. Well, two. She also wore her mother’s favourite fox pelt stole around her shoulders to block out the chill. The amethyst necklace that Annis had gifted her completed her wedding attire.

His gaze made a sweep of her body, taking a moment to linger on her hips and the swell of her breasts. When it met hers again, she was struck by the humour shining out at her. He didn’t mumble a compliment that she’d probably have seen as a pale attempt at flattery. Instead, he said, ‘You honour me with your presence, my lady.’

She couldn’t help it. Her lips twitched in a smile at his jest. He was baiting her, she was certain of it, but she took his bait and asked, ‘Did you think I might not come?’

‘I had already planned my speech to win you over.’

She did laugh then, a small giggle that she managed to stifle before it had truly escaped. The image of him pleading for her hand was so funny, she was almost sorry she hadn’t made him do it. ‘A pity I missed that. What did it entail? Would you have extolled my many virtues and sang a song about your many successful exploits?’

His smile widened and he took her hand. The touch was so unexpected that it wiped the smile from her lips. His fingers were strong and warm as they closed around hers, making her hand feel tiny by comparison when she had never felt tiny in her life. His skin was lightly calloused and rough against hers, but somehow the sensation wasn’t repugnant. Not as it should have been.

‘Not at all. I’d have promised you a say in the training of your warriors, but I must say that I’m very glad it didn’t come to that.’ His hand tightened around hers and he turned to face the friar, a smile still on his lips.

She followed his lead and faced the friar as well, but she ground her molars as she did so. She was almost certain he was lying, teasing her simply to make her feel that she might have got the concession from him had she only tried harder. This entire thing was a game to him and one in which only he seemed to know the rules. The friar began to speak, droning on in Latin, and she was too incensed with her groom to pay attention. She did try to jerk her hand away from him, but he only smiled wider and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, holding it there with his other hand. Rodor gave her a disapproving look, reminding her that her people were watching and she had to put on a serene face.

So that’s what she did. When it came time for her to repeat her vows, she said them loud and clear for all to hear, but she did it without once looking at her groom. Only the ceremony didn’t end with the reciting of vows as it had for Annis. This one had to incorporate the Danes’ own heathen tradition. Rodor had given her a quick explanation of what was to come. Now she had no choice but to participate.

As her father’s only living male relative, Eadward stepped forward, bearing her father’s sword in front of him. Gwendolyn took it by the hilt, her gaze lovingly tracing the carved beast’s head. It was the first time she allowed herself to consider the fact that her father wasn’t here to see her wed. The ache of unshed tears unexpectedly welled in her throat, forcing her to blink several times to stop them from falling. Closing her fingers around the hilt, she brought it to her chest and held it there for a moment as she said a silent prayer that she hoped would reach him.

When she opened her eyes, Vidar was facing her. His face had lost its humour. His eyes were intense and serious when they met hers. She nearly looked away from the power of his gaze, but forced herself not to. ‘This sword belonged to my father. It was given to him by his father who had wielded it before him. It has held true the strength and honour of my family for generations.’ Taking a deep breath, she forced the next words out. ‘May it continue to do so in your hand. May it protect you and guide you as the new...’ She paused and sucked in a breath, stumbling over the words. ‘The new Lord of Alvey.’ Holding the sword out to him, she only released the breath she’d been holding when he took it.

There. It was done. The awful thing she had dreaded was done. He was her Lord now and he’d taken her father’s sword. And yet she still stood here and nothing awful had happened...yet. Perhaps their future wouldn’t be so dreadful after all.

Vidar propped the sword against his leg and took the ring from the smallest finger on his left hand. She hadn’t noticed it before, but it was a coiled gold band. Placing the ring on the hilt of the sword, he held it out to her, offering it to her. When she hesitated, uncertain of this ritual, he nodded and his brow raised in challenge. Swallowing thickly, she retrieved the ring. The gold would curve her finger in one complete circuit and each end was tipped with amber stone.

‘With this ring, I take you as my wife. I offer you my protection and loyalty. I pledge to you that I will give my life before allowing any harm to come to yours. From now until eternity, we are one.’ The deep husk of his voice raked over her senses in a way that she wasn’t prepared to face. She’d expected words, but somehow those words seemed genuine. She met his gaze and saw nothing but his solemn vow to uphold them. Her heart inexplicably beat harder in her chest. His words didn’t matter. She knew that he’d have said those words to whomever he’d been forced to marry, but for some reason she didn’t understand, she felt them in her heart along with a strange awareness that fluttered in her belly.

She didn’t quite know what to say. Everyone was watching her and she realised that she should have listened to Rodor when he’d been telling her what to expect. As if he sensed her confusion, he stepped forward and pressed something into her hand. It was a ring similar to the one Vidar had given her, except the gold was thicker. Vidar or Jarl Eirik must have given it to Rodor, because it was clear they were a matched set. Realising now what she was meant to do, she balanced it on the flat of the hilt of the sword and offered it to Vidar.

She wasn’t certain what she was meant to say, so she simply said, ‘With this ring, I accept you as my husband.’ That must have done it, because he nodded and placed the ring on his finger, then he carefully wrapped his hand around the blade and took the sword.

She’d neglected to put the ring on her finger, so she made to rectify that, but he stopped her by covering her hand with his. Gently, he took the ring from her and slid it on her finger. He didn’t say anything, but it felt like he’d claimed her. A knot churned in her stomach. The idea of being owned by any man revolted her, but there was something about this man that terrified her.

He moved away, only to turn back with a sword Jarl Eirik had given him. It was ornate, with two rubies set into the gilded hilt. He held it out to her lying flat on both of his palms. ‘I am entrusting this into your care to be given to our first-born son. May you bear me many.’

She nodded and took the sword from him, handing it off to Rodor. ‘I accept,’ she said, her voice low enough that only Vidar and Rodor were likely to hear her. ‘But we never agreed to children.’

Now that the ceremony was finished, he’d relaxed and even smiled at her when she said that. ‘I’m looking forward to the challenge, my lady.’

He didn’t seem fazed at all, or even worried that he wouldn’t be able to win the challenge. She frowned and her scowl deepened when the Danes gave up a mighty cheer when Vidar took her hand and raised it.

They were well and truly wed now.

* * *

Vidar brought her hand to his lips, but his gaze caught on her full lips. They were soft and pink and he longed to kiss them. From the moment she had appeared in her gown, he’d been struck by this fierce wave of possessiveness. It was as if his body hadn’t recognised her as his until that very moment, which made no sense because she’d been his since the first moment he’d seen her.

Perhaps it was that she hadn’t seemed quite so feminine then. Nay, that wasn’t right, because even now he could recall how her hips and buttocks had appeared very womanly in the glimpse he’d had beneath her long tunic. Then he realised what it was. It wasn’t the gown, though the deep blue colour complimented her greatly. It wasn’t that her hair had been left to fall down her back beneath the veil.

It was her eyes. She looked for all the world like a queen as she looked at him. Her chin was raised proudly as if she challenged him to touch her. But beneath that exterior, her eyes were vulnerable. There was a crack in her façade and she was terrified. Whether she realised it or not, he couldn’t say, but she was looking to him for reassurance.

That thought sobered him and he was struck with how much power he held over her. Never in his life, never once—including his many battles and their casualties—had he had such control over the life of one person. Or more specifically the livelihood and contentment of one person. As she stared down at him, her eyes revealing more vulnerability than she knew, he became drunk on that power. Began to revel in it, even. She was beautiful and strong. A veritable queen.

And she was his.

Their cheering grew louder as his men came up behind him. Before he realised what they meant to do, they’d hoisted him over their shoulders to carry him off to celebrate. A marriage was always something to celebrate, whether the couple were happy with the arrangement or not.

‘Congratulations, Brother!’ Eirik called out as he took a place under Vidar’s right side, his arms wrapped around Vidar’s thigh. ‘You’ll do Alvey proud.’

Vidar smiled as he looked out over Alvey and its people. The Danes were celebrating and, drawn by the allure, some of the Saxons were starting to join in. The gates were open to the people of the countryside and many of them had turned out, curious to the festivities. Several large fires had been going since midday and the air was heavy with the scent of roasting lamb and venison mingled with spices he couldn’t identify.

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