by Ree Thornton
Forbidden Viking
Ree Thornton
Copyright © 2020 Ree Thornton. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. This work contains adult content and may not suitable for audiences under 18 years of age. Thank you for supporting writers by buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations for use in critical reviews.
Acknowledgements
This book would not have happened without Rachel and all the WNW girls who critiqued multiple drafts and supported me throughout the editing process. I feel truly blessed to have such wonderful friends cheering me on. A special shout-out to Dana Mitchell, who played head-cheerleader on this project and dragged me kicking and screaming over the finish line.
Dedication
Till min mamma som är min bästa vän och som alltid har uppmuntrat mig till att följa mina drömmar.
Contents
A note on historical accuracy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Afterword
Also by Ree Thornton
A note on historical accuracy
Forbidden Viking is inspired by historical fact with a heavy sprinkling of imagination.
Gottland (Gotland) is an island in the Baltic Sea with a rich history of Viking settlement and trade. Over the years, seven hundred hoards of Viking silver have been found on the island, however it was the largest, known as The Spilling Hoard, that inspired this story.
The Spilling Hoard was discovered in 1999 when a farmer uncovered a horde of silver coins and jewelry in a copper barrel in his field. The vast majority of the coins discovered were Arabic dirhams not brought to the island as plunder, but rather through far-reaching trade that connected Gotland with the Silk Road and its riches of silk, furs, and spices. As soon as I learned of the treasure that linked the known Viking trading center to the Far East, my imagination ran wild with possibilities of a story about an Arabian Princess and her Viking Jarl.
The World Heritage Listed medieval defensive wall that still surrounds Visby to this day is a remarkable sight. If only those stones could talk! The wall features in a few scenes in this story, however it was likely not completed until the 14th century, which is well after the Abbasid historical period, which inspired my heroine.
The Abbasid Caliphate (750CE-1258) was ruled by successive Abbasid Caliphs from the center of their power at court in Bagdad. In what is now known as the Golden Age of Islam (8th-14th centuries), Bagdad became a center of science, medicine, culture, education, philosophy, and technological invention. The scale and depth of innovation and advancement of knowledge during this fascinating historical period is astounding. Women faced many challenges under the Abbasid Caliphate; however, some women of wealth or noble birth were educated, took up professions such as medicine, and even published works of poetry. These women, many of whom became powerful figures, provided the inspiration for the feisty, educated Princess Samara.
Chapter One
Valen
Valen Eriksson stood on the weather-beaten dock in the warm springtime sun and rolled his neck to ease the tension from his muscles. By the gods, he was weary, and the sun had barely passed the midday place overhead. It was both a blessing and a curse that Gottland's main port, Visby, was busier than usual these weeks before midsummer.
The piping notes of a golden eagle call rang out overhead as the predator swooped in a graceful arc and headed inland away from the gathering storm over the sea.
Freyr and her infernal timing! Now he would have to work in the rain to clear the longships moored at the docks either side of him and those that waited in the crowded bay for their turn to unload. He sighed. It would be another long day before he sought his bed.
The wooden dock creaked and rattled as he walked to the end. Another thing to add to his long list of repairs for when he was officially Jarl. He pulled the leather strap from his wrist and tied back the hair that was whipping around his face as the Kvitfjell longship glided to a stop beside him.
"Well met, Valen. It is good to see you," Dànel said, as his men threw off ropes and secured the ship to the mooring.
"Well met, Dànel. You are earlier than expected." He smiled fondly at the friend that had been absent from his shores far too long.
Dànel leapt onto the dock and walked toward him. "Njord was kind and filled our sail."
"That is good fortune," he replied, for indeed there was no better blessing than that of the god of the winds, then he pulled Dànel into a backslapping hug. "Did you get smaller, brother?"
His friend grinned and shoved him in the shoulder. "I have outgrown even you since I left the island three summers ago."
Valen scoffed and looked him up and down doubtfully. It appeared Dànel had a new attitude to match his enlarged body. "You have the broad shoulders of a warrior, and that dark thick beard has replaced the fuzz of an adolescent boy, but I can still put you in a headlock to remind you who is bigger, little brother." No way had Dànel outgrown him, but his foster brother had almost doubled in size.
Dànel chuckled, looking every bit like his father Čuivi, who had been an elder of a Sapmi clan that lived in the cold lands far to the north until he'd died three years ago.
"How is your brother?" Valen asked. He had heard reports that Dànel and Ándde fought often since Dànel had returned home to captain a ship in his brother's fleet after more than a decade living with the Eriksson clan. Sibling rivalry was to be expected after a long absence, but he had hoped Dànel would receive a fond welcome back into the family that had shunned him long ago.
Dànel shrugged. "Still stubborn and ill-tempered. I keep telling him that only a fool would enjoy living in a place so cold that it hurts to breathe."
"You whine like a hungry pup. You were fortunate to spend idle summers on our warm isle."
Dànel's fist flew out and hit him in the shoulder. "Idle! You worked me like a thrall."
He chuckled. The boy was still easy to rile. These last few years, he had missed the playful banter they'd shared as he had trained Dànel to live and fight as a Viking.
"And you learned well. Ándde spoke of your success in the north last summer."
Dànel huffed and crossed his arms over his chest at the mention of his older brother. "He enjoys sending me to lands where my eyelids freeze shut. I am glad to be back in warmer waters."
"As we are glad to have you, brother."
A deep clap of thunder rumbled in the distance as the wind moved from a brisk breeze to strong gusts that foretold of the approaching squall.
Valen glanced up at the dark clouds expanding overhead, an uneasy feeling settling in his gut. There was something unnatural in the way the clouds stretched across the otherwise clear skies.
"Come," he said, turning toward the shore. "A storm is brewing and I have much to do before Midsummer Eve. If I am lucky, the rain will pass quickly and I can work late."
Dànel wrapped his hand around his forearm, stopping him. "Valen, there was trouble in your waters
."
He stilled, noting the concern on Dànel's face. "What trouble?"
Dànel stepped back and looked at him warily. "I know there is rarely strife in your territory—"
"Nobody has dared risk the wrath of the Eriksson clan in many years. Who would do so now?"
Dànel waved at the largest of his men still waiting on the longship deck. "Bring her."
Her? The hair on his neck stood on end as another low rumble echoed over the sea—it was an otherworldly storm approaching, a sign that the gods were at play with the lives of men. Why must they always meddle at the worst of times?
"A ship was raided."
He clenched his teeth. Raiding in his territory was an act of war. Was this a strike to test his position as Jarl before he'd even claimed it?
He saw none of Dànel's usual easy-going demeanor as he spoke. Instead, his body was tense and matched by the terse features of an equally grave mood.
"They took prisoners and escaped, but we pulled a survivor from the water." Dànel turned and nodded at his men. "Let her off. The rest of you can wait ashore. We shall unload the cargo later."
Dànel's men hastened to follow his orders and disappeared into the throng of traders hauling their wares to the market nestled safely behind the towering stone wall that protected Visby.
A small figure stepped onto the dock behind Dànel, her head lowered so the mass of dark tangled hair that fell in waves to her waist hid her face.
He peered around Dànel to get a better look, until his friend stepped aside.
Her hands trembled beneath the gray woollen blanket that she clutched around her shoulders and her small frame.
Óðinn! She was so small and slender it looked like she would be blown over by the wind.
"She is a mere child." He stared at her, his hands balling into fists. She'd likely been taken as a thrall or to be sold off at a slavers market. He couldn't stomach the trade of flesh, and had convinced his father to end the custom in their port after a slaver had killed Kalda. His clan had neither need for the dirty gold nor time for the unsavory characters of the sickening trade. On occasion, his father would free a thrall from aboard a ship and offer them a home on the island.
"I will wring the neck of the filthy cur that snatched a child in my waters."
Dànel shook his head. "Nei. She is no child."
Valen forced his body to relax and his jaw to unclench. Everything about this situation was off. He needed to uncover the truth so he could set this to rights. He could not have raiding parties in his waters, especially not with so many important guests coming to oversee his ascension to Jarl.
"Who is she then?" He must know so he could make reparations to her family for what had happened within his boundaries. And he needed to find the culprit and put a stop to this raiding at once.
"Come." Dànel's brow furrowed as he beckoned her forward. He murmured soft comforting words as he gently attempted to pry her fingers from the heavy blanket.
The poor child was terrified.
The thick mass of curled hair parted and she looked up at him, one dark eyebrow raised defiantly above eyes that elongated and tilted up on the outward corners around a dark amber center. Time ceased for a few moments, as the fire in her eyes stole the air from his chest.
Finally, the blanket slipped from her fingers and fell to her feet.
He swallowed hard at the sight before him. The oversized man's shirt she wore failed to hide shapely thighs and legs that were a tantalizing shade of bronze. Though small in height, the curves she'd hidden beneath that blanket were those of a grown woman. His eyes skimmed upward to where the shirt fell open at her neck to reveal the tops of breasts the color of warm rich honey.
Her breath hitched, and then she straightened her shoulders and clasped her hands gently across her waist as he forced his gaze up to lips that reminded him of the plump flesh of a peach.
"This is no Viking woman," he growled.
"Nei," Dànel agreed. "She's not."
He stared at the woman. Her amber gaze warmed him like the sunlight gem revered by the seiðkonur magic women. A delicate design of swirls and dots decorated her bare feet. They were unlike anything he'd seen before, an entirely different hue to the markings on his own body.
"Who is she?" He didn't even recognize the raspy tone of his own voice.
Dànel shrugged. "She's not spoken a word. She jumped overboard to escape capture."
A brief flash of fear in the woman's eyes brought back images of his childhood sweetheart's broken body lying in the field, the deathly pale of Kalda's skin and the mottled bruises around her neck where her captor had strangled the life from her body. He flinched, and then forced his expression back to one of unyielding stone. It still haunted his dreams. This woman could have suffered the same fate if she'd not escaped. Had she been a random capture? Or targeted like Kalda?
He searched her face for answers, aware that her wary eyes followed his perusal. He stared at the small silver dot that adorned one nostril of her angular nose. He'd never seen a woman like her. He had no doubt that she came from a distant land.
"She is yours to protect now."
Dànel's words were the only thing that could make him tear his eyes away from her. "What? Nei."
"You must," Dànel insisted, his tone firm.
He shook his head and glowered at his friend. No way was he having this woman thrust on him. He had more than enough problems and duties in the lead up to the ceremony. "You found her. She's your problem."
As he spoke, her eyes darted around, taking in the many ships tied off to docks and the noisy crowd of traders preparing to ply their wares. Then she studied him, her gaze slowly following his jawline and lingering on his mouth, and when her eyes returned to his they were lit with such molten desire that he almost groaned.
Dànel pointed at the turbulent waves that matched the dark skies above. "She was attacked in your waters, Valen. It's your duty."
He forced himself to keep his gaze away from the tempting beauty. Dànel was right. He couldn't appear weak, especially not with all eyes on him until the midsummer ceremony. He had no choice—he'd have to keep her alive until he could be rid of her.
Her small shoulders heaved as she coughed and cleared her throat.
He crossed his arms and scowled at her. "How can I find her people to send her back when she doesn't even speak? She's probably mad as an old goat and they'd not want her back lestways."
Her eyes instantly narrowed, burning with the unmistakable fury of a woman scorned. She stepped forward, her lips opening slightly.
"Baaa," she spat at him.
Did she just bleat? He stared down his nose at her as his temper sparked to life.
Her tone was low and husky as her mouth effortlessly shaped words in his language. "A wise man would simply ask the woman, fool."
Chapter Two
Samara
The Viking's blue eyes widened for a split second, and then changed to a shade that reminded Samara of the dark depths of the ocean she'd crossed to reach this island. There was nothing soft nor kind in the warrior that stood before her. Everything from his arms wrapped in dark inked designs, muscular thighs supporting his solid stance, and the hard lines of his tense square jaw, held the irresistible allure of power. He was a leader among men, of that she had no doubt.
His nostrils flared.
A light drizzle began to fall as a shiver crept up her spine. The only thing Vikings loved more than the thrill of the chase was the kill, and she'd just made herself prey. Her heart hammered in her chest as she awaited his retaliation.
"She speaks." Now that he addressed her directly, the low rumbling growl of his voice held her frozen in place even more than his calculating glare.
The smarter you are, the less you speak, her grandfather's voice whispered in her mind.
Samara moistened her dry lips and wished she'd heeded the forgotten advice. She'd struck like a wounded cobra and ceded her only advantage. She wiped away the tr
ail of water that ran down her cheek, aware that not even the cooling touch of rain would douse this man's anger now. Because of her recklessness, his goodwill had vanished like grains of sand through her fingers.
“If the wind blows, ride it, child.”
She lowered her eyes. She knew that her survival depended on making this Viking an ally, so she would concede this battle to win the war. She lifted her gaze to meet his, confident that she could win him over. She had a lifetime's experience in the lies and deceit of court politics and knew the subtle moves needed to succeed in thorny negotiations. She could do this.
His sand-colored hair danced in the wind as he caressed his short beard thoughtfully, the gathering storm behind him matching his suspicious gaze.
She had to make this Valen see that she was no threat and need not be locked away. For the first time in her life, she was free, free of her handmaidens, free of her duty, and free of her father's ever-watchful gaze, and she would not let him take that from her.
"Já. I speak your language." Her eyes skimmed over the Viking leader's disapproving mouth and up to the fierce eyes locked on her. Her stomach fluttered, but then she firmed her resolve.
"How?" He crossed his arms over his chest, his sleeves rising to reveal more of the intricate knotted designs that curled around his muscular arms.
She wiped the rain from her face to stop herself from ogling his shoulders, which were as wide and imposing as the towering cobblestone wall behind him.
