by Ree Thornton
His mouth remained in a hard line.
Her heart sank. It seemed unlikely that she would win over the cold distrustful Viking.
His head jerked once in a curt nod before he turned away.
She sighed. It was a start.
Chapter Four
Valen
Valen's gaze drifted toward Samara, drawn to her like a bee to honey. No matter how hard he tried to resist, the pull between them was undeniable. He couldn't have her, not when he must soon choose his Viking bride. He'd known she was trouble the moment he'd laid eyes on her.
He glanced sideways at where she sat beside him, her back straight and her head held high as she sipped at a cup of spiced mead as though perfectly at ease with her situation. He huffed and looked away. How was she not a cowering and trembling mess in a gathering of armed and dangerous Vikings?
"Is something wrong?" she asked, speaking quietly to not be overheard.
He glowered at her. "You blow in with the storm and now the whole clan is in a stir. Everywhere you go trouble follows."
She recoiled at his harsh tone, the red wine in her cup coming perilously close to splashing over the rim before she composed herself and placed it gently on the table.
"What does that mean? I've caused no trouble."
He scoffed at her bewilderment. "Your presence alone causes trouble. Do you not hear the women whispering of evil and curses as you pass?"
"They do?" she stammered, and he couldn't miss the flash of fear in her eyes.
"Já. And just this afternoon I had to lay claim to you to stop my men from fighting in the training yard over who would bed you first."
He'd told himself he'd claimed her to protect her from his men, but now he couldn't deny that she'd intrigued him and he was curious to learn more about her. His chest tightened. He couldn't become attached to her, to any woman. When he became Jarl he would choose a bride that strategically benefited his clan, the daughter of another Jarl. He'd always known this was his fate, and he was prepared to do his duty.
He watched, fascinated, as the color drained from her face, yet somehow her expression and demeanor showed no signs of cracking. Indeed, he would have thought her entirely unmoved if not for her ashen pallor and the slightest tremble in her bottom lip. An unstoppable surge of admiration filled him. Despite all she had endured and the dangers of her current situation, she still refused to be broken.
"Now I will have to keep you with me for your own protection until the Caliph arrives for you." He hoped the renowned Caliph Radi al-Abbasid would arrive soon so he could hand her over and get back to focusing on what was important—securing Gottland's future.
"My days are busy so try to stay out from under my feet."
A flash of anger lit her eyes, and then she nodded briskly. "I will be no trouble. I am sure the Caliph will come for me soon. Gratitude."
He tilted his head and looked at her, making no effort to hide the fact he was trying to figure her out. Had her earlier thanks that he’d rudely brushed off been genuine? His meal formed a lump in his stomach. None of this was her fault and he'd treated her unfairly. He should offer her some comfort.
He leaned closer, inhaling the soft scent of soap on her skin and the lingering fragrance of flowers on her hair.
"You are safe. My brothers will capture Leif Gustafsson and he will be punished."
Her intent gaze caused a surge of heat in his blood. By the gods, it had been years since a woman had affected him like this.
"You know this man Leif?"
He watched her mouth as she formed the words in a husky whisper. Then she swallowed and his eyes fell to her neck, to the telltale pounding of her pulse hammering beneath the skin. Satisfaction filled him—she felt this tug of desire between them too. It was a struggle to force his eyes upward and his mind back to her question.
"Já. I know him." It was his duty to catch whoever was raiding in his waters, but in truth, he was doing it for her as well. Trouble or not, he wanted to protect her.
"How shall he be punished?" As she spoke, her slender fingers tightened around her cup of wine on the table.
"In the Viking way," he said, avoiding her question. No need to frighten her even more. "No one raids my waters twice."
She lifted the cup to her lips and sipped, her eyes never leaving his. "It seems the tales of violence are well-deserved," she said, and then turned away and lifted a spoonful of stew to her lips as if the thought didn't bother her in the least.
Who was this woman who thought she sat amongst savages yet showed no fear? He wanted to probe further, but she’d settled into a comfortable silence as she ate. He downed his ale and returned to his half-eaten meal. He'd not interrupt the quiet.
"Valen?"
His head snapped up as the port-master led a stranger toward his table. "Finne?"
"Sorry to interrupt your meal. This trader arrived late today, but none understand him. I thought you might?"
He laid his dagger on the table and motioned the stranger forward, noting that the man’s garb was that of a simple fisherman with little adornment or clues to his origin.
"Well met." He raised his hand and greeted the man.
"Salevete." The man bowed his head in greeting. He continued speaking for a few moments, and then paused when he realized he was not being understood.
"Nei, Finne. I am unfamiliar with this tongue too." He motioned for his cup to be refilled and considered the options, though he knew there was but one. Trade without a shared language was an arduous process. He would have to handle these negotiations himself.
Beside him, Samara shifted in her seat. "May I?" She motioned at the trader with her long graceful fingers.
May she what?
After a few moments in which he did not respond, she raised her hand to greet the trader. "Salve, Xaris."
He watched her lips stumble over the guttural sounds. How many languages did this woman speak?
She continued talking for a while, nodding and smiling when the trader responded eagerly to her with an extended chatter of foreign words.
He listened attentively, trying to find familiar words or phrases within the unfamiliar rhythmic patterns of their speech, but his patience ended when Samara laughed and the trader glowed with obvious pride. Enough was enough—he refused to be excluded from conversations in his own hall.
"What does he say?" he demanded.
She turned to face him, reprimanding him with her eyes before she answered. "He is a Roman. His name is Xaris. He has come to trade."
His jaw clenched. The woman balanced precariously on the edge of deference and insult with as much deftness as the nimble-footed boys that were sent up to secure a ship's rigging in a storm. "How do you know his tongue?"
She shrugged casually. "I had a tutor."
"A tutor?" He narrowed his eyes. Only the wealthiest families provided tutors, and only for their sons. Was it so different in the east?
"It is not uncommon. I studied languages, art, astronomy, medicine, and letters. Latin was one of many I learned for my role as scribe. The Caliph frequently trades with the Romans."
"You are learned in many areas?" he said, cursing himself when he heard the distinct upward inflection that betrayed his shock. Nothing about her made sense.
Her brow furrowed in response to his obvious surprise, and then she nodded. "As are many women of the Caliph's court."
He shook his head in disbelief. Most of the men he knew did not even know their letters. He sat back and studied her.
She crossed her arms and arched one eyebrow. There was nothing weak or foolish about her, she was strong, smart, and comfortable being in control. She was no obedient servant. Who was she?
He brushed the question aside for later contemplation. He'd felt the subtle shift in power when she'd realized she'd surprised him with the Roman. Eventually he would have to remind her who was Jarl, but for now he needed her help.
"Would you translate for the Roman in our negotiations?"
&
nbsp; A flash of surprise crossed her face, and then her shoulders relaxed. "If you wish."
"I do." He motioned at the Roman that still stood waiting, watching their entire interaction. "Invite him to dine and tell him we will trade in the morning."
She turned to the Roman, smiled warmly, and spoke once more.
"Please get our friend food and drink," he instructed Finne, knowing the man would ensure the Roman was fed and housed beyond the wall with all the other traders.
He turned sideways in his chair to face Samara. "You enjoyed speaking with the Roman?"
She looked at him warily, pausing to weigh her answer. "It is nice to practice other languages—otherwise I will lose the skill. Do you not find it is so?"
"I could not say. I speak with many traders daily." He kept his expression blank, wanting to keep her off balance, needing to claw back some of the control that seemed to vanish every time she opened her mouth.
"I knew many languages as a child, but my elderly tutor died when I was eight and his replacement was not as learned. Without regular practice I lost much of what I had learnt."
He knew all too well the power that came with knowledge. He'd been taught alongside the sons of other Jarls. He couldn't have Samara think herself his equal and question his command because she was more learned. A Jarl must never lose the upper hand—he needed to correct the balance, fast.
"You surprise me," he said, giving her the penetrating stare he used to bring his wayward warriors to their knees.
Her lips twitched at the corners. "I do not imagine that would be very difficult, Viking." She raised her cup in a silent salute and drank.
He blinked hard. How had the troublesome woman bested him yet again?
Chapter Five
Valen
Six days later, Valen downed his ale and crossed his legs beneath the table in the unusually empty longhouse. He was glad to have a full belly and a moment to rest in peace before he met Finne at the docks.
"Well met, Ásta."
Rúna's handmaiden stopped sweeping, holding the broom motionless in one hand as she spoke quietly.
"Jarl." She inclined her head in greeting. "Samara is not with you? Does she require a meal also?"
"Nei. She dines with Rúna and the other women in the garden." Earlier, he had requested that Rúna keep watch over Samara for a while, content in the knowledge that any man that even attempted to approach her would feel the bite of the fierce shield-maiden's sword.
Ásta nodded and continued sweeping the dust from the corner of the room.
His thoughts returned to Samara. True to her word, she had stayed out of his way and been no trouble these last days. Without speaking it aloud, they had both chosen to ignore the tug of desire that pulsed between them and had fallen into a comfortable companionship as he'd answered her endless questions about clan life and the settlement. His lips curved up at the corners as he thought odd the woman with an insatiable thirst for knowledge. Surprisingly, he'd enjoyed how her questions made him see Viking life through her eyes. The warm cadence of her voice was like a soft caress in his mind.
Why are the smallest children sent to haul heavy wooden buckets of water from the stream? To whom do the stray dogs that wander the village streets belong?
Blood rushed to loins at the memory of her petting the small mangy dog and looking up with those wide questioning eyes. His attraction to her had been building, but in that moment he'd wanted to push her up against the wall of the nearby cottage and kiss the kind-hearted woman senseless.
Loud shouts and a slew of foul cursing filtered through the open door along with the thundering footsteps of an approaching crowd.
What the Hel? He leapt to his feet and gripped the hilt of his sword, anticipating trouble.
Ivvàr and Rorik stormed through the door and crossed the room hauling a struggling man between them.
His hand fell from his sword and he relaxed at the sight of his brothers. They had the situation under control, though they did naught to quell the bloodthirsty jeering crowd that had followed them inside.
He walked around the table and studied the target of such fury. He recognized the man's massive build and dark hair—Leif Gustafsson. Satisfaction and brotherly pride filled him. He'd known the twins would return with the accused raider. None could outrun the most gifted longship captains in his fleet.
The captive cursed and kicked out violently as Ivvàr and Rorik shoved him to his knees in the middle of the room. That the man behaved so when surrounded by enemies and little chance of escape told him everything he needed to know—the man was unhinged.
He raised his arm to silence the angry crowd, then crossed his arms over his chest and nodded at his kin. "Brothers. I see you have caught the raider."
"We found him and the other captives." Rorik's mouth was twisted in the angry snarl that rarely seemed to leave his face.
He searched for Rúna's handmaiden and found her pressing herself against a wall with the broom clutched in her hand.
"Ásta, bring Samara here."
She nodded and hastened out the door.
Then he turned back to his brothers. "Where?" he asked Ivvàr.
"South. Nearing his brother's lands in Gottar. The women are being tended to by a healer. It will be a while before they can travel here."
Valen shook his head at the traitor that was so unlike his well-respected kin. For decades, the alliance his own father had forged with the Gustafsson clan had been vital to keeping the peace on the seas and the trade flowing to Gottland. Just yesterday, Leif's brother, Jarl Siv Gustafsson, had arrived as an honored guest to witness his own ascension to Jarl. He couldn't afford to make Siv Gustafsson an enemy, but he couldn't ignore the wrongdoing and insult to his clan either.
"First Rúna's wedding and now raiding in my waters. This is the second time you have taken on an Eriksson and failed."
Leif glared up at him through the slits of his two swollen black eyes.
Valen couldn't summon any pity for the man he knew had an unnatural thirst for blood and a reputation for torturing the weak and innocent. A beating from the twins was far less than what he deserved.
"You are accused of raiding in my waters. You will face judgement."
"VALEN!" Siv Gustafsson ran toward him, clad only in his breeches, his sword drawn. Even in the dim light of the room, the Jarl Gustafsson's much-feared blade appeared as long and sharp as it was in the songs of the travelling bards that told of its many battles.
In seconds, Rorik and Ivvàr has their swords pointed at the furious Jarl.
Siv skidded to a stop and glared at the twins. The legendary battle scar that crossed his bare chest from his neck down to his groin demanded respect. The man was a seasoned warrior with a devoted army.
"Release him," Siv roared, his usually friendly mouth twisted into an angry scowl.
Valen gritted his teeth and quelled his rising temper. This was exactly what he had not waned to happen. The air in the longhouse was thick with the tension of predictable violence. He needed to find a way around bloodshed…fast. He waved off Rorik and Ivvàr.
The twins stared back at him stubbornly. Backing down from a fight was not in their nature.
"Brothers," he snapped in a tone that brooked no argument. "I will not have bloodshed before I speak with Jarl Gustafsson."
Ivvàr shook his head and stepped back. He was the more level headed of the twins, but Rorik was the concern.
Rorik was struggling to control his unruly temper—he looked like he wanted to take Leif's head off. Thank the gods he'd sent Ivvàr with his twin, or he'd likely be looking down at a headless corpse right now. Rorik needed to learn to control his dark urges, and soon, because Ivvàr would not always be around to stop him.
"Rorik..." he said in warning.
Finally, Rorik flexed his fingers on the hilt of his sword, and then he spun on his heel and stormed out the door.
An arrogant smirk spread across Leif's face.
He believed he was
untouchable because of his powerful brother. He thought Siv's arrival had turned the tables, but he was dead wrong.
Siv gripped Leif's forearm and pulled him to his feet. "How dare you insult my brother like this?" he said, as he cut the ropes that bound his brother's hands.
Valen crossed his arms and glared at the smug traitor rubbing his chaffed wrists. "Are you going to tell him, or shall I?"
Chapter Six
Samara
Samara wiped her sweaty palms on her dress and followed Ásta toward the longhouse. What did Valen want? She'd only left him a short while ago to spend the afternoon in the garden with Rúna. He'd not mentioned it, but she knew having her around made it harder to complete his many duties.
"Quickly," Ásta said, rushing toward the open door. The whole island seemed to be moving at a frantic pace these last few days. The warriors hunted, hauled wood, and added even more tables to those in the garden, while the women scrubbed chambers clean, washed linens, and toiled night and day under orders of the cook that never seemed to sleep.
Samara stumbled to a stop in the doorway. She'd never been inside Valen's home. Why would he call her here?
"Come! He is waiting," Ásta hissed, waving for her to follow.
She took a deep breath and stepped through the longhouse door, pausing on the threshold to allow her eyes to adjust to the dim light cast by a smouldering fire in the hearth.
Her eyes darted around the crowded room, taking in the elevated beds strewn with furs lining the walls, and the woven tapestries that hung from beams on the left, creating a private chamber.
Every head in the crowded room turned when Ásta sidestepped, and she felt pinned in place by the Vikings lining the walls. Her skin prickled as she spotted Valen standing in the center of the room amongst a group of men. The burst of heat she'd become adept at hiding these last few days flared to life when his smouldering blue eyes met hers.
