Vanquishing the Viking (Curvy for Keeps Book 7)

by Annabelle Winters

  VANQUISHING THE VIKING

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

  Start Reading

  More Books from Anna

  Join Anna's Private Mailing List

  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  Copyright © 2020 by Annabelle Winters

  All Rights Reserved by Author

  www.annabellewinters.com

  If you'd like to copy, reproduce, sell, or distribute any part of this text, please obtain the explicit, written permission of the author first. Note that you should feel free to tell your spouse, lovers, friends, and coworkers how happy this book made you.

  Cover Design by S. Lee

  VANQUISHING THE VIKING

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

  1

  TENTH CENTURY A.D.

  SOMEWHERE OFF THE COAST OF ENGLAND

  WENDRA

  The acrid smoke from their fires still burns in my nostrils as the Viking longship races away from England’s coastline towards the cold North Sea. I want to close my eyes to block the sight of my once-thriving village being turned to ash, but the sights inside my head are far worse than what I see on the shore. So I keep my eyes open and watch my village burn. I watch in silence as the cold wind blows my dark hair wild like battle flags, makes my dark skirts billow like bloodied sails.

  The silence moves deeper into me as I strain at the leather straps binding me to the wooden mast near the ship’s bow. My wrists already bleed from the rough rawhide, but it is no matter. Once we face the icy North winds of the open sea, I will feel no pain. The cold will take me slow and sweet like a lullaby. Death will come like a dream.

  “Perhaps then I will see that all of this is a dream,” I whisper, my dry lips cracking as I smile. “A dream in which all those who fell in battle today will rise again, go back to their families, kiss their wives, hold their children.”

  A horn sounds from one of the other Viking longships, breaking me out of my dream. I turn my head towards the sound just as the ship pulls up alongside and keeps pace. Even through my hatred for the invaders I cannot help but admire their skills on the sea. The longships themselves are works of wonder—vessels large enough to traverse the open oceans but light enough to sail shallow waterways like rivers and creeks for raids that come silent and swift.

  “Swiftly now,” comes a man’s deep voice from behind me. I try to look at him but my neck will not turn that far without breaking. “Overtake us so the captives can see her. See their queen.”

  A chill that comes not from the wind goes through my back, and my jaw tightens as I see the women and children of my village on their knees on the open decks of the second ship. Behind them stand lines of Viking warriors in chain-mail armor and helmets of shining steel. They carry battle-axes and broadswords, wear beards and beads, sport hair long and wild. Their faces are stained with the blood of my warriors, and I get some small satisfaction when I see that some of them bleed from wounds that I pray will kill them slow and painful. May they die whimpering in their beds like children instead of on the battlefield like men.

  “The males of your tribe are on the third longship,” comes the man’s voice, this time much closer. Still I cannot see him, but when the wind dies I smell him.

  His scent is unlike that of any man I have known, and I will never forget it. Even if I never see his face I will hunt him by that scent of whale-oil and leather, salty sweat and metallic blood. But there is something else in his musk that strikes me, and I sniff the air again and frown. It is a pungent, masculine oil but not one that I know. An earthy aroma that steadies my heart but confuses my mind. Why does a monstrous marauder douse his body with oils? Could it be his natural scent? Why does it affect me so?

  His words confuse me too. I assumed the Vikings would kill all the able-bodied men like it has been rumored. They do not take slaves, I have heard. They do not kill the very young or the very old, instead leaving them behind. But I saw children and the elderly on the longship that passed us. And if what this Viking says is true, that the surviving men of my tribe are on the third boat? That is very strange indeed. Vikings do not act thus.

  The man’s scent draws near, and the sun moves from behind a cloud and shows me his shadow on the salt-weathered wood of the foredeck. His size and shape startles me, and I blink twice and swallow once as I wonder if he is a some kind of man-beast, a creature with the body of a bull and the head of a man.

  “Do I not speak your tongue well enough?” he says, his shadow stiffening, his chain-armor clinking as he takes a step toward me and stops. “Do you not understand my words?”

  “I do not understand your actions,” I say calmly even though my heart flutters like the canvas sails high on the mast above me. “What will you do with the children and the old? What will you do with my warriors?”

  “They are no longer your warriors, Queen,” says the man, still staying in shadow like he knows that staying hidden gives him a subtle power over me. I understand power very well, and that is why my heart flutters: Because this Viking understands it too. Why else would he call me Queen? “They live because I allow it, which means they belong to me now.”

  My thick thighs tighten beneath my skirts, and I wet my cracked lips and hold my tongue. He stays silent too. I wait, but the only sound is that of the sleek ship cutting through the cold waves. His shadow remains steady even through the ship’s motion, like he controls the tides and currents just like he does his ships and soldiers.

  Just like he does me.

  “You call me Queen,” I say finally. “England already has a king and queen. I have no crown. I wear no fine silks. No precious stones adorn my body.”

  No response. Then a short laugh. “Crowns and jewels are borne by thieves and fools as often as they are by kings and queens,” he says. His shadow moves. “You revealed yourself with character, not a crown, Lady Queen.”

  “How so?” I ask.

  “You were the only woman who showed no fear,” he says as he finally steps forth and turns to face me. He stands taller than his shadow revealed, broader than any bull I have seen, with heavy muscles that appear sculpted with great care and deadly precision. He is more handsome than I care to admit, with strong cheekbones and wise eyes that simmer green like molten emeralds. His jaw is brutally masculine but his speech is measured and refined. He looks into my eyes unflinchingly, and I shudder as he lets his gaze roll down along my curves, past my high-buttoned blue tunic that the wind blows tight against my breasts, down to where my brown skirts hug my wide hips. “You showed no fear,” he says again, the edges of his eyes crinkling with the hint of a smile. “Even though you felt it.”

  I blink and my breath catches. “You are mistaken,” I say stiffly. “I felt no fear then. I feel no fear now. All you can give me is pain, and I have lived through more pain than you can understand. All you can take from me is my life, and that is not so precious as you might think.”

  He tilts his head and studies my face. He runs a hand along his jutted jaw and grunts. “More pain than I can understand? What do you know of what I can and cannot understand?”

  “Maybe nothing,” I say. “Maybe everything.”

  He laughs with his eyes and his mouth and his shoulders. “Now I know you are a Queen,” he says, stepping back and crossing his thick arms over his chest. His face settles into a smile, and his eyes do something to my heart I do not understand . . . do not want to understand. The smile does not stay long, however, and when the man looks past me towards the north, his gaze narrows and a shadow passes behind those eyes. His throat moves as he swallows, and then he turns from me an
d stares at nothing.

  The second ship has passed us, and the third longship overtakes us. I see my warriors bloodied but alive on the decks, their eyes turned toward me. I show no expression, yield no emotion. I worry not for my warriors. They are ready to die and if that is their fate they will welcome it. I do worry for the children and the old, though. In our village we respect our elders, rely on them to teach the young, to preserve our ways. Our tribe is part of England but also not. We did not lose a war to the Crown and we are not foolish enough to think we would win independence with a few hundred fighters. But we are far from the towns of the kingdom and our way of life is as it was before England had a king or queen or castles or even a name.

  “What is your name?” I ask the man, swallowing my pride and yielding to the truth that we are prisoners and this man appears to be the leader of the Viking raiders. He speaks our tongue and he carries himself with what could be called grace. But of course the Vikings are said to be savages, and so again I am confused. I burn to know more about him. The more I know, the better my position. My warriors failed to defend the tribe. Now it is up to me.

  The man strolls past me and shows me his back. He wears no helmet and although his hair appeared wild at first, on closer inspection he is more groomed than I would expect. In fact many of the Vikings appear to care for their hair and skin and even their nails. Some wear beads around their necks and colorful ropes around their wrists.

  “Wolruff,” he says, his head half turned and looking bigger than the masthead on the longship’s bow. “What are you called, Queen?”

  “Wendra,” I say, my heart pulling as Wolruff turns to me and shows a smile that hides emotion I cannot understand, just like I cannot understand why my heart pulls. We look at each other as the third longship moves ahead. The seas are empty and open, the water a blue steel-gray. The wind has slowed but yet the sails pull hard and strong.

  He glances toward the other two ships ahead and then looks at me. From his brown leather belt he pulls a long dagger with a jeweled hilt and a blade of polished steel. I swallow as he draws close, and when he circles around the mast to which I am bound and grasps my hands, I gasp out loud as the contact moves heat through my body.

  Wolruff cuts the rope with a single stroke, and I collapse in a heap of skirts at the suddenness of being released. He grasps my arm and pulls me to my feet, and I lean against him as my head spins. There must have been strain I did not measure, stress on my body and perhaps my mind. My cheeks burn red with shame at my weakness, and I firm my jaw and move away from his support.

  “You hide your fear well,” he whispers when I grasp the mast as the ship hits a swell. “But the body can only hold up so long. Come. There is salted meat and brown ale below decks. You need it, and so do I.”

  He turns but stops when I do not follow.

  “Your tribe will be fed. I have seen to it,” he says through that knowing smile. “Come.”

  He moves toward me but stops again when I flinch. I am wary of going below decks. The rumors of Viking men have reached every female ear on England’s coast. They are as brutal in the bedroom as on the battlefield, say the whispers. They take many wives and lovers, discarding them like an Englishman might discard his old boots. If that is Wolruff’s intention, then let him show it above decks, in full view of the sea and sky, the gods and goddesses.

  “Fear not, Wendra,” he says, smiling but not looking into my eyes. “You will not be touched.” Abruptly the smile dies and his eyes narrow and his jaw tightens. “Not by me, at least.”

  Then he turns and storms below decks, leaving me with those words, words that chill me even as what I saw in his eyes warms me. I glance towards the open water, blinking as I ponder throwing myself over the side. Perhaps I will grow a tail and turn into a mermaid. Perhaps my body will wash up on an island and I will be reborn as a siren, drawing Viking sailors to their deaths with my sweet song.

  The thoughts bring a smile to my lips. I watch the coast of England disappear over the horizon, glance at the cold waters once more, and then turn towards the dark arched doorway that leads to the bowels of the longship.

  You will not be touched, he’d said. Not by me, at least.

  2

  WOLRUFF

  The thought of someone else touching her makes my body burn with rage that not even a battle can inspire. But I cannot keep her. I may be Captain of my fleet and Commander of my Raiders, but in the North I must bow to my King. Bow to him and pay tribute.

  The tribute of a Queen.

  “Your Queen will not eat and she will not drink,” comes the voice of Carab, my First Mate. He stands outside the open door to my chambers, and from his speech I know he has drowned himself in brown ale along with the rest of the men.

  I turn and look at him. He is a good man but something about his tone does not sit right. I rub my beard and click my jaw. It is the way he said Queen. I referred to her as a Queen and the men laughed, I remember now. She wears dull brown skirts and a tunic fit for a fisherwoman, one of them had drunkenly said with a raised wooden mug of ale, but Wolruff thinks he has captured the Queen of England!

  The men had roared and rocked, and I had grinned wide and raised my own mug. The men fight for me and they will die for me, but I do not ask them to bow to me. I am no king. I do not lust for power the way King Nordwin does. I chase the thrill of adventure, the joy of battle, the delight of plunder. I care not for the particular spoils or treasure—only the act of taking.

  I suppose that is a form of power-lust too, I think as I nod at Carab so he knows I am on my way out to the food hall. When I enter the wood-walled hall I see Wendra seated with a straight back and closed eyes on a bench at the Captain’s table. My table. Men sit at the other tables drinking ale and chewing salted dried herring, bones and all. There are some chuckles and whispers, but even those die down when I enter.

  “Clear the hall,” I say quietly, my attention on Wendra. I do not care if she eats or not. The journey across the North Sea is short and she will not starve. Besides, if she wanted to take her own life, she had the chance when I left her alone above decks. She could have rolled over the railing and ended it. Instead she chose to face her fate in this life and not the next.

  The word fate rings in my head like wedding bells, and I bite my lower lip and fight back the possessive fury that makes me want to keep her as mine. Already my mind churns like a storm-sea, tossing up ways to deny King Nordwin his tribute without incurring the small man’s famously big wrath. Nordwin won his throne by equal measures force and cunning, and although he is fair and generous to those who show loyalty, he does not tolerate insult or disobedience.

  And denying Nordwin his tribute would be both.

  The room empties noisily, and I wait for stillness to fall. When it does I silently watch Wendra. She is calm like a goddess at the altar, and her energy does something to my heart and my cock all at once. I want to plunder her treasure on the Captain’s table, push my bearded head under her skirts and sniff her like a hound. My nose twitches and my hair stands on end when I imagine what her cunt will smell like, what her slit will taste like, how her big buttocks will feel in my meaty paws. And then the rage rises again as I imagine Nordwin violating those curves and making her his . . . until the next Viking Raider brings him the next tribute.

  It has never bothered me before, I think as I cross my arms over my chest and take long, slow breaths. I watch her shoulders and breasts move as she breathes, and again my heart does that thing and my cock does that other thing. Her washed-out blue tunic fits her perfectly, and I make out the faint protrusion of her nipples. They are big like saucers, and I lick my lips and fight back a wild urge to claim her now. I could lie to Nordwin and present him with one of the other captive women. After all, Nordwin only cares about claiming the woman who is in highest standing in the village or town or tribe that we Raiders plunder. She could be a Queen or simply the Kin
g’s wife. She could be a High Priestess or just the Chief’s virgin daughter. It is symbolic more than anything. A way to make freelance Raiders like myself bow to him. Nordwin takes the woman and his pick of the plunder. The rest is for the Raiders to share as spoils. It is a loose system that works well enough.

  But what if it doesn’t work so well for me this time, I wonder as I seat myself across the broad wooden table from Wendra and place my hands softly on the flat top. Still Wendra keeps her slow breathing steady, her smooth face stoic. I am alone with my thoughts, and as the longship cuts through the choppy North Sea, those thoughts drift to my other ships and the plunder they contain.

  Plunder in the form of people, I remind myself as a dis-ease grips my throat. Wendra was right to notice the oddness of me taking the children and the elderly captive. Viking Raiders usually take only the women—and even then just the ones they fancy. In our lands of the North we do not have use for thousands of slaves. We fish and hunt for food and will always do that for ourselves. Our raiding parties are small and tight-knit, and we do not bloat our ranks with men taken as captives. What will Nordwin say when my longships enter port laden with not pots of gold but a village-full of English fisherfolk?! I could not even answer my men’s questions about why I held them back from slaughtering the warriors and doing what they would with the womenfolk. I said it was by Nordwin’s decree, but when we pull into shore they will know I lied.

  By Thor, they may know I lied even before we stand in Nordwin’s court, I think as I glance toward the door to make sure it is closed. Did Carab and the men see that this woman makes me weak? Do they know how my body yields to hers, how my heart beats with hers, how my soul pulls to hers? Do they know that I would kill for her, die for her, most certainly lie for her?

  “You lied to me,” she says softly, her lips barely moving, her eyes still closed.