Highland Heartbreakers

by Quinn, Paula

  Viking’s Fury Book 1

  Violetta Rand

  To Jeff—my love and best friend.

  Our Valhalla is never far away.

  And to Simon, the greatest Schnauzer and companion in the world.

  Acknowledgments

  I wish to thank Kathryn Le Veque for believing in this story and me.

  Star Montgomery, you are forever in my heart.

  I have the greatest street team, Violetta’s Valkyries. Thank you for all the love and support.

  Sue-Ellen Welfonder, my fairy book godmother, hugs and kisses for all your help and encouragement.

  Chapter One

  Jorvik (York)

  March 867 A.D.

  Silvia clutched a dozen scrolls to her chest as she raced through the scriptorium searching for somewhere to hide. She covered her mouth and coughed violently. Smoke filled every corner, diminishing the afternoon sunlight that typically filled the high-ceilinged room. Shelf after shelf of manuscripts had been obliterated by the steel axes these heathen occupiers hefted. God’s breath… She halted. A man-beast of mythological proportions stood nearby, his attention focused on the table before him. The place where the monks passed their long days studying.

  “No!” She couldn’t remain silent—couldn’t stop herself from screaming as he tipped the torch he held, the loose parchments providing the kindling the flames needed to spread.

  She clung more desperately to her precious cargo, texts her father specifically requested she grab before he was cut down. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, stifling tears that threatened to spill, ones she’d held back so she could think clearly. But nothing helped now. How could she keep the harrowing memory of her sire’s death out of her head? The answer came as goosebumps crept up her flesh like a cold wind.

  She felt the weight of the intruder’s stare and opened her eyes. Had the heathen heard her yell? Or was he simply in search of something else to burn?

  “Jeg er glad for å se at det er mer enn bøker i denne forlatt stedet.”

  His words were not lost on her. Her father had taught her enough Norse to communicate with the filthy invaders. This was no Dane, but a Norwegian. The bloody animal dared to humor himself whilst devastating her home.

  “Brenn i helvete,” she cursed him. Burn in hell.

  He laughed riotously, then turned his attention back to the room.

  Fool. He obviously underestimated the threat of a woman. Panic gripped her heart, but she had to remain focused. The secret tunnel running along the north wall came to mind. If she could reach it … her gaze searched for a clear route. Unfortunately, she couldn’t see three feet in front of her. Nor did she know how many men were still inside. Her greatest chance of survival depended on getting out, now.

  Silvia ran for the main entrance. She’d spent a happy childhood here—growing up exploring the buildings while her father worked. If the fire wasn’t extinguished, all would be reduced to pile of smoldering rubble. A part of her soul was dying, consumed by the same flames destroying the only scriptorium in the north.

  Outside, conditions weren’t much better. Bodies littered the ground. Saxons—men of honor who risked their lives to reclaim their city were dead or dying. It was too late, in any case, to fight. Now mere survival would have to do. Amidst the agonizing screams and sounds of clashing metal, she hunted frantically for a place to stash the scrolls. Somewhere no one would look.

  The ancient cemetery came into view. Who disturbed the dead when a city was under siege? She knew she’d done everything possible to help her father. Fulfilling his last request was all she had left to give him.

  By some miracle, there was a half-dug grave nearby. It hadn’t rained in days and the soil was dry. There was time to retrieve the scrolls later. She reverently laid them on the ground, unpinned her thin cloak, then knelt, wrapping the delicate papers in her mantle. Her heart pounded as she placed the bundle in the earth, then spread loose soil over it.

  Satisfied they were safe, she scrambled to her feet, noting her exact location. God would lead her back here if she forgot. And if he didn’t, she’d sacrifice her life trying to find it. But what now? The sanctuary appeared unharmed. If the Vikings weren’t trying to purge the northlands of holy sites, why were they targeting just the repository? She didn’t understand.

  The sounds of battle grew louder…

  She must find shelter. The cottage she had shared with her father was on the edge of the extensive church grounds, nearly a mile away. Vikings left nothing unsearched, no one alive—no woman untouched.

  “Ikke flytt.”

  The deep voice cut through her like a blade and she didn’t move. She should have never let her mind wander. Something sharp and hard stabbed her in the back.

  “I accept your invitation.”

  Accept her invitation? She gasped upon remembering where she’d told him to go. To hell.

  “Face me.”

  Legs as heavy as lead, she did as he demanded, dreading the moment she’d see him clearly. In the smoke filled scriptorium, he had been little more than a nightmarish shadow. But in the light, truth hit her harder than anything. Despite the soot and ash covering his face, nothing could mask his exquisite features. Full lips—high cheek bones—a straight nose. Bronzed skin. His stark blue eyes impossible to avoid. And his hair, long and dark with coppery streaks. If she didn’t stop staring, he’d misinterpret her intention, possibly rape her. Silvia tried to avert her eyes.

  His axe rested against his left leg. She swallowed hard, overwhelmed by the magnitude of his presence. When he pointed across the field, toward the courtyard, she shook her head, adamantly refusing to go anywhere with him. “I’d rather die than follow you.”

  He growled, grabbing the top of her gown, her refusal obviously igniting his anger. The garment ripped, exposing her flesh. He gazed at her hungrily, a wicked grin splitting his face. Then his hands were on her arms, his filthy fingers digging into her skin as he shook her into submission. “Fail to obey me again and I’ll strip you.” He let go, shoving her backward.

  She stumbled but didn’t fall. If he wanted her dead, she’d be dead. If he wanted to ravish her, she would have been flailing helplessly on the ground already with her skirt hiked over her waist. Hatred flowed as freely inside her as blood. But she didn’t know how to take his lack of violence.

  He again pointed in the direction he wanted her to go. “Walk.”

  Head held high, Silvia remembered the lessons her father had painstakingly taught her over the years. Hard lessons meant for people who lived in occupied lands. Her father had said subjugation doesn’t mean you must abandon pride. Christ instructed slaves to love their masters. She gritted her teeth. She’d never love a blasted Viking.

  A crowd had gathered beyond the courtyard, Danes and Saxons surrounded dozens of men who were on their knees with their hands bound behind their backs. Silvia stopped short of the throng, embittered by what she knew was about to happen. Her captor gave her a little push.

  “I’ll tell you when to stop,” he growled.

  For a moment she feared she’d be forced to kneel, too. Her thoughts scattered the moment people parted and a man she well recognized, Ivarr the Boneless, son of the late king Ragnar Lothbrok, entered the circle leaning on a soldier. Battle worn and covered in dried blood, he resembled the depictions of malignant spirits in the books Silvia thumbed through in the scriptorium.

  Then a sickening chant rose amongst the Vikings. “Vi som er krigere av Odin og hans lov. Be om hjelp og har tro på ham. Med ham er vi seir.”

  They dared summon Odin while standing on consecrated ground. She whispered the verse, committing it to memory so one day she could write it down. Another important skill her father had imparted—how to write in order to keep historic records. “We who are warriors of Odin and his law. Pray for help and have faith in him. With him we are victorious.”

  Ivarr scanned the horde, his gaze stopping on Silvia. She shifted nervously, unable to take a full brea
th with his eyes on her.

  “Konal,” the prince greeted.

  Konal’s fingers snaked around her elbow. He pulled her along as he stepped forward. “Everything you asked has been done, milord.”

  Ivarr smiled. “I never doubted you.” He regarded Silvia. “Is this what you claim as your reward?”

  Silvia flinched when Konal squeezed her arse. God help her, this is what she feared most. The Viking intended to make her a thrall. Anger pulsed through her. She’d slit her wrists first. Or disembowel him while he slept and escape. She was freeborn, the daughter of a respected scholar, not a lowborn foreigner. She pressed her lips into a tight line in an attempt to hide her emotions.

  “There’s enough padding to please me.”

  Padding? She choked back a sour laugh. There was hardly enough loose skin on her arse to pinch herself with, much less to please a bloody barbarian in bed. Oh, she knew clearly what this was all about. Growing up in a monastery offered many benefits, but it also came with a heavy price: limitless knowledge. Silvia had access to manuscripts—not all of them religious in nature. What literature the church disapproved of and confiscated often ended up in the scriptorium for monks to review. And she’d taken advantage of it, sneaking forbidden texts home where she read every word.

  The prince raised his eyebrows. “Then before these witnesses,” he started, “I give you … what is the tøsen’s name?”

  Konal poked her in the ribs. “Answer.”

  Although she’d never stood amongst so many strangers before, Silvia abandoned her civility. The Saxons kneeling at Ivarr’s feet were going to be executed—they deserved to hear their kinswoman curse this murdering swine. “I pray your limbs wither, your manhood rots off, your daughters are sold into slavery, and your wife sleeps in another man’s bed…”

  Before Silvia closed her mouth, Konal twisted her around. His steely eyes terrified her as he squeezed her cheeks so tight she resembled a fish. Now she’d surely follow her brethren into heaven.

  “This girl has cursed my manhood and honor.” Ivarr broke the silence. His deep-bellied laughter inspired his men to react similarly.

  She’d never meant to entertain, but to offend. To shame. The only one who appeared insulted was Konal.

  “You’ve accepted a larger portion than you anticipated. Perhaps you want something softer to nibble on, Konal?” Ivarr’s green eyes danced.

  “I’ll give her something to chew on,” Konal shot back. “Something to…”

  Ivarr raised his hand. “Be at ease brother—she’s afraid. Let her stay and witness what happens to people who betray me. It will be punishment enough for her spiteful tongue.”

  Konal nodded, then released her on a huff. The prince’s tranquil features darkened in seconds. The time for friendly banter was over and there was nothing she could do to save her kinsmen, nothing. The Danes were growing restless. She searched the crowd for anyone she knew. What a sad sight watching her people cower in silence. Tears stung her eyes. God forgive her … Lord save these innocent men.

  A loud murmur spread through the crowd as several soldiers repositioned the prisoners. The inevitable time had arrived. Silvia surged forward, hoping to reach them—to pray over them—to offer sympathy and praise for their bravery—something, anything. But Konal stopped her. His strong arm hooked her from behind, then yanked her against his inflexible body. He nuzzled her neck; his hot breath scorched her skin. She wanted to curl up and die.

  “Your mind is no longer your own. You belong to me. Understand?” he hissed against her left ear. “Do not move unless I give you permission. Don’t think without my approval.”

  More curses circulated in her stubborn mind, each filthier than the next. Words she shouldn’t know; phrases unfit for the most despicable of men. Instead of speaking, she turned, then grabbed the tip of Konal’s perfect nose, twisting and tugging with all her might. He let go of her. His body jerked in pain. This was the only chance she’d get.

  Silvia fled.

  *

  The little bitch. Konal fisted his hands at his sides—laughter fueling his fury and embarrassment. Not only had she assaulted him, she’d managed to escape. He rubbed his nose as he watched her disappear around an outbuilding. Grateful Prince Ivarr hadn’t witnessed any of it, Konal sucked in a breath, then strutted away from the courtyard.

  He’d held his temper in check after she cursed the prince … even felt a flash of sympathy. No longer. Ivarr had a weakness for beautiful women. Not Konal—especially a Saxon witch. He’d bedded his share of dark-haired, blue-eyed beauties on both sides of the North Sea. His cock didn’t do his thinking for him, only his fucking. The reason he found himself in Northumbria is because he had lost a bloody wager with his elder brother. Who could drink more mead in one night without vomiting? The punishment for his loss—serving the Danes, which did little for him. Though, he admitted, Ivarr had been a great friend and competent leader. In fairness, he’d gained lands fifty miles east of York, near the coast. And he knew exactly where he was going to take his latest acquisition.

  He passed the smoldering scriptorium—laughing bitterly at the useless pursuits of monks. Then he hurried by a group of sheds and a barn. He scanned the area, no sign of her. What was her accursed name? Who was she? Why did she speak Norse and know how to curse a man so skillfully? He’d get answers and a whole lot more once he got his hands on her.

  Sometime later, after kicking open door after door and searching every building he could find, Konal growled in frustration. The girl had a clear advantage. She knew where to hide. As if Odin heard his complaint, he found a monk in a garden. He wore a woolen dress, his head as smooth as a newborn’s arse. As Konal approached, the man dropped his rake.

  “I’ll not hurt you, old man,” Konal growled. “Tell me where I can find the girl who you allow in the scriptorium.” As weak and incompetent as Saxons were, it surprised him that a female was permitted near the church.

  The old man twisted his hands, clearly afraid.

  Konal stepped closer, he expected complete cooperation. “My patience has been tested already—tell me.”

  “She could be anywhere.”

  Konal stroked his throat. At least the priest knew who he was referring to. If the holy man failed to provide the information he needed within the span of another breath, he’d split his bald head in two. “Where?” he demanded. Silence. “Answer me goddamnit, or you’ll die, now.”

  “I’d give my life for much less,” the priest challenged.

  Konal lunged, seizing him by the throat, squeezing hard enough to deprive the monk of air. “At least we agree on something. Your life is worthless to me.” He exerted more pressure. “Tell me.”

  The monk coughed uncontrollably as Konal slowly eased the pressure on his throat. “Follow the footpath west,” he choked out. “Half a mile, there’s a cottage surrounded by flowers and rose bushes. The girl lives there with her father. Please, don’t kill her.”

  Konal nodded and pushed him away. “Her name?”

  “Silvia.”

  It was not a Norse tradition to leave enemies alive. But Ivarr took pity on the residents of York so long as they submitted to his authority. Most did. And in return, the church, school, and scriptorium had been spared in the past. Northmen cared little for what gods their slaves worshipped. But not today. These ingrates had waited for the perfect moment to strike. The rebellion lead by the two deposed Northumbria kings had cost this city dearly. Hundreds had died.

  The stone cottage came into view. As the priest had described, a flourishing garden ran the length of the front of the house. Konal forced his way inside, the space was dim, but he could see well enough. Two rooms downstairs, a kitchen and sitting area. The stairs probably led to a bedchamber. He climbed cautiously, listening. The door stood ajar and he entered. The small room was femininely decorated. A narrow bed with an embroidered coverlet, a table and chair, gowns laid carefully across another table. He sensed the wench’s presence—the soft fragrance
of flowers filled his nostrils. The same scent in her dark hair. His cock hardened instantly.

  She’s was here.

  Perhaps hiding under the bed. He looked but found nothing. Something heavy smashed into the side of his face as he began to stand, the force of the blow enough to make his head spin. Odin’s blood. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement. He spun around in time to see her retreating, but exploded sideways, snaring her ankle.

  “I almost lost you,” he said, still on his knees.

  She kicked her hand-shackled foot, dropping the scuttle she held.

  “You assaulted me with a platter?” Konal didn’t know if he should laugh or beat the wench silly.

  “Let me go.” She kicked again, but this time, he yanked her down. He let go as she fell to the floor, the impact knocking the breath out of her.

  “I suggest you get used to kneeling,” Konal grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her toward him.

  “I swear if I ever get the chance, I’ll leave your lifeless form in the open so crows can feed upon your liver.” Silvia thrashed like a snared rabbit.

  It was a wonder that she acted so insolently. Once he regained control, he freed her hair and clamped on to her hips, flipping her over. He hovered above her face, rage and shock contorted her delicate features. Already hard with desire, her ceaseless resistance did unspeakable things to his body. But he mustn’t let carnal need overshadow his duties.

  She’d publicly assaulted him and cursed Prince Ivarr, a man who’d struggled in his childhood to strengthen his crippled body. A man everyone respected, for though his legs were twisted and unsightly, he could limp along. But when he sat astride a horse, he was a formidable warrior. Her words against the prince would cost any man his life. And Konal wasn’t so sure she deserved to live.

  Though little, she’d proven how dangerous she was if he turned his back. His duties did not include acting as a nursemaid for a bitter wench who needed a beating.