The Sea King

by Jolie Mathis

  The Sea King by Jolie Mathis

  A beautiful Saxon princess must guard her heart against the formidable Viking who is the enemy of her people...

  Kol Thorleksson, the powerful Viking warrior known as the Sea King, owes his life to the young Saxon woman who risked everything to free him from bondage. Two years later, he has returned to Norsex, this time to wreak vengeance on those who plotted to destroy him. He is shocked to discover that the lovely woman who helped him regain his freedom is the sister of the tyrant who sought to take it away.

  Not a day has passed without Princess Isabel of Norsex thinking of the handsome Viking who crossed her path. But when her peaceful world is threatened by barbarians, the last thing she expects is to find Kol at their helm. Now, with danger lurking in every corner of her kingdom, Isabel finds herself torn between her sworn allegiance and her traitorous heart...

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  THE SEA KING

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation edition / June 2006

  Copyright © 2006 by Kimberly Ungar. ISBN: 0-425-21065-0

  BERKLEY SENSATION®

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  For Eric I fly because of you.

  Chapter 1

  "I have always wondered what it would be like to touch a man."

  Isabel stared into Merwyn's handsome face.

  "A square jaw." Her fingers smoothed over the bristly hair on his chin. "Or a cheek."

  Merwyn's eyes bulged back at her from either side of his narrow nose. He snorted.

  "Forsooth, what a romantic swain thou art." She rubbed his nose and reached into her pocket for a handful of oats. "I suppose you've earned your treat. A captive audience, once again, to my dark confessions."

  She supposed she would learn the answers to her questions soon enough. In the spring she would be married. Her betrothed was handsome and strong, and she liked him very much. They would make a good match, and perhaps he would allow her to have a horse as fine as this one for her very own.

  Overhead the winter sky grew increasingly churlish. Gusts of wind tossed her woolen skirts. She tugged Merwyn's reins, urging him toward the river.

  "After you drink, we should go. Berthilde will be quaking in her baggy woolens if she finds we've escaped again." When he had taken his fill, she swung into the saddle.

  Isabel glanced at the sky. In the distance, thunder boomed. How she loathed returning to the keep, for it was rank with the scent of rancid tallow and unwashed bodies. Here, in the forest, the air carried the scent of rain and cleansed her senses. Merwyn whinnied and stamped.

  "Aye, old man. One more jump won't hurt." As she brought the steed roundabout, the wind caught her hood and tore it from her hair. "The oak. Once more."

  The fallen tree lay just a bow's arc away. At the urging of her heel, Merwyn trotted forward. The river rushed along beside them, undulating beyond the log, dull and gray as a molting serpent.

  Faster.

  They stormed forward. Clods of dirt flew out behind them, cast up by Merwyn's immense hooves. Faster.

  Isabel leaned forward, her thighs clenched. Her hair whipped about her face. How she relished the scant moment after Merwyn's hooves left the ground. Her breath caught in her throat.

  They flew!

  A flash blinded her. The sky crashed. Lightning!

  Merwyn veered and balked. Leather burned across her palms. Isabel screamed. The river.

  Pain. Enough to leave her stunned.

  Darkness embraced her and with it a vague coldness. Which way was up, and why was there no air?

  Panicked, she thrashed. An unseen hand held her, but no. 'Twas the spindly branches of a submerged tree, twisted in her tunic.

  Water breached her lips and nose.

  Ranulf would be so angry with her. How many times had he told her to listen? To behave?

  Languor spread through her limbs. Could this really be happening? A shroud of unconsciousness descended over her, not altogether unpleasant.

  Warmth. Strong arms. Sanctuary.

  "Stúlka litla," he whispered against her hair.

  Looking up, she saw the angel, the pure blue of his eyes. Rain fell from the sky, haloing his dark head like diamonds cast down from Heaven.

  "Not my horse," she confessed.

  "Shhhhh," he soothed.

  So it was true what the sisters told her about Heaven. No sadness, no regrets.

  Isabel awoke with a gasp, struggling against the cold darkness. A sky of dark crimson spread above her. Forsooth. She had been sent to Hell.

  No, she quickly realized. 'Twas the rich curtain that adorned her own bed. A multitude of anxious female faces peered down at her. Saints above, somehow she had been returned to the bower.

  "Thank Heavens the child will live," Berthilde sobbed. Tears beaded the corners of her brown eyes. "Eada, send word to our king at once." Eada scurried from the room, while other servants moved forward to ply Isabel with blankets and warmed wine.

  Scratches scored her arms and legs, and burn marks reddened her palms. She ached to her very bones. And a knot the size of a goose egg throbbed upon her temple. Isabel struggled for explanation. She remembered riding Merwyn in the forest. Yes, there had been thunder. Lightning. She had been thrown into the river. She shivered, remembering how close she had come to death.

  Her women scurried about her, speaking in hushed tones. She snuggled deeper into the blankets, thankful to be alive. There could be only one answer. Someone must have seen her and rescued her before she drowned.

  She'd been dressed as a peasant. Surely the person hadn't known they rescued the king's half sister. Perhaps Ranulf had provided her rescuer with a reward for her safe return. She imagined herself bestowing a garland of lovely flowers on a handsome, beaming hero.

  What an adventure, she thought with a little smile.

  She must learn the identity of the fortunate fellow.

  "Berthilde, did someone—"

  Berthilde shushed her. "Do not try to speak, child." Berthilde always called her "child" even though she was only twenty-eight winters to Isabel's seventeen. "You have naught else to fear. They've taken the blackheart to the pit and he's getting what he deserves."

  Isabel frowned. "Who is getting what he deserves?"

  Berthilde's cheeks pinked. "The pagan fiend who attacked you."

  Isabel reviewed her available memories. "I was not attacked. Lightning struck nearby and Merwyn threw me into the river."

  "Oh, my dearest. You've had a terrible shock. Perhaps 'tis best you do not remember."

  Isabel propped herself on one elbow. Her hair, still damp, clung to her shoulders. "But I do remember. Merwyn threw me into the river, and 'twas my own fault. No one attacked me." If there had been a misunderstanding she must set things aright.

  Berthilde bustled around the room, fretting aloud. "They were blessed with luck to find you. The rainstorm came on so suddenly. If that barbarian had killed you or worse, if he had—" Berthilde's face darkened red as rowanberries. "Oh, I do not know what I would have done." She wrung her plump hands together. "Filthy creature. He's getting his lashes as we speak."

  "Lashes!"

  As if to verify Berthilde's claims, the voice of a man, faint though it was, echoed out from the depths of the stronghold in combined fury and agony.

  Isabel bolted up. A vague memory flashed. Blue eyes. Her angel. He was real.

  "Nay," she shouted.

  All eyes turned to her, stunned. She swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  "Lie back," Berthil
de ordered crossly, pressing her back into the bedclothes.

  A stout young maid moved forward with a goblet of wine. "My lady, you must not allow yourself to become distressed. The Dane deserves no less than death for what he tried to do."

  Isabel shoved the offer of wine aside. Garnet drops spattered the soft linen of her bed gown. "He did not harm me. There has been a mistake. This man, whoever he is, saved me from drowning. You must summon my brother and halt whatever—"

  Berthilde interrupted. "That spawn of Satan—he came from the sea and grabbed the first woman he saw. My lady, that is your reward for sneaking out dressed no better than the cooper's daughter."

  "Listen to me—"

  Exasperated, Isabel again attempted to leave the bed. But Berthilde took the goblet from the maid and pressed it to Isabel's lips. "You must drink. The wine will calm you."

  Isabel's temper flared. "I am sick unto death of being treated like a child." She grasped the collar of Berthilde's gunna and, through clenched teeth, demanded, "Bring Ranulf to me, anon." Wine spilled onto her chin, ran in small rivulets down her neck.

  "Dearest, you are not yourself." With tight-pressed lips, Berthilde nodded at the burly maid who assisted her. Looking to Isabel, she intoned, "This is for your own good. Our king hath ordered it so."

  Within the space of a breath, the maid had captured both of Isabel's arms. "King's orders," the young woman whispered, as if reassuring herself with the words. "King's orders. King's orders."

  "Nay." Pinned beneath the bedclothes, Isabel squirmed. Berthilde's fingers pressed into her mouth and pried her teeth apart. Despite her efforts, the liquid slid into her mouth.

  "No," she choked. The wine burned her throat. Soon her limbs grew too heavy to move.

  Despite her slurred protests and demands to see her brother, no one listened. Escape! she willed her body, but the slothful bag of bones refused.

  A prisoner of good intentions. No different than any other day of her life.

  Isabel awoke to drawn bed curtains and a darkened room. Customarily her elder half sister, Rowena, shared the bed with her, but she must have slept below in the hall this night. Silence prevailed over her brother's timber palace.

  Was her angel dead then? The effects of the wine slowly dissipated. She couldn't stop thinking about him, her blue-eyed savior. Imprisoned like a criminal for rescuing her. Was he a Dane as her maid had claimed? If so, then no amount of pleading would persuade her brother to release him. Ranulf hated the Danes for their past incursions onto English soil. As king of Norsex, a small kingdom coveted by the larger powers of the Mercians and the Northumbrians, he despised anyone who threatened his sovereignty.

  But her instincts—her heart—told her the man who had pulled her from the river was no monster.

  From her bed she crept. She winced at the soreness of her limbs, the throb of her head. She clasped the wood bedpost until the dizziness passed. Furtively she glanced toward Berthilde, who slept soundly on her pallet near the fire.

  In silence she donned a kirtle and gunna. Over her head she draped a dark hood. Though rook black hair fell over her shoulders, her pale skin would draw notice like the moon on a cloudless night. On the trestle lay a trencher of bread and cheese. She shoved some into her pockets. Carefully she lifted the lid to Berthilde's trunk and retrieved a small pot of healing salve. She crossed the room, pulled aside a wall-hanging, and slipped into the narrow corridor.

  Centuries before, Romans had built their mountainside fortification upon the subterranean labyrinth. Their ancient stone walls still surrounded parts of the burh and formed the almost impenetrable foundation of Ranulf's new keep. Her father, Aldrith's, older and smaller hall perched just above on an outcropping of stone, and had lately been divided into private chambers for the king's family.

  From there, Isabel maneuvered through an ancient passageway few knew existed. She descended stairs cut of earth and stone, into the caves.

  Her heart beating as fast as a bird's, she peered out from the hidden door. Two guards, posted at the entrance to the pit, occupied themselves with vulgar stories. From somewhere came the sound of perpetually trickling water. Isabel slipped from the hidden doorway, an anomaly of shadow and stone, into the naturally formed central corridor of her brother's prison. A torch burned from a bracket on the wall; she avoided its light and kept to the shadows. She took care not to be seen by the other prisoners, who might call out and reveal her presence.

  She found him in the last, most remote cell, separated from the petty thieves and troublemakers. Although she remembered nothing but the blueness of his eyes, somehow she knew this was the man who had saved her.

  Through a narrow slat in the door, she saw he knelt into the corner, his face pressed against the filthy stone wall.

  Her heart constricted. Chains held his arms above his head. Coal black hair matted against his neck and shoulders. He could have sought rest by falling to the ground, but appeared to make some attempt, no matter how futile, at readiness. Though only the faintest light illuminated the cell, she saw the darkness, clearly contrasted against his shredded woolen tunic. The same darkness seeped downward to stain his braies. Blood.

  Horrified, Isabel pressed a hand to her mouth. She did not understand. Her brother, though a young monarch, ruled fairly and had never been given to cruelty. Never before had she seen a prisoner so badly whipped.

  The man was huge and finely formed. To see him so demeaned because of a misunderstanding over her foolish mishap brought tears to her eyes. He had saved her from death and this had been his reward.

  There was no question of what she must do.

  Amidst the shadows she returned to the mouth of the corridor. There, keys hung on the wall. She lifted them from the peg, wrapping her fingers around them to silence their rattle. Silent as a wraith she returned to the cell, slowly turned the key in the lock, and slipped inside.

  Cautiously, she stepped toward the giant.

  "Sir," she whispered. He made no response. Was he... dead? She touched the top of his shoulder, the only place where blood did not stain his shirt.

  He whirled. The earth crunched beneath her knees. Captured within the steely vise of his legs, she bit her lip to silence a cry. The keys and salve fell from her hands to land with a soft thud on the earthen floor.

  Unable to support her own weight she collapsed against his chest. The musky scent of him filled her nostrils. She raised her head to meet his gaze. She tasted blood, her own.

  Warm and labored, his breath fell against her cheek. A single shaft of torchlight revealed two azure eyes. Fueled by anger and pain, they blazed at her from a bloodied, filthy face, his silent accusation of betrayal stabbing into her more trenchantly than any sword.

  "I will help you," she whispered with great effort. Moisture seeped through her clothing, his sweat and blood. When his legs did not relax their hold she feared she would faint from lack of breath. "Please. You are crushing me."

  "Litla min," he murmured and released her. She stumbled away, gasping for air. About her face she secured her hood, then bent to retrieve the keys and salve. Little one. His language was not so different from her own, that she could not understand.

  Behind her the Dane struggled to stand, then fell against the stone wall.

  "You cannot walk?" Her whisper echoed softly.

  He tensed when she moved toward him. Holding the key in front of her she said, "I will release you. But you must try to walk."

  Isabel saw the curl of his lip, the gleam of his eyes, and recognized blatant mistrust. But he faltered. One of his feet appeared to have been injured, perhaps intentionally to hinder any escape.

  Knowing she risked her life by doing so, she unlocked the fetters. Instead of snatching for her throat as she feared, he steadied himself against the wall.

  With a soft groan, he collapsed to his knees.

  Isabel reached out and braced his fall. Her own muscles screamed in complaint. As he slumped, she knelt, struggling to guide his head into
her lap. There she sat, rasping for breath.

  Likely he'd been given a sleeping herb. How would they ever reach the forest? Even if she were not so weak from her own injuries, she could not carry such a giant. Perhaps after a few moments of rest he would be able to stand.

  She worked the woolen tunic from his shoulders. Nothing prepared her for the sight of his wounds. Bile rose in her throat when she saw how the whip had cut through his back, tearing through skin and muscle. If he survived, he'd be scarred for life.

  Forcing down her revulsion, she applied Berthilde's salve with the gentlest of care. As she continued her ministrations, his muscles relaxed.

  Thinking him unconscious, she settled nervously into the darkness of the corner, his great head in her lap. Her ears remained keen to any sound that might bring about their discovery. Even in the darkness, she could see the powerful slant of his cheekbones and the square line of his jaw. His wife, if he had one, must think him very handsome. She had imagined all Norsemen were fair but this one was as dark as the devil Berthilde had proclaimed him to be.

  She ran one finger along his cheek. Much nicer than Merwyn's bristly chin. She yearned to stroke his hair. Instead she contented herself with resting her hand upon his nape. Perhaps her presence might give him some comfort as he slept.

  His large hand fumbled for her smaller one. Her breath caught in her throat as he clasped it with near-crushing strength. The last time a man had touched her in such a manner it had been her father as he died in the cold darkness of an early November morning.

  "Martröd," the Dane whispered.

  "Yes, this is a dream. A very terrible dream." She squeezed his hand and gently laid her other hand upon the black crown of his head. Bending over him, she prayed in near-silent whispers. Let him live.

  How much time had passed? She dared not allow him to sleep any longer. Darkness would not provide its cover indefinitely, and if he remained in the keep another day he would surely face death.

  "Wake, Dane. Can you stand?"

  His eyes opened, sharp and clear. Perhaps he had never been asleep at all, but merely gaining strength. Although his pain must have been overwhelming, he arose to his feet without her assistance. He seemed loathe to rely on her for support, preferring the wall.