The Viking Warrior's Bride

by Harper St. George

  One day Vidar might be too old to travel, but it wouldn’t be for a very long time. The answer was simple. ‘When that day comes—I die. I’ll die in battle and take my place in Valhalla.’

  ‘But what if you could have a little taste of that feast in Valhalla before you go?’

  Eirik had lost his reasoning somewhere along the way. Vidar shook his head. ‘You’re mad, Brother. Are you trying to say that my betrothed could provide me with a taste of the pleasures to be had after my death?’

  Eirik’s eyes brightened and he smiled. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

  It was Vidar’s turn to laugh. ‘The only pleasure that woman has in mind is the pleasure she’ll have when my ballocks are served to her at her table.’

  ‘You could change your approach,’ his brother countered. ‘She may want to be a warrior, but she’s not. You can’t win her over by defeating her.’

  Vidar snorted and shook his head, walking towards his warriors on the sparring field.

  ‘Try it, Brother,’ Eirik called after him. ‘A warm wife is better than a cold one.’

  Vidar only shook his head again. That woman wanted to be married to him about as much as he wanted to be married to her. He’d wed her, bed her and then figure out a way to leave her behind as he went on his next adventure. They’d both be happier with that arrangement.

  Chapter Five

  Gwendolyn stared at the people awaiting her. They all watched her, searching her face for some reaction. A tug of humour seemed to hover around the lips of the Danes, while the Saxon faces all showed pity combined with resigned acceptance. She and Rodor had spoken to them all back in the autumn after her father had passed to explain what he’d done. They’d all had the winter to come to terms with the potential for the Danes to be invited into Alvey. And on the morning after the Danes had arrived, Rodor had gone to each and every one of the families to reassure them and reaffirm her father’s word on the matter. While she was certain many of them resented the Danes, they all respected her father enough to abide by his word.

  His word was still law now that he was gone. Her people would accept these Danes as allies. Gwendolyn was aware of her pivotal role in ensuring that. It was up to her to lead by example and accept her place as the wife of Vidar. Except for that morning on the sparring field, she had kept her head about her. In public she had behaved with grace and tolerance that had been acquired by never once addressing her betrothed. In private she still railed against her fate, even though she knew there was nothing to be done for it. Finally she had come to a solemn acceptance. She would marry him, but she would not submit to him.

  Holding her head high, she held Annis’s hand and walked across the sparring field in the light of the late afternoon. She found it ironic that they would wed on the very field of battle where they’d exchanged words just days before. Though Annis and even their parents had been married in the hall, it made more sense for Gwendolyn’s wedding to take place outside so that more of their people could view their joining in marriage. Rodor had thought that having it witnessed by more people would help to ensure those same people would never have question to doubt or resent the Danes.

  Gwendolyn had agreed, so she forced a smile as she made her way down the path created by the parting crowd to the centre of the group. The women had outdone themselves with the decorations. Torches were placed at intervals around the perimeter of the field to give off more light. It was early yet in the spring for flowers, so they’d hung strings of boughs and wreaths high above their heads to run between the torches. Most of the women wore crowns of ivy in their hair and Annis had even placed one over Gwendolyn’s head.

  Once they reached the friar Annis dropped her hand and went to stand with her husband and their two young children. Gwendolyn smiled at Rodor, but couldn’t manage to keep the smile in place when she looked over at Vidar and Jarl Eirik standing beside him.

  They were both handsome. Vidar’s golden hair had been pulled back into a knot at the crown of his head, while his hair in the back fell in loose waves to his shoulders. Those broad shoulders were encased in a midnight-velvet tunic adorned with gold braiding and embroidery along the seams. She had to admit he had the look of a nobleman more than that of a barbarian. He also had the look of a hardened warrior, one who was accustomed to getting his way in things. It appeared allowing his wife to continue her responsibilities as they’d been before he came along wasn’t part of his plan.

  He was nothing like Cam. Cam had been carefree and content to allow her to do as she wanted. Vidar was the complete opposite. Intense and powerful. With Cam her life would have been calm and predictable. Nothing was predictable with this man.

  His strong jaw tightened and, when he turned to look at her, his strong brow line was furrowed. She couldn’t understand why he tolerated the idea of this marriage. Annis had helped her to realise that it didn’t matter if he wanted it or not. If he’d called off, Jarl Eirik would have called some other man in to take his place, so it was a moot point.

  His eyes widened when he took in her gown, making her realise this was the first time he’d seen her clothed in such feminine attire. Her father had brought back the velvet fabric on his last trip years ago to barter with the Scots. The sapphire colour had matched her eyes, so she’d had it made into a gown with the intention of wearing it on her wedding day, but that had been when she’d imagined Cam to be the groom. She’d almost decided against it in some sort of silent protest against the man she was forced to marry, but Annis had pointed out it would be a shame to let the gown go to waste. Gwendolyn had agreed. If she were being forced into this marriage, then at least she’d have one thing that she wanted. Well, two. She also wore her mother’s favourite fox pelt stole around her shoulders to block out the chill. The amethyst necklace that Annis had gifted her completed her wedding attire.

  His gaze made a sweep of her body, taking a moment to linger on her hips and the swell of her breasts. When it met hers again, she was struck by the humour shining out at her. He didn’t mumble a compliment that she’d probably have seen as a pale attempt at flattery. Instead, he said, ‘You honour me with your presence, my lady.’

  She couldn’t help it. Her lips twitched in a smile at his jest. He was baiting her, she was certain of it, but she took his bait and asked, ‘Did you think I might not come?’

  ‘I had already planned my speech to win you over.’

  She did laugh then, a small giggle that she managed to stifle before it had truly escaped. The image of him pleading for her hand was so funny, she was almost sorry she hadn’t made him do it. ‘A pity I missed that. What did it entail? Would you have extolled my many virtues and sang a song about your many successful exploits?’

  His smile widened and he took her hand. The touch was so unexpected that it wiped the smile from her lips. His fingers were strong and warm as they closed around hers, making her hand feel tiny by comparison when she had never felt tiny in her life. His skin was lightly calloused and rough against hers, but somehow the sensation wasn’t repugnant. Not as it should have been.

  ‘Not at all. I’d have promised you a say in the training of your warriors, but I must say that I’m very glad it didn’t come to that.’ His hand tightened around hers and he turned to face the friar, a smile still on his lips.

  She followed his lead and faced the friar as well, but she ground her molars as she did so. She was almost certain he was lying, teasing her simply to make her feel that she might have got the concession from him had she only tried harder. This entire thing was a game to him and one in which only he seemed to know the rules. The friar began to speak, droning on in Latin, and she was too incensed with her groom to pay attention. She did try to jerk her hand away from him, but he only smiled wider and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, holding it there with his other hand. Rodor gave her a disapproving look, reminding her that her people were
watching and she had to put on a serene face.

  So that’s what she did. When it came time for her to repeat her vows, she said them loud and clear for all to hear, but she did it without once looking at her groom. Only the ceremony didn’t end with the reciting of vows as it had for Annis. This one had to incorporate the Danes’ own heathen tradition. Rodor had given her a quick explanation of what was to come. Now she had no choice but to participate.

  As her father’s only living male relative, Eadward stepped forward, bearing her father’s sword in front of him. Gwendolyn took it by the hilt, her gaze lovingly tracing the carved beast’s head. It was the first time she allowed herself to consider the fact that her father wasn’t here to see her wed. The ache of unshed tears unexpectedly welled in her throat, forcing her to blink several times to stop them from falling. Closing her fingers around the hilt, she brought it to her chest and held it there for a moment as she said a silent prayer that she hoped would reach him.

  When she opened her eyes, Vidar was facing her. His face had lost its humour. His eyes were intense and serious when they met hers. She nearly looked away from the power of his gaze, but forced herself not to. ‘This sword belonged to my father. It was given to him by his father who had wielded it before him. It has held true the strength and honour of my family for generations.’ Taking a deep breath, she forced the next words out. ‘May it continue to do so in your hand. May it protect you and guide you as the new...’ She paused and sucked in a breath, stumbling over the words. ‘The new Lord of Alvey.’ Holding the sword out to him, she only released the breath she’d been holding when he took it.

  There. It was done. The awful thing she had dreaded was done. He was her Lord now and he’d taken her father’s sword. And yet she still stood here and nothing awful had happened...yet. Perhaps their future wouldn’t be so dreadful after all.

  Vidar propped the sword against his leg and took the ring from the smallest finger on his left hand. She hadn’t noticed it before, but it was a coiled gold band. Placing the ring on the hilt of the sword, he held it out to her, offering it to her. When she hesitated, uncertain of this ritual, he nodded and his brow raised in challenge. Swallowing thickly, she retrieved the ring. The gold would curve her finger in one complete circuit and each end was tipped with amber stone.

  ‘With this ring, I take you as my wife. I offer you my protection and loyalty. I pledge to you that I will give my life before allowing any harm to come to yours. From now until eternity, we are one.’ The deep husk of his voice raked over her senses in a way that she wasn’t prepared to face. She’d expected words, but somehow those words seemed genuine. She met his gaze and saw nothing but his solemn vow to uphold them. Her heart inexplicably beat harder in her chest. His words didn’t matter. She knew that he’d have said those words to whomever he’d been forced to marry, but for some reason she didn’t understand, she felt them in her heart along with a strange awareness that fluttered in her belly.

  She didn’t quite know what to say. Everyone was watching her and she realised that she should have listened to Rodor when he’d been telling her what to expect. As if he sensed her confusion, he stepped forward and pressed something into her hand. It was a ring similar to the one Vidar had given her, except the gold was thicker. Vidar or Jarl Eirik must have given it to Rodor, because it was clear they were a matched set. Realising now what she was meant to do, she balanced it on the flat of the hilt of the sword and offered it to Vidar.

  She wasn’t certain what she was meant to say, so she simply said, ‘With this ring, I accept you as my husband.’ That must have done it, because he nodded and placed the ring on his finger, then he carefully wrapped his hand around the blade and took the sword.

  She’d neglected to put the ring on her finger, so she made to rectify that, but he stopped her by covering her hand with his. Gently, he took the ring from her and slid it on her finger. He didn’t say anything, but it felt like he’d claimed her. A knot churned in her stomach. The idea of being owned by any man revolted her, but there was something about this man that terrified her.

  He moved away, only to turn back with a sword Jarl Eirik had given him. It was ornate, with two rubies set into the gilded hilt. He held it out to her lying flat on both of his palms. ‘I am entrusting this into your care to be given to our first-born son. May you bear me many.’

  She nodded and took the sword from him, handing it off to Rodor. ‘I accept,’ she said, her voice low enough that only Vidar and Rodor were likely to hear her. ‘But we never agreed to children.’

  Now that the ceremony was finished, he’d relaxed and even smiled at her when she said that. ‘I’m looking forward to the challenge, my lady.’

  He didn’t seem fazed at all, or even worried that he wouldn’t be able to win the challenge. She frowned and her scowl deepened when the Danes gave up a mighty cheer when Vidar took her hand and raised it.

  They were well and truly wed now.

  * * *

  Vidar brought her hand to his lips, but his gaze caught on her full lips. They were soft and pink and he longed to kiss them. From the moment she had appeared in her gown, he’d been struck by this fierce wave of possessiveness. It was as if his body hadn’t recognised her as his until that very moment, which made no sense because she’d been his since the first moment he’d seen her.

  Perhaps it was that she hadn’t seemed quite so feminine then. Nay, that wasn’t right, because even now he could recall how her hips and buttocks had appeared very womanly in the glimpse he’d had beneath her long tunic. Then he realised what it was. It wasn’t the gown, though the deep blue colour complimented her greatly. It wasn’t that her hair had been left to fall down her back beneath the veil.

  It was her eyes. She looked for all the world like a queen as she looked at him. Her chin was raised proudly as if she challenged him to touch her. But beneath that exterior, her eyes were vulnerable. There was a crack in her façade and she was terrified. Whether she realised it or not, he couldn’t say, but she was looking to him for reassurance.

  That thought sobered him and he was struck with how much power he held over her. Never in his life, never once—including his many battles and their casualties—had he had such control over the life of one person. Or more specifically the livelihood and contentment of one person. As she stared down at him, her eyes revealing more vulnerability than she knew, he became drunk on that power. Began to revel in it, even. She was beautiful and strong. A veritable queen.

  And she was his.

  Their cheering grew louder as his men came up behind him. Before he realised what they meant to do, they’d hoisted him over their shoulders to carry him off to celebrate. A marriage was always something to celebrate, whether the couple were happy with the arrangement or not.

  ‘Congratulations, Brother!’ Eirik called out as he took a place under Vidar’s right side, his arms wrapped around Vidar’s thigh. ‘You’ll do Alvey proud.’

  Vidar smiled as he looked out over Alvey and its people. The Danes were celebrating and, drawn by the allure, some of the Saxons were starting to join in. The gates were open to the people of the countryside and many of them had turned out, curious to the festivities. Several large fires had been going since midday and the air was heavy with the scent of roasting lamb and venison mingled with spices he couldn’t identify.

  The place seemed well fortified, self-sufficient and profitable. Surprisingly, he did feel a swell of pride. Alvey was his. If she was these people’s queen, then he was their king. Many of them even bowed their heads in deference as his men strode by, intent on making a complete circle of the grounds within the wall. He could become accustomed to this.

  * * *

  Night had fallen completely by the time the men led him to the open door of the hall. Servants moved in and out, carrying platters of food inside to those who’d been lucky enough to be invited in to celebrate with the
bride and groom. A cheer went up when Vidar stepped inside and Rolfe clapped him on the back as he went off to find a spot at one of the crowded tables. There was no question where Vidar would sit. Gwendolyn’s usual chair had been replaced with a high-backed bench wide enough to accommodate him.

  Eirik and Rodor had already taken their seats and seemed to be telling each other stories of past battles. Vidar barely spared them any attention. Gwendolyn held his gaze and he couldn’t look away from her. She’d taken off her veil, so her dark hair flowed in loose waves around her shoulders. It was a startling contrast to her pale skin and her wide blue eyes shone in the firelight like jewels. She really was breathtaking. He wasn’t sure how he’d missed that when he’d first seen her.

  Pride swelled in his chest as he walked towards her, much like something else swelled in his trousers. He glanced at the men who called out to him from across the room to make it go away, while being thankful his tunic covered him. Giving them a nod and a wave, he made his way through the crowd and approached her.

  His wife. The word stumbled through his brain before finding traction. It didn’t seem the profanity that it had before.

  ‘Good evening, Wife.’ He smiled at the startled look she gave him. Her eyes widened beneath the dark fringe of her lashes.

  ‘There’s no need to gloat,’ she said and turned back to watching the servants as they placed platters of food on the table before them.

  He smiled as he took his place beside her, already enjoying their verbal sparring sessions. As he settled in, he realised that he’d never sat this close to her before. His leg stretched out and his thigh pressed against the length of hers. She shifted, but there wasn’t very much room on the bench with them both occupying it. The heat from her body penetrated the layers of their clothes and he found himself warming to her, his skin prickling from her closeness.

  ‘Is it gloating to call you my wife?’ Through the smells of the food, he detected her own sweet scent. Taking a deep breath, he turned his head slightly and realised that it was her hair. He couldn’t pinpoint what the scent was, but he liked it very much. It was soft and infinitely feminine.