The Viking Warrior's Bride

by Harper St. George

  They were now in the perfect position. She took out the four arrows she would need to reload with and set them next to her so that they were ready. Tightening her grip on the crossbow, she raised it and let the first arrow fly. She had to modify her original plan to take out the one closest to Vidar, so that she wouldn’t miss her opportunity to lessen their numbers. The arrow moved almost soundlessly through the air and hit the last man in the line. By the time he cried out, she’d already loaded another arrow and let it fly to the man before him. She was able to take three of them before the other two darted towards the nearest trees. The rebel who had been holding Vidar let him drop in his haste to get to cover.

  Vidar rolled over and pushed himself up, his eyes squinted as he struggled to find her position in the trees. She notched another arrow and let it fly, but she couldn’t get a good shot at the rebel nearest her and the arrow landed in the trunk of the tree. She caught a flash of movement as he ran through the forest followed by his friend, abandoning Vidar.

  ‘Gwendolyn!’ Rodor’s voice entered the fray as he ran into the small clearing. He and a few warriors returned, perhaps lured by the noise.

  ‘That way!’ Gwendolyn jumped to the ground and ran out from the cover of the tree’s limbs, pointing in the direction the rebels had run. ‘There are two of the rebels.’

  Rodor and his men changed course to go after them. She kept an eye on the retreating men as she made her way to Vidar.

  ‘What are you doing here? You could be killed!’ Vidar clumsily got to his feet with his hands still bound before him and hurried to her.

  ‘Come.’ She grabbed his arm and pulled him to where she’d hid her horse lest more of the rebels find them. ‘How badly are you hurt?’ She looked him over as she felt for the knife she’d strapped to her boot and started to saw through his bindings.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he asked, refusing to be distracted. ‘I told you to stay home. Gwendolyn, do you not realise the danger?’

  ‘Of course I realise the danger,’ she said in exasperation. ‘Didn’t I just save your life? Didn’t I just kill three men to save you? I do realise the danger.’

  The ropes fell free and he grabbed her and held her tight against him, his face buried in her hair. She hadn’t realised she was shaking until she brought her arms up to hold him. He cursed in a low voice and his fists tightened in her tunic. ‘If something were to happen to you... By the gods, Wife, what have you done?’

  She shoved away from him to see his face. ‘I love you, Vidar. I couldn’t allow you to go off and not be nearby.’

  His brow furrowed and he looked down at her as if he were puzzled. Then his hand came up to her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing across her bottom lip. ‘You love me?’

  ‘Aye. I don’t want to live without you. I’m consumed by you. I think that’s what that means.’

  He smiled and placed a kiss to her forehead. ‘It’s the same for me.’ He took in a deep breath and his hands tightened around her almost desperately. ‘It’s the same for me,’ he repeated.

  ‘Lord Vidar!’ Rodor hurried back and came to a stop next to them. ‘Forgive me,’ he said when he realised that he’d interrupted them. Vidar nodded for him to continue. ‘The two have been dispatched. Were there more?’

  Vidar pointed towards the three she had already killed. ‘Only those.’

  Rodor visibly relaxed. ‘Then that does it. Rolfe says that we’ve caught them all.’

  ‘What of Gaute, the warrior who was with me? Do you know if he lives?’ Vidar asked.

  ‘We’ve suffered some wounded, but only three men have fallen.’ Rodor listed off the names, but Gaute was not one of them.

  ‘Many thanks, Rodor,’ Vidar said. ‘I’ll be along in a moment to help.’

  ‘Nay, you will not.’ Gwendolyn shook her head. She pressed him against a branch at his back and drew his head down to inspect the wound. The gash didn’t look particularly deep, despite the amount of blood that ran down his face. ‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’

  ‘Aye, my ribs. I think I’ve cracked one.’

  She remembered how he’d favoured one side as he’d walked and figured that he was probably right. ‘You’re wounded and I’m taking you home. Rodor, go tell Wulf to gather his men and they’ll accompany us back. Everyone else can stay behind and take care of the mess.’

  Vidar started to speak, but she covered his mouth, already weary of his refusal. He could barely stand as it was. He would not be out cleaning up the carnage in his condition. Rodor gave one glance to Vidar, decided against arguing with her, and left to go do her bidding.

  When Rodor left, she dropped her hand and waited for Vidar’s disapproval. It wasn’t forthcoming. Instead he smiled and winced in pain at the same time. ‘I would’ve given you a spanking had you but asked. You didn’t need to go to this extreme to ensure that you received one.’

  Her mouth dropped open and she was torn between laughing and blushing. ‘I saved your life. You could be a little more grateful.’

  He inclined his head and the smile dropped. ‘Aye, that you did. Thank you, Wife. Thank you for saving me. You’re a fine warrior.’

  He meant it. His eyes were solemn and tender, and he didn’t appear smug. He had finally called her a warrior. Her eyes pooled with tears. ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘I vow to you that I will try very hard to understand what that means for us. I never imagined a wife in my life, much less a wife like you. I hardly knew what to do with you at first. But I’m learning.’

  She smiled. ‘Me, too.’ And her tears spilled down her cheeks. She’d never cried tears of happiness in her life, yet here they were.

  He leaned down and kissed the droplets from her cheeks before dragging her mouth to his. ‘I’m so grateful you’re mine,’ he whispered against her lips. ‘I love you.’

  She let out a soft cry as he pressed his lips to hers one more time. She was certain now that whatever they faced, they would face it together. That they would be one. ‘Let’s go home,’ she said when they parted. Draping his arm around her shoulder, she helped him over to her horse to take him home.

  ‘This doesn’t absolve you from your spanking,’ he teased.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘I wish you luck with that considering your cracked ribs.’

  He laughed, but it turned into a soft groan of pain and she gave him a knowing glance. ‘Oh, I can still spank you, you’ll simply have to do the rest.’

  Her belly fluttered and her mind started trying to conceive of all the delicious possibilities in his words. She could barely even fathom what he meant, but she knew that she’d enjoy figuring it out. ‘I don’t want you to worsen your injury.’

  ‘You’re right. We have time. Alvey and its future is ours.’ His arm tightened and he pulled her closer to his side.

  She closed her eyes and said a prayer of thanks that this Dane had been sent to her. With a little luck, the future of Alvey grew strong inside her even now.

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed this book,

  you won’t want to miss these other sexy

  Viking stories from Harper St. George

  ENSLAVED BY THE VIKING

  ONE NIGHT WITH THE VIKING

  IN BED WITH THE VIKING WARRIOR

  Keep reading for an excerpt from HIS MISTLETOE WAGER by Virginia Heath.

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  His Mistletoe Wager

  by Virginia Heath

  Prologue

  St George’s Church, Hanover Square—June 1815

  Every pew was taken. No mean feat in a church as large and grand as this one, yet hardly a surprise when this was the wedding of the Season: the day when the darling of society, the beautiful only daughter of the Earl of Upminster, married her handsome peer.

  Even the sun had come out to celebrate and was cheerfully streaming through the imposing stained-glass windows in an exceedingly pleasing fashion and causing a kaleidoscope of colours to decorate the floor. The air hung heavy with the fragrance of lilacs, Lizzie’s favourite flower, and tall vases and boughs festooned the aisle she would soon walk down.

  Her wedding dress was embroidered subtly to match and her dainty bonnet decorated with beautiful silk replicas, scaled down to sit in a pleasing fashion. Just as she had always imagined.

  In fact, to her complete delight, everything about her wedding to the Marquess of Rainham was exactly as she had imagined it. After all, she had been planning it all since she was ten, right down to the minutest of details because it was the most important day of her life. The beginning of her perfect, happily ever after, exactly six months on from her first meeting with the man she loved with all her heart.

  Many in society were surprised by the match, her own dear parents included. Charles did have a reputation as a bit of a rake and had broken more than one heart before he had found his one true love. But as she was prone to point out whenever he was criticised—something which happened with annoying regularity—everybody knew rakes made the very best husbands once they found the right woman, and Lizzie was very definitely the right woman for him.

  Dear Charles told her so every single day. From their very first dance he had been the most ardent and attentive suitor, and although Lizzie came with a substantial dowry, he made it quite plain that he did not give two figs for the money. The money meant nothing because he would happily take her with nothing. In rags if need be. Dowries were of no consequence when his heart beat only for her. They were destined to be together for ever. All he cared about was her. Something he proved time and time again with his effusive compliments and daringly longing gazes. It was all so wonderfully romantic. A courtship which had made her the envy of her peers and now she was having the perfect wedding, too. The first bride of June.

  ‘I shall give him a stern piece of my mind later! Be assured of that!’ For the second time in as many minutes her father snapped his pocket watch open and stared impatiently at the dial. ‘It is the bride’s prerogative to be late, not the groom’s. To leave us here, hiding in the vestry like common criminals, is beyond the pale, Lizzie. I have no idea what the bounder can be thinking to insult us so grievously.’

  She smiled reassuringly at him. At the Foreign Office he was used to being in charge and far too much of a stickler for timekeeping than was necessary, and he had been very vocal with his misgivings about her choice of husband. She had spent much of the last two months reassuring him that everything was destined to be wonderful and her Marquess was not at all what everyone believed. ‘Calm down, Papa. Nobody in the congregation is aware that we have arrived, so it hardly matters. There is probably a perfectly good reason Charles has been delayed. He will be here.’ Last night, just before he had crept out of her bedchamber window and scrambled down the wisteria, he had blown her a kiss and told her how he was counting the seconds until they took their vows. What difference did a few minutes of tardiness make in the grand scheme of things? Especially when they were about to embark on a lifetime together.

  Instinctively, her hand fluttered towards her belly and she suppressed the grin which threatened to bloom. Her father would hit the roof if he knew what she had kept secret from everyone for the last week.

  Later tonight, when they were all alone, she would tell Charles about the baby. Her wedding present to him. Made in love almost two months ago, when she had gladly given him her innocence as there seemed little point in prolonging the agony of withholding it unnecessarily. ‘We are engaged,’ he had said teasingly the first time he had clambered up the wisteria and surprised her in her bedchamber. ‘What difference do a few more weeks make? Besides, when a love is as deep and abiding as ours is, a wedding ceremony is merely a formality. I am already married to you in my heart.’ As was she. Lizzie knew he would be overjoyed by the news. The perfect end to the most perfect year of her life.

  * * *

  It was the ashen face of her brother Rafe, over half an hour later, which caused the first real doubts to creep in. He came in through a side door, quietly closed it behind him and simply stood, slightly slumped before her.

  ‘He’s gone, Lizzie.’

  The finality in his voice made her fear the worst. Her darling fiancé was dead? Surely not. She could not bear it. ‘What do you mean he’s gone? What has happened?’ He had been in fine fettle a few scant hours ago. Ardent. No sign of illness or fever. Tears were already streaming down her cheeks as the panic made her heart hammer wildly in her chest. ‘Did he have an accident?’ Please God, make him not have suffered.

  Her brother shook his head and it was then she saw the fierce anger in his eyes.

  Anger and pity. For her.

  ‘No, poppet. Nothing so noble, I’m afraid. I don’t quite know how to tell you this, so I shall just say it straight out. The scoundrel is marrying someone else.’

  Lizzie’s knees gave way and her father supported her as she stumbled backwards on to a chair. ‘You are mistaken.’ The walls started to spin as nausea threatened. ‘Charles would not do that to me. He loves me.’

  ‘He left a letter...’ A letter that her brother had obviously already read because the seal was broken and the open missive hung limply in his hand.

  Callously, it was addressed to no one in particular and had been left on the mantelpiece in his bachelor lodgings at the Albany. Conversationally, it informed the reader that he was bound, with all haste, for Gretna Green with the Duke of Aylesbury’s daughter. A drastic step taken because her father had forbidden their courtship a full year before. Of course, they had tried to fight the fierce attraction which had consumed them. However, his love for the obscenely wealthy Duke’s plain and awkward youngest daughter was ‘deep and abiding’ and for the longest time he had already been ‘married to her in his heart.’ Their vows were just a formality because, and this was the most crushing blow, ‘his heart beat for her alone.’

  The familiar words cut deeply, slicing through her initial disbelief and shock more effectively than anything else could have. What a dreadful way to discover words which had meant so very much to her had ultimately been meaningless to him all along.

  ‘If we act in all haste, Rafe, we might be able to mitigate the scandal.’

  Ever the pragmatist, her father’s conversation wafted over her. A message was
dispatched to the Duke of Aylesbury. Fevered plans were set in place. Her papa’s government connections and high place in society would all be utilised to make everything all right, they would close ranks around her to protect her flawless reputation—yet how could things ever be all right again? She had been jilted.

  Jilted!

  With every meticulous and carefully laid plan for her perfect future made so thoroughly for so long, she had failed to foresee this terrible scenario. Lizzie had been the silly fool who had fallen for the charming Marquess until a much richer prospect had come along. The pregnant, silly fool who had stood waiting patiently for him at the church, who had believed all his calculated seductions, all his blatant flattery, so blinkered by her love for him that she had not heeded all the well-meant words of caution from nearly everyone in her acquaintance including her own family. The trusting, needy, idiot who did not even warrant the courtesy of a letter of her own from the treacherous scoundrel who had deflowered her, nor a mention in the one her brother had found. Written by the same duplicitous hands which had been all over her body only hours before. Charles must have known he was eloping when he had climbed into her bedroom window, but had used her regardless. Like the true libertine and shameless rake he was. Their fairy-tale courtship and all of his apparently heartfelt declarations whispered intimately in her virgin’s bed stood for naught. It had all been a pack of lies and she had fallen for every single one.

  Her hand automatically went to her belly again. All at once, the sickly smell of lilacs threatened to overpower her, or maybe it was the catastrophic ramifications of her now-dire situation. Or perhaps that was merely the bitter taste of humiliation and utter, complete betrayal. Total devastation. Willingly, she had given a man her tender, young heart and he had blithely returned it to her bludgeoned.

  Shredded into irreparable pieces.

  Copyright © 2017 by Susan Merritt