Viking Hearts

by Violetta Rand

  The lad’s eyes grew wider and he opened up his hand.

  Ivar grinned, then reached in the leather bag he kept tied to his belt. He placed a silver coin on his palm. “Are these acceptable terms?”

  “Aye.” The boy nodded enthusiastically.

  Ivar rushed to the other end of the square where a wood platform was used to exhibit the thralls for sale. A throng had already gathered, making it impossible for him to see clearly. But as people started to recognize him, they moved out of the way respectfully, granting him access to the dais. Most men only came to watch the bidding, few could afford the high quality of human flesh offered here.

  The men on the platform dragged a male thrall away, then delivered him into the hands of his new owner. That’s when he caught sight of the beautiful Mauriana, her soft blond hair braided like a Norse woman, her dress of rich wool and linen. She scowled at the two men who dragged her onto the dais, courageously defying them—kicking her feet and attempting to jerk free of their grasp. Anger swelled inside his chest as he spotted the collar around her delicate neck and her hands tied behind her back.

  Ivar’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword. With one slash, he’d put an end to Bodvar’s men’s lives, claiming the Hessian beauty for himself. But starting a blood feud would only divide the Trondelag. And Bodvar’s servants were only doing what their master expected. With a pouch full of coins, no one would outbid him. Just to be sure, he assessed the crowd, recognizing a handful of notable men. Lesser jarls and wealthy merchants.

  Looking back at the dais, the master of ceremonies introduced Mauriana. “This exotic Hessian bitch will keep your bed warm deep into the night…”

  Ivar gritted his teeth. Honor didn’t exist here. Although he, too, owned slaves, he treated them with dignity, providing them with clean huts and plenty of food. And if one proved himself worthy of his respect, Ivar often granted him freedom. However, his cousin didn’t do the same.

  “Who wishes to make an offer on this comely wench?” The man squeezed her breast, and Mauriana screamed in pain, then spat in his face.

  As Ivar pushed his way to the stairs leading to the platform, one of Bodvar’s men shoved a leather thong between Mauriana’s lips, gagging her.

  Ivar reached her in seconds, tucking her behind him, then grabbed his cousin’s shocked henchmen by their shirts. “Do you value your lives?” No man with sense is fearless. And no hired sword would dare challenge a jarl. “Aye,” one said.

  The crowd exploded with applause and curses alike.

  The other man nodded in silence.

  “My cousin is a liar. An abuser of innocent women. Will you partake of his bitter cup?” he spoke loud enough for the onlookers to overhear the insult. Such words uttered in a public place could start a war.

  The master of ceremonies tried to step between them. “Jarl Ivar…”

  “Speak not,” Ivar snarled. “Your head on a pike is worth more to me than the gold this collection of thralls will fetch.”

  The older man swallowed and retreated in fear.

  “What price did Bodvar ask for her?”

  One of the men whispered the number in his ear.

  “Will you take my gold?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I will pay the master of ceremonies his meager commission.” Ivar released them and ripped the leather pouch off his weapon belt. He then opened it and fished out eight gold coins. “Take it. Tell my cousin if he wishes to protest, he is invited to my hall where we will see which of us can best the other.”

  If the bastard dared to show his face, he’d drive a knife through his skull, then offer his blood as a sacrifice to the gods.

  Turning to Mauriana, the tears in her eyes saddened him. “Are you well?” he asked, untying the gag.

  She coughed, gazing up at him, a mixture of emotions on her face. “Jarl Ivar?” she asked. “You are not a commoner? Not a crew member of Jarl Bodvar’s ship?”

  “I am a man,” he said dispassionately. “This is not the place to discuss my title.”

  “Where then?”

  By the gods… Stubborn girl—even with her hands tied behind her back and on display for the world to see, her pride couldn’t be overcome.

  “You will accompany me home,” he announced, unsure if he should free her hands.

  “I will stay here until you explain why you deceived me in Geestendorf. You knew then what your kinsman intended to do with me. Is that why it angered you to catch Rosamund speaking with me? Because she offered me a way out of slavery?”

  “No,” he growled, leaning down. “Because I knew she wanted to make you a whore.”

  Without further explanation, he lifted her off the ground and slung her tiny body over his shoulder. Then he turned to the master of ceremonies. “Here is your fee.” He dropped a single coin on the wood platform. “May you die a straw death.” A slow and torturous death if the gods are so inclined.

  “Do not forget her bag.” The man handed it to Ivar.

  He walked down the steps with Mauriana kicking and cursing his very existence. A smile grew on his face as he neared his captains waiting behind the crowd. If he’d known the sweet Mauriana possessed such a vocabulary, he would have left her gagged.

  Chapter Seven

  Purchased by a man she wanted to pummel didn’t make it easy for Mauriana to control her fiery temper. And now he refused to untie her. Until you regain your senses, he’d said, then flung her in the saddle in front of him. Even his men laughed at her, like Bodvar’s contemptuous soldiers. She’d suffered enough at the hands of these barbarians. It no longer mattered to her that they worshipped the same gods. They were not her allies. If she could find a way home, she would fight to her last breath to do so.

  With an arm wrapped tightly about her waist, the swift gallop of his beast over uneven ground made her painfully aware of Ivar’s muscular frame and heat behind her. She’d resolved to say nothing more and refused to let her body betray her. Many men were as handsome and strong as this arrogant liar. A pair of capable hands meant nothing.

  “Tell me, lady,” he said. “Are you pleased I own you?”

  If Ivar wanted to foster good feelings, reminding her that he’d paid a king’s ransom for her didn’t bode well. “You are a fool.”

  “A fool?” he repeated with a scoff. “I am the only thing keeping you from the hands of a filthy merchant who would have sold you at a Baghdad market. Light-haired women are rare in the lands of Muhammad.”

  She knew nothing of this Baghdad place or where it was exactly, but it didn’t sound any different than what he’d done. “Will I not suffer the same fate in your house?” Wedged sideways between the saddle front and his body, she twisted slightly at the hips so she could see his face. “Curse you forever. I trusted you and Jarl Bodvar.”

  Ivar halted and waved his men onward. “There will be no more talk of Bodvar. I will deal with him when the time comes. As for you, be grateful for the mercy of the gods. Under my watchful eyes, you will be safe. But understand one thing, sweetest Mauriana.”

  He looked like a dark shadow against the bright sky, his rugged features difficult to not stare at.

  She lifted her chin. “Do I have a choice?”

  “No,” he said. “You belong to me now.”

  The weight of his words hit her hard and deep. Two weeks ago, she was with her cherished family. And had she shown the kind of courage she’d been taught, none of this would be happening. Perhaps Odin was punishing her for being a coward, for not aiding her family and the other villagers in Hesse.

  “Free me,” she demanded.

  He stared at her for a long, silent moment. “Will you conduct yourself properly?”

  “Aye.”

  He slid from the saddle, then helped her down. “I am not your enemy,” he said as he cut the cord with a knife.

  Mauriana spun around, rubbing her sore wrists. “You aren’t a friend,” she countered, then slapped his face.

  Ivar growled, but instead of
retaliating violently, he tugged her into his arms and crushed his mouth over hers. The hunger and wet softness of his lips shocked her as she opened up to him on a gasp. His lips tasted of mead. Strong hands slid up her back and held her in place. There was no escaping. The unfamiliar wilderness surrounding her didn’t scare her half as much as the man kissing her.

  Then her tongue tangled shamelessly with his, and Mauriana didn’t understand why she liked it, how someone she practically hated could feel so good. She jerked away. “I didn’t give you permission to touch me.”

  “I don’t require your approval, Mauriana.” He kissed her again.

  And like before, she welcomed that hot tongue into her mouth, baffled by his exotic taste and touch. Until now, she only thought tongues were made for speaking, not pleasure. Of course her parents were affectionate in front of her often enough, but never like this. She broke away, furious at Ivar and herself.

  “This is unnatural.”

  “Nay,” he chuckled. “But I am glad you think so.”

  That confused her. “You are?”

  “It means those perfect lips haven’t known the kiss of another man.”

  “But you do,” she blurted.

  His eyes bulged. “I do not kiss men.”

  “Women,” she clarified on a huff. “You’ve lain with many.”

  “And this bothers you?” He ran the pad of his thumb up her chin, then across her bottom lip.

  “Please…” She retreated a step. “I don’t care what you do.”

  “The whore told you.”

  “Rosamund,” she emphasized, hating the word whore.

  “You’re quick to protect that woman.”

  “She showed me more kindness than you have all the days I’ve been with you.”

  “Untrue.”

  “You deceived me, Jarl Ivar.” And for that, she might not ever be able to forgive him. But something more unsettling dominated her thoughts. The knowledge of why this Viking made such an effort to purchase her. A shiver suffused her whole body. His overprotectiveness could only mean one thing. Ivar wanted to bed her.

  “What does a girl from the forest know of men and oaths? Great men are judged for keeping their word, or breaking it.”

  Did he think her dimwitted? “A promise made in Scandinavia is no different than one made in Hesse.”

  He stared at her with deep interest. “Aye,” he agreed. “But there is one difference—the man who does the pledging.”

  Mauriana’s belly swarmed with worry. He spoke so elegantly. And they seemed to agree on many things, despite the unhappy circumstances. And that kiss—it made her feel dangerous. “What would you do if I ran away?”

  “Pursue you to the ends of the earth,” he said.

  More poetic nonsense. “Am I that much of a prize?”

  Ivar cocked his head to one side, his smoldering gaze sweeping her head to toe. “Consider yourself an investment.”

  “In what?”

  “Only time will tell.”

  Now he spoke in riddles. “Since you’re a man of your word,” she started, struggling to keep bitterness from her tone of voice, “will you honor the promise you made to me on the island?”

  “Which do you speak of?”

  “To find my family.”

  “Aye,” he said. “But I cannot do it standing in the middle of the countryside. We must go home first.”

  “Home?” She frowned, refusing to accept any other place than Hesse as her own. “You mean, your home.”

  “I mean, our home.”

  The sincerity in his voice surprised her. Did he really think she’d stay here if given a choice? Find happiness? Give up her family and old life?

  “Now for the next thing I meant to do back at the market.” He stepped closer and Mauriana flinched. He sucked in a breath. “Do you think I’d hurt you?”

  “N-no.”

  “Good.” He gently turned her around, swept her braids aside, then unclasped the slave collar. “I am sorry you suffered the humiliation of wearing one of these.”

  She faced him, touched by his momentary kindness. “Thank you.”

  “Aye,” he said, then threw the choker into the trees. “Will you go willingly now?”

  The more Mauriana thought her choices over, the more she realized being under Jarl Ivar’s protection was probably the best. Everywhere she looked trees loomed dark and thick. And beyond the forest, snow-covered peaks unlike anything she’d ever seen. She swore there were sheets of blue-green ice cascading down the front of the mountains. If she survived a few days in the wild and managed to find a village or farm, would the inhabitants help her? Give her shelter and food and show her where to go to find a ship willing to take her home?

  “I will accompany you.” Her shoulders sagged then, the reality of her surrender just another burden to carry around with her sorrow and guilt. “Where are we?” she asked innocently enough.

  His full lips curled upward. “Earn my trust, then I will tell you something about this place.” He lifted her onto his horse, then climbed up behind her. “You already know we are in the Trondelag. A place where the greatest warriors are born. Odin roams the forests at night. And the Valkyries…” He heeled his mount into an easy trot. “Eager to claim my kinsmen for Odin’s feast table.”

  Didn’t he realize the men from her homeland said the same? But after spending time with Ivar and watching how he subjugated the men at the market, she might be persuaded to believe his lofty claims. For she’d never met anyone like him before. Never witnessed such heroism—never felt butterfly wings flutter inside her belly until she saw him on that ship two weeks ago.

  Chapter Eight

  Ivar’s second homecoming wasn’t as enthusiastic as the first. His men had arrived before him, and his mother had obviously been fully apprised of the situation. She waited in the great hall, her face filled with curiosity, her eyes fixed on Mauriana. Though she welcomed all into his home, her personal feelings regarding foreigners would never change. She disliked anyone born outside the borders of Norway—even Danes who shared bloodties with her.

  “My son.” she greeted Ivar with a kiss. “What have you done?”

  Ivar didn’t like being questioned in the open or in front of Mauriana. Cast into the role of jarl at a young age, he’d received sound counsel from his mother, so he wouldn’t dismiss her now.

  “Mother, this is Mauriana. She comes to us from a village in Hesse where Bodvar regularly trades. The Christians have reached her homeland, leaving devastation in their wake. We will offer her sanctuary.”

  Idona gave Mauriana an encouraging smile. “Then I greet you as I would my own daughter.” She drew Mauriana into a hug, eyeing Ivar at the same time. “I am sure you’d like to rest before the eventide meal. A servant will take you to the women’s quarters.”

  Without having to ask, one of the thralls immediately appeared and escorted Mauriana across the great hall. But she stopped short and turned back.

  “Jarl Ivar,” she spoke. “My bag is still tied to your saddle. Everything I have left in this world is inside that satchel.”

  “Worry not,” he said. “I will make sure it reaches you.”

  Seemingly satisfied, Mauriana followed the slave out of the hall.

  “What were you thinking?” Idona chastised.

  “My cousin broke a promise to me. He guaranteed the girl’s safety, and the moment I was gone, had her on the auction platform.”

  “Since when do we interfere with such things?”

  “We didn’t.” Ivar met her gaze. “I did. And I’ll hear no complaints. She’s an innocent, and Bodvar lied to her.”

  His mother chuckled. “If you retaliated against your kinsman every time he was dishonest, there would be no one left in our bloodline. Return the girl before it’s too late.”

  “Enough,” he growled. “I’ll die before I see her back in his hands.”

  “Don’t tempt the gods,” Idona warned.

  “Don’t tempt my displeasure,�
�� Ivar retorted sharply. “See to the girl’s comfort.”

  Ivar strutted across the hall, done with the conversation. Since when did any woman, even his mother, challenge him? Whatever unseen forces brought him and Mauriana together, he planned on following through with the promise of protecting her. The idea of enslaving people who honored the same gods had never been something he’d approved of or accepted. He’d ignored his cousin’s behavior all these years, but no more. Someone needed to teach the man a lesson. And if it meant shedding blood to prove his point, he would.

  He sat in his carved chair at the head of the hall, admiring the skills of the artisans that had so painstakingly added beauty to the interior of the longhouse. Dragonheads were prominently displayed at the four corners of the room, believed to ward off any ill omens or evil spirits. Other effigies were carved into the rafters, including the symbol of love and loyalty, the purple saxifrage, a delicate flower found throughout the north. It represented everything the great jarls of Norway believed in and how easily it could be taken away.

  Above his head, the family banner hung—a warrior on horseback flanked by two ravens, Odin’s own messengers, Hugin and Munin. Six trestle tables with benches spanned the closest side of the room, the place where anyone of prominence sat and partook of the daily meals. Three rectangular stone fire pits warmed the lofty space. And tapestries his mother and her maids had weaved and sewn over the years were proudly displayed on the log walls.

  As he pondered his responsibilities and power after being away for so long, Ivar finally understand why he wanted to keep Mauriana safe. But before he made any final decisions about her future, he must know more about her.

  He flagged down one of his captains. “Go to the stable and retrieve my bags.”

  “Aye, milord.”

  Mauriana had made it a point to remind him to not forget her things. Maybe the answers to some of his questions were hidden within her satchel. A thrall approached the dais and offered him an ale horn. He accepted it and drank deeply of the mead made on his steading. Emptying the vessel, he held it out.