Her terms: free her family
His terms: seduction?
Defending her home, Lady Ansithe captures outlaw Viking Moir Mimirson. The prisoner will be the ideal ransom for her father, who’s being held hostage by the Danes. Yet Moir’s flirtatious negotiations exhilarate practical Ansithe as much as they surprise her... Can she be sure that this hardened warrior will work with her and not betray her? And what of his stolen kisses—can she trust those?
The man’s insolence took her breath away. He had lost. She’d won. Now he expected her to simply let him and his men walk away as if nothing had happened.
“Forgive me if I distrust your word.”
“A pity. My suggestion is the best way out of this impasse.”
“Stop trying me. If you continue to badger me, I will simply shoot you and stop your mouth that way.”
His amused laugh rang out. “There are other ways to stop mouths, Valkyrie. More pleasurable ways for the both of us, particularly if they involve tongues.”
Ansithe stared at him in astonishment. The infuriating man was flirting with her. Flirting when she had just made him a prisoner and threatened to kill him.
Author Note
This story came about when I learned about the fascinating English Midlands custom of Hocktide, where women capture men, holding them for a small ransom on the second Monday after Easter, and then the men return the favor on the Tuesday. It is reputed to have originated during the Viking period. I thought there must be a romance at its heart and so I wrote this story.
I do hope you enjoy Ansithe and Moir’s story as much as I did writing it.
I love getting comments from readers and can be reached at [email protected]. Or reach me through my publisher, Facebook or Twitter, @michellelstyles.
MICHELLE STYLES
A Deal with
Her Rebel Viking
Born and raised near San Francisco, California, Michelle Styles currently lives near Hadrian’s Wall with her husband and a menagerie of pets in an Edwardian bungalow with a large and somewhat overgrown garden. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romances after discovering Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt. Her website is michellestyles.co.uk and she’s on Twitter and Facebook.
Books by Michelle Styles
Harlequin Historical
His Unsuitable Viscountess
Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match
An Ideal Husband?
Paying the Viking’s Price
Return of the Viking Warrior
Saved by the Viking Warrior
Taming His Viking Woman
Summer of the Viking
Sold to the Viking Warrior
The Warrior’s Viking Bride
Sent as the Viking’s Bride
A Deal with Her Rebel Viking
Harlequin Historical Undone! ebook
The Perfect Concubine
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com for more titles.
For my niece Elizabeth
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Author Note
Excerpt from Her Rags-to-Riches Christmas by Laura Martin
Chapter One
Late June AD 873—Manor of Baelle Heale, Forest of Arden, West Mercia, now modern-day Balsall Common, near Birmingham, England
A late-morning heat haze shimmered on the water meadow, where a cloud of blue butterflies rose in the slight breeze. Peace personified. Ansithe, middle daughter of the ealdorman Wulfgar, whose manor lands included the meadow, breathed in deeply and made a memory before adjusting the quiver of arrows she’d slung over her back.
The water meadow in bloom with yellow, pink and blue wildflowers had to be one of her favourite places in the whole world. No one bothered her here, or complained that she was weaving a cloth of dreams instead of a woolen one. Her eldest sister’s jibe earlier that day about Ansithe’s housekeeping standards and how no one decent would want a widow whose weaving threads always tangled rankled. She had run the household capably before Cynehild and her young son had arrived, fleeing the Mycel Haethen or the Great Heathen Horde of Danes’ inexorable advance in East Mercia. And she did her best thinking outdoors, always had.
Someone had to work out a way to save their father and Cynehild’s beloved husband who had both been taken prisoner. They could be freed, according to the message from the Danish warlord who held them, for a price, gold that they didn’t have. He had sent the severed finger of Cynehild’s husband to back up his demand. If Ansithe could engineer a way to free them, then maybe her father would understand she was indispensable to the smooth running of the estate and any talk of her entering into a new betrothal would cease. One unhappy marriage was enough for a lifetime.
She withdrew an arrow from her quiver, imagining the tree knot was the commander’s head, but the sound of tramping feet made her freeze.
Ansithe retreated to the shade of the great oak which stood at the edge of the meadow. She concentrated on forcing air into her lungs. It would be nothing—a deer if she was lucky, or a wolf if she wasn’t.
She turned slightly. Her heart skipped a beat. The Heathen Horde, here in Baelle Heale rather than where they should be—fifty miles to the east in the conquered lands. Openly. And not skulking in the shadows or keeping to Watling Street, the Roman road which ran a few miles from Baelle Heale.
Ansithe flattened herself against the oak and watched their progress as the group of warriors emerged from the woods. They seemed in no hurry and in no mood to conceal themselves.
The lead warrior, a tall blond man with broad shoulders, put his hands on his hips and examined the water meadow as though he owned it. She admired his chiselled cheekbones, and tapered waist for a long heartbeat until she noticed the large sword hanging from his belt alongside the iron helm. Her blood ran cold.
She wanted to scream that it wasn’t his land, that the people here were not weak and lily-livered like the Eastern Mercians, giving in without a fight, but managed to choke the words back.
Shouting at a warrior was likely to get her killed. Despite the sentiment her older sister had recently voiced about her reckless, mannish ways, Ansithe knew she possessed some modicum of self-preservation. She concentrated on keeping still and silently willing the warriors to move on.
The warlord turned his head as if he’d sensed her unspoken defiance, gazed straight towards where she stood and took a half-step towards her, saying something to the others with a slight smile on his lips.
With trembling fingers, she notched her arrow in the bowstring and muttered a prayer to all the saints and angels. Just when she thought she would be forced to loose the arrow and fight to her death, a wood pigeon arched up into the sky, launching itself from a branch above her with a loud clap of its wings.
Another man pointed to it, giving a harsh laugh and saying something that Ansithe didn’t quite catch. Her warrior nodded, but gave one last searching look at the oak before striding in the
direction of the river.
Ansithe lowered her bow and drew further back before his ice-blue eyes spied her again.
She knelt on the ground, grabbed a handful of dirt and raised it.
‘I will defend this land or die,’ she vowed.
* * *
The manor-house yard appeared unnaturally still in the late afternoon shadows when Moir Mimirson entered it, following in the wake of his younger charge and his four companions.
A rundown air clung to the once substantial hall. The barns needed fixing and the stone walls had tumbled down in three places. Even though this area of Mercia had not witnessed a battle, Moir was willing to wager that the war had irrevocably altered this place, taking the able-bodied to fight and leaving only the weak, infirm and the women to defend it. Easy pickings for a raid, but such a thing would be a violation of the treaty his jaarl sought to sign with the Mercians.
The sheer stillness of the place made his skin prickle, just as it did before a battle was due to start. Instinctively his hand went to the amber bead he wore about his neck, the one which had belonged to his mother. Before any battle, he touched it and remembered his final vow to her—to be better than his father. Always.
‘There’s nothing here,’ Moir called in a low voice. ‘They have departed. I can’t even spy a hen or a pig for supper. We should move on, discover the way to Watling Street and return to your father—something which would have been easier if you had not tangled with our guide and made him abandon us.’
His wayward charge halted. His face contorted as it always did when Bjartr was forbidden anything. ‘Why was it my fault that the guide ran off? Or that we got lost trying to discover where he’d gone?’
‘Men tend to dislike having swords held at their throat when they quite rightly suggest that looting and raiding is not what one does when trying to negotiate a peace treaty.’
Bjartr’s mouth turned down in a petulant pout. ‘You should have stopped him. You are supposed to be my steward. And you should have provided us with proper food. My belly is rumbling. My father, your sworn jaarl, assigned you this task. Or are you like your father—given to disloyalty?’
Moir struggled to control his temper. Bjartr had not been alive when the tragedy with his parents had occurred. Bjartr’s recollection bore passing little to the truth of why Moir had been sent on this fool’s errand of a mission and was now having to play nursemaid to a group of barely blooded warriors rather than providing protection for his jaarl at the delicate negotiations with the Mercians and the other warlords.
‘I swear I heard bells earlier and that means an abbey,’ another warrior said, winking broadly at Moir. ‘There is always gold for the taking at a place like that. Here? Even the chickens have flown.’
‘Asking for hospitality remains the custom in the North. I suspect they follow similar customs here.’ Moir tried one last time. His sense of looming disaster rather than victory increased with every breath. ‘It is why we set out with gifts for those who favoured us. We can still ask for food to ease our starving bellies.’
Was this the meaning of his vision of a Valkyrie earlier? To be wary of this place?
‘Instead of being the rock who held the shield wall together, you have become my father’s craven hound,’ Bjartr jeered. ‘My father will be beyond proud when I return laden with gold and hostages—no matter what he told you about keeping the peace.’
Moir firmed his mouth. Any treasure to be found was probably safely buried long ago. Hostages simply caused unforeseen problems. And he was loyal to Bjartr’s father, Andvarr, the man who had taken a chance on him a long time ago. ‘You think seven warriors are enough for an all-out attack? How are you going to deploy them?’
‘Are you coming, Moir?’ one of Bjartr’s more obnoxious companions called. ‘Or does blood run true? Will you be as craven as your father was?’
‘No man calls me a coward and lives,’ Moir retorted, drawing his sword. ‘I challenge you. Here and now.’
‘Leave it, Moir,’ Bjartr shrieked. ‘As leader of this felag I command you. We attack this manor house.’
Without waiting to hear Moir’s explanation of why it was a poor idea and why they should instead just ask for help in finding the Roman road, Bjartr charged, screaming his battle cry, and the other younger warriors followed in his wake.
* * *
A heavy axe hit the barred doors to the hall. Ansithe’s stomach knotted. Twenty arrows in her quiver. Twenty arrows to save her family from the Heathen Horde.
She regarded the various bee skeps, mantraps and other devices scattered at strategic points in the hall. They were all designed to stop the invaders in their tracks.
‘Are you ready?’ she called to her sisters. Each gave a nod and held up their sealed skeps. On her signal they had agreed to unblock the entrance ways and toss them at the invaders. The bees would do the rest of the work.
Ansithe adjusted her veil, fixed her first arrow and began to count.
The door crashed open and the first warrior blundered in, missing the skep she’d set up at the entrance entirely. Ansithe swore under her breath.
He turned towards her older sister with his sword raised, ready to cut her throat or worse. She panicked and tossed the skep at him without removing the straw. It fell harmlessly to the floor. The bees remained imprisoned. Disaster loomed.
Ansithe loosed her arrow. It arched and connected with his throat. He stumbled over the skep, releasing the bees from their prison and they began to swarm over him and his companions. Her younger sister removed the entrance block and tossed her skep. It landed at the feet of a warrior and the battle cries soon became shrieks of pain.
Ansithe unleashed her second arrow.
* * *
Somewhere, a lone dog began to howl, sounding like one of Hel’s when she sucked out the souls of unworthy men. Bjartr’s battle cry turned into an agonising scream for help, swiftly followed by the others’ cries of anguish. Moir’s muscles coiled. He drew his sword and raced around to the back of the building.
He slammed the small back door open, rushing forward with his drawn sword. A precariously balanced basket toppled down on top of him, temporarily blinding him. Sticky honey flowed down his face as he fought to remove it. The sound of angry bees filled his ears swiftly followed by sharp stings.
Bees slithered down his tunic, seeking the warmth and the dark. He flailed about with his arms, trying to remove the skep, to avoid more stings and to fight whatever danger lurked in the darkness. He took a step backwards and tumbled over a log, falling with a crash, letting go of his sword as he fell.
Before he could remove the skep, someone stamped on his sword arm, and grabbed his axe from his belt. He pulled the skep from his head. The sound of angry buzzing in his ears was almost unbearable.
‘Stay completely still, Dane, if you want to live,’ a woman’s clear precise voice said, cutting through the incessant buzzing of the bees. ‘You are our prisoners. Surrender.’
Ansithe concentrated on the warrior before her and not on her rapidly dwindling supply of arrows. Unlike the others who had burst into the hall through the front doors, this warrior did not cower when the skep had hit him, but instead seemed impervious to the bee stings. Her younger sister’s quick thinking had relieved him of his sword and axe, but he remained the most dangerous.
Her heart thundered and her fingers trembled on the bow. Any mistake and this fragile victory would vanish like a puff of smoke.
She pulled back further on the bowstring and tried to get the right angle for her shot. ‘Surrender, Dane.’
‘I am no Dane, but a Northman!’
Ansithe wet her lips and started to count to ten. The action steadied her. ‘Whoever you are, you have no choice.’
‘I beg to differ. There is always a choice.’ The warrior heaved the skep away from him and towards her. Ansithe jumped to one side. It land
ed with a thump and rolled harmlessly away, but he dodged the arrow she loosened.
She frantically snatched another arrow out of her quiver and set it to the bow. Five arrows remained from the originally twenty.
‘You missed,’ Ansithe said, fixing her gaze on the final skep balanced on the rafter just over him. She breathed easier. She had a better target than his throat. ‘Do not make me angry.’
‘Should I fear your anger?’
‘Yes.’ Ansithe restarted her counting and tried to steady her arm. She had one chance to get the ransom money she required and this warrior was not going to take it from her. ‘Surrender and I will endeavour to keep you and your companions alive.’
‘I’ve heard that lie before.’
‘The truth.’
Moir rubbed an arm across his eyes, clearing the bees and the honey from his sight. The bee stings were sheer agony, far worse in ways than a sword cut. He groaned. His throw of the skep had fallen far short of his intended target. And his charges remained in danger. A lone woman with dark auburn hair faced him, seemingly oblivious to the angry bees flying around, with a quivering arrow notched in her bow. The air seemed tinged with magic and enchantment. Could she truly bend bees to her will?
Moir squinted in the gloom. His adversary wore some sort of netting over her face, obscuring her features and making his shot difficult. No witchcraft, but foresight. She was a formidable, if an unconventional, foe, but human.
Someone else would have plotted this plan of attack. Some man must have tracked their movements. Saxon, particularly Mercian, women were unskilled in the arts of war. The back of his neck tensed. Had Guthmann Bloodaxe, a leading Danish jaarl and his sworn enemy, discovered him? He dismissed the notion as pure fancy.
‘Where are your warriors? I will speak with them. Arrange terms,’ he offered.
She gave a contemptuous wave of her hand. ‘I have no need of warriors. See, I conquered your comrades.’
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