Harlequin Historical May 2021--Box Set 2 of 2

by Elizabeth Rolls

  He grinned, scooping his bride, his woman, up into his arms, boots and all. ‘I can assure you, that job was already accomplished.’

  * * * * *

  AFTERWORD

  People always ask, ‘Where do you get your ideas?’ Usually I just make something up, because I have literally no idea. But with this story I know exactly where it came from.

  Some time ago I fell down a virtual research rabbit hole and followed the River Fleet upstream to its source on Hampstead Heath in the grounds of Kenwood House, home of the First Earl of Mansfield. With an actual trip to London planned, I added Kenwood to my itinerary and started exploring the house and grounds online.

  Lord Mansfield was a familiar name, but I read the story of his Black illegitimate great-niece, Dido Elizabeth Belle. Fascinated, I started looking for more information.

  I found a fleeting reference to Dido in Hugh Thomas’s The Slave Trade, which has been on my shelves for over fifteen years. Scouring the internet, I found the biography Belle, by Paula Byrne, which accompanied the 2013 film of the same name, starring Gugu Mbatha-Raw in the title role.

  There is little direct information about Dido. She left no diary and she only appears, ghostlike, in various letters—sometimes snidely referenced by those who disapproved of her place in Mansfield’s home.

  Wanting to know more about her world, I looked deeper and found other sources on slavery and the Abolition movement of the late eighteenth century.

  On my trip to London I visited Kenwood House and looked back down the Heath to London and St Paul’s, as Will does in the story. I explored Soho with a friend, learning the streets where Psyché makes her life. I should note that by the time of this story coffee houses were nearly gone from London—The Phoenix Rising was possibly the last of its kind!

  Readers familiar with Dido’s story will realise the enormous debt I owe to her for the inspiration for this book. They will certainly recognise Kenwood House in my story, thinly disguised as Highwood, and notice other elements of Dido’s history that have made their way into Psyché’s tale—not least in the way Lord Staverton uses his will to ensure Psyché’s safety. Those are Lord Mansfield’s words.

  But this is not Dido’s story by any means. That is not a story I feel I have any right to tell. I did bring her portrait home from London in the form of a drink coaster, which I keep on my desk for my water glass—Dido and her cousin, Lady Elizabeth Murray, have been my constant companions in this telling.

  Slowly we are coming to see that London was never quite the homogenous society we imagined and perhaps now we are seeing further beneath the glitter and romance of the Regency period to some of the darkness that underpinned it. I hope that in telling a story that touches on this darkness, the brutal reality of slavery and its influence on society, readers will be encouraged to look further into how history continues to shape and inform our world today.

  WE HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS BOOK FROM

  Your romantic escape to the past.

  Be seduced by the grandeur, drama and sumptuous detail of romances set in long-ago eras!

  6 NEW BOOKS AVAILABLE EVERY MONTH!

  Love Harlequin romance?

  DISCOVER.

  Be the first to find out about promotions, news and exclusive content!

  Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks

  Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks

  Instagram.com/HarlequinBooks

  Pinterest.com/HarlequinBooks

  ReaderService.com

  EXPLORE.

  Sign up for the Harlequin e-newsletter and download a free book from any series at

  TryHarlequin.com

  CONNECT.

  Join our Harlequin community to share your thoughts and connect with other romance readers!

  Facebook.com/groups/HarlequinConnection

  ISBN-13: 9781488071935

  A Marriage of Equals

  Copyright © 2021 by Elizabeth Rolls

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  For questions and comments about the quality of this book, please contact us at CustomerService@Harlequin.com.

  Harlequin Enterprises ULC

  22 Adelaide St. West, 40th Floor

  Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada

  www.Harlequin.com

  “I have never kissed a man before,” Aelfwynn confessed.

  This close to him, she could no longer pretend she did not notice that for all he was huge and hard and terrifying, he was moreover beautiful. His dark hair and dark beard made her blood a shuddering thing inside her.

  And his eyes, so dark and so intent upon her, made her want to cry.

  A different kind of tears, she acknowledged.

  “Permit me,” Thorbrand murmured.

  Aelfwynn was astounded. She could feel his very breath on her lips. She felt torn, deliciously, between the hard heat of his palm at her cheek, the great stone of his chest and the swooning, spinning, glorious heat that seemed to be coming from inside her...

  Slowly, almost carefully, he fit his mouth to hers.

  Author Note

  As I dug into what little is known about Aelfwynn—a real woman and the only daughter of the impressive Lady of the Mercians—I found myself deeply drawn into the conflicting, often competing reports and handed-down stories of her world. Yet from one opaque line about her in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, I found myself captivated by imagining a suitably romantic story line for her once she was “taken into Wessex.”

  As I considered who might make a good hero for her, I grew increasingly fascinated by the different clans of Vikings roaming the British Isles in those early years of the 900s—after the death of King Alfred the Great and long before the Norman Conquest.

  In conceiving of Thorbrand and imagining what might have become of Aelfwynn, I decided he was one of the Irish-Norwegian Vikings who were expelled from Dublin, yet retook it, in the early years of the tenth century. The sources I consulted conflicted regarding almost all details, like the battle at Corbridge my hero participated in (Was it one battle or two? Was it in 914 or 918?) and when, precisely, certain events important to my story took place.

  I had great fun making things up when historical records could not agree, along with using the term Northman to distinguish my band of Norse-Gaels from the Danes who occupied much of what is now England at that time...mostly because I just love that word.

  I hope you love this story as much as I do!

  Kidnapped by the Viking

  Caitlin Crews

  USA TODAY bestselling and RITA® Award–nominated author Caitlin Crews loves writing romance. She teaches her favorite romance novels in creative-writing classes at places like UCLA Extension’s prestigious Writers’ Program, where she finally gets to utilize the MA and PhD in English literature she received from the University of York in England. She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest with her very own hero and too many pets. Visit her at caitlincrews.com.

  Kidnapped by the Viking

  is Caitlin Crews’s debut for

  Harlequin Historical.

  Look out for more books from Caitlin Crews

  coming soon.

  Caitlin Crews also writes for

  Harlequin Presents and Harlequin DARE.

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com.

  For my favorite professor, Mark Amodio, who tau
ght me to love Old English literature long, long ago.

  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

  CHAPTER ONE

  “...she was deprived of all authority and taken into Wessex.”

  —The Life of Aelfwynn,

  Daughter of the only Lady of the Mercians

  as recorded in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle,

  918 AD

  The Northman stood in the middle of the old road like a mountain of stone and dread, a giant blocking the way through the darkening wood.

  At first Aelfwynn thought she was hallucinating him. It had been so many hours of cold, uncomfortable riding from the fortified burh of Tamworth where she had watched her mother, the much-beloved Lady of the Mercians, die six months ago. They had set off before first light, setting a brisk pace despite the season’s wintry fog. Aelfwynn had felt every muddy, frozen, treacherous bump too well this sad day, due in part to the tired old horse that was all her uncle had allotted her for the long, hard journey south into his grand kingdom of Wessex. But her heart was heavy, and that made every ache and pain seem the greater.

  Her mind had danced away from what awaited her in the new, quiet life she would start at Wilton Abbey. Her heart had longed for what she left behind, what she’d lost, what could never be regained.

  And then he had appeared like a nightmare.

  A nightmare Aelfwynn had suffered through many times, both waking and sleeping, thanks to the many battles she had witnessed in her lifetime—or had not witnessed personally—yet was forced to wait in dire apprehension to see who would return and who would not. She was a grandchild of the great King Alfred of Wessex. She had been born of his eldest daughter Aethelflaed and was her royal mother’s only issue. Fighting off the many savages who rose against them in repeated attempts to take their lands and call themselves its rulers had consumed them all for as long as anyone could recall.

  She blamed the relentless scourge of Northmen like this one—or the terrible Danes, or the bloody Norse—for the loss of her mother this past June and her elderly father seven years before. These hostile, warfaring men from the east, their havoc and their raids and their conquests, never truly stopped. Conquer them in the west and they rise again in the east, her mother had always said. Then north, then south. The only constant was bloodshed.

  Always and ever the bloodshed, staining the very earth beneath Aelfwynn’s feet.

  But blame and blood alike did naught to clear her path this evening.

  This Northman was broad and tall, dressed in furs and wool that did nothing to conceal the truth of him. That he was a warrior was obvious in the way he held himself, a silent yet distinct threat. The snow that had been falling bleakly since the frigid midday settled on his wide shoulders, dusting his head and dark beard, but he appeared to notice neither that nor the rearing mounts of the two men of questionable strength her uncle had grudgingly spared for her.

  Instead his gaze, a dark and powerful force, hit Aelfwynn like a blow, making her glad she had the hood of her own cloak to hide her in some small way. Though she knew that no bandit would mistake her for a commoner, even without the men guarding her on this journey. She rode a horse instead of walking, for one. And her clothes were too fine. Her cloak and the headdress beneath, wrapped around her head and neck, were wool—and she only hoped he could not see the finely wrought jeweled pins that held her headdress in place that would as good as shout out who she was to the whole of the kingdom.

  “Stand down!” cried one of her uncle’s men.

  A bit late, to Aelfwynn’s mind.

  The Northman did not yield. He gave as much notice to the order as did the stark trees that lined the road.

  “We travel under the banner of King Edward of Wessex,” cried the other. “Dare you court his displeasure?”

  “And yet I see no king before me,” said the Northman, his voice a low, rough rumble that made Aelfwynn feel almost dizzy, so much so that her skittish old horse began to drift sideways, toward the forest where nothing good lurked.

  Nothing good left anywhere, it seems, she thought with a touch of self-pity that shamed her even as it swelled in her, with a giant in the road. She corrected her mount and strove to cast off her own dark, unworthy thoughts, feeling the warrior’s gaze on her all the while.

  Aelfwynn wanted nothing more than to shout him down, the way her men had tried—if in voices that betrayed the distinct lack of courage that had likely led her uncle to pick them for this distasteful task of very little glory. She wanted to follow up her orders with the dagger she carried, tucked beneath her clothes as she knew the Northman’s own weapons surely were too. But if she’d learned anything in the course of this long, grim year, it was how to hide. If she’d given in to her darker impulses, even once and no matter how good it might have felt, she would not have survived.

  She had been raised in her father’s court, then served as her mother’s foremost companion during the seven years Aethelflaed had ruled after his death. A year ago she had been confident in her place. Her mother had feared nothing, no man and no army. Aethelflaed had taken on the Five Boroughs then held as part of the Danelaw, the agreed-upon territory of the invaders who had ferociously set siege to these lands for more than a hundred years. In the last year the Lady of Mercia had sacked Danish-held Derby, accepted the surrender of Leicester, and had been offered the loyalty of the Christian leaders of York—but had died before she could accept.

  Leaving Aelfwynn to carry on in her stead.

  But Aelfwynn had long since accepted that she was not her mother. She feared too much—and wore that fear too plainly. Men and armies alike, Danes and Northmen and Saxons and all who had swarmed around her, whispering in her ear about what Mercia must do to distinguish itself from its ally to the south—the Kingdom of Wessex, ruled by her uncle Edward, who considered himself less an ally and more the rightful king who had graciously permitted his sister to wield power at his pleasure.

  A favor he did not intend to extend to his niece, particularly when her loyalty could not be as easily assured as that of his sister.

  I could marry you to an ally, he had told her when he’d come to claim Tamworth, laying waste to what remained of Mercian dreams of independence and embodying all of Aelfwynn’s fears. But allies have a terrible habit of turning into foes, do they not?

  Had Aelfwynn listened to those who whispered to her, had she acted on what they’d implored her to do or even spoken forthrightly in his presence as her mother would have done without a second thought, he would have treated her like one of those foes. No one would have blamed him.

  Well did she know this. Her silence—the meekness she wrapped around her like a thick, woolen cloak no matter how she felt within or how the heaviness of it scratched at her skin—had saved her. It was why she was even now headed to live out her days at an abbey when her uncle could far more easily have killed her.

  No one would have blamed him for that, either.

  This is mercy, niece, he had told her when he had rendered his decision, his gaze a glittering thing, not quite malice and yet nothing near affection, either. My gift to you, in memory of my sister.

  Then, as now, Aelfwynn bowed her head when some small part of her longed to follow her fearless mother’s example and fight. Lead armies. Raze cities. Control kingdoms. Strike down her enemies and make them cower before her—but there had been only one Lady of the Mercians. Aelfwynn was all too aware she co
uld only ever be a disappointment in comparison. She had been.

  And not only because what she truly wanted was not these games of war, but peace.

  Thus she did now, as she always had, using what few tools she had at her disposal. She made herself small and seemingly pious, her prayers a pretty melody in her best church Latin against the falling night.

  “I have come for your lady,” the Northman told her uncle’s men, his voice neither pretty nor melodic and yet the effect was much the same. He still didn’t move, as if he truly was hewn from stone. “I have no quarrel with you. Yet rise against me or attempt to stop me here and I will paint the trees with your blood.”

  His voice was so quiet and dark, his prayer a threat, that it made Aelfwynn’s very skin pull tight. A chill ran through her. Yet all she could do was what she had done since her mother died. Keep her head down and hope that once again, the forces she couldn’t possibly fight took pity on her instead. Whatever it took to stay alive.

  The Northman sized up the men who flanked her, as if their weak characters were stamped up their faces. “If you leave now, no one will ever be the wiser.”

  “The lady is for Wilton,” said one of the guards. Though it came out more a question than a statement. “She is bound for the nunnery by order of the king.”

  “These roads are treacherous in winter,” the warrior said quietly. But when Aelfwynn snuck a look at him, his gaze was intense. And trained on her once more. “Bandits and wolves abound, and precious few kings among them. Who can say what tragedies might befall such a delicate creature out here in the dark?”

  Aelfwynn’s breath shortened. She stopped pretending to pray, because her uncle’s men were looking at each other, then back at the Northman, their dread and reluctance all too obvious.