She had fought for her home, but it had been burned down all the same.
Thorbrand had never told anyone what he had witnessed. What he had failed to do that bitter day when the Irish kings had routed his people from the only home many of them had ever known, ordering them to leave Ireland. Or die.
He had told himself he did not look for a home, not when his had been taken from him and turned to ash along with the mother he had not saved. He had told himself that all his years since had been his atonement. For in the wake of that day, Thorbrand had learned to fight—far harder and much better than he had as a boy.
To fight. To win. To put himself on the line again and again.
To do what he had failed to do then, when it had counted the most.
He had long believed that this was what he must do, as penance and proof to the gods. To make up for what he had not done then.
And yet, in these ever-desperate times, he sometimes found himself wondering if there was something more to life than the grim, ceaseless march of so many bloody skirmishes. The cry of battle, the clash of steel. He sometimes dreamed of a home. A true home, not a tent tossed up in another encampment, too near to yet another battleground. A place where he could live instead of fight, battle-weary but free.
Though thinking thus, he knew, was his own great and bitter shame. A man fought until the gods took him, dreaming of Valhalla all the while. A man longed for the honor only found in the fight. And on that dark day, long ago, Thorbrand had pledged that he would never stop fighting as he wished he could have then. Never.
He was not a soft man who dreamed of farms and seasons, the yield of the land and the call of his livestock. Thorbrand had risen from the ashes that day and become a weapon.
It shamed him that he wanted anything more in this bleak life than that.
And still this Saxon lady laughed, as if she had no fear at all. As if she found her own peril amusing.
Very much as his own mother had that hateful day.
“I am pleased I amuse you,” he said to Lady Aelfwynn when her laughter stopped, and he did not heed the strange tightening in his chest at the loss of it. He would add it to the rest of his collection, his shame and reproach. His own personal knarr, not piled high with goods as the merchant ships usually were, but instead laden with his regrets. “That will make our dealings the easier.”
Her golden gaze clung to his. “Then you do not intend to kill me. Is it ransom you are after?”
“Ransom?” He did not laugh, but when his mouth curved her breath came fast enough that he could see the clouds of it upon the air. “I fear you overestimate your worth to your uncle. Had he wished to protect you, would he have sent you on your way in this fashion? Two cowards as some faint enough protection, fat pouches begging for a bandit’s attention, and nothing but your prayers to protect you?”
Though color bloomed in her cheeks, Aelfwynn did not wilt at that, either. “It is not mine to question the decisions my uncle has made. As he is also my king.”
“Then I will question him for you, and gladly. He is not my king.”
She did not so much as flinch when Thorbrand had expected tears. Cowering. And not because she was a woman, for he had been raised on stories of shield maidens and Valkyries. His own mother had taught him courage, then proved hers beyond any doubt. But the tales of the Lady of Mercia’s disappointing daughter had spread wide since June. The Mercian Queen—and it was no matter that technically, she had been no queen but merely the royal wife of an ealdorman, not when she had commanded armies as any true queen might—had been a worthy foe. The daughter, it was said with no little scorn, had done naught but bow her head and retreat into prayer when it was a ruler needed.
All would have been different had she been a son. For one thing, Thorbrand would not have been sent on this errand. He would have been sent to fight, and not like this.
But there were different ways to win wars, as well he knew.
“Am I not to learn my fate, then?” she asked boldly, as if she knew the direction of his thoughts.
“We all learn our fate when it is delivered unto us,” he replied. “And none of your prayers will alter what is to come, lady. It is already decided.”
“Yet somehow I feel certain the decision about my fate lies in your hands,” she replied with that maddening, compelling coolness.
“I will not ransom you to your uncle,” Thorbrand told her. He studied her there, the snow turning her dark, rich cloak white. “Surely you must realize he sent you to your death.”
“I fear I am but a simple woman caught up in the affairs of kings,” she replied after a moment, though the steady way she continued to hold his gaze told him what she said was a lie. She might be any number of things, this Saxon princess, but simple was not among them. “It was my mother who dabbled in the politics of all these warring men. I prefer more gentle arts. I find there is less blood in spinning or needlework.”
He shifted where he stood, his hand on the horse’s neck. He could have moved closer if he chose. He could have put his hand on her and taught her the folly of lying to him. Something in him roared out in a sudden surge of pure need—but he only stood as he was.
Because a wise man did not use a hammer when a feather would do.
“The world is shaped by blood,” he told her bluntly. Much of it his own, the blood he had drawn in turn, and the blood that stained his own hands whether he had drawn it or not. “And your blood marks you a prize to any who might seek it. For as long as you live, there must surely remain doubt that Edward controls Mercia.”
She finally flinched, though quickly did she move to conceal it. And Thorbrand found it did not please him as he’d imagined it would.
You do not want this woman scared, a voice inside him intoned, as if from the gods above. You want her beneath you, joy-filled and bright.
“There is no doubt,” she replied, wariness moving over her face and creeping into the way she held herself stiffer, then. Braced against his words. “I am to take holy vows, prostrating myself before God alone. Leaving these kingdoms to the whims of those who would rule them.”
Did he see the hint of a wistfulness about her then? As if she had wanted such a life? Thorbrand did not see the appeal. What use was there in a life dedicated to a god if it must be spent in unnatural silence, hidden away from the world? That did not strike Thorbrand as any kind of life at all.
But it mattered little in her case, for she was not meant for such vows, holy or not. “You would never have reached your abbey, Aelfwynn. I tell you this as a friend.”
Something flared on her face then. A flash of temper, he thought, and liked it far better than fear. Or wistfulness for a nunnery. He had always longed for fire and ice, storms and high seas. High temper made his blood sing—it was softness he could not abide.
It reminded him of what he’d lost. What he should have saved.
Of the mother who had been willing enough to fight but had also been the only softness he had ever known.
Thorbrand did not care to recall her softness. Better by far to remember her fierceness, flying at the Irish warrior who had come for her as if she were a shield maiden. It was easier to think of her thus.
Though the shame he bore for having lost her, soft or fierce, never eased.
He made as if to scowl at his quarry as if it was her fault when he knew full well it was his. Then reminded himself that he had, a mere moment ago, claimed friendship.
Remember what game it is you play here, he cautioned himself. And better still, whose game it is.
Somehow he kept the scowl from his face.
“A friend? Indeed?” Aelfwynn’s chin lifted slightly. “Yet you are the one who has stopped my passage.”
“I am not the worst thing on this road, I promise you.”
“And me with weak men to protect me. Wolves drawing ever nearer and t
he night closer still. Warriors barring the way. So you have said.”
There was that bright color in her cheeks and a deeper gold in her gaze, making him wonder what other ways he could draw out this passion in her. He had not dreamed that such things would factor in this mission. Or at all. He had long ago forgone passion for duty and had called it the better bargain. But.
But.
Aelfwynn pressed her lips together as if she wanted to say far more. Or as if she knew where his mind—and his flesh—had gone, when surely she could not. “There are no safe roads in any kingdom, I fear. These are treacherous times.”
“But in this case the treachery runs deeper than petty traveling complaints.” It was becoming more and more difficult not to touch her, but better not to bait a trap by tripping it himself. “Did you not think to wonder why your men did not stop at the last village?”
He saw something in her face that suggested she had indeed wondered thus. “We meant to move swiftly. There is much ground to cover and the winter grows colder by the day.”
Thorbrand took that as a reminder that what he did here was not...this. That she was more alluring than he had predicted was a boon, surely. Nothing more. And there was no reason to stand here in the snow while he wrestled with wanting her.
The woman herself. Not what she represented.
Not when he knew he had naught but time ahead to make the wanting sweeter.
No matter who she made him remember.
“Men lie in wait less than an hour’s brisk ride ahead,” Thorbrand told her then, no longer pretending he was anything but what he was. A warrior so feared that his enemies quaked when they looked upon him. “Had I not stopped you here, you would have been set upon by now. You would not have survived the encounter. The only question is how they would have killed you. And how long they would have taken with you before they left you for dead.”
He meant that last part to shock and scare her. But she surprised him again, this delicate princess who he knew had been raised softly in one royal court after the next. Her uncle’s, her father’s, her mother’s. Her own. She had been given servants and a life of ease while all around her battles raged and men died for lands she could have claimed by virtue of her blood alone.
But Aelfwynn did not falter. “There are a great many ways to die. As we will all of us learn, sooner or later.”
“I admire that you can face your uncle’s treachery with so little fear.”
“Is it my uncle’s treachery I face? So you tell me, here in a lonely wood. But I have not seen these men.” Her gaze lit then, nearly too gold to bear. “For all I know, they could be yours to command. Northmen like you.”
Thorbrand found himself grinning that she should use that word like a weapon when it was only one of the names his people had been called for more than a hundred years, or so the skalds sang. Not the Danes. No longer quite Norse. Dubgaill sometimes, Finngaill at other times, depending on who was doing the telling—and thus the naming.
They were called monsters almost always.
And more often than not, to his great pleasure, kings.
So long as she called him her master, as he knew full well she would—and soon—she could call him anything she liked.
He lifted his hand, letting loose the reins of the old nag she rode. He saw her eyes widen, her hands shooting forward—
Then she stopped, as if she expected he might cut them off.
“What is this trick?” she asked. “Do you set me free?”
“If you wish,” he said.
The wind gusted around them, blowing the snow sideways, and he thought he saw her blink back the sheen of emotion that made her gold-bright eyes gleam.
He kept speaking as her gloved hands crept closer to the reins. “Ahead of you, ten men lie in wait. They left Tamworth a day before you. Call them Northmen, if it pleases you. If calling them so makes you easier with what they plan for you.” He nodded in the direction from which she’d come. “Behind you, two men who have proven themselves the rankest of cowards must make certain your uncle thinks they have completed their mission. Do you think they will welcome your approach, should you retreat? And all this, of course, if either they or you live long enough for this undesirable reunion to take place at all. For the wolves are hungry this winter. It makes them bold.”
Her brow furrowed. His grin deepened. “Do you think a woman alone stands a chance against any of these foes, Lady Aelfwynn? If so, ride on. But let me remind you that your mother commanded armies. She did not raise a sword and fight in them.”
Thorbrand waited, keeping his face hard. Stern. It would have been easier if she’d been a weak, sodden thing. She would have wept, he would have told her what to do, and she would have done it, wailing all the way. He would have regarded her as an object of pity, though none would have been forthcoming.
He found he was not prepared for this Aelfwynn.
Her surrender had never been in doubt, but even so he craved a true capitulation. He wanted her to choose him, here and now.
And then over and over again.
“I have no reason to trust a word you have said,” she said after a moment.
But she didn’t attempt to gallop off in one direction or another.
“Can you trust anyone?” He did not shift his gaze, nor his stance. “And even if you could, there are only the two of us here. Will you take your chances with me? Or do you imagine you can fight off men and wolves alike with your prayers?”
And he watched, not without pity, as she pulled in a sharp breath. She looked from side to side, as if the woods themselves could help her. Or as if she had only then noticed how very little light remained, sunk low and indifferent in the sullen winter sky.
He knew well the contours of this kind of waiting. Braced for action. Ready to fight. Yet forced to remain still until the signal came.
But knowing it well failed to make the waiting any the easier.
“I am honored that you have offered me safe passage, sir,” Aelfwynn said when he’d begun to wonder if she would speak again. She swallowed, her gaze still on the trees all around them. Then she looked at him full on, because she truly was a brave little thing, and well did it please him. “I accept.”
Thorbrand felt something swell in him then. A roar of triumph, as if he’d slain a field of enemies—when all he’d done was convince this woman to make a simple choice.
A choice he could have taken from her, and easily, but it was far sweeter to claim her surrender.
Her first surrender, Thorbrand thought with pleasure.
For there would be many more before he was done.
And he would have her beneath him, this he knew.
He moved then, with a show of lethal swiftness that made her gasp.
It was like music to him.
Well did he like it that she might sense the difference between him and those weaklings her uncle had sent to guide her to her death.
He swung up behind her on the old horse, then gathered her against him. It pleased him how she fit with her back pressed to his front, his thighs caging hers, and her bottom pressed snugly into the part of him that ached for her. Her cloak and scarf had slipped and she reached up to pull them back into place, but not before he glimpsed her hair, thick and fair.
Soon, he promised himself, he would wrap that golden hair around his wrist and teach her what she could do on her knees.
These Christians did love their kneeling.
Thorbrand would have her beg for the pleasure they could take in each other. He would have her prayers, those old church words to her jealous god, yet he alone would grant them.
A longing fiercer than any he had ever known roared in him then.
He controlled the confused horse beneath them with one hand, using his other arm to hold Aelfwynn where he wanted her. He could feel her shake, though she held he
rself with the same proud strength that had impressed him when his feet were on the ground. He could feel her chest move as if she was fighting off fear or emotion—but no sob escaped her lips.
No wailing. No bargaining. No begging.
He liked the way her body felt, flush against his. He liked that he could feel the outline of a blade strapped to one of her thighs, suggesting there was yet more to the Mercian’s pious, weakling princess than he’d been led to believe. That could only bode well for what lay ahead of them.
She had not used weapons, yet she had battled with him, fearlessly. Better still, she faced her fear and did not succumb to it. This was good.
If he could ignore the hint of softness that made him wish he could change the past—when too well did he know he could not—all would be well.
He would take her far away to that cold island, those lands of snow and silence. And this was what they would have, these sword-bright exchanges. This was what would light their winters as he waited for Ragnall to call for her—to bring her back to claim her kingdom when Wessex fell.
To use her as a weapon in this endless war.
But first there would be this.
Thorbrand kicked the horse’s side, left the road with the captive he was bound to make his own, and took them deep into the waiting wood.
CHAPTER THREE
Đeah þe earm friond lytel sylle, nim hit to miccles þances.
Though a poor friend may give you little, take it with great thanks.
—from the Disticha Catonis,
translated by Eleanor Parker
The woods swallowed them whole.
Aelfwynn was held tight against the Northman, his mighty arm like a band of stone, holding her fast. There was no give in the powerful body behind her. His chest was a stone fortress. His thighs as hard as rocks.
She trembled and knew that it was fear, even as a part of her melted, too.
For she knew too well what fate must await her.
What she could not understand was why this man had spoken with her as he did, playing games with his words and toying with her, when he could have taken what he wanted at any time. Then left her to die there, violated and alone.
Harlequin Historical May 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 28
