Viking King (The MacLomain Series: Viking Ancestors, Book 1)

by Sky Purington

  “If ye dinnae stay with us, ye will find yourself in a verra bad position.” Valan stopped and gave her a pointed look with his obsidian eyes. “And ye dinnae want to do such here, lass.”

  Right, so said the Scotsman who saved her in Viking waters. Forget Toto and Heaven, she’d landed square in Alice’s Wonderland. Megan nodded and followed, deciding it best to keep using training commands when it came to Guardian. “Heel, wolfy girl.”

  Bless her dog, she listened. It was then that Megan truly took in the enormity of her situation. They were walking into a large village vastly different than what existed at home. Good thing she had a passion for Viking history or she’d be clueless. But even then, books didn’t do much justice to what she witnessed.

  A thriving community existed beyond the fortress with endless carts set up where people sold their wares. Megan couldn’t process all that unfolded around her. In every sense of what she’d researched this was a Viking community. Women wore long linen dresses with woolen tunics, much like aprons, and a belt around their waists.

  And the men? Jesus, if this was some sort of a festival it catered to a rugged bunch. More often than not, they were tall, bearded, well-muscled and weatherworn. They wore long woolen shirts, cloth trousers, and sturdy leather boots. Though the colors and styles varied, they mostly wore sleeved jerkins or a three-quarter coat with a belt.

  The air smelled of commerce. Seafood and smoke. Brine and sweat. Baked goods and breads. Altogether, the odor that permeated the air wasn’t all that bad, just busy and different. Back home, if she’d gone into a place this congested it would smell of car exhaust, perfumes, colognes and far more varied foods.

  Valan took her elbow and steered her through the crowd. “This way.”

  Megan was again thankful for all the hours she’d spent training Guardian because her girl never left her side. That said a lot considering all the smells that had to be drawing her in every direction. Many cast an eye at her dog, but none seemed all that fazed. It appeared ‘wolves’ didn’t bother Vikings all that much.

  Or at least not this group.

  If anything, the glances thrown their way were by men checking out Megan. They weren’t discreet in the least with their straight-forward appraisals and obvious approval. Good thing her hair was still tied back or she’d likely draw more attention than she could handle. Valan muttered under his breath and kept her close.

  The crowd grew thicker as they made their way. Megan wasn’t surprised in the least when they arrived at the edge of the crowd and stepped onto one of the docks. Her Viking longship was coming into harbor. At least that’s what she was calling it because…what else would it be to her?

  Damn was it beautiful.

  Most were stopped at the foot of the docks but not Meyla and Valan it seemed…and her. Yet where Meyla continued toward the ship, Valan and Megan only walked out a short ways then stopped. His voice was low. “We go no further, lass.”

  Megan was fine with that. As it was, she’d just been given a front row seat to history. Her mouth fell open a fraction as the ship came into port. Its sail had been lowered and the oarsmen were steering her in. She shook her head, impressed with the smooth docking despite the winds and choppy water. After all, these guys were working without the benefit of modern day engines.

  The docks became busy as men made to tie off the great ship. Megan watched everything with an avid eye. These men were sailors to the bone and moved with a swift efficiency that she more than appreciated.

  When a roar came from the ship, a louder roar echoed all around her. Excitement crackled in the air as three men left the boat and started down the dock. Megan narrowed her eyes as they drew closer.

  Oh hell.

  Tall, muscled, all were too damned good looking no matter the century. But only one gave her an acute case of tunnel vision. The one in the middle. A black fur cloak stretched over his broad shoulders. With a black, leather jerkin and long leather encased legs that led down to heavy boots, he had a confident, easy swagger that ignited hot heat between her thighs.

  A searing burn broke over every inch of her skin and she dug her nails into her palms as he drew closer. Wind-blown, shoulder-length black hair brushed the nape of his strong neck and a light beard did nothing to hide his well-sculpted face. Her body started to tremble when he was only halfway down the dock. Clenching her teeth, Megan breathed deeply through her nose. Her need to smell his skin was so strong she put her hand on Guardian’s head to ground herself.

  When had she ever wanted to smell a man?

  Valan pulled Megan aside as several women were allowed to pass. There was never a more torturous moment than watching the young, beautiful women swarm around him. Like any ‘normal’ red-blooded pirate, sailor, or Viking, who had been out to sea for days would do, all three men linked arms with the women so that they each had one on either side. Megan barely comprehended that the low growl she heard was coming from her own throat until Valan looked at her and shook his head.

  Megan cleared her throat and continued to stare at the man approaching.

  To look away was impossible.

  Suddenly, he stopped. When he did the girls on either arm purred and leaned closer. But it didn’t much matter. It almost seemed that he caught a scent on the wind because he leaned his head back slowly, closed his eyes and inhaled.

  All went silent.

  Megan watched, enthralled by the display. How did one man make so many people go silent in a moment? But somehow she knew deep down inside. A simple man couldn’t.

  But a king could.

  It felt almost like the shock wave she’d felt eighty feet beneath the Atlantic once more hit her when his eyes turned her way. Megan dug her hands further into Guardian’s fur as he untangled from his women and approached. His eyes flickered to Valan then back to her before he stopped.

  Holy mother of any god listening was he gorgeous.

  Skin darkened by the sun, his face was a masterpiece up close. A little over a foot taller than her, his lips curved so well they’d make a woman stare forever. His jaw line was a fraction off from being square and his eyebrows arched slashes. But none of that compared to his eyes.

  They were his everything.

  A light but bright cobalt blue framed by a bizarre circle of dark blue with flecks of silver, they were so unusual that it almost seemed a mirror was behind them. In fact, one nearly got the impression they were looking back at themselves when they looked into this man’s eyes. Megan was tempted to look away from his unusual gaze but knew she couldn’t…that she never would. He’d captained that Viking longship. Desire pounded through her blood so harshly it took years of dealing with powerful men to keep her body tremble-free and eyes locked with his. Because there could be no doubt…

  He was her Viking king.

  “Naðr Véurr,” she whispered.

  And she knew she was right.

  Of course he wasn’t fazed by his name on a stranger’s lips. He’d likely dealt with it before. And unlike most men, he wasn’t put off by her unnatural eye color in the least. Rather, he seemed to spend an overly long moment holding her gaze, so much so that she had to work at keeping a neutral face. No easy task considering the ever increasing burn between her thighs that nearly made her bite her lower lip. One thing was for sure, she’d never had such a strong sexual reaction to a man.

  He smelled of sea and storms, of dark nights and even darker pleasures.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Heck, was her heart going to beat out of her chest?

  Megan worked at breathing evenly as though she was diving and never let go of his gaze. For a split second, she thought he sensed her nervousness. And it seemed she might be right.

  His hand scooped beneath her cloak so fast that she made a small audible sound. Was he going to tear her cloak away? Because based on what she knew of Vikings that might just make sense. Instead, his palm pressed against the delicate flesh of her upper chest and warmth spread through her. Not arousal at first
but…a sense of peace. The pain caused from the difficult swim vanished. And though he’d clearly done something soothing, her heart continued to hammer.

  Then, naturally, arousal flared like wildfire when the tips of his fingers dusted her cleavage before he pulled his hand back. Megan knew that at some point she should have slapped this man’s hands away, but she never did, couldn’t. There was something about his touch that was…unavoidable.

  “She’s with me, father,” Meyla said from behind him.

  Megan pressed her teeth together and swallowed. Then she was right. This was the man who had haunted her for almost a year.

  His eyes never left hers as he responded, his deep voice a rumble that did nothing to help the raging inferno below. “Then she should be with you, Meyla. Not left with a traitor to defend her.”

  So that explained Valan’s less than happy response to Naðr arriving. But wow, what kind of story was behind a Viking king hating a Scotsman but allowing him around his daughter? An interesting one she imagined.

  Naðr’s gaze finally left hers only to travel slowly over her features, lingering on her lips overly long before traveling down her body. Megan felt every slow inch of his perusal as if his hands touched where he looked. And while she’d admit to being on fire because of his proximity and languid visual roaming of her fur covered body, she wasn’t used to being looked at like this without at least an introduction.

  So she held out a hand to shake. “I’m Megan. And you are?”

  The corner of his lips inched up slowly and a surprising glint of mischief lit his eyes. “I’m looking forward to seeing you with less clothing.” Naðr took her hand. His rough thumb swept gently over the clattering pulse beneath the thin skin of the underside of her wrist. Enough to send sparks raging through her veins and shudders through her body. The mischief in his eyes turned to triumph. “Ah, you would like that as well.”

  Arrogance! But had she truly expected anything less? “I’d like you to give your name in return.”

  Naðr pulled his hand away, purposefully running his thumb over her palm and his fingers over the backside of her hand. The intimate gesture was made all that more profound by the way his eyes once more locked on hers. If she didn’t know better, he was challenging her to show no response.

  So Megan gritted her teeth and kept her expression blank. She’d say nothing more until he did. And though she knew the entire shoreline had gone silent and despite her body’s reaction to him, she remained still…waiting.

  Amusement flickered within his azure gaze before he softly murmured, “Why ask a question you already know the answer to.”

  Then he turned away, made a gesture to all and said, “I’ve been too long at sea. Time to drink!”

  The second he walked in the other direction she released a long exhale and willed away body tremors. Damn, he looked as good walking away as he had coming. Megan again eyed his broad shoulders and wished he wasn’t wearing a cloak so she could see his leather-clad backside better. Naðr flung his arms around the shoulders of the two big men waiting for him and walked toward the fortress with a trail of women following.

  Valan shook his head. “Looks like you made an impression.”

  Megan glanced at the Scotsman as she patted Guardian. Meyla had already joined the three Vikings mainly because the blond turned back and threw her over his shoulder. Laughing, Naðr’s daughter pounded him on the back as they vanished into the crowd.

  “So I just met the Viking king,” Meyla said. “Who are the two guys with him?”

  “His brothers.” Valan urged her to follow. “Raknar ‘the hunter’, the uncle with Meyla over his shoulder, is next to become king unless Naðr is killed by someone else. Kol ‘the lucky’ is the youngest brother.”

  “So they all have the last name Véurr?”

  Valan snorted. “Nay, lass. Véurr is just part of the name they call the king. Sigdir is their family title. It means victory bringer.” He shook his head. “‘Tis all bloody different than how we Scots name things.”

  Right. Megan understood a little bit about Viking titles. “So names such as ‘the hunter’ and ‘the lucky’ were earned.” She slanted her eyes at Valan. “So does Naðr Véurr have a nickname?”

  “Aye,” Valan said as though surprised she needed to ask. “The bold.”

  Of course. What else would it be? Valan kept her close as they filtered through the crowd, mainly because far too many big men gawked at her. Though she should probably be concerned, she was far more interested in other things. “No offense but I’m too curious…why does the king call you a traitor though you’re obviously privileged enough to be around his daughter?”

  A little light lit Valan’s eyes and a surprising touch of reverence deepened his voice. “Because Meyla and I intend to be wed.”

  “Oh.” Megan couldn’t help but grin as she thought about the father he had to contend with. “Good luck with that.”

  “Aye,” Valan quipped. “More luck than I likely have.”

  Though astounded by her surroundings as they entered the inner compound, she couldn’t help but say, “Not to be rude but I don’t get how you’re even here.” Not that he couldn’t clearly hold his own with his muscled build and height nearly as tall as the king. “A Scotsman in ninth century Scandinavia, if that’s truly where I am. It makes no sense.”

  His brows rose. “Do ye actually still doubt you’ve traveled back in time?”

  Megan nodded then shook her head. “Honestly, it’s easier for me to pretend otherwise or else I might not be functioning right now.” She sighed and ground her jaw. “Definitely that scary.”

  “Aye.” His voice was surprisingly compassionate. “Keep with whatever thoughts make ye strongest then, lass. Let the rest come as it will.”

  Hundreds of houses fanned out before her as they walked along a road down into the encampment. With long slanted roofs nearly touching the ground, they were exactly as history books depicted. Guardian kept pace alongside, never detouring for a moment. “So if I was to give into this reality and admit I’ve traveled back in time, is it safe to say you did the same?”

  Valan wrapped his arm around her lower back and halfway unsheathed his sword as two men openly gawked at her, their eyes lewd as they passed. “Aye, ‘tis safe to say as much. I traveled here from Scotland. The year was 1254.”

  “Really?”

  “Aye.” He put some distance between them once the threat passed, murmuring under his breath, “Ye’d think if Naðr has an interest in ye he’d see ye escorted safely.”

  Yeah right. “Assuming he had an interest.”

  “Och, he has an interest all right,” Valan muttered. “But he likes to play his games.”

  “Typical man,” she said, not overly concerned with Naðr’s actions.

  “Not all men are like that.” Valan narrowed his eyes on more guys as they passed. “Had a highlander desired ye, ye’d be protected right now. Not walking with a lad he disliked.”

  While she got where Valan was coming from, something told her Naðr’s games were more for show than anything else. If he wanted someone protected, they would be. Most likely by eyes and ears that no one saw. A man like she’d just met on the docks didn’t come into all she saw around her by being less than vigilant.

  “Well, I guess our Viking king isn’t all that worried about me,” Megan said, not entirely above wishing she had a knife in her hand. She’d taken a few self-defense classes. Though she knew most of the men walking past would have her down in an instant, she’d give them a good nick or two first.

  Valan was about to respond when Kol, Naðr’s youngest brother, appeared out of nowhere and strolled alongside her. Though as tall as the king, his expression was far less intense upon greeting. In fact, he acted as though he’d known her for years as he eyed her up and down.

  Megan didn’t know what to make of him as his darker than dark chocolate eyes assessed her with a little bit too much appreciation. He was remarkably handsome but in a differe
nt way than his brother. Where Naðr was fierce with an edge of mock humor, Kol almost seemed to have a charming air about him. When he remained silent, she said, “Can I help you?”

  After a stretch of silence, Valan grumbled, “You’re not your brother. Just speak already.”

  A low chuckle came from his throat before Kol didn’t just speak but wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, lips curving up. “I never could pull off the silent treatment like The Bold.” His merry eyes hid behind thick black lashes as he peered down. “Beiskaldi, you’re beautiful.”

  Valan ground his jaw. “Dinnae call her that, aye?”

  “Call her what?” Kol said a little too innocently as he steered her along.

  Megan stopped short and pulled free from him, eyes narrowed. “Not sure we know each other well enough for your arm to be around me.”

  Kol smirked, clearly enjoying her defiance. “Probably not.” He shrugged. “Sorry.” Then he eyed her up and down again. “But you are beautiful.”

  “She’s bonnie enough.” Valan’s eyes cut to Kol. “And I’d guess if you’re here now ‘tis because your brother wants her watched over and not touched.”

  The Viking made an indiscernible sound and nodded toward what was definitely the main holding. “I’m here not there drinking like I should be.” He started walking. “Come then.”

  Valan gave her a small nod as they continued and Megan realized that no matter where she was now, this Scotsman was an ally. As they trailed Kol, she leaned close and asked softly, “What does beiskaldi mean?”

  He shook his head. “Ye dinnae want to know.”

  But this brought her to another thing she’d been wondering about. “Meyla mentioned that the stone I carried helped me to understand these people. How? And why do words like beiskaldi slip through translation?”