DIESEL (Forsaken Riders MC Romance Book 13)

by Samantha Leal

  The men shifted uneasily. Alrek could see the indecision in them—Api had Alrek in a tight place, unable to act. But then Api was behaving with an incredible lack of integrity. Nobody wanted to follow either a weak man or a scheming one.

  Suddenly, the sound of frantic barking filled the air, and all the dogs came running through the settlement, chased by Natalie. Alrek barely had time to register his joy at seeing her unharmed before the dogs chased a red dot right into the crowd, bowling into them. Natalie stopped twenty feet away, clutching a blanket around herself, and pointed at Api. The red dot flickered onto his chest, and every single dog leapt on him, frantically scrabbling to catch the light. Api went down with a shout.

  Natalie pointed at Klintr next, and at her command, the dogs jumped on him, pulling him to the ground. Api cursed loudly, starting to get up, but Alrek’s sword plunged down through his back. He gurgled, spat blood into the ground, and went still. Alrek put a foot on his back and pulled out the sword. He wouldn’t be causing any more trouble.

  The dogs continued to bark, but every human fell silent. Klintr stayed on the ground, dogs walking all over him. Alrek gestured to Banki, who leaned down and picked the man up by the shirt and yanked his arms behind him. While Geirr fetched a rope, Alrek walked over to Natalie.

  “Are you all right?” he asked in a low voice, looking her over. She was trembling and naked but for a wool blanket, but she nodded her head.

  “I am all right,” she said. Alrek sighed with relief and pulled her into a brief but tight hug. With her in his arms, his heart finally started to stop pounding, and Natalie squeezed back, clinging to his chest. He was reassuringly solid in a world where strange men broke down walls and tried to kidnap her.

  “Where is Oddi?” Alrek kept one arm protectively around her even as he looked around. Natalie took a shuddering breath.

  “I put one of his eyes out,” she said, still sickened by it. Alrek looked down at her in surprise.

  “Good job.”

  Natalie shook her head, trying to burrow farther into his arm. Banki approached, his expression grim.

  “Klintr is bound,” he said. “Where is the other one?”

  “Somewhere nearby,” Alrek said. “Natalie put his eye out.”

  Banki snorted. “Impressive. I wouldn’t have expected that.” To Natalie’s amazement, he looked at her with a glimmer of respect. She had to shake her head again. Vikings.

  Alrek turned, pulling Natalie back toward the house. “Come on. You should at least get dressed.”

  The rest of the men still stood around the door, and stayed respectfully silent as they approached. They glanced up at Natalie fearfully, like she was about to attack them instead of clinging naked onto a man’s arm.

  “She has a way with animals,” Geirr murmured. “Those dogs obeyed her command like she raised them from pups.”

  Natalie opened her mouth to protest, but Alrek clapped a hand over it.

  “Yes. She does. Anyone else who plans to break into my house in the middle of the night and kidnap her had better say so now, so I can kill all of you at once. We wouldn’t want to have to set the dogs on you later.”

  There was much shuffling and mumbling as everyone made it very clear that they were extremely happy to have Natalie around. Delighted, in fact. Nobody had any intentions of bothering her, whatsoever. Natalie glared up at Alrek, making a what the hell is wrong with you? face.

  The men began to disperse, and Alrek pulled Natalie into the house. He closed the door behind him, though there wasn’t much point when there was a gaping hole in the wall. Natalie hastily pulled on the red under tunic and started trying to cover the hole with a blanket.

  “More building work,” Alrek sighed. “Just what we needed.”

  “The place needs a real floor, anyway,” Natalie said. “I don’t know how you keep anything clean.”

  Alrek snorted and sat down on the bed. “All right. A real floor and real hearth where you can cook food for yourself. And a bigger bed, while we’re at it.”

  Natalie sat down next to him. “You still sound like I’m going to be here for a while.”

  “Do you intend to leave?” he asked. Natalie looked up at his serious dark eyes and suddenly discovered that she didn’t. She actually wanted to stay here, in this place with this man.

  Parting her lips, she quietly said, “No.”

  Alrek smiled, and leaned down to kiss her.

  Chapter 8

  Weeks later, the long-awaited travelers arrived from the north. The population of the budding village doubled overnight. As Alrek had promised, there was even a few women among them. Somehow or other, all the sordid details of Natalie’s situation and how she had gotten there was known to every other female instantaneously.

  Natalie shied away from them. She could see them whispering amongst themselves. The men had barely accepted her. Hell, they’d wanted to kill her at first. The women probably wouldn’t react much better.

  Instead, one of them cheerfully appeared in Alrek’s door and asked her to bring her washing down to the river with them. Surprised, Natalie agreed.

  The rest of the women were already on the riverbank, rubbing tunics and smocks against wooden washboards and happily chattering. As soon as Natalie appeared, they erupted into eager greetings.

  “I’m Ásta,” one said eagerly, and another introduced herself as Evja and after that, Natalie could hardly understand a word they said. They only ceased when she begged them to slow down.

  “We’ve been told you came from a strange place, and know little of our ways,” Evja said conversationally. Natalie blushed, but nodded her head. “Well, we can teach you. We all need to work together away from home like this, anyway.”

  Everyone else nodded in agreement. “We’ll need all the hands we can get, with all these men,” said another women, whom Natalie thought was named Holma.

  “And you live with Alrek?” Ásta asked. That made Natalie blush an even deeper shade of red, but none of the other women seemed to care.

  One of the women, Randvé, set down her washing and looked straight at her. “Has Alrek spoke of wedding you?”

  Natalie shook her head. “He’s not mentioned it.”

  There was a chorus of disapproving hmms.

  “We’ll have to do something about that,” Randvé said.

  “I have no dowry and no family,” Natalie said, frowning. “I have nothing of value to bring to him.” She didn’t say it, but this had become her biggest worry. If Alrek were to decide to turn her out, there would be nothing she could do.

  “But you have no father to pay the bride price to,” Ásta said slyly. “He’s getting you for free. It’s only fair.”

  “Besides,” Randvé said primly, “Alrek is my brother, and I won’t have him fathering children out of wedlock. He’ll do it if I tell him that I’ll send a message back to mother about what he’s up to.”

  Natalie snorted. “With that hanging over his head, I’m sure he’ll give in.”

  “He will if he knows what’s good for him,” his sister said darkly. The women laughed, and Natalie slowly began to relax. They had welcomed her with open arms, and more kindness than she had ever expected.

  Maybe life here wouldn’t be so bad.

  ***

  Next to a floodlight in Ireland, a golden necklace lay abandoned on the ground next to a dirty cleaning rag. Nobody was to be seen, but if there had been an observer, they would have sworn that the ornament grew fainter and fainter as the sun rose, until there was nothing left but the cloth and an empty pit.

  Loki stood above the excavation, watching all that proceeded but unseen by anyone. He held the necklace carelessly in one hand, pouting. He was so bored. It would be a long time before this cycle ended, bringing about the twilight of the gods, and in the meantime, he had nothing to do. Even his latest attempt at causing chaos had not done much.

  He’d sent that woman back, hoping to cause a panic among the Norsemen and the Gaels, so he could watch them
tear themselves apart in their paranoia. Instead, the dratted woman had foiled the fight before it started. How was he supposed to know she could command the animals?

  Loki tossed the necklace up and down in one hand. He would just have to try again. He’d gone through the trouble of making the dwarves craft this necklace. He’d better get some entertainment from it.

  Suddenly, a wide smile cracked his face. He had an even better idea. Taking the necklace in both hands he snapped it, the golden discs falling into his palms. With a gleeful laugh, he tossed them into the sky. The discs quickly flew out of his sight, destined for corners of the world even he couldn’t predict.

  Folding his hands behind him and whistling happily, he casually went on his way. Nobody knew what would happen next.

  THE END

  Into The Duke’s Arms

  Katie Maddox

  Copyright ©2016 by Katie Maddox. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic of mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter One

  Florida, 2016

  “If I see one more piece of friggin’ lace, I am simply going to hurl. And hurl good.”

  Standing at the center of a lavish Victorian style sitting room, Jasmin Lawrence did have to take a moment and admire her surroundings; her bespectacled gaze perusing the room’s shining wallpaper of scarlet brocade, plush ivory carpeting, and central tables doused in reams of pure white lace and topped by a lavish setting of floral print china. Overseen by the glow of brass chandeliers and the spectacle of a hand painted mural that depicted angels in flight across a gem blue sky, the room did boast a lovely, resplendent décor was meant to promote a certain air of serenity and grace.

  At this moment, however, Jasmin felt about as graceful and serene as….

  Well, something that’s not very graceful or serene at all, she mused in silence with a sigh, rolling her eyes heavenward. I am in no mood to be witty or clever. I just want to clear out of here and grab a Big Mac.

  At this point, however, the only edibles in her future took the form of those Victorian era delicacies that she would not be eating herself, but instead, would be serving to patrons at Chez Victoria, the elegant Florida area tea room where she had sought gainful employment for the past year.

  Each day, she pushed a silver cast food cart that came complete with piping hot scones topped by clotted cream and jam, finger sandwiches, decorative iced fancy cakes, and, of course, tea.

  Lots and lots of tea.

  Didn’t those pesky Victorians ever drink anything else? she queried silently, continuing her tortured but nonetheless cathartic internal monologue before adding, as she winced in acute discomfort, And didn’t they ever lower themselves to the wearing of clothes that were remotely—I don’t know—wearable? Or at least comfortable?

  Again, she did have to admit that her work uniform—a true to life, cream colored reproduction of a classic Victorian gown—absolutely stunned with its fitted, lace-bordered floral print bodice with a matching flowing skirt and puffed, lace-lined sleeves. The soft cotton gown served to flatter and accentuate her rubenesque curves. And when she adorned her long mane of lustrous dark hair with a smooth floral print ribbon, she did indeed feel every inch a prim and proper Victorian lady.

  Cha! Got them fooled! She smirked now, rolling her eyes heavenward. I full well realize that this gown is infinitely preferable to my last work uniform, worn during my college days while toiling away as a head bun dresser at Cal’s Coney Heaven. Sorry, but it seems rather odd to wear a polyester Coney dog costume while one actually serves Coney dogs to perplexed looking customers. It seems almost fatalistic, to a point.

  Yet, no more fatalistic, she presumed, than the everyday wearing of hoop skirts, pantaloons, not to mention those ancient mummification devices known as corsets.

  Sheesh, no wonder those ladies were always ‘swooning,’ she reasoned as she felt her rib cage protract. Again. Who can breathe and function worth a darn while wearing a blasted corset?

  As she continued to use her tortured inner thoughts as a surefire distraction from the painful—or, at the very least, irritable—truth of her everyday life, Jasmin struggled to remember the time when she loved and lost herself in Victorian lore; those blissful teen-aged years when she lost herself in the novels of Jane Austen, also in the numerous filmed adaptations of her timeless books.

  I was bound and determined to marry Mr. Darcy, totally ignoring the three major obstacles standing in our way, she recalled now. Number one: Mr. Darcy is a total and complete fictional character, no joke. Number two: If he was not indeed a total and complete fictional character, he would be long dead by now. Number three: Mr. Darcy is already married. And Elizabeth Bennet is just tough enough to kick my heiny—though, I am certain that, with her velvet tongue, she would come up with a far more proper term for my defeated posterior than ‘heiny’.

  It was, in fact, her great love for Victorian literature that had inspired her to pursue a degree in English literature at Clearview State University, the premiere—okay, so the only—collegiate institution located in her Florida hometown.

  After working her way through school via a food service job, she graduated cum laude and immediately, scored a job—in food service.

  So now I know the true and full meaning of the term ‘literary irony’, she mused, heaving a deep sigh as she wheeled her cart, with sluggish slippered steps, between endless rows of lace afflicted tables. Now instead of asking, ‘Would you like fries with that?’ I ask customers, ‘Would you like clotted cream and chutney with that?’

  Her troubled meditation was disrupted by the sudden entrance of her supervisor; a tall, slender woman with distinguished silver hair and a flowing day dress of pure blue satin, adorned with lace and sleek ruffles.

  Although Jessymyn O’Reilly generally had the tendency to float into a room, she, on this day, seemed to trudge a bit as she dragged a large and rather unwieldy portrait into the main dining room of Chez Victoria.

  “Can I help you with that, Jessymyn?” Jasmin queried, rushing forward to grab up the right edge of the brass bordered frame that enclosed the mysterious portrait; righting the painting as she did to take a closer look at its surface.

  She froze then, and gaped outright, as she beheld the image of the most beautiful man she ever had seen.

  His tall muscular frame was dressed resplendent, in a long jacket of azure jacquard, a white satin shirt with a stately high collar, and tight fitting taupe pantaloons adorned with brass buttons. The subject of this portrait boasted a chiseled face featuring carved cheekbones, a cleft chin, and eyes that shone as bright and azure as the image of the bluest sky.

  This face came framed with a shoulder length mane of thick ebony hair that fell free across muscled shoulders, and came adorned with a soft, subtle upturn of his full moist lips.

  “Who’s the beb?” she asked Jessymyn, all the while never tearing her gaze from the captivating man captured in the frames of the ebullient oil painting.

  Jessymyn let loose with an undignified snort, rolling her eyes heavenward as she considered her most unique turn of phrase.

  “The beb, for your information, is Lord Nathaniel Barrett; the man who originally made his home in this very building—or, at the very least, a reasonable facsimile,” she informed her employee. Adding with a proud smile, “A local historian is writing a book about this area and he interviewed the lovely elderly couple that owns this fine establishment. And, as it turns out, the structure of this tea room is based on the floor plan of a manor house they visited while on a trip to London. They had seen the home of a stately nobleman named Nathaniel Barrett, a widower who lived the gist of his days alone and miserable in his big old house. They thought that it would be a fitting tribute to build a house, much like his, then fill it with laughter, good food, and lots of company
for his lonely spirit.”

  I’d be more than pleased to provide him tons of company for his lonely spirit, Jasmin mused in silence, saying aloud, “Well that sounds like a really nice story, Jessymyn; one that we will have to share with our customers. In the meantime, let me help you hang that portrait—maybe right over the fireplace, where everyone can see it? Me, especially?”

  Soon, Jasmin found herself back at work on the floor at Chez Victoria, rushing from table to table as an endless line of customers made demands on her services.

  “Could we have more tea over here?”

  “Could we have more scones over here?”

  “Could we have more raspberry jam over here?”

  Could I have a life over here? Jasmin felt like barking in kind return—especially at the man who apparently considered it his mission in life to get just a little bit more of that blasted raspberry jam.

  “Coming, Sir.” She smiled through gritted teeth at the balding old man who visited the tearoom at least once a week; and always on the days that she was on shift. Lucky her. And to make things worse, today, he seemed unwilling to await her apparently less than timely arrival at the side of his table.

  “I’m a goin’ to that front counter myself and get my own raspberry jam,” he told his rather depressed looking wife, who looked as though she would rather be anywhere else, with anyone else, at this point in time.

  Swinging his feet out from under his table, he stuck his leg out in front of Jasmin’s food cart, tripping up the cart’s motion and sending several pieces of priceless floral print china flying forward off the crystalline tray that lined its top.

  The server’s eyes flew wide as she lunged forward in an impulsive attempt to catch the flying flatware; her feet leaving the floor as her body soared like a rocket across the surface of the cart.