The Northman's Bride (A Sons of the North Romance Book 3)

by Sandra Lake

  Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Hök move about the ship, giving orders for sails to be adjusted and slapping the shoulders of his men as he passed each one, often with a word of greeting or thanks on his lips. The men had friendly smiles on their faces, yet not one of them would be directed at her. She was the enemy to them, and she hadn’t a friend within a hundred miles.

  Turning her face into the wind, she decided the cold would become her friend. Warmth and comfort would not be thought of. Sovia chastised herself not to wallow—it was a help to no one.

  As the ship rounded the next inlet, the sea seemed to calm, mirroring the bright blue cloudless sky, winds crisp but not gusting. It was indeed a fine day to be sailing. See, she told herself, yet another blessing to be grateful for. The freshness of the air contrasted sharply with the dampness she had endured in her prison cell, a second small gift to note. The exhaustion of the last week conspired with the rhythmic lulling sound of the waves, and her eyelids grew heavy. Sovia curled up on her side on the bench, her feet tucked under the coarse wool gown, and promptly drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

  Sovia woke to the soothing sounds of waves rolling lazily over a pebble beach. The sky was no longer bright but painted with a hazy gold, the day slipping into twilight. She’d slept the day away. Her womb suddenly throbbed in a harsh cramp. Delightful. My monthly courses would be so welcome on such a relentlessly uncomfortable voyage. No doubt a sign of God’s compounded judgment against her.

  Stiff and sore, she pushed herself up to sitting and discovered that the hundred men who crewed the vessel had vanished.

  Peeking over the side rail, she found the beach swarming with men. Fifty ships of various lengths, all clearly meant for different purposes, lined the cove. There were wide cargo vessels, sleek and lean longships, and several karves with artful dragon prows, which she suspected were the smaller messenger vessels that would travel ahead of the larger party.

  The men seemed to be working in teams, some building fires, some washing, some sparring, some reclined by a fire with a horn of ale in hand. The inlet was protected from the choppy waves of the North Sea, the shore barren of trees yet abundant with large boulders and a high rocky ridgeline, creating a sense of privacy from the outside world, a good place to wait out vicious storm winds.

  A waterskin and folded wool blanket lay on the bench beside her. The smells of meat roasting over an open fire carried on the cool breeze. Her stomach groaned. She had eaten little over the last month. The strain of not knowing when her father’s plot would unravel had drained her of appetite. She’d lost weight and with it, her natural, curvy form.

  She no longer needed to consume her thoughts with wondering if her figure or her garments were fetching. After all, she was wed, a spoil of war, given to a man who despised her. Her fate lay in his hands. One man’s eyes were all she would need to be concerned with, and that man seemed to hate her no matter her adornments.

  Nothing in this world was more dangerous than a scorned man. Her mind flashed and flicked through the possibilities of the new dangers ahead. Even a man of honor and principle would have a clear conscience exacting his vengeance upon a woman caught lying to his face.

  What was she to expect from her new jailers? Starvation was a real possibility. What she needed most was a plan, to think one step ahead of Hök, if she was ever to see her son again.

  Leif, she sighed silently.

  Clutching her cramping stomach, Sovia peeked over the edge of the ship and considered making a swim for it. The deck creaked. She whipped her head around and the outline of a large man emerged from the shadows on the opposite end of the ship.

  Chapter 8

  Hök Magnusson approached her like a man about to do battle with a dangerous serpent, stepping slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on hers. His blue eyes seemed to drain the last hint of light from the sky, glowing with an inner fire.

  Sovia did not recognize him when she’d first seen him again. He was much altered from the boy she had kissed all those years ago. The fresh spirit of youth had left him, leaving his facial features hardened, scorched from too much wind and sun. His square, strong chin was hidden behind the thick, yellow beard of a man who lived rough, not the smooth-shaven face of the noble son she had danced with so long ago. Had that actually happened? This cold man who now stood before her, had he ever laughed with lighthearted joy, spinning poetic words of everlasting love?

  Hök was wearing leather trousers and a sleeveless tunic, his shoulders on display, thick with corded muscles. Well-earned strength she imagined, from years spent wielding a sword in battle. He was dressed no grander than his men—with the exception of the white bear fur mantle he sometimes wore. Her eyes trailed down to his flat belly, and back up to his bare arms, which held scars, war ink, and a single gold arm bracelet. Savage in appearance from head to toe, Hök moved with a sense of brutal power. The soft golden locks from his boyhood were gone. Now, both sides of his head were shaved down to the scalp, and a thick yellow braid from the patch of hair left on top ran down past his shoulders.

  His shoulders dipped and rolled as he prowled closer toward her, making him even more dangerously attractive.

  “You seem comfortable,” he said coldly. He stopped an inch from her bare toes, which were peeking out from the bottom of her itchy gown.

  She folded her hands across her lap and said nothing. To answer either to the positive or the negative would be a mistake before gauging his intent or temperament.

  “You neither rail against your restraints, nor plead your innocence, but you sleep as a babe in its basket.” Hök crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at her.

  “What can I say, fresh air and lull of the waves are sleep inducing,” Sovia said, arranging her hands as a lady-in-waiting, though dressed like a serf. She craned her head up slightly and broached a cautious smile.

  She was rarely wrong about a man’s intent, and Hök had a palpable virility about him right now. She was the only woman for miles around, not to mention officially his woman. So she felt certain he would now make use of her body and make their marriage official by taking her to bed—to the deck of his now-empty ship. A nervous, fevered anticipation bloomed in her.

  “What I find interesting, Lady Sovia, is that I’ve seen an innocent man gnaw a limb to the bone to free himself from his bondage, while a guilty man”—he arched his brow dramatically high—“sleeps. In his heart he knows he deserves to pay for his crimes, regardless of whether his lying lips profess otherwise.”

  So, Hök really hated her. In that case, she would refrain from fluttering her eyelashes and cut straight to the meat of the situation at hand.

  She tilted her head to the side slightly, squinting in the dwindling light, and said, “Perhaps I have been in a cage for so long that I do not bother to waste my strength and scar my flesh with fruitless skirmishing.”

  “You continue to claim innocence then?” he said.

  “Be so good as to remind me of the charges of which you speak. My entire life I have been accused of one folly or another. I confess, I have lost track.”

  His eyes bored into her with a blue heat that she feared and . . . wanted. Whether in hate or lust, she wanted his eyes on her. The danger of that truth excited her. He had attached himself to her in the king’s hall, sworn to God to protect her, and she believed that he would. His father, Magnus Knutson, was a man to be feared, but only by his enemies. He was not known for senseless slaughter, nor were his sons.

  “The king’s charges,” he growled out through a clenched jaw. “That you bed men who had knowledge of troop movements, giving advantage to our enemies. Hundreds if not thousands of men died because of you.”

  That much hate would be impossible to deflect or answer for. Weeping would never work, nor apologizing, so that left her only with the option of candor.

  “So to be clear, you are of the firm belief that my body is
to blame for all wars or just the last one?”

  His hand shot out quicker than an arrow and grabbed her chin, squeezing it in his palm. “Do you forget how we met, sweet Sovia?” he snarled, barely controlling his temper. He brought their faces closer together. He was about to kiss her, she was sure, but then, nothing. He pulled his face away while still staring at her mouth in anger.

  “All war first originates with deception,” she said, shaken from the unfulfilled yearning he had started in her. She struggled to control her heartbeat, searching his eyes. “I thank you for giving me the credit of so much power, but how is it exactly that one girl can boast of being the mastermind of a long and bloody conflict that started long before her birth? Do you imagine I bedded every man on both sides of the last quarrel to achieve such a feat?”

  “I have heard claims to the effect.”

  “No wonder I am so exhausted. Thank the stars I can even put one foot in front of the other at this point.”

  That much sarcastic candor had been a grave mistake. His nostrils flared and he stepped back away from her. She regretted the loss of his touch and the distance that he had once again put between them. “Be warned, your days of power have come to an end. No Norrland man will touch you. Adjust quickly to your new circumstances.”

  “Power over men? What power? The power to swirl my finger in the Baltic Sea and send all into mindless slaughter? Is this the power I no longer will hold?”

  “You know exactly the power I speak of.”

  She laughed. She truly didn’t mean to at first, but it slipped out. “I’ve always wondered how the storytellers come up with their ridiculous tales of war.” Unable to control her frustration, her hands flew up high in the air. “The ancient texts are written and dreamed up by men, of course.” She knew it unwise to provoke him, yet a part of her didn’t care. He wasn’t ignoring her at the moment, and reckless as she was, she would say near anything to keep him here talking to her.

  She railed on. “Of course Helen of Troy was a whore who sent thousands to their death and toppled a glorious kingdom. Because men are meek little sheep who by nature hate war and have never had a bloodthirsty, lecherous thought in their pretty heads. We women are surely to be blamed for all malevolence that befalls mankind.” She drew a shaky breath. The sheer intensity of his passionate physical presence overtook her self-control, leaving her stripped bare to her true self—the angry, fed-up parts of herself. “The accurate account of war, what led up to it, what happened during it, will never make it into the court record.”

  Hök pointed his finger down at her. “Feign innocence for the king. You and I both know differently. Your father may have pulled the strings but not without a willing instrument.”

  “Pfff. Truly? You actually believe that rot?”

  He was nearly shouting at her now. “Do you still mourn that honorless snake?” He crossed his arms. Heaven help her, he was even more stirring when he was angry.

  Powerless to control her tongue, and enjoying the freedom to speak her mind far too much, her words flew out in rapid succession. “Never! I was liberated for a few hours between his death and our wedding. Those hours were spent in a shocking state of peril, yet it was the first time in my life when I could speak my own words and accept the consequences of those words, whatever they may be.”

  “So you think of me as your captor?”

  “Different jailor, same prison.”

  “We have that to agree upon.” He tossed her a small parcel.

  She unwrapped the cheesecloth and found a hunk of charred meat, bread, and a few crumbles of cheese. She shoved the bread in her mouth, not caring that he witnessed her desperation. He stood over her and watched her for a moment, then turned to leave her alone in the dark.

  “Perhaps before you lay the fate of every man who perished over the last seven years at my feet, you may stop to consider what led up to our fateful first meeting.”

  “Enlighten me.” His sharp, sapphire glare pierced her from over his shoulder.

  “Gladly.” She daintily brushed off the crumbles on her lap, trying to appear bored and not like she was desperate not to be left alone again. “When a tyrant king has run out of foreign enemies because he has signed too many pesky peace treaties, he discovers quickly that he has a grave problem.” She added a little feigned shock to her last few words. “There is nothing more for his people and countrymen to fear, and then the dreaded curse of peace befalls his lands. If he doesn’t act swiftly and stir up some war, his people may begin to question the need for a vulgar, expensive ruler. Heavy taxes, pesky laws—perhaps they question his leadership and begin to remember the old days, when the rival king ruled. There is nothing else for the people to do but tend their fields, doubt their ruler, and grow fat.”

  She tore off another hard piece of bread and chewed, none too ladylike. She’d hooked his attention. Now the challenge was to keep it. “What is the quickest method to unite a restless country behind a tyrant king? War, of course.”

  He had turned full around to face her. By all the stars in heaven, he was distractingly handsome. “You would have King Canute of Sweden as your tyrant, and claim your kinsmen and father were innocent in profiting from the war they started?”

  Deliberately delaying her reply, she took a long drink of water. “I said no such thing. I said tyrant and ruler, which across the known world, for the most part, would qualify as men. Your king, my king, your father, my father. It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  The conversation had spiked her temper more than she realized, and she was more bitter than she should be if she wanted to garner his good opinion. And she needed his good opinion if she ever wanted to see her son again. “Men’s cure for boredom is violence. Men settle arguments through violence. Men start wars that kill thousands. On the other hand, at least once a month in Toraslotte all the women in the kitchen have a tremendous row and you know how we settle it? Sweet cakes and sweet wine.” She shook out the coarse wool blanket and draped it around her shoulders.

  Hök muttered something under his breath, turned away, and shook his head.

  Drat! Along with her hair, she’d lost her touch to keep a man’s attention.

  He strode a few steps, turned back, and pointed at her. “Stay away from my men. Test me on this point and you will feel my wrath.”

  She laid her head down on the bench and curled her feet up under her blanket. “’Tis not wise to issue empty threats, Hök. We both know you would never thrash a woman, even a whore such as me.”

  He stomped back to her, yanked her blanket away, and pointed down at her. “Test me and see the outcome.”

  Sovia forgot how to breathe for a moment, her heart pounding. She had succeeded. She’d roused him to anger and he would surely punish her by ravishing her under the night sky on the deck of his ship and, at last, make her his true wife. She needed their marriage to be consummated, to be official—securing him as her protector, and in so doing, secure Toraslotte, and in so doing protect her son.

  Chapter 9

  “Like I said, no Norrland man will touch you.” Regaining mastery over his temper, he tossed her blanket over her and turned toward the bow.

  He slung his leg over the side of the beached ship and leapt down, landing on the soft pebbles with a comforting crunch.

  On solid land, he had control. Here the temptress’s frustratingly convincing logic could not pickle his brain.

  Kaj sat alone, reclined with his feet warming by the fire, sipping on a deerskin of grain wine. He thrust his hand out, offering a share.

  Hök sank onto dry, smooth stones, accepting the skin without a word. The sun’s heat, locked inside the rocks, radiated its warmth into his back. He stared up at the boundless night sky, the sea of stars that led a path to home. Perhaps somewhere up there, in their vast maze, he could find the answers to life’s most irritating questions.

  His grandmot
her had once told him that the destiny of a man was written in his bones, equally aided and hindered by his soul. Was it his destiny to be forever tormented by that she-devil?

  “There are many kinds of illnesses, my friend,” Kaj said, reaching over him and snatching back the deerskin. “Some illnesses will heal with time, some a healer can remedy with herbs, but a festering of the heart cannot be cured by man. ’Tis why God gave us grain wine.” He chuckled. “Cures everything.”

  Hök spit out a laugh, yanked back the wine, and took a long swig. The liquid burned down his throat and set a welcoming blaze to his gut.

  “What did your little burden say that has lay waste to you this time?” Kaj asked. Kaj had been the only man in his crew to survive the battle of Eknas, before volunteering to be assigned to Hök’s unit, rather than returning to Tronscar to receive a rightful reprieve. His life now seemed to be motivated by his hunger to avenge his fallen brethren.

  Normally Hök had Stål to help hash out his troubles—his twin always knew exactly how Hök would think, and spoke directly to the root of the problem. Saved a lot of time.

  Stål was a better fighter, better leader, better listener, better dancer than Hök. He smiled. He missed his brother. To label the feeling as something so simple as an ache would be like saying a lost limb was equal to a lost fingernail.

  Kaj said, “It is a fact that all women are untrustworthy—it is simply a matter of where on the spectrum your particular female falls.”

  Hök chuckled at the jest. “There would be more pleasure spending the next forty years in the mines than spending another hour next to her.”

  Kaj thrust the grain wine into his hand again and Hök took it.

  “Forty years does seem overlong. Perhaps God will grant you favor and you’ll die of leprosy first,” Kaj said.

  “If God is merciful, Kaj.” They both laughed.

  Hök closed his eyes, surrendering to the heavy pull of the drink, sinking further into the warm stones, and abandoning the splendor of the answerless celestial sky.