Kiss of Temptation: A Deadly Angels Book

by Sandra Hill

  I am not a graybeard. I am only twenty and eight.

  “I get the big one. Think of the bairns I could have with his seed.”

  Bairns? How do they expect to carry babes in their wombs if they have no wombs?

  “The clumsy one is adorable. Did you notice his dimple?”

  What about me? Thork thought, then immediately chastised himself for caring.

  “We’ll draw lots when we get back to the island.”

  Island? Uh-oh!

  Just before he blacked out, totally, Thork realized something important. The men’s voices sounded female. Very female.

  Oh good gods! They were being taken captive. By women!

  The women went a-Viking . . . a different kind of a-Viking . . .

  Medana Elsadottir, best known as the Sea Scourge, had never intended to become a pirate. In fact, when she’d left . . . rather, escaped . . . her home in Rognvald, land of the Danes, ten years ago, she’d never even heard of female pirates.

  And she’d certainly never intended to take other women with her, nor continue to gather recruits to her unlikely hird of sea soldiers. Her followers now numbered an amazing one hundred and ninety-three, including nineteen children ranging from ages one to eight. They lived—women only, except for the six boys—on a hidden, mountainous island named Thrudr, or Strength, appropriately named because that’s exactly what each and every one of them had gained with their independence. Their stronghold was accessible by a narrow landmass that connected a smaller, visible island to the hidden caves in Thrudr, but only when the tide was down once a day.

  “I could scarce recognize you in that disguise, Medana,” Agnis the Weaver said. “ ’Tis much better than the last visit when you pretended to be a leper.”

  They both laughed at the memory. It had taken Medana days to soak off the false pustules made of mud and sand and tree sap.

  On this trip to Hedeby, Medana was dressed as a nun, complete with a simple brown homespun gown and veil over a tightly bound white wimple. The only thing showing that might identify her as the sister of three powerful, greedy Norse chieftains were her thick blond brows, violet eyes, and bruised-looking, overly lush mouth, a trait of men and women alike in the line of Skjold, the legendary first king of all the Danes. But it had been ten years since she was sixteen years old and had last seen her evil siblings; they would scarce recognize the woman she’d become, even without a disguise. “It’s hotter than the depths of Muspell, though. Being a nun in July was not my best idea, but I’ll be back on the ship soon and change into my tunic and braies,” Medana remarked as they sat at a table in Agnis’s small house behind the permanent merchant stall they maintained in the market town. The walls were adorned with the products of Agnis’s gift for colored patterns in the cloth she wove on the large loom in the back corner. The room was perfumed with the sweet scent of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling rafters . . . lavender, verbena, and such.

  “We should make a good profit on all the goods you brought this time,” Agnis remarked as she removed the wooden platters from the table. They’d just finished a simple meal of cold slices of roast venison, hard cheese, manchet bread, and weak wine. On the way to the low chest that held a wooden pail of dishwater, she patted the head of her nine-year-old son, Egil, who was carding wool in the corner.

  Even though Agnis resided here in Hedeby and did in fact weave and sell fine wool cloth, she was also Thrudr’s agent, offering all the products produced or harvested on the rough, mountainous island . . . furs, honey, leather shoes and belts, soapstone pots and candles, wooden bowls and spoons, bone combs and such. A pregnant Agnis had been among the five women with Medana when first she’d fled Stormgard all those years ago. They’d barely survived that first winter. And the next two years hadn’t been very easy, either, as more and more women somehow found their way to their hidden sanctuary. Now, they were independent and self-sufficient, but there were things they needed that they could not grow, catch, or make. Like grains, spices, metal weapons and implements, rope, needles, a bull to serve their milch cows, and vegetables they were unable to grow in their northern region.

  “Your visit is short this time,” Agnis said, topping off Medana’s cup of wine.

  “Yea, a necessity. Our old bull Magnus died, and two of our cows are about to go into heat. We needed to buy a young bull, which I did, and get it back home to do . . . his duty.”

  Agnis laughed. “The things a woman must do!”

  “As for the short visit, believe you me, my women are full of complaints. This is their time for”—she arched her brows meaningfully at Agnis—“you know.”

  “Same as the cows,” Agnis jested, laughing, then glanced toward her son to make sure he wasn’t listening. Egil had put aside his carding tools and was playing with a pet cat.

  “Exactly!”

  “Why are you not out there enjoying yourself?” Agnis asked, waving her hand to indicate the town.

  “That is not my idea of enjoyment,” Medana said, not after the experience that led to her departure from Stormgard. “But I do not begrudge my women their bedsport, even if their time is limited.”

  “Hopefully, some of the man seed will take root,” Agnis said.

  “Pray Frigg it does.” While they did not have men at Thrudr since they were not willing to trust their lives to the brutish actions of the male species, they still yearned for one thing that only men could provide. And that one thing wasn’t just sex. It was children. After any trip a-Viking, or a-trading, there was always at least one woman who found herself breeding. Once, an amazing three got with child on a trip to Kauptang, no doubt due to their extended stay when their longship took on water and had to be dry-docked for repairs.

  Medana and her crew had gone a-pirating on their way to Hedeby, and their plunder had been exceptionally tradeable. That on top of the goods they’d produced at home and brought to market should mean a good year for the women back at Thrudr. No gnawing on roots and moldy bread as they had the first winter in exile when there had been no meat or stored vegetables for the cook fire.

  Medana and Agnis talked long into the evening, dividing the profits of this latest endeavor, discussing plans for the future, and relating news of the people they both knew.

  “Is Gregor still pursuing you?” Medana teased.

  “Always. The man does not give up.” Agnis grinned. ’Twas clear to one and all that Agnis had a fondness for the Russian goldsmith who visited the trading center several times a year.

  “Mayhap you will give in one of these days?” Medana suggested.

  Agnis shrugged. “Mayhap, but then I am enjoying the gifts he brings me.” She lifted the neckline of her gown to show Medana a fine gold chain. “How is Olga doing?”

  “She rules the kitchens like a hardened warrior.” Olga was Agnis’s aunt, who’d come to them two years past when her husband died.

  Agnis shared some stories about her aunt that had them both laughing, but then she turned serious. “Your brother Sigurd was here two sennights ago.” At the look of concern on Medana’s face, Agnis immediately added, “I had Bessie take over the stall for me.” Bessie was the shortened name for Beatrix, a Saxon holder of a nearby pottery shed. “I am certain he did not see me.”

  Medana let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding in. She had reason to fear her brothers, even after all these years and what she had done to thwart their plans, but Agnis also had cause to be wary. Sigurd was Egil’s father. If the child of his loins had been a daughter, Sigurd would not care, but a son, now that would be a different matter. Furthermore, he would be angered at Agnis, a thrall, leaving without his permission.

  It was late when Medana returned to Pirate Lady, the longship anchored at the far end of the wharf. A guardswoman standing at the rail greeted her with a hearty “Who goes there?” It was Elida, Thrudr’s mistress of threads, who was in charge of all sheep shearing, spinning, weaving, and clothes making. Everyone on the island had a title for the numerous jobs needed
for them to subsist: Mistress of hunt, fish, and fowl. Mistress of farming. Mistress of animal care. Mistress of cooking. Mistress of laundry. In fact, there were so many titles these days, it had become a matter of jest, especially when someone had to be called mistress of the privy.

  With a smile, Medana replied, “ ’Tis me. Chieftain-ess Medana.” She smiled even wider at the title, which had been assigned to her as a sign of deference.

  After the first few years on the island, the women felt the need for some order of authority, so they’d modeled themselves on the male-dominated Norse society. High king or chieftain; jarl, which was comparable to an English earl; karl; ceorls; and thralls. Thus, jarl-ess, karl-ess, and ceorl-ess. The five members of Medana’s council were considered jarl-esses. There were no thralls; slavery being forbidden, even for captives. Not that they’d ever taken captives. “Has everyone returned?” Medana asked.

  Elida nodded, but she shifted her eyes hither and yon, never quite meeting Medana’s gaze. She was nervous for some reason. Must be because this was the first time she’d been given such responsibility. A talented weaver, Elida had requested a chance to prove her worth as an archer in Medana’s personal guard. Already Elida’s small hands were calloused and scratched, and, even with practice, the slim woman couldn’t hit a Saxon boar from three paces. It would take sennights for the ointments of her healer, Liv, to restore Elida’s skin to the point where she could once again handle fine wool. Medana doubted that Elida would be going a-Viking again.

  Moving on toward her small quarters, Medana inquired politely of Bergdis, one of her rowers, “Did you find a man to mate with this eve?”

  Bergdis, who was Mistress of buildings and woodworking back home, rolled her wide shoulders—all of the rowers were well-muscled on their upper bodies to handle the hard exercise required to pull oars—before replying, “Yea, I did. But only once. There was no time for more.”

  It must have been an energetic mating because Bergdis’s tunic was lopsided, half on and half off one shoulder, and the two braids that she normally wore to keep her frizzy red hair off her face had come undone. Her thick eyebrows were more grizzly than usual. Pity the man she’d set her eyes on this night.

  That was unkind, Medana immediately chastised herself. Bergdis was a good woman who’d overcome huge tragedy in her former life. She deserved every reward that came her way, especially if it was a child, please gods.

  Medana shrugged. Her crew knew ahead of time that this visit to Hedeby was destined to be short. If they made good speed, they might go a-Viking on the way home, but they must be careful not to visit those places they’d plundered on the way here. Stealth was an important tactic for female pirates, not having the strength and manpower of their male counterparts.

  She noticed that Bergdis seemed nervous, too, rubbing the palms of her hands together. “Is something amiss?” Medana asked.

  “Nay. Why would you ask me that? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Bergdis’s defensive response startled Medana. “It was only a question. I wasn’t accusing you of anything.”

  Just then, there was a pounding noise coming from below in the hold of the longship. Bang, bang, bang! Like a booted foot kicking wood. “What is that?”

  “Must be the bull,” both women said.

  “I hope it does no damage. Mayhap I should go down and make sure the creature is tied securely. I wouldn’t want him hurt. After all, his services are sorely needed. I swear Helga is in as much need of a man as many of you.” Helga was one of their most fertile cows.

  Neither of the women smiled at Medana’s jest.

  Her rudder master, Solveig, stepped up from behind her and said, “Not to worry. I will take care of the matter. You know I have a way with animals.”

  That was the first time Medana had ever heard Solveig had a way with animals, seeing as how she was Mistress of shipwrighting, but Medana was not about to argue the point now.

  Her chief housecarl, Mistress of military, Gudron, a huge warrior of a woman who could heft a heavy broadsword with the best of men, handed her a wooden goblet. “Have a drink of ale to toast our voyage home.” Medana noticed that Gudron had crystals twisted in the blonde war braids that framed her square face. No doubt she’d been man hunting this evening, like many of the others.

  That was nice of Gudron, even if the ale did taste a bit sour. After taking a few sips, Medana handed the cup back to her. She yawned widely then. The two cups of wine, watered down at that, plus these new sips of ale, shouldn’t be affecting her so. “I am off to bed for a few hours’ sleep. We set sail at daybreak.”

  Whether it was the wine and ale or the sway of the ship or just exhaustion, Medana slept soundly and did not awaken until the ship was already under way. Which was odd. Her crew had always waited for her orders before setting sail in the past.

  It was later, when they were already too far out to sea to turn around, that Medana learned what the noisy cargo was that they carried below. And it was no bull.

  About the Author

  SANDRA HILL is a graduate of Penn State and worked for more than ten years as a features writer and education editor for publications in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Writing about serious issues taught her the merits of seeking the lighter side of even the darkest stories.

  Please visit her on the web at

  www.sandrahill.net.

  www.avonromance.com

  www.facebook.com/avonromance

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Praise

  PHENOMENAL PRAISE FOR

  NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  SANDRA HILL

  AND HER NOVELS . . .

  “ . . . wildly inventive and laugh-out-loud fabulous. Once again the talented Sandra Hill proves that a real hero isn’t stopped by any obstacle—not even time. Viking Navy SEALs? Time travel will never be the same!”

  New York Times bestselling author Christina Skye

  “A singular blend of humor and romance, this breezy read will appeal to fans of Viking romances as well as mainstream historicals.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “Fun and fast-paced . . .”

  Barnes and Noble Heart to Heart Reviews

  “Her books are always fresh, romantic, inventive, and hilarious.”

  New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs

  Romances by Sandra Hill

  Kiss of Temptation

  Kiss of Surrender

  Kiss of Pride

  The Norse King’s Daughter

  The Viking Takes a Knight

  Viking in Love

  Hot & Heavy

  Wet & Wild

  A Tale of Two Vikings

  The Very Virile Viking

  The Viking’s Captive ( formerly My Fair Viking)

  The Blue Viking

  Truly, Madly Viking

  The Love Potion

  The Bewitched Viking

  Love Me Tender

  The Last Viking

  Sweeter Savage Love

  Desperado

  Frankly, My Dear

  The Tarnished Lady

  The Outlaw Viking

  The Reluctant Viking

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Excerpt from The Pirate Bride copyright © 2013 by Sandra Hill.

  KISS OF TEMPTATION. Copyright © 2013 by Sandra Hill. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retriev
al system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition April 2013 ISBN: 9780062063878

  Print Edition ISBN 978-0-06-206463-9

  FIRST EDITION

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