The Warlord's Wife

by Sandra Lake

  “A power neither welcomed nor claimed,” she said, biting. She breathed deep and added softly, “I want nothing from them, not revenge, not pity, nothing. A part of me will always love them, for they are a part of my child. My husband was an honored son among his people. His father may have been wrong to send me away, yet it was out of the madness of grief over the death of his firstborn. I pray that you never understand such pain, Jarl Magnus. It is a powerful force that overtakes a wise man’s sound judgment.” Speaking of her past had rendered Lida breathless.

  “Save your softness and mercy for your servants and slaves. Leniency to those that betray you will only lead to your ruin,” Magnus said.

  “Do you speak of family bonds or trade alliances? They are not one and the same.”

  “I disagree, wife. I warn you of this point but once. Remain loyal and benefit from my protection. My word is as strong as my steel. Betray me and lose my trust forever.”

  He locked eyes with his wife. Neither flinched.

  “Never leave my bed without first giving notice. You are a stranger to me. Until I understand your true nature, you would be wise to not test me as you did this day.” It pleased him that she never looked away. “Lylasku fortress is but a two-day journey from Tronscar. Prove your loyalty and in few years I shall grant your child permission to journey to be received by her kinsmen. Chief Rein has been a trusted ally to my father.”

  Lida stroked the child’s silken hair. In a quiet but firm tone, she said, “I shall never set foot on the red stone of Lylasku Hall again. I would not wish my daughter to either. She has been gently raised and I would not subject her to hearing her mother addressed as a whore.”

  His chest tightened. “My wife would never be addressed in such a way, if the man did not wish to incite war.”

  “’Twould not be a man with whom you would wage war, but a woman. Mistress Helika is very . . . vocal. She would not hold back if she had the opportunity to shame me, nor Katia, I fear.”

  “Mama, I am thirsty. What is a whore? Who is Mistress Helika?” The child pushed herself up to a sitting position. Magnus had forgotten about the little person. She made little noise and took up very little space. Her fair hair whipped around her head in the wind, intriguing him with its untamed appeal.

  “I shall fetch us some water, my love. Wait here.” Lida made her way to the supply crates, thankful for the excuse to escape the nerve-racking conversation.

  On her return, her knees locked. The jarl stood above Katia with a menacing stare, gazing down at her daughter like a bug he was about to crush under his foot. A jolt of protective panic surged through her limbs. His reputation was that of an honored warrior. He would never sink so low as to harm a child, would he? “Here you are, my love.” She passed the cup of water to Katia. “Jarl.” She passed her cup to him. He drank it and handed back the empty cup. He strode away, looking angrier than before. She must use added caution and not upset him further. Who knew what the consequences could be?

  At the opposite end of the ship, she could see the jarl standing shoulder to shoulder with his steward and top commanders. His legs were planted wide apart, arms crossed over his thick leather and steel chest plate, observing her with disdainful eyes. His natural posture and temper, Lida concluded.

  Lida shivered under the bright blue sky, raising the collar of her cloak up higher around her neck, as if it could dull the persistent fear that coiled inside her. She pretended not to be disturbed by the warlord’s scowl and concentrated on playing with her daughter.

  A short while later, Tero approached. “This game looks like a lot of fun. May I play, Katia?”

  “Aye, sir. You may be the mama horse and I will be your colt that has run off.” Her daughter beamed her sweetest smile.

  “Excellent, I always wanted to be a mama horse.” Tero smiled awkwardly, his eyes cast downward. “Pardon me, friherrinna. Your husband requests a private word with you below deck. He wishes to present you with a warmer cloak.”

  “My gratitude, Tero. You may inform the jarl that I am perfectly warm in the one I have.”

  “Friherrinna, I do respectfully suggest you tell him that yourself. He will receive it better from you.”

  “Very well. Katia, stay here with Tero and mind his instructions. Ships can be dangerous and we do not want a mishap when our adventure has only just begun.” She turned her attention to Tero. “Do we?” She glared her instruction at the steward. He nodded.

  A massive warrior with bare arms and a thick leather belt, apparently her husband’s second-in-command, led her down the narrow steps to the hold. She had never seen such a vast hold before. There were sacks upon sacks of fine grains and spices, bundles of fabric stacked from floor to ceiling, and so much diverse and fine merchandise that Lida could barely take it all in.

  “A full accounting of the new domestic goods will be delivered to you when we reach Tronscar.” Jarl Magnus startled her as he come out from behind a towering stockpile. “This mission was primarily for delivery. We return heavy in gold and wine over much else.” He grabbed Lida’s hand, dragging her to the far end of the hold. A curtain of fine fabric had been nailed to the ceiling, excess linen pooling on the floor, creating a private area sectioned off from the rest of the hold. Her unease soared.

  “I would serve you better in the keeping of your household than in selecting from these things,” Lida said. “I have little experience with such finery.” He ignored her words, yanking open a porthole, spilling fresh air and sunlight into the makeshift bedchamber. Without another word he set his attention to removing the side laces of her gown and belt.

  “Kitchens, gardens. I have a good eye for choosing horses, I am told,” she mumbled as the jarl undressed her.

  “Unneeded, wife. Tronscar is abundant with capable servants,” he said, examining the swell of her breast. His heavy belt and sword dropped to the floor. “You know your duty.” Half undressed, he pushed her down onto a bed of furs and followed after, caging her in with his limbs. “I have need of you. Now.” Breathing on her neck, he reached under her shift, testing her readiness between her legs. He kissed her hard, prying her mouth open, demanding entry. To Lida’s shock, her body responded, moistening and swelling against his stirring fingers.

  Her eyes closed and she clawed her fingers into his tunic. A moan spilled from her, her body unable to contain the powerful rush of pleasure.

  The jarl entered her swiftly, locking his hips to her, and rolled onto his back, keeping them connected so that she came astride him. She was still partially clothed, her bunched linen shift covering their place of their joining . . . the place of so much pleasure, which stripped her of self-control.

  He yanked the leather tie from her braid and spread her hair out around her shoulders. With a rough hand, he tore down her thin shift, exposing her breasts.

  A small sigh of excitement, mixed with an edge of wantonness, escaped her lips. Her body was unable to suppress its primitive response to his possessive touch, making her ashamed and disgusted.

  His lips were powerful, matching the other parts of him, and he kissed her with a savage need. Though she had wished not to find pleasure in it, she did. She lost herself in the kiss and the magnificent sensation the rocking of the waves created. Perhaps the suddenness of his touch was to blame, maybe it was his primal intent or, perhaps, it was the undeniable pleasure he had given her the night before. Whatever the reason, she was shamefully open to his demand, losing herself, surrendering to the feeling that built inside of her. Lustful and eager for more, she ground down harder against him.

  The increasing tempo of the pitching sea intensified the pounding pressure of each reconnection. Without warning, she crashed against the shore of her release, faster, harder. Startled, she screamed out her pleasure. Returning to her senses, she found the jarl’s face burned in the valley of her breasts.

  Abandoning her reservations, she rode him w
ithout thought of shame or guilt.

  Chapter 7

  After waking to find his wife missing and enduring the torment of watching her on his ship, Magnus had never spent a day more uncomfortably. He needed to quench his thirst for her and be done with it. Rays of sunlight streamed through the porthole, filtering through his wife’s silk mane. Satisfied at last, he groaned.

  He covered his mouth over hers, capturing her bottom lip between his teeth. Eventually he would get used to her rousing taste, the softness of her delicious mouth, this intoxicating scent of her throat. Tightening his grip around her slim waist, he increased his speed, pumping her up and down. She tossed back her head, thrusting her full, firm breasts forward. He latched on to her nipple, suckling from her deeply. Jerking his hips upward, he locked their pelvises in place and released his seed deep inside of her.

  Time came to a halt, the sea silenced, all that remained in his world was Magnus and his woman. Her warm breath was on his face, panting. Their hearts hammered as one. Nothing else mattered but this moment, this connection, and the need to take her again. Pushing his fingers deeper into her silk mane, he tilted her head back. The muscles in her face softened. Was this look in her eyes surrender? He searched their blue depths for a moment longer, then releaed her, alarmed at what he found.

  Her intent was obvious. She was trying to control him.

  Magnus removed her from his lap, readjusted his clothing and refastening his belt and broadsword. “I would have you lay here longer. I want my seed to have time to take root.” Her face hardened in an instant; the stoic, demur woman returned, and the serene temptress retreated. “When you re-dress, leave your cloak and wear this one.” He held up a white fur cloak with a gold cloak pin that matched his own. “My furrier will alter the length when we reach Tronscar. For now, I want everyone to understand your position.”

  “I do not require a new cloak. My cloak is very warm and the proper length,” she said, her voice soft yet unyielding.

  He raised his voice. “If I command you to wear this cloak, you will without question do so.”

  “No,” she said quietly.

  Magnus blinked, momentarily rendered speechless. Had she said “no” to him? “You will.”

  “’Tis not disobedience nor a betrayal to speak my mind, respectfully.” She did not turn away but stared him coldly in the eyes. “May I rise now?”

  “No.” He tore the curtain aside, leaving her half-naked on his fur, where she belonged.

  Lida swallowed down her bitter disappointment. His passion, his kiss, it all meant nothing. For him, the moment they had shared was about nothing more than making his deposit into her. He felt no real affection for her, nothing more than he would feel for any slave.

  Yet she was not his slave, but his wife. So why did she feel as if she was nothing more to him than his whore?

  How long does he expect me to lie here? She re-dressed and, after what she believed to be a reasonable amount of time, returned above deck to rejoin her daughter.

  Katia started in with the questions immediately. “Mama, who is Mistress Helika? What is a whore? You never said, and Tero said he does not know either.”

  “A whore is . . .” Your mother, for a start. Curse it! This was her punishment for speaking carelessly near her daughter. “You know how Uncle Peter is always pawing after Sissi and grandma swats at him to stop, telling him to go somewhere else and do that?”

  Katia nodded.

  “Well, some men do not have a wife to paw at or kiss or make babes with. So he gives a lady—well she is usually not a lady—though I have seen some ladies act far worse . . . but that’s not the point.” Both her daughter and Tero wrinkled their brows. Lida needed to start over. “Some men give gifts and coin to a woman to let him paw at her and kiss her and not intend to wed her. It is not a wise way of earning a living, my love. Some women have little opportunity and some are forced, but some are sometimes foolish, or brought up poorly. So they think it is easier to let men paw at them, but they should not. It is not a good life for any woman. The word ‘whore’ is nasty and I wish you never to call anyone that, ever. Do you understand?” Lida was fearful that her daughter would not, and then she would have to try and explain again.

  “Oh, now I get it. A whore is someone that kisses boys she is not wed to. In that case, Mama, Aunty Tina is one.”

  “Katia! Do not say such a nasty thing. You misunderstand still. Uncle Svin wed her. He is allowed to kiss her.”

  “But she did not wed Ulla’s brother, Lasse.”

  “What! Oh no.”

  “I was chasing Mada and she ran up the tree on Ulla’s side. I climbed up and I saw Lasse kissing and wrestling with Aunty Tina in the tall grass. It is strange to wrestle and kiss at the same time, Mama.”

  “Yes, my love, very strange.”

  Tero started to snicker.

  Lida let out a long sigh. Poor Svin—wait, not poor Svin. Svin was the reason she was on this forlorn voyage.

  “The jarl’s gift did not please you?” Tero asked, changing the subject. He looked to her brown cloak.

  “My cloak is in excellent repair and very warm,” Lida replied.

  “In Tronscar, the white bear is the symbol of great authority, of your new, elevated position,” Tero said, his tone climbing higher with his brows. “The jarl killed that bear himself in expectation of his new bride.”

  Her daughter twisted her face back and forth, listening to every word.

  “Did he indeed?” Lida smiled for her daughter’s benefit. “How nice for him.”

  “Mama, are you that big man’s bride?” her daughter asked, pointing over Lida’s shoulder. Chastising herself internally, Lida remembered that she had not explained anything to Katia, and her little ears were certain to be pricked by the word “bride.” She’d been more than a little obsessed with the idea of brides ever since Peter brought his wife home.

  “Yes, my sweet,” Lida said, tucking her daughter’s hair behind her ear. “Last night your mama wed Jarl Magnus. He has promised to take extremely good care of us, as long as we have proper manners to him.”

  Her daughter appeared confused. That made two of them. “You are not wed to my father anymore? He is in heaven so you can be a bride two times?”

  “Yes, my love, that is right. It does not change my love for your father or the fact that you are his beautiful daughter. It simply means—well—that now we will make a new family with the jarl. Would you like to have a sister or brother one day?”

  “Oh yes, Mama, please. Can we have a babe just like Layla? She is so pretty, Mama, and her fingers and toes are so small.” Katia wiggled with excitement.

  “I will do my best, I promise you that. Are you hungry? Shall I fetch us some of the biscuits that grandma sent?” Lida’s smiled was torn from her lips when she heard a grunt and turned to see the razor-sharp glare of the jarl, who had been standing inches behind her. How much of that had he just heard? Should she offer him an apology to defuse his anger? No—she had nothing to apologize for. She had said nothing wrong. She had spoken the truth as simply as she could for her child. “Are you hungry, Jarl Magnus? I am about to fetch Katia and myself some refreshment.”

  “Nay.”

  Nay, he did not want refreshment, or nay, she was not permitted to feed her child?

  “Mikko, your friherrinna and the girl want refreshment.” Jarl Magus growled out his words but never looked away from her. How did he even know his servant was standing behind him to hear his command? She was rapidly discovering that he was a very hard man to please.

  With the white fur cloak in his hand, the jarl stared at her brown cloak. “Did your father kill this bear?” Jarl Magnus tugged at her garment.

  Lida’s cloak was as much a part of her identity as her coiled braids. ’Twas not the most beautiful garment, but it was hers, and wearing it brought her comfort and security. On the
other hand, the bold, opulent white fur screamed out for attention and would draw the eye of anyone within a hundred yards.

  “Nay, my father has never killed a bear. He prefers to fish.”

  “It was slain by one of your brothers?”

  Lida swallowed. She knew where he was going with this. “Nay, it was a gift.”

  “From the Lylasku boy?” The jarl’s back shielded Katia from the battle of wills taking place.

  “He was not a boy,” she whispered. “He was a man. A very brave man.” Her heart raced faster as he continued to touch her cloak, a snarl on his lips. She curled her fingers into the lining, balling her hands into fists. The jarl’s hand traveled up the front to her tarnished cloak pin. She glared at him, sucking in a sharp breath. He untied the leather strap. Lida held on.

  In one clean jerk, the jarl ripped the cloak from her grasp. Callously flicking his wrist, he tossed her beloved cloak over the side of the ship.

  Lida lunged. Her foot went to the rail as she began to swing herself over the edge before she lost sight of it under the surface of the water—there was still time to save it. A powerful hand clamped around her, subduing her completely. The air tore from her lungs.

  Her cloak was gone. She could no longer see it floating on the surface in the ship’s wake.

  The crushing reality of her grave mistake in wedding the warlord overwhelmed her instantly. Tears came to her eyes, and she felt that this could not be real. Yesterday, she had worked in her mother’s root garden. Today, she sailed away, most likely never to return to her homeland. This could only be a night terror. Her barbarian slave owner had tossed her cloak into the sea without a thought. What prevented him from tossing her over when she ceased to please him, or grew old and useless to him?

  The heavier, silk-lined, white cloak came down around her shoulders, suffocating her. He tugged her hair out from under the collar, freeing it to lie on top, whipping her face in the wind.

  She had wedded the devil incarnate. What kind of danger had she recklessly put her daughter in? Thoughtless, stupid, selfish cow, learning nothing from—