One Night with the Viking

by Harper St. George

  ‘Nay.’ His answer was as honest as he could make it. She had married someone else. She had proven that she could move on without him. Was that what he had intended by not telling her to wait for him? Had it been some horrible, twisted test of her loyalty? He honestly didn’t know and the thought sickened him. What sort of monster would use her love for him against her in that way? The knowledge that he didn’t deserve her pounded through his skull. It was as true today as it had ever been.

  She flinched in his arms and was about to pull away, but he caught her and gathered her close before she could. His thumb tipped her chin up so that she had to look at him. ‘But it doesn’t matter.’

  Anger flashed in her eyes again. She was so angry with him that her skin was warm beneath his touch. He deserved her anger and he was willing to accept it if it meant that he could be close to her. Her lips parted, undoubtedly to tell him that it wasn’t enough, and maybe it wasn’t. Instead of letting her talk, he covered her lips with his own and stroked his tongue against hers. She moaned, a soft feminine sound in the back of her throat, but instead of pushing away she kissed him back. His arms went around her, crushing her to his chest. Having her in his arms was so right, he didn’t know how he’d ever walked away from her. He lapped at her mouth, knowing that he’d never get enough of tasting her.

  The click of the opening door was his only warning before Vidar chuckled. ‘So this is how it is?’

  Kadlin pulled away and fled before he could secure his grip on her. Her hair streamed out behind her as she hurried down the passageway to her chamber and disappeared inside, leaving Gunnar with an aching heart and an aching erection. Neither of those left him in a good mood to face his brother. ‘Bad timing, Brother.’ Gunnar turned the ferocity of his gaze on the boy. ‘What are you doing out at this time of night?’

  ‘Same as you.’ Vidar grinned and nodded towards Kadlin’s chamber.

  ‘Ingrid’s only a girl. You should slake your lust with a woman able to prevent consequences.’

  ‘That’s profound, coming from you.’ Vidar laughed, but sobered when he saw the look on Gunnar’s face.

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  Vidar shook his head and pulled the latch closed on the door behind him. ‘Ingrid isn’t the only reason I was out. Oddr, Harald’s eldest boy, returned from visiting Father earlier tonight.’

  Gunnar shrugged and leaned heavily on the table to get to his feet and balance with the bloody stick. ‘I don’t care to hear what the old man has to say.’

  ‘He’s dying. Oddr claims that he isn’t well, that he lies upon his deathbed.’ When Gunnar didn’t reply, the boy pressed him. ‘Aren’t you even concerned?’

  ‘Nay, but you should be. You’ll be the jarl when he’s gone. I’ll be gone once this bloody leg allows me to go.’ The words were easy to say, but difficult to imagine. Where could he go? How could he bring himself to leave Kadlin again?

  ‘What do you mean? You’re next in line.’ Vidar crossed around the hearth, coming to stand before him.

  ‘Ah, you missed his visit. It seems I’m out of favour, along with Eirik. You’re the next one now.’ Gunnar almost felt a pang of sorrow for the genuine look of distress that crossed his brother’s face. He looked so like Eirik, blond and broad, but without the ferocity Eirik carried. Gunnar had been told more than once that he shared that ferocity; their main similarity. Vidar was the youngest brother, so he’d escaped the near-constant pitting of son against son that their father had so enjoyed.

  ‘Nay!’ The boy spat out the word like it had bitten him. ‘I don’t want that. I’ll earn my ship in a few years and travel the world. I can’t be jarl yet.’

  Gunnar envied him the lackadaisical attitude, the freedom to wander and know that his place was secure. Gunnar would have happily given his eyeteeth if he’d been told at Vidar’s age that he’d become jarl. Becoming jarl was the only way he’d known to prove to

  everyone—including himself—that he deserved Kadlin. It had always been about deserving her. Nothing else had mattered. ‘Don’t worry, little brother. I think the old man has a few years left. He wasn’t sickly when I saw him.’ Though he hadn’t looked well.

  When Gunnar moved to go past him, Vidar held out his hand. ‘Wait. There is doubt amongst the men. Without Eirik here they’re not sure who will take over.’

  A smile curved Gunnar’s lips, but it was humourless. ‘The old man isn’t as smart as he thinks. He bet everything on Eirik and now can’t deliver on his vow. That instability is bound to cause dissension. It’ll blow over, but if he really is ill then I think your travelling days might be over.’

  Vidar shook his head. ‘It won’t blow over. Baldr is there.’

  ‘Baldr? Jarl Leif’s man?’

  ‘Aye. Father’s man now, it seems. They say he’s working his way in, that he plans to take over.’

  ‘And how will he do that? Why would he risk Jarl Leif’s favour?’

  Vidar shrugged. ‘Since we’ve been gone, he’s been a second to Father even as he’s worked under Jarl Leif. He could have the support of them both, but the men don’t like him.’

  Kadlin. Her face swam before his vision, followed by the sight of her in Baldr’s arms. Once Baldr became jarl, particularly if it was at the discretion of her father, then there would be nothing standing in his way of having her. He shook his head to clear it and then took a deep breath. ‘Rumours can sometimes just be rumours. They could mean nothing. Go home and see what you can discover. You should have gone home already.’

  ‘Couldn’t. I had to play nursemaid.’

  Gunnar pushed his shoulder as he started back towards his chamber. ‘Nursemaid to Ingrid, perhaps. I don’t need you.’ He grinned and tossed back over his shoulder. ‘Go at first light and stay a few days. Come back and let me know what you find.’

  ‘And whatever will you do to pass the time while I’m away?’ Vidar laughed.

  Gunnar ignored him as he made his way back to his chamber, sparing a glance at the closed door to Kadlin’s chamber. Tonight had gone well...until it hadn’t. Kadlin was afraid and he had to be patient, but that didn’t mean leaving her alone. It appeared that she needed many more reminders of how good they were together.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Harald arrived early the next morning to check the limb he stubbornly insisted on calling a leg. Gunnar had long since given up on it ever being that again, but he allowed the older man his poking and prodding because he seemed to enjoy it. Lying back with his hands folded under his head, Gunnar watched as he unwrapped the bandages, smiling. It was the same every week; Harald would alternately smile and frown as he examined the limb before wrapping it back up again. Only this time, he wasn’t frowning.

  ‘You seem happy, old man. It’s healing?’

  ‘Aye, looking a might better.’

  Gunnar sucked in a breath when he rubbed a bony finger across one of the broken areas on his shin. It hadn’t really hurt, but the phantom pain had almost been as bad as real pain. Harald laughed and moved his fingers over the spot again. There was a raised area where the bone must have fused.

  ‘Another fortnight, maybe a bit more, and these splints can come off.’

  ‘They come off now. I can’t wear them a fortnight more.’

  ‘Nay, Gunnar. The heal is good, but it’s still too fresh. You could fall and break it clean in two again.’

  But Gunnar was already pushing himself up and shaking his head. ‘No more, old man. It’s time I start getting back to myself, as much as I can. Those splints keep me abed too much. They’re too awkward to move around. I can’t wait any longer.’ Not with Kadlin hanging in the balance. She’d seen how good it could be between them. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, he needed her to understand that he was still a man, still a warrior, though he had no idea how that was even possible.


  Harald sighed, but realised that argument would be futile. Raising a hand to urge Gunnar back down, he said, ‘I’ll rewrap the bandages tight. That, at least, will give the limb some stability.’

  Satisfied that his wishes had been heard, Gunnar lowered himself back down to the bed and listened for Kadlin. She’d been in the front room when Harald had come in, but the man had brought over fish so she’d taken them outside to clean. Vidar had already left for home so there was no one else for the task. A knot of anticipation churned in his gut, but he refused to let it run havoc. Tonight they would be alone in the house with no chance of interruption for the first time since he’d been delivered to her door.

  She’d been suspiciously quiet all day, leaving his breakfast at his door rather than face him. Whether she was angry at him still, or simply uncertain of her own thoughts, he didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. Tonight he would confront her again and make her feel everything that was between them, whether she admitted to those feelings or not. It was the only thing that he could give her.

  As Harald wrapped his leg again, they spoke of the gossip Oddr had heard while visiting Jarl Hegard’s hall. It was nothing that Vidar hadn’t told him, but he reassured Harald that Vidar was up to the task of jarl.

  ‘That’s not the feeling amongst the men,’ Harald argued. ‘He’s a boy.’

  ‘He’s not a boy any longer.’

  ‘He’s not a warrior. Warriors won’t follow a man who hasn’t proven himself in battle.’

  ‘Then we should all wish my father long life.’

  ‘That’s not likely, boy.’ For the first time, Harald narrowed his eyes at him in disappointment. ‘He won’t last out the season. You can’t tell me you haven’t spent your life wanting to be jarl. You could step in...take your father’s place.’

  Gunnar grinned. ‘I could try, but I fear that would only hasten my father’s demise. He doesn’t agree with you.’ Even in the unlikely event that he did, his men wouldn’t follow a cripple. Gunnar couldn’t bring himself to say those words aloud.

  Harald nodded and tied off the end of the bandage before rising to his feet. ‘Aye, but I recall a boy with flame hair who was as likely to spit in his father’s face as follow his orders.’

  There had been a time when he’d held on to the hope of earning his father’s approval, but when it had always gone to Eirik, Gunnar had stopped trying. Even then, he hadn’t realised the depths of his father’s hatred for him. Failing to save Eirik had only been the last straw. Earning the jarl’s endorsement wasn’t possible and with his men across the sea fighting the Saxons, Gunnar didn’t have the means to take the position. With a shrug, he sighed and shook his head. ‘That boy is long gone, my friend.’

  The older man stood there for a while staring down at him, before nodding and turning towards the door. ‘That’s a pity’ was his only remark as he shuffled out the door.

  Gunnar watched him go, his leg dragging on the floor with each step. His gaze automatically went to his own leg lying across the bed. Now that the bulky splints were gone, it looked more like a leg with a misshapen knee and a calf. He twisted it slightly, grimacing at the tightness and the persistent ache. Resting his weight on his hands, he moved slowly to the edge of the bed until he sat with his right foot on the floor and then moved his left leg to join it. A smile curved his lips as he accomplished that without a problem. Carrying the heavy splints around had helped his muscles to stay strong, but they couldn’t help his knee, which seemed determined to never bend again.

  Clenching his jaw, he put weight on his heel and tried to force himself to his feet, but the knee still refused to work. With a curse, he grabbed the ever-present sapling and pulled himself up on to his feet. Just like Harald’s, his knee wouldn’t bend, wouldn’t support him like it should. It wasn’t a surprise, just another disappointment. He sighed and moved forward, gratified that he felt much lighter with the splints gone. The small victory would have to be enough.

  Hesitating at the door, he pushed it open and looked down the passageway. The front door of the sod house was open and Harald’s voice drifted through it. Undoubtedly recounting the state of Gunnar’s leg. Silently willing the man to leave, Gunnar made his way down the hall towards the front room. He was impatient to have Kadlin to himself. After last night, he didn’t know how she would feel towards him, but he was eager to look upon her again, to talk to her, to touch her.

  The moment he sat down in the very same chair he’d occupied last night, his thoughts took a different path. The mongrel came in through the open door and trotted over, tucking her muzzle under his hand where it rested on his thigh as she begged to be petted. With a laugh, he obliged her, burying his fingers in her grey-and-black fur. Her tail twitched back and forth in ecstasy. ‘If only your mistress was so easily tamed,’ he mused.

  A movement near the door caught his eye. Thinking to see Kadlin standing there, he smiled and glanced up. But, though Kadlin’s blue eyes stared back at him, it was not her staring at him.

  Avalt studied him with the solemn scrutiny only a very young child was able to manage. The breath left his chest and the skin at the back of his neck prickled and tightened as he stared back at the boy. Though he possessed Kadlin’s eyes, his full head of hair was the same as Gunnar’s, not the light auburn that some of the other men possessed, but a dark red that Gunnar had only seen on one other person besides himself—his mother. When he could finally draw breath, he forced himself to glance down at the dog, drawing air into his lungs and moving his lips to make words come out, but it took a couple of attempts. ‘She’s a friendly mongrel.’

  The boy slowly stepped forward, clearly uncertain of the man petting his dog. Gunnar moved just as cautiously, afraid of frightening him, but wanting him to come closer. ‘Come, show me where she likes to be scratched.’

  Avalt obliged and reached out to scratch her behind her ears. He followed suit, earning a grin from the boy. In the small face he recognised the almond shape of his own eyes and the nose that was a bit too strong for a child so young, but would sit fine and strong on the face of a warrior. He almost smiled, his heart twisting in his chest.

  He had a son. They had a son.

  There was no doubt that the perfect child before him was a product of them both. Kadlin was present there, too, in the shape of his brow and his long lashes. Instinct guided his fingers to rest on the soft baby cheek, earning a smile from Avalt. His skin was so incredibly soft and fine. Gunnar tried to imagine Kadlin round with his child and an ache tightened his throat. Had she been frightened to realise that his seed had taken root? Joyous? Nay, that was too much to expect. What woman would be happy to know that the man who had left her with child was across the world? A stab of guilt so harsh and raw that it was almost painful ran through his body, making him close his eyes to fight it down. He should have been more careful. But when he opened his eyes to see those blue eyes gazing at him curiously, he couldn’t find it in him to be regretful or ashamed. They were always meant to have children. If life had been just, they’d have had many more by now.

  Nothing that had created such a perfect creature could be a mistake. The mistake had been in leaving her to face the consequences on her own. The mistake had been his own actions, not hers. If only she would have sent someone to him, he could have come back and...

  His mind went blank when it came to what would have happened next. Marriage would have been a certainty, but what then? He would have had to leave her to earn their way. Or perhaps her father would have given him a position beneath Baldr. Could he have accepted such a position? Nay, he knew the answer without even thinking about it. Had she not told him because she hadn’t wanted him to give up what he wanted? He’d always demanded so much of her without giving anything in return. She must have chosen marriage so that their son wouldn’t be a bastard. A bastard like his own father. Gunnar despised that she would have to make that choice.


  There had been so many things that he’d done wrong, he didn’t know if he could ever make them up to her. Shaking his head, he focused on the boy.

  ‘My name is Gunnar.’ He kept his voice low, unable to pull his gaze from his face.

  The boy smiled, revealing tiny, perfect teeth before looking down at the wounded leg propped on the hearth. He must have had some idea that it had been Gunnar who had been residing in his home all this time and that he’d been injured. Gunnar searched his memory, trying to determine if the child had seen him in the early days, but those memories were too fogged and clouded with pain and the laced mead for him to be sure. He probably looked different anyway. Before he realised what Avalt meant to do, the boy reached out his chubby hand and patted his injured knee. Gunnar smiled and swallowed the sudden ache in his throat. ‘Aye, I’m the one you’ve been hearing complain about my leg, causing your mother grief. You have my vow that I’ll stop now. She doesn’t deserve any more grief from me.’

  ‘Avalt!’ Kadlin’s voice called from outside. The boy turned, but made no move to leave.

  Panic rose within him, rushing the blood through his veins. Torn between confronting her with the truth and his need for her to tell him about the child herself, he froze. Neither of those could happen right now. ‘Avalt, you should go to your mother,’ he urged just moments before Kadlin stood in the doorway.

  * * *

  Gunnar sitting there with Avalt was not the sight Kadlin had expected to greet her. Gunnar always stayed in his chamber until they left for the river. Always. It was their unspoken agreement that he not intrude on her life with her son. She was angry, perhaps unreasonably, that he had broken that truce; yet even as she acknowledged the anger, she realised that it was so wrapped up in her own guilt for keeping Avalt from him that it was impossible to tell how much of one grew from the other. Gunnar met her gaze across the small space, but it was shielded. Had he guessed that Avalt was his? Of course he had guessed. When his own face stared back at him in miniature form, any man would guess. Wouldn’t he? Was he angry?