Strian (Viking Glory Book 4)

by Celeste Barclay

  “You don’t. But you do know I’ll do anything to protect my wife.”

  “Including lie. I think not. I think we shall manage just fine without your help, and now we have a captive worth a hefty ransom.”

  “Is that how capturing Tyra and Bjorn worked out?” Strian’s hushed tones had iron that rang out as more Norsemen congregated around the captives.

  Grímr struck out his fist, aiming at Strian’s face, at the reminder of his failed attempt to kidnap Tyra and Bjorn. Strian grasped his wrist and twisted until Grímr had no choice but to bend backward lest he suffer a broken arm. Strian pulled him close, so only Grímr could hear him. Not even Gressa knew what Strian said.

  “Touch my wife again, even brush against her, and I will offer your arse to every Norseman here. I’ll be sure to find a nice long stick for them to ram up your hole. Don’t fool yourself into thinking any of these men are loyal to you. Not even those remaining from your tribe. Given half a chance, they will turn on you, and you’ll turn up your arse.” Strian released Grímr with a shove. “Now, what would you like to know?”

  Gressa watched the exchange between Strian and Grímr with a mixture of pride and fear fighting to consume her. She had not wanted Strian to speak out against Grímr’s mistreatment toward her, but she also wanted Grímr to know Strian would not stand by and let him take advantage of her. She had not wanted to anger Grímr, but she also wanted Grímr to know he did not have the upper hand no matter how she and Strian came to be in his camp. She needed him to believe they were of more value alive than dead. She desperately wondered what Strian said to Grímr to make the older man go pale and nod when Strian released him. Once more squarely on his feet and with more distance between them, Grímr resumed his pompous stance as the leader of the ragtag band of warriors.

  “Take the man to one of the Norse warriors’ tents. Shackle him if you must. The woman comes with me.” Grímr barked his order and turned to enter his tent, assuming they would follow his commands.

  Several of the men who gathered to observe the exchange between their leader and his captives now stared at Strian and Gressa. Three Norsemen stepped forward to seize Strian, but he snarled. He cocked an eyebrow, daring any of them to take him on. He hoped they had been present when Grímr made an error in judgement and captured Bjorn and Tyra. Bjorn had fought a man while naked and bashed his face in. The man died of a crushed windpipe. Tyra severed one warrior’s manhood from his body with a swipe of her knife. Strian relied on their wariness of meeting the same end as their compatriots. When the men did not reach for him, it reassured him that they had understood his silent warning. He looked down at Gressa who watched the interplay as the Norsemen whispered to one another, casting looks at them.

  “Gressa?” Strian kept his voice low now that they no longer had a language barrier to guard their privacy.

  “Go with them. We don’t have any other choice for now. I will find you when I can.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone with that fiend. Not in his tent, for damn sure.”

  “I saw the look on his face. Whatever you threatened rattled him enough that I saw genuine fear. What did you say?”

  “I warned him that if he touched you, I’d make sure every Norseman here buggered him with a stick.”

  “Strian!” Gressa gasped as her eyes scanned the crowd.

  “Do you think these men would turn down the opportunity? They bound themselves to Hakin, and their fealty passed to Grímr upon their jarl’s death. The others pledged fealty thinking those bastards would reward them with the bounty from pillaging our homestead and Rangvald’s. Look at them. They’re half starved, filthy, and discontent. They only need a little nudge before they turn on him.” Strian leaned over to whisper, “I’m that nudge.”

  “Just be careful. Please. I can’t do this without you.” Strian felt like he was drowning in the depths of her blue eyes as her gaze bore into his. He could read each of the emotions that passed through her mind as though she screamed them aloud. He could do this because he felt each one just as keenly as she did.

  “I will. We have ten years to make up and a lifetime to plan. I’m not wasting our time together now that we’ve found each other. I’ll be with you before nightfall. I promise.”

  Gressa swallowed as she nodded her head.

  “Promise me you’ll be careful, too. I trust you, but I don’t trust him for a second. You know he will try to force you.”

  “I know. I will just use the same excuse that I did the last time.”

  “What was that?”

  “I have the pox.”

  Strian’s eyebrows shot to his hairline.

  “And I got it from Rhys.” Gressa sucked in her lips to hide her grin, but she winked at Strian, nonetheless. “At least that’s what Grímr thinks. Between being disease ridden and belonging to one of the few men who scares Grímr, he did not force me into his bed.”

  “That’s a dangerous game you played.”

  “Rhys believes Dafydd will lose the final payment if he angers Grímr by taking me.”

  “Gressa.” Strian’s voice was a mixture of disbelief, annoyance, and warning.

  “What else was I supposed to do?” Gressa bit out.

  Strian nodded but Gressa saw the skepticism in Strian’s eyes.

  “I know. I’ll be careful. I promise, Strian. I didn’t wait this long to find you to give in to another man’s pressuring. I love you.”

  Strian’s face softened, and Gressa was once more taken by how handsome her husband was. She never forgot and did not take it for granted, but there were some moments where his appearance took her breath away.

  “Keep staring at me like that, and Rhys and Grímr will have no doubt which man you want.”

  Gressa did not bother trying to repress the smile that brightened her face. Strian’s eyes twinkled as he ran his gaze over her body.

  “You’re horrible.” She grinned. “Neither of us should smile at a time like this and you have me thinking about dragging you into the woods and having my way with you.”

  “I’m your humble captive.”

  Neither of them had a chance to say more. Their observers tired of waiting for the couple to finish flirting. The three Norsemen grabbed Strian and dragged him away while a Highland mercenary held back the flap of the tent, signaling Gressa could no longer avoid entering. She gritted her teeth once more and stepped forward.

  Eighteen

  Gressa blinked several times as her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness in the tent after the bright sunlight outside. She sensed Grímr and turned to look at where he sat on a stool, chewing on a rabbit leg, the grease dripping from his chin. The sight made her stomach curdle. Grímr had tried to kiss her on more than one occasion, and she had worn the bruises on her cheek for refusing to yield.

  “Why did you bring your man to me? Do you wish him dead, so you can finally move on?”

  “I told you we want to make our home in Wales. We can’t sail with a ship full of Norsemen. Ivar would never allow it, and Strian wouldn’t be able to convince anyone to disobey Ivar. Our only choice is to travel back with the other Welshmen. The only way to do that was to come here.”

  Grímr once again squinted as though it would give him greater insight into her motives. He licked his lips before wiping them on his sleeve. He swiped his fingers against his tunic before standing. Gressa had never understood how Grímr could stomach being filthy when he could bathe and change his clothes. Every other Norseman she knew valued cleanliness and seized the opportunity to bathe even if it was in a half-frozen fjord. Even the Highlanders and Welsh had learned from their Norse counterparts and bathed frequently. It was only Grímr who seemed to wallow in his own filth.

  Now he was prowling towards her as though she would be his next course. She stood rooted to the ground and did not flinch as he circled her just as a wolf would its prey. She stared straight ahead as though there was something of interest on the opposite side of the tent. Once again, Grímr reached out and squ
eezed her breast, his fingers biting into the tender flesh. Gressa held her breath, waiting for him to release her. He did but not before he squeezed them both. Grímr stepped back and ran his hand over his visible arousal. Gressa knew that while he was an unattractive man now, women once considered him good looking, and he was more than adequately endowed. Had she been interested, she did not doubt that she could have found pleasure with that part of his body. However, looking at the face that belonged to the same body as the large cock was enough to sour any thoughts of enjoyment. Her mouth grew dry and bile rose up her throat when she remembered having to take him into her mouth, his face hovering above her as he gripped her hair and thrust over and over. Gressa reminded herself that it had been to save Strian. She knew she could not trust Grímr’s promises, but if it could even slightly increase the chance that Strian would survive, she would do anything to keep him safe. Dignity be damned.

  “I don’t believe you anymore this time you tell the tale than I did outside.”

  “Then why do you think we have come?”

  “They captured you.”

  “On our way here.”

  “Why would you lure the man you love and were willing to degrade yourself for, into the enemy’s hands?”

  “Because the price of going home is knowledge. Knowledge that Strian has that you want.”

  “Knowledge that I can get from you before or after he’s dead.”

  “Kill him, and you will never see victory. You’ll not even see the next morning.”

  “You make quite a lot of threats for someone with so little power. If you intended to kill me to save Strian, you would have done so before you ever sucked me to release.” Grímr leaned forward, his putrid breath wafting across her face as his hand cupped her sheath. He rubbed as he pressed his fingers against her entrance. Gressa was grateful once more that she preferred her leather pants to any gown. “Perhaps you should offer more now that I have Strian in my camp. He’s much closer to death than he was before.”

  “I am offering more. I’m offering you the chance to learn everything you need to know about Ivar’s forces.”

  Grímr cackled like he had outside the tent. It grated against Gressa’s nerves as their game of cat and mouse drew on. Grímr moved to stand behind her, not letting go of her mound but now grasping her breast while grinding his arousal against her backside. He pinned her against him as he kissed her neck. She held her breath, refusing to smell his stench nor react to his touch. His hold became more aggressive and his hand released her breast to clamp around her throat.

  “You will warm my bed. You will do as I want. And you will fuck me. Or else your husband will die. After he’s watched me defile you in every way imaginable. Then I will give you to my men.”

  “And you will still be none the wiser,” Gressa choked out.

  Grímr’s grip tightened, and Gressa saw stars dance before her eyes, but just as quickly as he began to throttle her, he released her. He pushed her towards his bedroll, but she refused to move. He tried to drag her by wrapping her braid around his fist, but she twisted under his arm and lashed out with her foot to his groin.

  Grímr doubled over but did not release her hair. He pulled her to the ground as he sank to his knees. She pushed her palm up against the underside of his chin until he lost his balance. She scrambled away and caught sight of his sword propped against the table. Had it been Strian’s, she would have had little chance of lifting it let alone wielding it. But while Grímr’s sword was too long for her, but it was not too heavy. It was cumbersome, but she soon found a grip that balanced its weight within her hands. She held it upright as she took her turn circling her prey.

  “You’re too impatient,” she cajoled. “You want your pleasure before your work is done. As the leader of this army, you should be rejoicing that you have not one but two informants willing to trade secrets simply for a ride on someone else’s ship. Come now, you’ve been waging this war against Ivar and Rangvald for several moons with little gained. You have the chance to gain all the information you could want and then some, but that can’t happen if you kill one of your captives and the other wants to murder you in your sleep.”

  Gressa watched him come to his feet, the pain in his bollocks having subsided enough for him to stand.

  “Tell me what you want to know, and I will tell you the answer. If it’s something I don’t know, Strian is bound to.”

  With his sword in her hands, Grímr knew she had outmaneuvered him once more. He had seen her train both with a sword and a bow. He knew she was more than proficient with both weapons. He was more likely to die than recover his sword, so he backed down.

  “I want to know Ivar and Rangvald’s plans. But I doubt you are privy to that.”

  “I haven’t been, but you know who has. I can tell you how many warriors they have, and how much food they have stocked for the approaching winter. I can tell you how many ships they will sail the next time you run, and I can tell you what Sigrid has foreseen.”

  Gressa threw in the last lie just for good measure. Grímr, like his brother Hakin before him, was a superstitious man who believed Sigrid, Leif’s wife and a renowned seer, had the power to change the future. Hakin kidnapped Sigrid hoping her prophecies would empower them and that he could manipulate Sigrid into changing the outcome of the war he ignited with not just one neighboring jarl but two. Grímr was not as open about his reliance on rune readings, but Gressa had heard him discuss them with his sons more than once.

  “Very well.” He raised his hands to his sides and nodded his head. “What great knowledge do you have that will change the tides?”

  “Food is running low with both Ivar and Rangvald’s people living in the homestead. Rangvald cannot spare his ships to return to his land to retrieve supplies, and with the capture of your three spies, Ivar knows that sending out hunting parties would only make them the hunted. The only option is to fish, but Ivar is wary of sending out too many boats in case you set sail. They don’t want you to get away, but you’ve trapped them. Rangvald’s warriors want to return home to their families. They’ve been away for several moons, and there is no way for their families to join them. There’s no safe passage, no room among Ivar’s people, and now not enough food. There are grumblings within his tribe. Ivar is not faring much better. His people are tired of hosting the other tribe. There have been several fights over women, and both jarls are growing impatient.”

  Gressa watched Grímr’s reactions to her news. He tried to keep his face impassive, but she saw each flair of hope and perverse pleasure as she spun her tale of falsehoods. Both tribes were living alongside one another with surprising ease. Ivar and Rangvald spent years cultivating the image that their good relations had fallen apart after Ivar’s trial marriage to Rangvald’s sister Inga resulted in her being returned home. He had refused to repudiate his relationship with Lena who had already been his companion for years, and the woman he insisted he would marry despite his father’s demands otherwise. They allowed the rumors of ill will to grow and even helped spread them while their alliance grew stronger. Their supposed hostility made their neighbors wary of inciting conflict, not wanting to join in with crossed alliances, so they left both tribes alone. Hakin had grievously miscalculated when he attacked not one but both tribes.

  “So, their friendship is ending. Rangvald’s sister’s betrayal wasn’t enough to severe their alliance?”

  “Why would it be? Your wife wronged Rangvald just as much as she did Ivar. She made you a cuckold while she carried on an affair with a man who never wanted her for more than the connection, she provided with Hakin. Inga whored herself to Einar, and they both ended up dead. She even fucked your brother, and the man’s dead now, too.”

  The mention of his dead wife did not phase Grímr. Inga had served her purpose even if it had not been as a faithful wife. She bore Einar’s children whom Grímr claimed. He felt no remorse when any of them died but enjoyed the benefits of having sons to fight for him and carry on his legac
y. His brother was dead, so he no longer had to ignore Hakin bedding his wife. The only inconvenience he had suffered was with Inga’s death went the income he had used to bribe the warriors Hakin hired. Inga’s slave trade had been profitable, and the money earned enticed more than one Highland mercenary to join Hakin’s forces. Grímr had bribed those same men to give their true allegiance to him rather than Hakin. With Hakin dead, no one stood in the way of his claim to Rangvald and Ivar’s homestead once he captured them. However, Inga’s death meant there was no more money to hire warriors. He had used the very last of what had been aboard his ship to wager the deal with Dafydd. Freya and Erik stole the rest of the bounty Inga gained through her trading and piracy ring.

  “Ivar doesn’t hold a grudge against Rangvald for Inga’s part in Eindride’s death, after all, it was Einar who killed his own brother to gain a position closer to Ivar. His killed his own brother to become captain of Ivar’s warriors. Not to mention it was Rangvald who executed Inga for her crimes against her family and her people,” Gressa explained. “Einar killed Eindride believing becoming captain of the warriors would impress Lena and give him more access to the women he truly coveted. He gained nothing since she never saw him as anything but her husband’s vassal.”

  “What of Freya and Erik? Their marriage finally binds Ivar and Rangvald by the blood of the couple’s future children. Not to mention Ivar’s son married Rangvald’s niece. I hear Sigrid is already breeding.”

  “What of those two? They’re worse than rabbits. They’d rather hide away in their chamber than sail on another mission.” Gressa told only a half truth. Freya and Erik disappeared as often as they could, but they were no worse than Tyra and Bjorn, Leif and Sigrid, or herself and Strian. They would all fight when duty called, but they were four couples who had almost lost their soulmate at one time or another.

  “You would have me believe that Ivar and Rangvald’s friendship is dissolving as their people grow weary of living together. Ivar’s own daughter and Rangvald’s son would rather fornicate than fight, and Eindride’s son, your husband Strian, would come fight for the man who helped orchestrate his own father’s death at the hands of his own uncle.”