“He's always been good at explaining hard things,” Bridget said in a soft voice. “Do you think she'll be all right?”
Aidan watched his sister and Bridget's father. “She's been like our mother ever since we lost our parents. A mother would die protecting those she loves, and Cailean is no different. She had no affinity toward Donald, but she loves ye with her whole heart.” He tilted her face in his hand. “As do I.”
“I thought you were dead.” Her voice was a soft whisper and her deep blue eyes searched his gaze. “I thought I'd never be able to tell you how I feel about you.”
He swept the pad of his thumb over her chin. “And how do ye feel about me?”
“I love you.” Her hand lifted to his face and caressed his jaw. He wanted to close his eyes against the bliss of her touch on him, but did not want to lose sight of her face or the affection of her gaze.
“Even before I knew it was Donald who killed Richard, I loved you.” Emotion choked in her voice.
“So ye love me even more now that ye know I'm innocent?” He grinned down at her.
She shook her head and the smile faded from her lips. “Why didn't you tell me it wasn't you?”
He arched a brow at her. “Would ye have listened?”
She smirked.
“Aye. Exactly.” He stroked his fingertip over her generous red lips. “And I dinna know for certain. Ye know battle. I worried mayhap…it might be true. And I was ashamed.”
“But it wasn't you.” She looked to where her father stood with Cailean. “And you didn't fight them.”
“I want peace, too, mo chridhe.” He leaned forward and whispered into the gentle curve of her ear, “I want to spend time with the woman I love and start a family.”
She looked up and gave him a wicked smile. It warmed him from his heart all the way down to his loins. “Then we should start tonight.”
Aidan grinned and pulled her against him. Their mouths met in a hungry, desperate kiss.
There would be children with her and there would be happiness.
Together, with the broken shell of his family and distance of hers, they would all be made whole together once more through the power of their love.
Thank You for Reading
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Books by Madeline Martin
Borderland Ladies Series
Marin’s Promise
Anice’s Bargain
Ella’s Desire
Catriona’s Secret
Leila’s Legacy
Mercenary Maidens Series
Highland Spy
Highland Ruse
Highland Wrath
Highlander Series
Deception of a Highlander
Possession of a Highlander
Enchantment of a Highlander
Highland Passions Series
A Ghostly Tale of Forbidden Love
The Madam’s Highlander
The Highlander’s Untamed Lady
Her Highland Destiny
Novella
Earl of Benton
Mesmerizing the Marquis
Anthology
Dukes by the Dozen
About Madeline Martin
Madeline Martin lives in St. Augustine, Florida with her two daughters (AKA the minions) and a man so amazing, he's been dubbed Mr. Awesome. Madeline has an affinity for cat videos, wine memes, and traveling. When not writing or enjoying family time, Madeline can be found working out (grudgingly, and to support her love of Nutella and wine) or recording/editing a new session of her podcast she does with fellow authors, History, Books and Wine.
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THE ROVER BETRAYED
©Anna Markland 2015
BY ANNA MARKLAND
Cover Art by Steven Novak
COPYRIGHT
The Rover Betrayed by Anna Markland
Book Three, The Viking Roots Romance Saga
© 2015 Anna Markland
www.annamarkland.com
All rights reserved. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
For permissions contact: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
“Of all the agonies of life, that which is most poignant and harrowing is the conviction that we have been deceived where we placed all the trust of love.”
~Lord Edward Bulwer-Lytton
For my grandson, Bradley William
MORE ANNA MARKLAND
The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition (2018-2019)
I Conquest—Ram & Mabelle, Rhodri & Rhonwen
II Defiance—Hugh & Devona, Antoine & Sybilla
III Redemption—Caedmon & Agneta
IV Vengeance—Ronan & Rhoni
V Birthright—Adam & Rosamunda, Denis & Paulina
VI Star-Crossed— Robert & Dorianne, Baudoin & Carys
VII Allegiance—Rhys & Annalise
VIII Crescendo—Izzy & Farah
IX Infidelity—Gallien & Peridotte
The Montbryce Legacy First Edition (2011-2014)
Carried Away—Blythe & Dieter
Sweet Taste of Love—Aidan & Nolana
Wild Viking Princess—Ragna & Reider
Fatal Truths—Alex & Elayne
Sinful Passions—Bronson & Grace; Rodrick & Swan
Series featuring the stories of the Viking ancestors of my Norman families
The Rover Bold—Bryk & Cathryn
The Rover Defiant—Torstein & Sonja
The Rover Betrayed—Magnus & Judith
Novellas
Maknab’s Revenge—Ingram & Ruby
Passion’s Fire—Matthew & Brigandine
Banished—Sigmar & Audra
Hungry Like De Wolfe—Blaise & Anne
Unkissable Knight—Dervenn & Victorine
The Marauder—Santiago & Valentina
Caledonia Chronicles (Scotland)
Book I Pride of the Clan—Rheade & Margaret
Book II Highland Tides—Braden & Charlotte
Book III Highland Dawn—Keith & Aurora
Book IV Roses Among the Heather—Blair & Susanna, Craig & Timothea
The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty (medieval Europe)
Book 1 Loyal Heart—Sophia & Brandt
Book 2 Courageous Heart—Luther & Francesca
Book 3 Faithful Heart—Kon
& Zara
Myth & Mystery
The Taking of Ireland —Sibràn & Aislinn
Clash of the Tartans
Kilty Secrets—Ewan & Shona
Kilted at the Altar—Darroch & Isabel
Kilty Pleasures—Broderick & Kyla
The House of Pendray
Highland Betrayal—Morgan & Hannah (audiobook available)
Kingslayer’s Daughter—Munro & Sarah
Highland Jewel—Garnet & Jewel
Link to Amazon page
DEATH
Montdebryk, Normandie, 939 AD
Magnus Kriger jumped down into the freshly dug grave. The slick red mud sucked at his boots. He supposed he should be grateful the rain had stopped at last, though a damp chill lingered in the spring air. He braced his legs and held out his arms. “I’ll take her, Bendik,” he rasped.
His second cousin went slowly down on one knee and passed the shrouded body into Magnus’s arms. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then stepped back a few paces to join the others. Bendik didn’t need to say anything. Magnus understood his best friend’s grief for him.
“Light as a feather,” was on the tip of his tongue as he cradled his wife against his chest for the last time, but such a remark would be inappropriate. Ida had always been dainty.
He bent to place the body in the bottom of the grave, then eased his muddied arm free. He arranged her legs, appreciative of the care his mother had taken to wrap the corpse. He preferred not to see Ida’s face again. The prominent nose inherited from her father had denied her the chance to ever be considered beautiful. Death in childbirth had stolen away what fairness of face she possessed.
He straightened and stared at the brown muck seeping slowly into the linen. “We were born the same day, you and I,” he said, his throat as dry as the Eastern plains. “But the gods have decreed we won’t die together. I will miss you.”
He swallowed hard. There was an emptiness in his heart, yet claiming he would never recover from Ida’s passing tasted like a lie. They hadn’t known a love as deep as the one his parents shared. Bryk and Cathryn Kriger could still set a room on fire with a simple glance, despite their advancing age. It had been taken for granted since the day of their birth that Magnus and Ida would wed. They got along, but it saddened him they—
A sob threatened to rob him of breath, but he coughed instead. No use yearning for what was lost forever, and the worst was yet to come.
He clenched his jaw and looked up. A grim-faced Bendik knelt on both knees in the wet grass at the edge of the grave, offering a bundle at arms’ length. Magnus accepted it and clutched his son to his chest. “Farewell, little warrior,” he croaked.
His mother sobbed, but she would find solace in her strong Christian faith. She believed the dead child had a place with God in his heaven. Bryk Kriger stood beside his wife, jaw clenched, his raw anger plain. His grandson had been denied the right to earn a warrior’s reward in Valhalla.
“It wasn’t to be,” Magnus whispered to the bundle.
He kissed his son’s forehead. The coarse muslin caught on his chapped lips. The scent of a newborn still clung to the cloth though the costly fabric shrouded a cold, lifeless body.
He nestled the child on top of the woman who’d died bringing him into the world. A world he’d brightened for only a day.
His tearful mother bent to give him Ida’s keys. The metallic clink echoed in the silence as the ring passed from her trembling hand into his. He tucked the symbols of his wife’s rank under his babe’s body.
Bendik’s mother handed him Ida’s glass beads. “I aided in my niece’s delivery,” she said hoarsely, her face wet with tears. “I never thought to be present on the day of her death.”
“Thank you, Aunt Sonja,” he said softly, turning to place the jewelry atop the body before beckoning his eldest daughter. “Come say goodbye, Aleksandra.”
“No,” the child shrieked, sending a chill racing up his spine. “He killed my mother.”
Flocks of squawking songbirds rose in flight from nearby apple trees, leaving only silence in their wake.
He tried and failed to meet the scowling gaze of the six-year-old. How to explain the loss of a mother to a little girl when he barely comprehended the events of the past few days?
She buried her face in her grandmother’s skirts. Magnus nodded his thanks to his mother, then stopped breathing altogether as his grief-stricken father picked up Brynhild, cradling the weeping four year old to his chest.
He looked back at the shrouded bodies of his wife and child. The rain had started again, a light drizzle, but if they didn’t fill the grave soon—
For a brief moment he was tempted to let his trembling legs buckle. He could lie with his loved ones until he too was dead, suffocated by the rich red earth of his native land.
But he had two beautiful daughters and was heir to his father’s title. Vilhelm Longsword, Duke of the Normans, depended on the Kriger family and its army to maintain peace and order in the valley of the Orne, and his father expected him to follow in his footsteps as Comte of Montdebryk.
Their fortress home was a symbol of power and government, a refuge for local folk in times of strife. Magnus was destined to assume his father’s seat on Vilhelm’s Ruling Council of ten Viking noblemen. He and his father and brothers had built a formidable army of mounted knights. Norsemen traditionally fought on foot, but after the battle for Chartres thirty years before, Bryk Kriger quickly realized horses gave an army a decided advantage.
As he climbed out of the grave, it struck Magnus full force that he’d not made much effort to console his daughters. Aleksandra had a right to be angry. He’d been too wrapped up in his own grief.
The priest intoned the necessary Latin prayers. Magnus bent to pick up Aleksandra in one arm, took Brynhild in the other and felt the warmth of their tears on his neck as the heavy clods of earth were shoveled into the hole.
“Freyja, watch over my daughters,” he prayed inwardly to the Norse goddess of fertility. “Protect them from their mother’s fate.”
They watched in silence until the earth was mounded over the grave. Choked with grief for their loss, he set his girls on their feet and his mother shepherded them back to the fortress. The rest drifted away until only Magnus and his father remained.
His sire lay a hand on his shoulder. Bryk Kriger had made no secret of the death of his first wife in Norway before he’d come to Francia. However, Magnus had never heard his father speak openly of his despair then. “Life goes on, my son. I didn’t think I would wed again after Myldryd. She was heavy with my child. But I was wrong. I met your mother, and—”
“I’ll not marry again, Papa,” Magnus replied, filling his lungs with the cool air. “I have my girls, and my memories.”
It sounded pathetic.
His father frowned. “Aleksandra is a courageous child, but a girl cannot be comte. You must sire sons.”
He walked away, too weary to argue.
KEEPING VIGIL
Bruggen, Flandres, Western Francia, 939 AD
A grey dawn was breaking when Judith de Valognes looked up from squinting at her embroidery. Her half-brother slumped in the chair facing hers before the cold hearth, his long legs stretched out. Arnulf looked as exhausted as she felt, but she took comfort in knowing he appreciated her keeping vigil with him.
They’d spoken of many things in an effort to take their minds off what was going on in the lord’s chamber, but talk soon turned to the scheming neighbors who preoccupied him as the leader of Flandres—Louis, King of Francia, Hugh the Great, Duke of Paris, Herbert, Comte of Vermandois, and a host of other Frankish magnates.
“Alliances form but then dissolve in the blink of an eye, leading to outbreaks of violent retaliation,” he complained.
Judith acknowledged it was unusual for a man in a position of power to discuss such matters with a woman. However, she deemed it inappropriate to mention he too thirsted to expand his territories and was deeply embroiled
in the plots and schemes that made life in Flandres uncertain.
She was grateful her father had strengthened the fortifications of her hometown after the rampages of the murderous Vikings who’d sacked the abbeys at Gendt and attacked Bruggen nigh on a century before.
She blurted out her deepest fear. “The barbaric Norsemen who’ve taken control of more and more land to the south terrify me. Those pirates of the Seine are descendants of Vikings.”
Arnulf shrugged, crossing his ankles on the footstool. “I don’t see them as a threat. We’ve been on good terms for ten years. They are aware they depend on the goodwill of the Frankish nobility to survive.”
Still the fear nagged at her. Arnulf had extended his power in the area, seizing the counties of Boulogne and Ternois—too close in her opinion to the Normans. His marriage to Adela, daughter of Herbert of Vermandois, probably didn’t sit well with their neighbors to the south.
Only the county of Ponthieu now stood between Flandres and Normandie, and Arnulf’s eyes narrowed whenever its capital was mentioned—a sure sign he had designs on Montreuil. Sometimes she wished she wasn’t able to read his thoughts, but felt compelled to utter the concerns she’d overheard. “How long before their Duke Vilhelm turns his attention to our homeland? I’m heartily sick of the tales told and retold about his long and apparently famous sword. Even our fellow countrymen utter its name with reverence. I can never pronounce or remember it.”
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