Sent As The Viking’s Bride. Michelle Styles
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breath through clenched teeth. ‘I know my friend better than that. Tell me the truth. Where is Eylir?’
Two bright spots appeared on the woman’s pale cheeks, flooding her face with colour. A strong wind would blow her over. He knew her type. He had encountered enough of them back in the old country when he was growing up. She’d know about court gossip or the ways to recite a saga or how to fix a sweetmeat, but he doubted if she understood the hard back-breaking work life on this rugged western isle required. He was doing her a favour by sending her back.
‘I was given to understand that you required a wife and that I satisfied those requirements. It seemed like the perfect alternative to my life in Kaupang. My husband recently died and we had no other male protectors.’ Her mouth turned down. ‘Someone may have been playing a joke, Gunnar Olafson, but the joke was on me and my sister, not you. I accepted the offer under false pretences. I have left my home and everything I held dear to travel here for a new life. I cannot return with these men. Know that much.’
Her voice was clear and steady and not unpleasant to the ear. Her gaze direct, rather than downcast. The tilt of her chin reminded him of how his mother acted when the world was against her and the silver fire shone again in her eyes.
A tiny voice inside Gunnar questioned why he was watching this woman so closely if he was going to send her on her way. He ignored it. No man or woman dictated what he should do or whom he should marry. He’d earned the right to make his own choice. And this woman wasn’t his choice.
‘My friend acted without thinking things through properly.’ Gunnar roughly shoved the remaining tankard of ale in her general direction and waited for her to refuse it. Fine ladies should be served mead or wine as they turned their noses up at ale, according to his mother’s dictates.
Her fingers brushed his and he was aware of her—the sweep of her neck, the length of her fingers and how her dress hinted at her slender curves, rather than revealing them. He wanted to reveal those curves and explore them more in depth.
Gunnar buried the unexpected feeling down deep. It was merely because he had been busy with the estate, rather than seeking female companionship. Jul was coming and with it, his annual oath-taking at Kolbeinn’s hall. There he was certain to find an instantly forgettable buxom blonde who would attend to his physical needs.
She regarded him from under her lashes with those silver-flecked eyes. ‘What are we to do about this non-authorised promise? Forget that it ever happened?’
Gunnar ran a hand through his hair. Better she went now before he started to hope for the curse’s end. Before he was responsible for another woman’s death.
‘Eylir overstepped. That much is clear. When I spoke of acquiring a bride last Jul, I expected to travel northwards once the hall and the farm were prosperous. Ketil would have understood the necessity of waiting.’ He pronounced the name of the overlord of the Western Isles and Manx with enough lack of reverence for Ragnhild to understand his status.
Ragnhild held out a rune stick. ‘King Harald has issued new decree about men needing to be married in order to hang on to the gifted lands. Eylir acted in your best interests.’
Her tone implied he would be an idiot for acting otherwise. Gunnar clenched his jaw. Harald Fine-Hair had once been a close comrade-in-arms when they’d served in the Byzantine Emperor’s personal guard. He doubted if the King intended to enforce the decree on everyone. The King would use it as he used other decrees, to chivvy those he disagreed with and reward his cronies.
‘Exceptions can be made. They have been in the past. Harald uses such decrees to further his own ends, enforcing where he chooses. Kolbeinn will keep his own counsel about this. I never considered Eylir for being an old woman worrier.’
‘As your friend is in Kaupang, he is better placed than you to judge the mood of the King and his court.’
‘How did your husband die?’
‘A boring story which has little relevance to me standing here in front of you.’
‘We differ on that view. Had he lived, you would not be here. Had he left you with lands, you would have remained on them.’
‘Neither of us can rewrite history.’
Gunnar frowned. ‘You must think me naïve to take everything on trust. How do I even know Eylir sent you?’
She shoved the rune stick towards him again with an overly bright smile. ‘Read the runes. I can tell you what any of the unfamiliar marks means, if you like.’
Gunnar gritted his teeth. What secrets had Eylir confided? The last thing he wanted was to be laughed at by this woman because of his trouble with reading runes, because he was more skilled at the sword and axe than at learning and frippery. ‘They are clear enough.’
‘Your eyes remain sceptical. Do you require more proof? Captain, come here and inform this man who paid my passage and why.’ She gestured towards the captain who hurried up and confirmed the woman’s story. Eylir the Black had paid for the passage for this woman. One way for the bride of Gunnar Olafson, extra because of the time of year. The woman had paid for her sister, but it had been barely enough because everyone knew women with eyes like that offended the sea gods.
Gunnar caught his top lip between his teeth. The fool should trust his skill, rather than seeking to sacrifice the innocent when the first squall blew up.
The boatman gave a shout about the shifting tide and the need to be away from the rocks sharpish. He wanted to know where he should put the trunk. Ragnhild shouted to hold on, that the tide would wait a while longer.
‘Your friend said that you were a fair man. I have travelled far and staked a great deal on this marriage which now turns out to be a false promise.’ She took a step forward and her eyes blazed a deep silver, making her pale face come alive.
He screwed his eyes tightly shut. A fair man. He pictured Eylir saying that with one of his careless laughs, the sort that made the unwary relax.
‘Where will you go? Will you return to your family in Viken?’
‘For a price, I am sure the captain will take me somewhere.’ She glared at him with her silver-blue eyes and he fancied fear underneath the bravado.
‘For a great price.’ The captain smacked his lips. Behind him, the crew sniggered. In his gut, Gunnar knew neither woman would reach another shore.
‘Wait.’ Gunnar put a hand on her trembling arm. Something stirred deep inside of him. He was aware of her, the way her chest rose and fell and how the ends of her flyaway tendrils curled about her forehead. All Ragnhild Thorendottar had done was behave like his mother might have done after his father’s death, if the option had been open to her.
‘Why wait? The tide shifts.’ She gave his hand a pointed look and he slowly released her. ‘You’ve already decided. I regret troubling you or in any way causing you embarrassment. I must accept my fate.’
‘Eylir sent you to me. I have an obligation to ensure your safety, but I will choose my own bride. You remain here.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Why are you willing to do this?’ she whispered. ‘My sister and I are strangers.’
‘I would hate for your shades to haunt me. That boat appears barely seaworthy,’ he said, opting for a half-truth.
Her bitter laugh rang out. ‘My shade would be haunting others first.’
‘The least I can do after you have travelled all this way.’ Gunnar took a deep breath. He was providing shelter, not allowing this woman and girl into his life.
She held out her hand. ‘I accept as a guest, not a bride.’
A hard, soaking rain lashed down and the pale light from the sky made the looming