A Deal With Her Rebel Viking. Michelle Styles
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father. This was his chance to prove he could be better than a man whose main priority was to save his own misbegotten skin.
There had to be a way of convincing Lady Ansithe not to send word to Guthmann in the morning. Once he’d done that, then he’d stall things as best he could until everyone had recovered. He was not going to be his father and desert his injured men in their hour of need. They all escaped together. And he would ensure they all arrived back safely.
‘My father will have me rot. This was my final chance, Moir. I made a mess of it, listening to the wrong people,’ Bjartr whispered, interrupting Moir’s thoughts about when and how they could escape. He relaxed his hold on the bead. ‘I would be better dead than facing my future.’
‘Concentrate on breathing,’ Moir said, rather than explaining that if they fell into Guthmann’s clutches, he would in reality be better dead. ‘Leave me to solve the other problems. I made a promise to your father, Bjartr. I intend to return you safely to him, even if you seem intent on throwing your life away.’
Bjartr’s response was a barely audible moan.
Moir stood up and tried to stretch the aching muscles in his legs. Why was it that the aches and pains were far worse after a defeat than a victory?
‘I could romance Lady Ansithe,’ Bjartr said suddenly into the stillness. ‘Women melt when I speak to them. You must have seen them. Last Jul?’
‘Hey, Moir,’ Palni whispered. ‘Perhaps the boy is on to something. Perhaps I should try romancing the Valkyrie. She is the sort to stir the blood.’
‘Would that you both looked in a still pond right now,’ Moir said with a laugh, but his gut twisted. Neither of them would be romancing Lady Ansithe. He had the first claim on her. The ferocity of the thought surprised him. Women for him were not something to be fought over. They were to be enjoyed for a brief but agreeable time before parting without regrets or recriminations.
Still his fingers throbbed where he’d touched her. In another life, one where he’d permit himself hopes and dreams, he and the very lovely Valkyrie made flesh might have had an agreeable time together.
He pressed his hands against his thighs. Dreams were for other men, men who hadn’t had fathers who abandoned their comrades to die and then lied about it. Men who didn’t need to keep proving their loyalty to their commander thanks to the reputation of their father.
He would focus on keeping his men alive and out of Guthmann’s murderous clutches. If he achieved it, he would have fully removed his father’s taint and fulfilled the vow he’d made on his mother’s grave—he would be a better man than his father.
Lady Ansithe was the key to his achieving this—a counter to be used in his very real game of King’s Table with Guthmann. ‘Leave Lady Ansithe to me and me alone.’
Dawn had not yet arrived, but Ansithe had been unable to sleep for more than a few hours. Her dreams had been full of buzzing insects, faceless warriors who escaped and someone with broad shoulders and golden hair who fought through everything to save her. She had woken covered in sweat and with a deep abiding sense that something was wrong. In her haste to get away from the blue-eyed Northman, had she forgotten to do something simple like lock the door of the byre? She hurriedly dressed and ran out into the yard.
A steel-grey light illuminated the yard with deep shadows and harsh planes. A rumbling snore resounded. She advanced towards the byre. The swineherd, the lad who had faithfully promised to keep watch over the prisoners, was sound asleep.
‘What is this?’ she asked putting her hands on her hips. ‘Asleep? And here you promised that you could guard.’
The swineherd’s eyes blinked open. He rapidly stood. ‘My lady! Lady Ansithe!’
‘Are they still in there?’ she asked, tapping her foot on the ground. ‘Or have they vanished in the night because you forgot how to stay awake?’
He tugged at his tunic. ‘I haven’t heard a sound. Honest. Not even a squeak louder than a hoglet.’
‘It is amazing that anyone could hear anything above that racket.’ Moir’s languid tones dripped from the byre.
The air rushed out of Ansithe’s lungs. Moir. Her prisoners remained captive. Her dream of finding an empty byre and her best chance of proving her worth to her father gone had been nothing more than night-time imaginings.
‘They are still here.’
‘Where else would we be, Valkyrie?’ Moir asked. ‘Dining at Odin’s table is a privilege saved for those who fall on the battlefield.’
‘Are you all alive?’
‘You did not make your promise lightly, Valkyrie. Good.’ He pointedly coughed. ‘We could do with breakfast. Our stomachs pang with hunger.’
‘Her name is Lady Ansithe,’ the swineherd said, his face contorting to a blotchy colour in the half-light. ‘And you should be grateful that she brings you anything, not demanding food!’
‘Rest easy. A Valkyrie is a woman warrior,’ Moir retorted in a voice which was clearly designed to calm. ‘Your lady Ansithe is the very definition of one. I seek to honour her, not mock her. And my men will be grateful for any food. Other than the bread, our bellies have been near enough to empty for many days.’
Honour her? She stared at the wall where Moir’s voice came from. He respected her ability as a warrior. She couldn’t help smiling.
‘It is all right, I will deal with him. You go and get breakfast before you take care of your normal charges—the pigs,’ Ansithe told the swineherd.
‘Valkyrie, are you going to answer me?’ Moir asked again in a louder voice. ‘Why are you here? The cockerel has not yet begun to crow. I thought ladies like you lay in bed until the sun had well risen.’
‘You have no idea what women like me do.’
‘I’ve met a few Mercian ladies, simpering giggling nonentities mostly, but none have been warriors until you.’
As if on cue, the cockerel began his morning crow. The sound echoed through the shadowed yard.
‘Not so early,’ she said, rubbing her hand against the back of her neck. The lock was there, but she hadn’t removed the key. She carefully turned it and this time pocketed the key. ‘And no one is in danger. Breakfast will happen once the chores are done. Starving you will not do anyone any good.’
‘You have a good heart, Lady.’
‘You have a glib tongue, Northman. Your compliments fall as easily as rain falling on the fields.’
‘I do like a beautiful woman with wit.’
Again, the easy remarks about her beauty. He was flattering her now because he wanted something. She dredged her late husband’s words from the depths of her memory—the ones he used to explain to his son why he had no fear of ever being made a cuckold by her—clever, capable but lacking in that certain something which made men’s blood hot. It was why she had been the perfect wife for a man who was well past his prime and more in need of a nurse and housekeeper than a wife. She hated the tiny piece of her which still argued her late husband had been wrong about many things.
‘Liking has nothing to do with anything.’ She glared at the byre wall. Why did he persist in thinking that because she was a woman, she could be flattered and cajoled into doing anything she didn’t want to?
His laugh resounded through the wall, rippling through her and reminding her of her dream about the golden-haired warrior. She wondered if his eyes crinkled when he laughed. ‘You are the most interesting thing to happen to me in a long while.’
‘I am not a thing. I am a person and I had fully intended on ensuring you were fed even before your pathetic attempt at flattery,’ she said to