A Deal With Her Rebel Viking. Michelle Styles
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her scrub floors, keep bees or do any of the myriad other tasks she needed to do after her mother’s death. She would be practical and capable, instead of waiting to be rescued by some handsome kind-hearted warrior.
‘I know what is best for my family, for my people, for these lands,’ she said and concentrated on standing erect. ‘I defended them well today.’
‘Don’t be too proud to consider alternatives—that was one of the first lessons my jaarl taught me,’ the Northman continued in that soft persuasive voice of his. ‘Ways which will be more beneficial to you and these lands are available.’
Ansithe curled her fists and ignored his rich tones. ‘Six Northern warriors must surely equal two Mercians. And I am sure he will take some interest in you. You know his name.’
‘It is possible to know a name and not know the person,’ he continued with a faint smile playing on his lips. ‘What is going to stop him from simply attacking your estates? He will see you are a company of women rather than trained warriors capable of a fight.’
‘I presume you are trained, and yet we defeated you.’
The Northern warlord winced. He slowly looked around the hall, in search of more malleable prey. ‘Do you make the final decision?’
Ansithe kept her gaze away from Cynehild and her disapproving frown. No doubt her younger sister, Elene, also watched the exchange with round eyes from her vantage point. ‘From where I stand, I have earned that right.’
‘Then I will have to try harder to persuade you that you are making a mistake, before you compound your error and lose everything while gaining little.’ Moir’s mouth quirked upwards as if he was anticipating the task of persuading her. ‘I come from the North. I do not bow to the Danish King. Return us to the Northmen. You will get a better price for us if you deal with jaarls from the North than the Danes.’
‘But Guthmann holds my family. All I care about is their freedom.’
The annoying man gave a pointed cough. ‘The jaarl Andvarr comes from the North. Send word to him. Send me.’
Send him? As if he’d return. He would leave his men behind and free himself. He had not led from the front, but had entered after the battle had begun.
Giving in to her anger, she marched up to him and put the point of her arrow against his throat. Although she was tall, she still only reached his nose. ‘What would you have me do? Let you go on the whisper of a promise?’
He did not even flinch, but stared at her with those icy eyes of his, which seemed to peer deep down in her soul and ferret out all her secrets. ‘It would be a start. I give my word to return. I do not abandon my men.’
The man’s insolence took her breath away. He had lost. She’d won. Now he expected her to simply let him and his men walk away as if nothing had happened.
‘Forgive me if I distrust your word.’
‘A pity. My suggestion is the best way out of this impasse.’
‘Stop trying me. If you continue to badger me, I will simply shoot you and stop your mouth that way.’
His amused laugh rang out. ‘There are other ways to stop mouths, Valkyrie. More pleasurable ways for the both of us, particularly if they involve tongues.’
Ansithe stared at him in astonishment. The infuriating man was flirting with her. Flirting when she had just made him a prisoner and threatened to kill him. As if she was some feather-brained woman who would melt after receiving a little masculine praise.
‘Ansithe.’ Cynehild’s voice resounded in the hall. ‘The Northman knows he is our prisoner. Do not undo the good work you have done today by losing your temper and shooting the leader. And, Northman, cease your twisting of words, or else my sister will shoot you. She killed one of your men today. Don’t make it two.’
The Northman glanced between Ansithe and her sister. His mouth became a thin white line. ‘I take your advice, Lady, and will speak no more of it.’
Ansithe reluctantly lowered her bow and collected her wits. As much as she would have liked to despatch the arrogant Northman, she had to keep her mind on the ultimate prize—the safe return of her father and brother-in-law.
She signalled to Owain the Plough to escort the prisoners to the byre and to keep a watch over them. The lad practically grew three inches as he ordered the stable lads and the swineherd about.
‘A pleasure to encounter you, Lady Valkyrie.’ Moir looked her up and down, making her aware of how much her filthy gown with its new tears revealed of her limbs. Her hands itched to straighten her skirts and scrub the soot marks from her face. His slow smile transformed him. ‘I look forward to our next meeting with eager anticipation.’
Ansithe deliberately turned away. His insolent look was designed to make her uncomfortable. Her grandmother had told her often enough that it was a good thing she was clever because she’d never be pretty. And Eadweard, her late husband, had confirmed it on his deathbed—he’d married her for her skill at household management and dower lands, and not for her appearance.
‘I look forward to seeing my father’s face again.’
Ansithe stood by the door of the makeshift prison, the tumbled-down byre where they kept cows in the winter, carrying a tallow lamp, bandages and ignoring the great crows of doubt fluttering in her stomach.
She’d changed into her new dark blue woollen gown, fastening the woven belt shot with gold that Eadweard had given her the only Eastertide they had shared. It was an ensemble which proclaimed her status as a daughter of an ealdorman, rather than some raggedy beggar who could be cajoled into letting the prisoners go free for the price of a kiss.
Father Oswald, the priest, had reached for his rosary beads and flatly refused to tend to the heathens, claiming they had murdered far too many of his brothers when she confronted him with the situation. Ansithe wanted to ask if it was a very Christian thing to do—refusing to treat the wounded. But for now, she would do what she could and worry about enlisting his help later. Honey, not vinegar, would have to be used if she needed it. Any hint of a raised voice from her always made him click his beads louder and mutter audible prayers for forbearance.
‘We treat them with honour, Elene. As the byre is secure, we can loosen their bonds, tend their wounds and ensure they are adequately fed. We keep them alive until we can trade them for Father and Leofwine,’ Ansithe said before Elene refused to enter the byre. She drew a deep breath. ‘We treat them like we hope Father is being treated.’
The words were said more to settle Elene than because she believed it. A man who was willing to sever a finger was more than capable of doing far worse to his hostages. Ansithe straightened her back. Then they had to be better than him.
‘Father will be well, won’t he?’ Elene asked, clinging tighter to the loaves of bread she carried. ‘We will get him back, I mean.’
‘I am doing everything in my power to get him back and if that means tending these men to the best of my ability, I will do it.’
Elene’s face paled even further. For a breath, Ansithe feared her sister would faint, but she rallied. Her fingers clenched white around the loaves. ‘I understand, Ansithe. We pretend they are honourable men like we know Father to be. I wish I were as brave as you.’
‘Not brave,’ Ansithe whispered and peered into the gloom of the byre where the Northmen sat with their ankles and hands bound. ‘Too scared of the consequences if I fail.’
A few of the warriors groaned, cradling vicious-looking bee stings. The warlord she’d clashed with earlier, Moir, looked up from where he sat next to the warrior whose leg had been caught in the wild-boar trap. His eyes blazed cold fury before he concealed his feelings beneath a bland smile.
At Ansithe’s