In Bed With The Viking Warrior. Harper St. George
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out over the narrow stream to see a man crouched down studying the ground, deep in concentration. Her heart jumped into her throat for a beat before falling down to her belly. A long mane of tawny hair flowed well past his shoulders and he was big, powerful.
A Dane.
If she had any doubt, the chain mail on his torso cinched it for her. The Danes who had come to her home the day her husband had been murdered had all worn the same armour. And this one wore thick gold bands on his arms just as they had. The same feeling of dread she’d had upon seeing them at her door filled her now. They could have done what they wanted to her that day and no one would have intervened. The elders might appeal to Lord Oswine, but everyone knew the Danes controlled the area now. Even the King was merely a tax collector for the invaders, or that was what Godric had told her. That was why Godric had been so angry, so determined to gather men to overthrow the Northmen.
She had yet to come even with him on her side of the stream and, once she could gather breath in her chest again, she slowly moved backwards. If she could reach the safety of the forest, she could continue home without him being the wiser. But, of course, that would depend on her luck and she seemed to be running short on that lately. She’d barely walked backwards two paces before the stones shifted beneath her feet, giving her away.
He looked up quickly from the track he’d been studying and found her, glaring at her from beneath his thick, fierce brow line. Her feet kept moving, almost sliding on the muddy slope as she kept her eyes on him, afraid that if she looked away he’d somehow reach her faster. Since the spring, her village had been assaulted by these barbarians. Rebel Danes who answered to no one, not even the Danes at the settlement, who stole the village’s sheep and crops as if it were their right. At summer’s end two maidens had gone missing, taken by the rebels. The Danish settlement had refused to help find them.
Aisly had no doubt that this man was part of that rebel group. The one time she’d seen officials from the Danish settlement, they’d looked...well, official. Their leaders had appeared well kept and had ridden with at least an outward display of respect through her village. This man looked like a heathen, dirty and dangerous. He didn’t look like them at all. He looked ready to pounce on her and tear her apart.
Taking a shaking breath, she slipped in her frantic attempt to move up to the solid ground of the forest. The sword fell to the mud as she grabbed at the ground to push herself upright. The Dane took the advantage and splashed through the shallow water towards her. Heart pounding in her chest, she quickly decided that her only choice was to face him on the banks of the stream. Gathering the sword with both hands, she righted herself as best she could. The white of his teeth flashed above his full beard, which hung in twin braids down his chest, as he sneered at her attempt. As he came closer, she could see the dark, horizontal lines engraved in his teeth. Just how she’d heard the rebels marked themselves. The men who had come to her door had not had those markings. He didn’t even draw a weapon as he came towards her, so sure was he that he didn’t need it.
The very thought made a dangerous surge of anger come over her, fuelling her strength so that she raised the sword high above her head. His stride was long, so she figured it would take him only ten paces to reach her. She counted off each one in her head. When he was two paces away, he’d be close enough to reach with a swinging sword while still being far enough away that he wouldn’t grab her. Catching him at that precise moment of vulnerability would be her only chance.
Eight.
Her fingers clenched tight, readying to strike.
Seven.
Her feet worked to gain solid footing, soles grinding down into the mud.
Six.
She took in a long breath. She’d let it out with the strike. He saw it and, taking it for fear, sneered at her.
Five.
A flash of movement just over the Dane’s shoulder drew her eye. It was a man coming from the trees. He walked deliberately towards the Dane with his sword poised in front of him. Eyes wide, she forced herself to look back at the Dane and count.
Four.
Before she could check herself, she glanced back at the newcomer. Whether he was friend or foe she couldn’t tell, but he brought a finger to his lips and his eyes demanded silence. Then he tightened both hands on the large sword he swung up past his shoulders. Her lips working in silent debate, she could only stare back at the Dane coming for her. He was close enough now that she could see the mottled blue of his irises.
Three.
She tightened her fingers again and prayed for strength. The rebel Dane let out a sound that was almost inhuman. A growl.
Two.
Something must have caught his eye, or perhaps it was her own glance to the approaching man, but the Dane turned in time to deflect the stranger’s raised sword. She watched in horror as the Dane lunged at the man. Every instinct she possessed told her that she should run and put as much distance between this fight to the death and herself as she could, but her feet stood rooted in the mud and rocks.
They were evenly matched in size, both with broad, muscled frames. But the rebel Dane moved in a clumsy, lumbering manner, while the stranger appeared graceful, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground as he moved in a circle around his opponent, putting himself between her and danger. But just as the Dane growled again and reached for his sword, the stranger lunged forward. The growl turned into a great bellow as the Dane’s eyes widened in pain and he crumpled to the ground.
Keeping a tight grip on her sword, she let her gaze dart to the stranger, uncertain if he was now an enemy instead of her saviour. He watched the Dane until it was clear he wasn’t an immediate threat, then stared back at her with deep brown eyes, bloody sword at his side. Despite the fact that he wasn’t making a move towards her, she couldn’t decide if he meant her any harm. There was no menace in his gaze. But then, Godric had taught her how that could change in an instant.
‘Nay! Don’t come any closer,’ she warned when he took a tentative step forward.
Tilting his head a bit and furrowing his brow, he stared back at her. He still didn’t say a word as he gestured to the man at his feet. Aisly stepped back to put even more space between them and gave him a nod, watching him disarm the fallen Dane. A wave of nausea threatened now that the danger was past and her arms began to shake from holding the sword for so long. He glanced at her as he gently tossed the man’s sword up on to the forest floor, away from them both. His own sword rested on the muddy bank of the stream at his feet. The Dane’s knife quickly followed and then the man held his hands aloft to show her that he held no weapons.
Finally able to take a steady breath, she lowered her arms but kept the sword in front of her and allowed herself a careful study of the man. He wasn’t a Dane. Or at least she didn’t think he was. He was tall, big like them, but his hair was odd. It was dark blond but had been cut in awkward tufts as if he’d taken to it himself with a knife. His beard was barely there, just mere scruff on the lower half of what was a very handsome face. A gash crusted over with blood ran from the centre of his forehead and disappeared into his hair above his ear. It looked to be a few days old and in need of attention. It was angry and pink around the edges and swollen badly. The flesh around his eye on that side was puffy and discoloured.
He wore no chain mail and his brown tunic was rather plain except for a bit of embroidery around the top and an emblem that might have been a bird on the shoulder that seemed vaguely familiar. It wasn’t a Dane’s tunic. She’d seen something similar on a mercenary once, but this man didn’t seem Frankish. Of course, there were other lands.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
His brow furrowed again as he studied her mouth, making her think he didn’t understand her words. ‘What is your name?’ she asked again, keeping her voice steady.
When he still didn’t answer, she worried that perhaps she’d been wrong and he wasn’t a mercenary at all. She’d seen them before and they knew her language. They had to know it if they were to earn a living. If he didn’t know