Author Note
Vikings have always been notorious for being fierce warriors, sexy men who fight for what they want. The idea of being stolen away by a handsome Viking was the inspiration in this story, but what if the warrior has a sense of honour? Irish heroine Aisling Ó Brannon tries to win her freedom, but never expects to find love. This story is linked to the novel Her Warrior Slave, coming soon from Mills & Boon Historical, which tells the tale of Aisling's brother, Kieran. I hope you enjoy this fantasy.
I always love to hear from readers. Visit my website at: www.michellewillingham.com or e-mail me at [email protected].
Michelle Willingham grew up living in places all over the world including Germany, England, and Thailand. When her parents hauled her to antique shows in manor houses and castles, Michelle entertained herself by making up stories and pondering whether she could afford a broadsword with her allowance.
She graduated summa cum laude from the University of Notre Dame with a degree in English and received her master's degree in education from George Mason University. Currently, she teaches American History and English and is working on more medieval books set in Ireland. She lives in southeastern Virginia, USA, with her husband and children. She still doesn't have her broadsword. Visit her website at: www.michellewillingham. com or e-mail her at [email protected].
The Viking’s Forbidden Love-Slave
Michelle Willingham
With thanks to Larissa Ione, a great friend, writer, and margarita buddy. I appreciate all the support!
Chapter One
Ireland, 1102
Darkness enveloped her, thick and suffocating. Her jaw ached, and her lips were cracked from thirst. Aisling Ó Brannon shifted her wrists, but they were bound tightly with ropes.
Rising panic swelled in her veins, along with the memory of the Norse raider who had stolen her away. She vaguely recalled a wooden longboat and hours spent at sea.
Where had he taken her? And…what would become of her? She struggled against her bonds, and realized she was lying upon a bed.
No. Not that.
The taste of fear rose up in her throat, quickly replaced by determination. She wasn't going to lie here like a helpless babe. With her fingertips, she struggled to loosen the ropes.
"You're awake." A male voice filled the interior, deep and resonant. Heavily accented by the Norse language, she sensed that his grasp of the Irish tongue was not a strong one. She blinked, trying to see him, and then realized her vision was blocked by a length of cloth.
The loss of her sight made the unknown all the more frightening. Aisling rolled her body to the side, straw crackling beneath the mattress. A hand reached beneath her shoulders and eased her to sit up.
She struggled to move away, but then he pressed a cup to her lips. The instinctive need to quench her thirst overcame all else. She tasted the sweetness of mead, and unable to help herself, she drank deeply.
"Where am I?" she demanded.
"Just outside Vedrarfjord."
She recognized the Lochlannach name for the lands so close to her own. Thank the Blessed Virgin. She remembered little about her kidnapping, and time had blurred.
She moved her face away from the cup, trying once again to see who was holding her captive. "Why am I blindfolded?"
"It wasn't meant to be one."
She felt him touch her head, and she winced at the tender pain upon her scalp. Her jaw felt swollen, as though someone had smashed a fist against her cheek. The Norseman unwrapped a length of cloth until at last, light speared her eyes. Aisling blinked, struggling to see her captor.
He was tall enough that she had to lean back to look at him. Dark golden hair fell upon broad shoulders, while a bronze torque gleamed around his neck. The thick corded muscles of his forearms had black runes deeply tattooed into his skin. Even with her hands bound, Aisling had the urge to cross herself against the sight of the mystical lines.
He wore a gray tunic that hung below his waist and dark trews, colorless clothes that might have been suited to a peasant, were they not so well made. The fine weave of the material suggested he had chosen these shades and paid good coin for them. Only a long cloak, dyed a rich shade of burgundy, revealed any color. A gold brooch shaped like a serpent fastened the garment to his shoulders.
This man was no commoner. She could see it in the way he held his head up, in the way he stared at her, as though she were his possession. Not by half. Not if she could help it.
The way he was watching her made her skin tighten. The air inside the room suddenly grew stifling, and she reminded herself of all the lessons her brothers had taught her about defense.
If he dared to touch her, he would regret it. As soon as she could get a weapon, she would be free of him.
Her hands curled into the rough covering over the mattress. Don't let him see your fear. "Who are you?"
"I am Tharand Hardrata." At his penetrating stare, she offered her own name in exchange.
"Are you a jarl?"
"No. I am a member of the hird. A freeman."
It startled her to hear it. As a Norse warrior, why would he dress so plainly? And what did he want with her? She tried not to think about why she was bound upon his bed. Swallowing hard, she asked, "Why did you take me as your captive?"
Tharand made no reply. Instead, he reached for a dagger at his waist, and the blade flashed in the firelight. Aisling held herself perfectly still. Don't breathe.
But he only reached behind her and grasped the ropes that bound her. His hands curled around her wrists as though he could snap the bones without any effort at all. The heat of his palms penetrated her skin, chaining her in his grasp.
"I'm going to cut these." He grasped a single rope, tightening it against her skin. "Don't move."
With him so close, she could feel the muscles of his upper arm pressing against her. The contact was accidental, but the heat of his body warmed her cool skin. Aisling took a deep breath to push back the rising panic.
The greater danger was being alone with this man. Fierce and forbidding, his strength could easily overpower her.
His thumb edged her palm, and the touch sent a rush of apprehension through her. A faint spiciness rose from his skin, a scent reminiscent of faraway lands to the East. In the firelight, his silhouette dominated her own.
"What do you want from me?" she asked. "Am I now your slave?"
His knife sliced the ropes in a swift, lethal move. Tharand sheathed the blade, never taking his eyes from her. His gaze was discerning, as though he were trying to measure her worth.
"You will be a gift to King Magnus," he said at last. "He has returned to Erin."
A gift? Her lips tightened at the thought. "And what makes you think he would want another slave?"
He reached out and took a length of her dark hair, running his fingers through it. Gooseflesh raised upon her neck, her heart hammering.
"You would not be another ambatt," he said. "A woman such as yourself has more value than that. If you are fortunate, you might warm his bed."
Words of outrage tempted her lips. I am not that sort of woman, she wanted to shout. But that was what she'd become, wasn't it? Her freedom was gone, stolen away.
She