The Viking's Forbidden Love-Slave. Michelle Willingham

He'd been a commander for years, his sword bringing justice and death to those who had earned it.

      "Send the message," he repeated. Without another word, he turned his back on Asgaut.

      Aisling warmed her feet near the glowing embers upon the hearth, biting back the pain. Think, she cautioned herself. This was not a game; this was survival.

      Know thine enemy, her father had always said. She shivered, remembering Tharand's wide palm against her spine. The way he'd unwrapped the linen from her head, as gentle as a lover.

      The single room contained the bed where she'd been bound, and a low table. Two chests made of oak were on the opposite side of the room.

      Upon the back wall, she saw weapons. So that was the gleam of steel she’d noticed earlier. Battle-axes and swords, spears and knives hung in neat rows. One small ax head, slightly larger than her hand, was inlaid with silver wire. Twisting swirls resembled a dragon, while a single row of points outlined the center. Not a speck of rust marred the iron, nor any blood. Each blade was honed and polished.

      The executioner's hut, she thought dryly. But no, he was a warrior, so it made sense for him to have so many weapons.

      What didn't make sense was his lack of servants or people to tend the house. Where were the women? Her memory hearkened to the young boy's terror at the sight of Tharand. Perhaps no one wanted to be near this warrior.

      Herself included.

      Aisling chose two blades, a small dagger and a knife the length of her hand. She contemplated tearing the hem of her gown, needing a scabbard for each blade. But then, why should she destroy her léine? Tharand should pay the forfeit. After searching through one of the chests, she found a man's linen tunic. Within moments, she cut a long strip of cloth and bound up the weapons, tying them to her thigh and calf.

      She lowered her skirts, half expecting the warrior to stride in at any moment. When he didn't, she explored the house more. Her skin prickled with unease, for she still didn't trust him not to hurt her. But at least now she was armed.

      It startled her to realize how clean his dwelling was. Nothing was out of place, not any clothing nor soiled dishes. Her own brothers, though she loved them dearly, were terrible when it came to keeping their home neat. Time and again, she'd found a tunic shoved behind a barrel or a pair of shoes in the middle of the floor. Kieran was the worst, leaving wood shavings all over the place from his carvings.

      Her heart ached, the hollow feeling pushing away her sense of hope. Both of her brothers were gone. Kieran had saved her from one of the raiders before going after Egan. Afterwards, Tharand had stolen her.

      She didn't know what had become of them. Or whether she would see them again. The thought made her want to rip all of the weapons off the wall, shattering anything she could get her hands on. Damn the Lochlannachs for what they'd done.

      Aisling choked back the tears and took a deep breath. You must leave. She couldn't rely on anyone but herself. Her hand moved to the cool blade against her thigh, and it reassured her. Tharand would return soon, so she'd best get on with searching his belongings.

      Footsteps resounded outside, and she fled toward the hearth before the door swung open. A man entered the longhouse, wearing a chain mail corselet and an iron helm. Like a god of the underworld, his gaze settled upon her as though he intended to claim her.