Beloved Viking Read online

  Beloved Viking

  Ree Thornton

  Copyright © 2020 Ree Thornton. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. This work contains adult content and may not be suitable for audiences under 18 years of age. Thank you for supporting writers by buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations for use in critical reviews.

  Dedication

  Till min vikingaman och mina två vikingabarn.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Afterword

  Also by Ree Thornton

  Acknowledgements

  This book is for my husband, who graciously shares me with the seemingly endless hours of writing, writer's group meetings, and retreats. None of this would have been possible without your support and love.

  To my family and friends, of which there are far too many to name (you know who you are), thank you for always believing in me and pushing me to chase my dreams.

  A special thank you to my Writers not Waiters girls, Elsa Holland, Josie Baker, Sara Hartland, L.J. Langdon, and Dana Mitchell for the unwavering support. I am truly blessed to have such wonderful friends.

  Much gratitude and love to the awesome Rachel Bailey for all of the sage advice, encouragement, and for challenging me to become a better writer. I have no doubt that fate brought you into my life to guide me on this journey, and I am thankful every day that I have such a kind, generous friend in my life.

  Chapter One

  Rúna

  Rúna Isaksson stood in the shadow of a central pillar, watching her four suitors on the far side of the great hall. The soft tones of a flute filled the room as she trailed her fingers across the tales of the All Father, Óðinn, carved into the wood.

  "Damn Ràsmus Eriksson to Hel," she muttered under her breath.

  Somehow, the Jarl who controlled the isle of Gottland had heard of her plan to choose a husband from one of the powerful clans and had sent a son to vie for her hand. The unexpected arrival of the added suitor and his twenty warriors had caused uproar as the whole clan scrambled to clean another barn to lodge the uninvited guests.

  Her stomach rumbled at the delicious aromas of the succulent meat on the air. Now she was tired, hungry, and late to greet the men she had chosen to vie for her hand in marriage.

  How could Ràsmus Eriksson think she would marry one of his sons after what had happened last time?

  She sighed.

  Memories of Jorvan had flooded her senses at the sight of the dragonship cutting across the bay with its sail flying at half-mast below the billowing dark blue Eriksson flag. Even now, she ached for the taste of his lips, and the tender touch that had awakened her to the pleasures between a man and woman.

  "Which one is the Eriksson?" Ásta whispered in her ear.

  She whirled around. "Ásta, do not sneak up on me like that."

  "So which one is he?"

  "I do not know." Rúna studied the table of her suitors, unable to see anything of the faces hidden behind the masks they wore from this distance.

  Ásta followed her gaze across the room. "It would help if your father did not insist they wear masks. A happy match needs both an alliance and attraction."

  Rúna shrugged. "An alliance is all that matters." Her father was getting older, and as his body weakened so too would his position as Jarl. She clenched her jaw and firmed her resolve. She needed to wed to ensure the succession passed to her. "I need a husband, preferably one from a family with a large army of warriors that will quell any thoughts of treachery from the other clans."

  Ásta crossed her arms and huffed, the unconscious action betraying that her friend was not the handmaiden she claimed to be. "It is cruel to prevent you from seeing your husband's face until you have wed."

  "Já," Rúna agreed. "I do not like it. Choosing from masked suitors is not ideal. There is much you can tell from looking upon a man's face—a little tick under his eye when lying or a twitch around his mouth when angry…"

  She wanted to see the face of the man that would rule at her side, but her father was Jarl and his word was law.

  "… but it is a battle not worth fighting."

  "Rúna—"

  "Nei, Ásta." She held up her hand to silence her friend. "This is how it must be. It will be struggle enough to take a husband—at least this way the decision is mine."

  Ásta threw her a sympathetic look and nodded. Rúna knew that her friend understood well the suffering that followed losing control of your fate. It was exactly what had led Ásta to Luleavst three years ago.

  Rúna shook off her self-pitying thoughts. Five summers had passed since Jorvan had broken their betrothal and abandoned her to go raiding. He had never returned. Ràn, goddess of the seas, had claimed him. It was time to let him go.

  "I will choose one of these men, but the thought of marrying one of his brothers and living with the constant reminder of his ghost makes me ill. I cannot do it. I will not."

  Ásta place a comforting hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "You deserve to be happy, Rúna. The Eriksson son cannot be turned away, so you must choose another."

  Ásta spoke true. Rasmus Erikson was an important trading partner—it would provoke war to shun his son.

  "If I can discover which mask the son wears, then I can choose another without causing offence."

  She looked at the men across the room. She dismissed the one wearing the bright colours of the Sámi northerners, and another was far too tall. She studied the broad shoulders of the two remaining men. One stood to the side, watching the others laugh and drink. His relaxed bearing was that of a man who knew he belonged and felt no need to prove it.

  Her breath quickened. He stood with the same confidence as Jorvan. "That one has the same golden hair as Jorvan," she mused.

  Her heart ached at the memory of his hair trailing across her skin, his hands gripping her tight as he had rocked them into oblivion. As three moons had waxed and waned, they had stolen every moment they could to be together. Hiking in the woods, lazing in the meadow, kissing behind the barn, and then she'd surrendered her innocence to him willingly, laying her heart and soul bare. She'd loved him with all of her being. It had been a terrible mistake.

  "I know that look, Rúna. It was not your fault he left."

  She forced her expression back to the controlled mask of a shield-maiden. "Yet I was the foolish girl who thought he loved me."

  Jorvan had swatted her pleas away like a fly when she'd begged him to take her with him, and then sailed away without looking back. He had broken her, and it was her own fault.

  "You were young. There is no fault in seeking love. You may come to love another."

  Rúna shook her head vehemently. "Love is not for me. The day he left, I vowed never to let a man or love have such power over me again. It is why I am a shield-maiden. I'd rather die than break that promise to myself."

  Ásta placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Your vow saved my life, and for that I am glad. Yet, it saddens me that you will not know a love like I had with Njal, but I understand why you made this cho
ice. I too would rather join the gods than cede my life to a treacherous man." The auburn hair that fell in waves around her pale face gave Ásta the look of an otherworldly seer as she spoke with a maturity well beyond her years, and then turned to resume her duties and serve ale to the revellers.

  Rúna sighed. She wished she could do something to ease her friend's suffering, wished she could offer more than shelter and protection.

  Frode, the boat builder's hound, collided with her leg, snapping her out of her musings and back to the problem at hand. She watched as he scampered past and disappeared under a table on the hunt for discarded scraps and bones, her gaze drifting to the man standing separate from the other suitors sitting and drinking at the table.

  A disguising mask and shadows obscured his face. Was he the Eriksson son?

  As though sensing he was being watched, he looked over his shoulder.

  She froze as a rush of awareness made the hair on her arms stand on end, as, for a few heart-pounding moments, he searched the shadows where she stood.

  Could he see her? Was he as reluctant to be here as she was to have him as a suitor?

  Her shoulders sagged and her hand fell from the engraved pillar when he turned away and returned to watching the crowd.

  She squared her shoulders and stepped forward. It was time to choose a husband.

  Chapter Two

  Jorvan

  Jorvan Eriksson leaned against the rough timber wall and feasted on the sight of the woman he loved hiding behind a pillar. He had been foolish to leave her five years ago, swayed by his battered pride and foolish notions of adventure and gold. It was yet another failure to add to the dark turbulent sea of regret that threatened to pull him under. Now he was back at Luleavst and determined not to make the same mistake again.

  A hand clasped his shoulder and squeezed. "Are you certain this is what you want, brother?"

  His skin crawled beneath the gentle touch, and then a shiver crept down his spine. He had become deft at hiding the weakness, but nowadays a simple touch was a difficult burden to bear. He shook the hand from his shoulder. How had he forgotten that Valen treated all eight of his younger siblings as if they were his children?

  He met his brother's concerned gaze with one of steadfast resolve. "I think of little else."

  Valen sighed and shook his head. "Rúna will not forgive you easily."

  He knew Valen was voicing his concern in the hopes of saving him the misery of inevitable rejection, but he'd not let anyone divert him from this course.

  "I deserve her wrath. It was a mistake to leave her."

  "Rúna is the least of your worries. The Jarl is coming over," Valen said out of the corner of his mouth.

  Jorvan watched the first hurdle in his quest to win Rúna back storm across the crowded room. Jarl Karl Isaksson's hair had lightened to the gray of an old man and there were more lines around his eyes, but his thin lips were still twisted into the same distasteful scowl as when they had last met—when he had been caught sneaking back from the meadow where he'd made love to Rúna. The Jarl had suspected treachery was afoot and accused him of plotting against clan Isaksson.

  Jorvan steeled himself for the battle ahead. Clearly, the uneasy peace that had been negotiated between his father and Karl Isaksson during his absence had disappeared now that he had returned. In truth, he had not forgiven the man who had driven him away from the woman he loved and into the depths of Hel, either.

  The Jarl Isaksson had laughed at his request to marry his daughter. You will never be good enough for the likes of my Rúna, traitor.

  Jarl Isaksson's words had hit him like a fist to the gut. Her father was right—she was kind and pure, and he had been a drunk without lands or wealth. He'd had nothing to offer her.

  If you truly love her, you will leave and let her make a good marriage.

  And so he'd left. He had rounded up his warriors and the few Isaksson men he'd befriended over ale, and caught on a tide of reckless abandon and a foolish notion to seek his fortune, he'd gone raiding. It was only many moons later, while held captive, that he'd finally admitted to himself that he'd used the Jarl's words as an excuse to leave her behind because he'd felt unworthy.

  "Jarl Isaksson." Jorvan nodded respectfully at the glowering man who halted in front of him, noticing that his once strong body had begun to wither.

  "Why are you here?" Karl Isaksson hid none of his dislike under a pleasant tone.

  Jorvan crossed his arms and met the Jarl's furious gaze with one of steely determination.

  "You know why."

  He'd never cede to this man again. Losing his brothers at arms had taught him a powerful lesson. Life was short. He'd fight until his last breath to honor the memory of his comrades and win back the woman he loved. And he did love Rúna, of that he was certain. It was the memories of their love, and the desire to hold her in his arms again, that had kept him alive.

  "Then it is best you leave," the Jarl scoffed.

  Jorvan narrowed his eyes and stood his ground. Karl Isaksson would not win this time. "I am here to stay."

  The Jarl's nostrils flared and he skimmed his calculating gaze downward, taking in Jorvan's muscular body, strengthened by relentless training during the long journey home, and then his eyes flicked upward once more.

  Jorvan met his stony glare, allowing the man to see a flicker of the darkness that lurked within him.

  The Jarl's gaze became wary.

  Good. He had no desire to war with the man. Rúna would never forgive him for killing her father.

  "What happened to you?" the Jarl demanded.

  He crossed his arms slowly, enjoying making the Jarl wait. "Did you not hear I died?"

  The Jarl's jaw tensed at his mocking tone. "What of my drunkard men that went raiding with you?"

  Remorse filled Jorvan at the mention of his men and the question he'd been dreading. The Jarl's lingering animosity was warranted. Rúna's father was still bitter that his men had chosen to go raiding with a man that he considered a traitor, and he had not even learned of their fate yet.

  Jorvan ground his teeth. He was responsible for their deaths and no apology would ever suffice. There was no way to soften the blow of such a loss. "Do not insult the dead or you shall feel the bite of my sword. They were good men, and honorable to the end."

  Jarl Isaksson rocked back on his heels and studied him curiously. "They are dead? What happened to you?" His tone was softer, but just as demanding.

  "They died. I lived," Jorvan replied with a steely thread of warning in his voice, and then pressed his lips together. In time, he would request an audience with the Jarl to offer an explanation and his condolences, but he'd give no further answers in this crowded room. He would not let the fate of his men be fodder for gossip.

  The Jarl glanced across the room.

  Jorvan followed his gaze.

  Firelight flickered across Rúna's flaxen hair as she crossed the room, the hem of her simple blue dress floating gracefully across the floor as she moved with the urgency of a woman with purpose. Her slender waist and hips now dipped and curved in the sensual figure of a woman, and her unbound hair fell down around her shoulders save for the few braids at the front that framed her angular face and high cheekbones.

  His heart thundered in his chest. Óðinn, she was an arresting sight.

  The Jarl threw him a look of disgust. "She'll never welcome you, since you abandoned her afore," he said. Then abandoning any pretence of civility, he turned and strode back to where his wife sat on the raised dais.

  Valen, who had remained silent throughout the entire exchange, finally spoke. "Do you think that truth? Is this an impossible task?"

  "Mayhap…" He could feel his brother's concerned stare like a rash spreading across his skin. He was weary of fending off the pitiful looks of his family. They treated him as though he were a cripple, as if he'd returned a lesser man because he cringed from their touch, and was haunted by night terrors and the darkness that reminded him of his cave
rnous prison. Curse them! He'd rather they treat him as if he were still dead. At least there would be honor in that.

  "I will marry her." He just had to convince her now.

  "If that is what you want, then I support you, brother."

  "It is." Any doubt disappeared the moment Rúna had stepped into the great hall and he'd felt the invisible pull between them. At least that hadn't changed.

  She was even more beautiful than he remembered. His cock swelled as he devoured her with his eyes. Something was different about her. What was it? He tracked her movement across the room as he waved off the handmaiden attempting to refill his untouched cup of ale.

  Rúna paused beside a table of Isaksson warriors devouring chunks of venison.

  Was one of them her lover?

  His grip tightened around the carved wooden cup. He must discover if one of the Isaksson warriors had claimed her heart in his absence. He memorized each of their faces as they met her gaze with nods. Why did they not stand and greet her properly?

  The one nearest her, an older dark-haired man with a flattened nose, placed a double-edged sword on the table and spoke.

  Rúna reached out and trailed her hand over the smooth surface as she replied.

  Jorvan's breath caught. It was dangerous to touch such a sharp weapon.

  She lifted the sword from the table, and then cut through the air with swift precision, her stance wide and centered, the muscles in her arm flexing as she moved the heavy weapon with ease. She laid it back on the table and nodded her approval.

  When had she learnt to wield a sword? Heaviness settled in his stomach.