Forbidden Viking Read online

  "My father taught me," she replied. Though she knew it was dangerous to display any interest, her eyes fell to where the hard planes of his chest were visible through his damp shirt. Her stomach fluttered at the sight of the hairless golden skin of the man who controlled the city behind the wall.

  "What is your name?" he demanded, snapping her back to reality.

  She looked him dead in the eyes, thankful she'd learnt the art of deception as she schooled her features into the unreadable mask she'd perfected in the palace.

  "Why should I trust you?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. She couldn't. She couldn't tell him she was a princess, the daughter of Caliph Radi al-Abbasid. She couldn't trust him, nor any other man. First, her father had told her that he would soon betroth her to a stranger, and then, Karim, the head of her royal guard, had betrayed her to her Viking abductor for a few chests of gold.

  The Viking crossed his arms over his chest and growled at her. "You will trust because you must, woman. I will see to it that the man that attacked you is punished."

  Her stomach rolled at the thought of the man with the fetid breath who had attacked her. He'd targeted her because she was an Abbasid princess, and planned to wed her to force her father to forge an alliance. She looked down at the wet timber beneath her feet. Vikings were monsters, and this one in front of her was no different. If he knew who she was he'd use her to try and gain advantage with her father too. She'd rather die than reveal her secret and risk being wed to a Viking.

  "Your name," he barked, and the skies unleashed in a sudden downpour as though he had commanded it.

  She ignored the rain that soaked the thin shirt she wore until it clung to her body. She must be careful—this man had a quick temper and was clever. No doubt, he'd see through any lies. She'd speak truths as much as possible. Perhaps if she didn't cause trouble, he would let her send word to her father.

  His calloused palm cupped her chin and tilted her head back.

  Her heart thundered in her chest at his touch. She glanced behind him at the crowd scattering to take cover from the storm.

  "Look at me when you speak. What is your name?" His blue eyes demanded answers.

  She blinked at him, dazed by the sensations caused by his touch. "Samara."

  "I am Valen, Jarl of Gottland. Where is your home, Samara?" His voice gentled and his thumb softly caressed her cheek.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She pulled away from him, unable to think with his hands on her. "I travel with the court of the Caliph Radi al-Abbasid."

  He pressed his lips into a hard line, clearly doubting her words. "Tell me what happened on the ship."

  She looked away from him and welcomed the rain lashing her face. How much could she tell him without revealing her secret?

  "We were attacked at night and separated from the fleet." She shook her head to banish the memory of the wooden deck covered in the thick red blood of her people.

  When she looked back, he was watching her intently.

  "They forced all the women onto their ship." She clenched her fists until her nails dug into the tender flesh of her palms. The sword is swift for the traitor—she would see Karim pay for what he had done to her companions.

  "But you escaped." Valen prodded her to continue.

  She brushed away the wet hair caught between her lips. "I threw myself into the water." She shivered as she recalled sinking below the surface into the inky blackness.

  "She was half drowned when we pulled her out."

  Valen's gaze shifted to Dànel and then back to her as his mouth formed a hard line. "Did you see his face?"

  A shiver crept up her spine, leaving her feeling nauseous. She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. She'd never forget those soulless eyes.

  "It was Leif Gustafsson." Dànel spat the name out like poison. His lip curled. "He flew no flag, but I saw him."

  The change that swept across Valen's face was immediate. His eyes narrowed to slits, his jaw locked, and his teeth clenched.

  Samara froze. She knew the signs of a man on the edge.

  A vein in his neck swelled—she could see it pulsing as rage coursed through him—and he clenched his fists at his sides until his knuckles turned white.

  She stumbled backward. She had to get away before he erupted.

  His furious gaze softened as he registered her fear and attempt to put a safe distance between them. Slowly, the tension ebbed from his body and he met her wary gaze. The last remnants of anger faded from his features, once again replaced by the emotionless mask.

  "Bring her, Dànel." With his order given, the massive Viking spun on his heel and was gone.

  Samara felt his frustration in every shuddering jolt of the dock beneath her feet. She bit down on her lip until the painful throb reminded her that she was lost, more lost than the moon in winter.

  Chapter Three

  Samara

  Later that night, Samara hid in the shadow of an apple tree, its long blossom-covered branches stretching out toward the edges of the lush green lawn where the Viking clan feasted.

  She peered around the trunk at the two rows of tables on either side of the lawn that overflowed with feasting Vikings, and then at the long one beyond them that seemed to be for Valen's family and honored guests. Lanterns hung from branches over the tables, casting flickering light across a vast array of meats, fish, greens, bread, and fruits that lined the center of the tables.

  "Have they no manners?" she muttered under her breath as she watched the Vikings gnaw flesh from bones and gulp down entire pitchers of ale. This was far from the hushed, orderly meals of the Abassid court. Though to be fair, beneath the shiny facade of courtly mealtimes, not even the Caliph was safe from the sharp tongues that wielded gossip like daggers against adversaries. They might be unruly, but from what she could see there was no devious pretense in these feasting Vikings.

  Her stomach rumbled at the delicious smells wafting through the garden. She was hungry, but not enough to brave a mass of drunken Vikings. She shook her head and ignored her hunger. She'd watch from here and study their ways, especially their Jarl. She must know her enemy if she was to gain the upper hand.

  She studied Valen where he sat at the center of the largest table, eating and chatting with Dànel. It was clear that the ceremony Dànel had told her about was a mere formality—this man already ruled his kingdom.

  She watched him scan the crowd, his watchful gaze and somber disposition silently receiving the respect and obedience of his people. Then, satisfied that all was well, he returned to talking with Dànel.

  She exhaled a sigh of relief. He'd not seen her—nobody had. She curled her toes into the damp lawn underfoot. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. It felt like walking on soft clouds compared to the dry sands of the desert. Precious water was never wasted on lawns at the palace. She'd often looked across the parched land that disappeared into the horizon, wishing for rain to make the scorched earth spring to life.

  She plucked a blossom from above and leaned against the trunk, grateful for the safety of the shadows. Then she pressed the blossom to her nose, let her eyes drift closed, and inhaled the scent. Divine. The sweet smell was intoxicating.

  Her eyelids fluttered open a few moments later to meet the deep blue eyes of the Viking Jarl across the garden—she'd been caught. For a charged moment she held his gaze. How long had he been watching her? A flush of heat spread across her skin, warming her like the sun's rays on a cold winter morning.

  He motioned to Inga, the young woman who'd shown her where to bathe earlier and provided the borrowed dress she now wore.

  Her chest tightened as Inga walked toward her hiding place. She looked back at the newly constructed stone building where she had been given a small room, not much larger than a closet. She'd been relieved when she'd realized that the building housed the unwed women and children. Could she disappear inside and avoid Inga?

  She turned back to find Valen still watching her, his eyes
glowing with unmistakable warning. She shook off the thought of escape. It would not work—the Viking Jarl would never allow her to shun him.

  "Come," said Inga, and beckoned her forward.

  She let her shoulders sag as though defeated. She would let Valen think that she bent to his will while she plotted her escape. She followed Inga through the crowded tables. Inside, her heart thundered in her chest, but she held her head high and ignored the men taunting her with crude offers to join them in their furs.

  Inga led her to the empty chair beside Valen and motioned for her to sit.

  She baulked, then looked at the woman and shook her head. Not there. Surely, he would not want her seated in a place of honor. Unless… She dug her nails into the palms of her hands. Did he know her secret?

  She glanced at where he sat, lounging back in his chair, one arm slung over the back as he looked at her with one eyebrow raised. He looked like a cat licking its paws after a satisfying meal, entirely too smug for her liking. She recognized his actions for what they were, a challenge. She'd done this often enough herself with strangers at court. He was toying with her, forcing her to action so that he could judge her response and glean information. It was a clever tactic, one she'd not expected from the rugged Viking.

  "Sit, Samara," he demanded, his loud command ringing out over the noisy gathering.

  Curse the man. She couldn't refuse and embarrass him in front of his people—there would be no coming back from a slight like that. She sank into the chair beside him, unsure what was worse, that his deft manipulation equalled her own court-trained skills, or her sudden inability to breathe at the brush of his arm against hers. He'd seated her here for a reason. What did he want, and to what purpose? If he knew her secret, he could trap her here forever.

  "Eat," he said, as Inga placed food and wine in front of her.

  She sipped from the cup, letting the spiced wine soothe her frayed nerves. Now that he'd made escape impossible, she'd have to defend herself. She would start as she meant to go on—it was time to engage the enemy. She turned to face him. "My thanks for the food and clothing."

  His brow furrowed as he studied her for a few moments from beneath hooded eyes. A heated awareness arose and then pulsed between them, making her skin prickle. Then he nodded curtly and continued gnawing the meat off a bone as though she didn't exist. His rude dismissal left no doubt that he had no liking for the unwelcome stranger in his land.

  She released a shuddering breath. Her secret was safe…for now. She pushed her food around her plate. Her appetite had disappeared with the dozens of hostile eyes that followed her every move. She was not safe here. The longer she stayed, the more likely it was that they would discover her secret. Valen's people trusted her even less than he did. She needed to find a way off this island, quickly.

  "Well met. I am Rúna Isaksson." A woman slid into the empty chair beside her and placed her cup on the table.

  Samara studied the woman as she pulled a long flaxen braid over her shoulder to rest against the bust of the simple navy dress that dropped to her ankles, and then began to fill the plate in front of her. What did she want? Nobody ever approached her at court, except to beg her favor for their cause.

  "You must be Samara. Dànel told us of your rescue and that you speak our tongue." Her green eyes studied Samara curiously.

  She gave a welcoming smile. "Já. I am Samara," she replied warmly. This Rúna knew nothing of her royal status, she was likely just curious about the stranger in their midst. Her heart leapt at the realization that keeping her identity secret meant that she'd be seen for who she was, rather than her title. She'd always wanted a friend, but it had never been possible in the palace where everyone backstabbed and jostled for the Caliph's favor.

  "Well met, Samara." Rúna relaxed back in the chair and drained her cup. "Where are you from?"

  "Madinat as-Salam. It is three days’ journey beyond Constantinople." A shiver ran up her spine. She could feel Valen's eyes on her. He was listening to her every word.

  Rúna motioned for Inga to refill her cup. "I know of Constantinople. How did you come here?"

  "I am a scribe. I have accompanied the Caliph on many trading journeys."

  Rúna's eyes lit up and she spoke excitedly. "So you speak our language and you know letters?"

  Samara nodded. "This is not the way here?"

  "Nei," Valen snapped. "It is not."

  She swung around to face him, her pulse jumping at his gruff tone.

  His mouth was pressed in a firm line, his handsome face as hard as granite. She knew not why knowing his language and letters angered him, but it explained why he'd been so shocked when she'd spoken in his tongue. Had she erred in revealing she was a scribe? She loathed this feeling of being adrift at sea in this place where she did not know the rules.

  "Ignore him." Rúna patted her arm, reclaiming her attention. "Best let men think they are wiser, though we women know the truth," she said, and then grinned and winked mischievously.

  She smiled at the woman's playful jest. Rúna was just the sort of friend she needed, someone strong and unafraid of Viking men.

  "You must meet Ásta." Rúna motioned at someone across the room.

  Samara watched as the serving girl in a simple gray dress moved toward them with an ethereal grace. Even from a distance, she could sense a dark sorrow in the woman's slow deliberate movements, as though the pain of the past reminded her to tread carefully through life.

  "Samara, this is Ásta," Rúna said when the woman stood beside her, still clutching a serving pitcher.

  "Well met, Samara." Ásta's thin lips curved into a gentle smile as she looked down at Samara from beneath thick brows. She had several small braids scattered amongst the auburn hair that tumbled to her waist like a waterfall, and brown eyes that shone like the skin of a plump juicy date.

  Samara smiled and nodded in greeting. Ásta was beautiful, but up close, it was even more apparent that the striking facade hid a wounded darkness beneath.

  Ásta leaned over and refilled Rúna's half-empty cup.

  Was she a Viking thrall? The woman's skin was pale and smooth with a smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose. A slave would have rough hands and dark skin from hours of toil in the sun. Ásta must be a free woman. So why did she serve Rúna?

  "Ásta, Samara is alone here. If I ask Mari to assist me, will you help Samara since you understand how frightening it can be to be amongst strangers?"

  "Já. I will show her our ways."

  Rúna clapped her hands together. "Wonderful! We must all meet in the morning. I want to hear all about this land where women are learned, Samara."

  Before she could reply, a hush fell over the crowded tables as four towering men dressed in full battle gear strode across the grass toward them.

  "Who are they?"

  "Eriksson sons," Ásta whispered.

  "Valen's brothers, my brothers by marriage," Rúna replied. "I married Jorvan Eriksson, three years ago."

  Samara couldn't pull her gaze from the approaching Vikings. Each man wore a thick fur coat, had a rawhide bag slung over a shoulder, and had various axes and swords secured with leather straps across their backs. The air around the warriors crackled with carnal promise. She'd never seen so many handsome men in one place. Were all the men on this island like this?

  Her pulse jumped. Two of the men were identical twins with hair the color of a burnt orange sunset as it kissed the horizon, and matching red beards. Twin souls! It was a rare blessing for a family.

  Valen rose beside her, and then walked around the table. "Ivvàr, Rorik," he said, nodding in greeting.

  "Valen," the twins replied in unison.

  When he turned his attention to the two other men, she studied them closer.

  One had his fair hair tied back, leaving the dark ink design that covered his shaved skull over his left ear visible. The other had the hair shorn close to the skull on one side and a mass of light hair that fell in gentle waves below his ea
r on the other. His face was covered in a thick beard and the barest peek of an inked design was visible on the back of his neck.

  Valen nodded at them. "Njal, Erik. My thanks for your haste."

  "We leave with the tide," the bearded one said, his voice a deep rumble.

  Valen nodded and looked back at the twins. "Ivvàr, Rorik. Find Leif Gustafsson. He was last seen heading south. He will answer for raiding in Eriksson waters." His words cut through the silence of his clansmen, reassuring them that he would have vengeance for the slight to his people.

  She fell back in her chair. He was sending someone to capture her attacker. Her pulse hammered as the crowd erupted. Their fists pounded tables and they drained their cups in solidarity with his order.

  When the noise eased, Valen continued. "Erik, Njal. Find the Caliph's fleet, and tell him that he may collect his scribe if he wishes her return."

  A wave of relief swept over her. Her father would come for her—she would soon be safe.

  "May Njord fill your sails and protect you. Hasten back before Midsummer Eve." Valen pulled each of them into a backslapping hug, and then stood watching until his brothers disappeared back into the night and the feasting resumed.

  She studied the wide expanse of his shoulders and the flickering gold of his long hair. This man was nothing like the tales of cruel Vikings the travelling bards had brought to the Abbasid court. His response to her arrival had been as carefully considered and fair as any judgment by her father. He was not ruled by explosive violence and a thirst for blood, he was clever and careful, and that made him dangerous in a different way.

  He turned on his heel and pinned her with a pensive look.

  Her breath hitched. It felt like he could see inside her, that his eyes as dark as the sapphires that decorated the royal palace could mesmerize her into spilling her secrets. She broke free of his magnetic stare and slowly lowered her head. Regardless of his distaste for her, he'd done her a favor and she would acknowledge the aid he offered. Raising her head she met his gaze once more, her heart thundering in her chest as she waited for his response. Would he acknowledge her silent thanks, or rebuff her again in front of his people?