The Viking's Conquest Read online

  Never before have I been so close to a man. A woman of my station barely interacts with men at all—unless you count the occasional state congress, in which I have once or twice been permitted to dance with peers of my brothers. By contrast now I can feel the heat from Magnus’ body and the throbbing organ at his thigh nudging against my bottom. I gasp at the sensation and hear him chuckle from behind me.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice full of sarcasm. “Have you never felt a man’s excitement before?”

  I turn to my right and see his arrogant face smiling. “I know not what you speak of,” I lie.

  The grin on Magnus’ face widens. “Of course not, my lady,” he replies. “Let’s just say it is your good fortune that my prince has requested your delivery to him personally. Otherwise I would find a great many other uses for you back at camp!”

  I flush at his words and turn back to face Agneta’s head. She rushes onward, thankfully choosing a safe path through the trees.

  “That said, I am certain that my Lofðungr has his own uses in mind for you…”

  His voice travels clearly past my ear, but I deny this latest comment any acknowledgement. My belly however cannot ignore his words and twists at the thought that Magnus is probably right. I grip the saddle even tighter as my mind imagines what this prince may have in store for me. Am I to become his concubine? A plaything for his every whim? My blood boils as I muse on the prospect and yet I say nothing further. Instead I watch Agneta gallop onward, moving me ever closer to whatever fate awaits.

  Chapter Four: Courtesy

  We ride through the day for what feels like hours. Around us the landscape gradually changes. The dense forest soon makes way for the northern territories; places I have heard about but never seen with my own eyes. The path becomes steeper as Agneta is forced to climb increasingly hilly terrain. On the horizon I make out dramatic mountain ranges and watch in a daze as the sun moves from high in the sky to drop low behind these peaks.

  At some point my eyes close, the desire to sleep becoming an overwhelming battle in its own right. The rhythm of Agneta’s pace and the hardness of Magnus’ body combine to coax me into an unlikely slumber. For some time, I try to resist the urge, straining at my eyelids to remain open. Inevitably though I lose the fight and fall into a fitful sleep against my captor.

  I am roused by the sudden slowing of Agneta’s pace and open my eyes to find us approaching a settlement ahead. Upon the battlements and the flags flying in the cooling breeze, I recognise the crests I had seen earlier on the armour of the invading troops. It’s then the realization hits me; we have arrived at the place these marauders call a base. I am to be delivered to the Viking prince.

  “Kveðja, Magnus!”

  The sound of another voice startles me and I look to my left to see a well-armed man standing on the path below.

  “Kveðja, brother!” replies the giant holding me tight from behind. I realise with chagrin that I had been dozing against his chest, and quickly move myself forward and as far away from him as possible.

  We approach the settlement, and a large wooden gate ahead of us slowly begins to raise. I see soldiers on either side of it salute as we pass. Magnus rides Agneta through the entrance, driving her hard as we make our way into camp. Gradually as he instructs her to slow and we drop to a trot, I begin to absorb my new surroundings. The place is massive, so much bigger than we had believed at home. There must be literally thousands of men based here—all hell-bent on savaging the south. I shudder as I consider this, wondering if any of our neighbouring kingdoms will survive this onslaught.

  The light is slipping away fast, making the settlement seem all the more malevolent. Agneta travels only a short distance inside the camp, but the sheer size of the place feels daunting. It is dense, made up of dozens of small tents erected in circular groups across the expanse of the ground. Men congregate in each group, warming themselves by open fires whilst they roast and share their latest kill. The aroma of meat and dirt is everywhere, staining my hair and seeping into my skin.

  We stop by a clearing and Magnus dismounts in an instant. I am left sitting astride the mare alone and all of a sudden I actually miss his close proximity. In its own perverse way, he had become a sort of security to me. Magnus secures Agneta’s bridle to a low-lying wooden stake where a number of other horses are grazing, before he turns to me.

  “Time to deliver you,” he says, winking at me.

  I look at him scornfully, although I can already feel the blush growing up my face. “I am not a thing to be delivered!” I hiss down at him.

  He smiles and a low feeling of dread spreads through me. “Dismount if you will,” he says by means of reply. “Join me here.”

  I eye him, the old defiance rising in me again as I shift my weight backwards, finding the left stirrup again. Using my limited grip, I swing my right leg over the saddle and drop unceremoniously to the dirt below. Magnus is over me before I can even remove my left foot from my stirrup.

  “You will be presented in the proper way,” he informs me as he approaches me from behind.

  I climb to my feet, unsure of his intentions, but find the weight of his hands preventing my further movement. As quick as a flash his hands move to my head. I feel them yank at something at my neck, pulling it north and before I can stop him, Magnus forces my old gag back between my lips. Instinctively I protest and try to stop him, but my attempts are met with a sharp swat to my behind. I yelp through the material now back between my teeth, feeling him retightening the fastening behind my hair.

  “Enough!” snaps Magnus. “You belong to my Lofðungr and you had better start to behave!”

  I snort at him and screech my protest through the gag. Seeing my response, Magnus rolls his eyes and leans forward, grabbing me around the middle and throwing me over his shoulder again. Incensed, I struggle against his large frame, knowing already that my attempts are futile, but unable to contain my outrage. Magnus strides away from Agneta and we travel across the camp. After some minutes the fight in me lessens and I stop struggling against him. I reconcile that there will be a time to fight and I should save my energy for whenever that occurs. Eventually he slows as we presumably reach our destination. I strain my neck to see where we are, but can make out very little from over his left shoulder. He grips me tightly as his pace falls to a saunter, and I hear the presence of several other men.

  “What have you there, friend?” asks a voice.

  Magnus laughs and pats my ass in some sort of show. “A prize for our prince!”

  Various men exchange further comments about my unexpected appearance at camp in some Norse tongue that I—no doubt thankfully—cannot understand. I imagine the types of crude remarks they are sharing, and am suddenly grateful to be head first over Magnus and not to have to see any of my own ignominy. Magnus makes his way through the throng, his long strides cutting through the crowd like boiling water through ice. We approach a quieter area and I notice that the sounds of strangers have finally fallen away, leaving Magnus to his task.

  “Magnus? What is your business here?” comes a deep voice.

  “Kveðja, I bring the prince property that he claimed in Donrose.”

  I baulk at this new description of me, but resist the temptation to protest further—his impromptu gag has made it virtually impossible anyhow. There is a pause in conversation and from my eye line I can see that the unknown voice—presumably a sentry of some sort—has disappeared inside some sort of large canvas structure. At this moment I am struck by how strong Magnus must be. He has carried me some distance, after riding for several hours and battling before that, and he seems neither weary nor breathless. I remind myself wryly not to be too impressed by the man who earlier had tried to slay me, but still cannot help but be awed by his power. As I muse, the guard returns and I can just make out his gesture for Magnus to enter. We move slowly forward and he bends low to allow us both entry.

  The air inside this new environment is different. There’s wa
rmth and the scent of some foreign spice that I do not know.

  “Greetings, Magnus.”

  I know this voice. I recognise the foreign, husky tone and instinctively I know where he has taken me—or at least who he has taken me to…

  “My Lofðungr,” Magnus begins, falling to one knee with me still bound over his shoulder. “I beg forgiveness for my insolence earlier and bring the captive as you ordered.”

  At this he flings me unceremoniously to his feet. I hit the floor and feel the impact reverberate down my painful left side. I flinch, sucking in the pain and roll to my right side, eyeing the prince looming high above me.

  His eyes are on me as they had been before, assessing me at great length, taking in the shape of my legs and chest, and then finally reaching my eyes. I wonder what he finds there because at this moment even I cannot describe the mixture of anger and terror that fills me. I can feel impertinence building from my every pore, daring him to try me and see how defiant I can be.

  For my part I can read little into his hard expression and cannot say for sure what I find in those large blue eyes. Desire is a possibility—the thought making me clench my muscles in rebellion, but almost certainly there is curiosity loaded there too, and possibly amusement at his new prize. He takes a small step toward me, reaching for Magnus and placing his large hand on his shoulder.

  “Thank you, Magnus. I appreciate your efficiency in this task. Please rise and go eat and drink your fill. The battle has been a success for now—Donrose is fallen and our brethren will secure the territory on the ‘morrow!”

  “Thank you, sire,” replies Magnus, who takes his hand and kisses it in loyalty, before rising slowly. “My Lofðungr, one final word if I may?”

  The prince sighs, a near silent sound that I am certain Magnus does not hear. “Of course. What troubles you?”

  “Far be it from me to advise you, my Lofðungr, but be cautious of your new captive. She may look fragile, but so far she has responded to nothing except a firm hand.”

  The prince chuckles at these words, his gaze again returning to my bound form at his feet. “Then it is as I have imagined it to be, Magnus, but thank you for the warning, my friend!”

  Magnus bows respectfully, a wide smile also on his face as he turns to depart the pavilion, leaving me alone with his Lofðungr. A moment passes in silence and the prince moves toward me slowly. He crouches in front of me and I brace myself, expecting some type of violence or reproachful remark at least. He moves his right arm toward me, inch by inch as though he does not want to frighten me. I watch it creep in my direction, passing my bound wrists and over my gasping chest, until his large hand reaches my face. There he pauses and watches me intently for a moment. Our eyes lock; his cool and in control and mine no doubt betraying the terrified angst I am feeling.

  I feel one and then another of his long fingers brush across my left cheek. He pushes them between my skin and the impromptu gag that Magnus had tied in place. The material is eased out of my mouth and gradually down my chin, until it falls loose around the front of my neck. Satisfied, he rises and turns, reseating himself on the large throne-like chair to which he was previously seated.

  “Now we are alone—finally.” Those eyes drill into me again. “Tell me, my lady, who are you really?”

  I flex my fingers in front of me and move my head, boldly meeting his gaze. “I am Aurelie of Donrose, the king’s only daughter and certainly not your lady.”

  That wry smile cuts across his features again. “I thought you may say that, and yet you find yourself here, tied up on my floor and so, I rather think that you are mine?”

  “I know not who you are,” I say in the most derisory way I can muster, “and yet I promise you that I belong to no man of the north!”

  He exhales, shifting his weight in the chair to lean against his right elbow. His big blue eyes never leave me, eying me with an intensity I have never felt before.

  I push myself upright—not as easy as you’d think without the proper use of your hands. Sudden pain ricochets down my left side and I squeeze my eyes shut. The sound of his movement makes them fly open again and I recoil as I see how close he now is to my seated position.

  “You’re in pain, my lady?”

  There’s genuine concern etched across his face and for the first time I acknowledge just what a handsome face it is. His hair is the colour of dark sand, but lighter than any I’d find on a shore of Donrose. His skin is paler than my own and that of my kin and yet I can see the years of experience worn into his forehead and those high cheekbones. His chin is covered in long, dark blond hair, and then there are those eyes… They are the colour of the deepest oceans I have read fables about, and they swim with dark intensity.

  I take a deep breath, aware suddenly that I have been gaping at him this whole time. “I was hurt in battle,” I whisper, barely able to sustain eye contact with him.

  He nods, rising from his crouched position and extends a muscular arm down toward me. Slowly and tentatively I meet his hand, making skin contact with him with my bound wrists. As the back of my hand brushes against him, we make eye contact again and an inexplicable shiver rushes down my spine.

  “Let my servants attend to your injuries…”

  I’m not sure if this is a question or a command, but his tone is almost hypnotic, trying to quash my defiance and make me compliant. I stand up next to him, fighting the urge to choose an easy life and allow his devilish façade to overawe me. It would, I realise, be all too easy to just stop fighting and consent for him to take care of me.

  He takes the binds between my wrists and guides me gently toward the side of the structure. Tall candle lights line the edges, casting light into the darkest shadows of the pavilion. We make our way in silence to the far rear corner, behind his throne. This is an entirely private area, distinct from the rest of the space. There’s a high, soft-looking bed away to one side and so I surmise that this may well be the prince’s sleeping quarters. He turns to face me, his face half lit by the large candles to his right.

  “My lady of Donrose, although you are my prisoner, I am not a savage. I would like to treat you well and with respect, but—let me be clear—if you choose to disobey me, I will not be kind or respectful. You will be punished.” His eyes swell with emotion as he speaks slowly and clearly to me. “Do you understand me?”

  The certain authority in his voice ignites something inside of me. Of course as a woman I have been given commands before by my father or brothers, and I often considered them to be unfair or unreasonable, but they never made me feel this way. His words hang in the air around us—like a sensual threat—taunting me to challenge him. I swallow hard, sizing him up, musing on what kind of a leader this man may be. I know nothing of him, except that he has led his men to storm and overrun my castle this night. And yet, he has already demonstrated his compassion ordering Magnus to spare me and no doubt saving my life.

  For the time being I decide to sit on my naturally rebellious nature and acquiesce. “I understand,” I say, making sure that I hold his gaze as I speak.

  He nods, a small flicker of amusement filling his eyes as he does, as though he has read and understood my conflicted feelings on the subject.

  “This punishment that you speak of…” I probe the topic he raised with caution, not wanting to initiate his displeasure with my own thirst for curiosity. His eyes are back on me in a flash. “To what do you mean?”

  He smiles and it feels predatory. “If you behave yourself, my lady, then you need never find out.” His smile breaks into a soft chuckle as he watches my reaction. “If you choose to defy me,” he goes on, “then as a starting point, you will find yourself over my lap and chastised.”

  I exhale in a rush, unaware until that moment that I had been holding my breath. It sounds as though he is describing a spanking—the sort that I received by my handmaiden as a child!

  “A spanking?”

  The words rush from my mouth in an excited whisper, and for a momen
t even I am unsure if I like the sound of the ordeal, or if it rightly disgusts me.

  “If you will, Aurelie,” he smiles, not reassuring me one bit.

  Adrenaline courses through my body at the thought of this, the utter indignation of it—that this man could contemplate spanking me. It is as ridiculous as it is disturbing! And yet there’s something else mixed into my emotional response, something downright unbelievable to me; there’s excitement and arousal. I can feel the heat rising through my body, settling and growing in my own flushed cheeks. I pray that he may not notice in the half light, yet I suspect that he already has.

  I say nothing further on the subject, pressing my lips together as I muse on the prospect, darting between my usual bold defiance and the warm tingling sensation stirring between my thighs. I have no idea why my body betrays me this way and yet at the same time I have no intentions of allowing him to realise the effect any further.

  There are moments of heavy silence as the weight of his stare bears down into me. I can almost hear his mind racing and am sure that he can hear my quickening heartbeat. All of a sudden he breaks the stillness by moving one of those large palms to my face. I recoil, more out of instinct than fear, but steady myself as the heat of his hand approaches. Shutting my eyes momentarily, I imagine how that palm might feel against my backside… As I push the thought away, I blink them open to see him, now within inches of my face.

  “Will you be well-behaved enough for those injuries to be tended to now?”