Stolen By The Viking (Sons 0f Sigurd Series Book 1) Read online

  Even so, she could not dispel her suspicions. She was his captive, and he had no intention of freeing her. Was he trying to soften her distrust? Or perhaps he did not want her to fight him when he forced her to share his bed. Breanne swallowed hard, trying not to think of it.

  During the journey to Áth Cliath, countless hands had groped her, and she had fought to protect herself. They had laughed at her, and she’d received a few bruises when she had struck back.

  Breanne gripped the edges of the seal cloak, shutting her eyes to try to blot out what was to come. Though this journey would grant her somewhat of a reprieve from his attentions tonight, she did not doubt that the Lochlannach meant to use her for his own pleasure. His blue eyes stared upon her with interest, and her body prickled at the thought of his hands upon her bare flesh. She tried to dispel the thought, but the more he stared at her, the more she sensed that he would not be a brutal lover. Instead, she imagined those rough palms caressing her skin, arousing her. Without warning, her breasts tightened against the thin fabric of her shift and she caught her breath. He was handsome and stoic, a fierce warrior with undeniable strength. At the thought of him pressing her back against the sleeping furs, she could not suppress the unexpected response from her body.

  And by the gods, she knew not what he would do to her.

  * * *

  Alarr sailed with Rurik, grateful that his brother had maintained the silence. He didn’t know if his captive knew any of their language, and he didn’t want to take the risk. For that reason, he had spoken little on the journey, until it was in the early hours of the next morning.

  He’d been tracking King Feann’s foster daughter for the past sennight, fully intending to use her as a hostage. He had paid a soldier to take Breanne and bring her to him, with the understanding that she would remain unharmed. Instead, the man had betrayed him, selling her to a slaver who had taken a shipment of women along the coast. It had taken several days to track her to Áth Cliath, and Alarr was irritated by the delay. But now, he realised that there was an unexpected advantage, for she would know nothing of his connection to Feann. He could learn more about her foster father’s weaknesses if he could coax her to talk.

  Although Feann had not been the one to plunge the blade into his father’s heart, Alarr knew the Irish king had been involved in the plot. There was no question that the man had travelled across the sea, seeking the death of his enemy...but why? What had Sigurd ever done to Feann that would cause such a response? He needed to uncover the secrets that veiled his father’s death.

  After the wedding massacre, his brothers had taken him into hiding to recover from his wounds. They had burned the bodies of Gilla and her family before burying their ashes. Alarr had kept Hafr’s sword as a reminder of the tragedy. King Harald Finehair had stripped his brother Brandt of his claim to Maerr, giving it to his aunt’s husband, Thorfinn. Thorfinn had declared them outlaws, and Alarr and his brothers had no choice but to leave Maerr. But not before they had all sworn a blood vow of vengeance. Every man who had played a part in the wedding slaughter would face justice for what he had done.

  Alarr had asked Rurik to accompany him to Éireann, while there were rumours that others had gone to Alba and even to Constantinople. Within a year, Alarr hoped to scatter the ashes of their enemies so that they would find no place in Valhalla.

  And Breanne, foster daughter of King Feann, would be used to gain the information he needed. Although his knowledge of the Irish language was not strong, Alarr had learned enough to understand it during the past year. Rurik’s grasp was better, since his mother had been Irish.

  He’d understood every question Breanne had voiced, along with her frustration when he’d refused to answer. But he had given her a crust of bread and some dried meat, which she had devoured. He and Rurik took turns keeping guard until at long last, she had succumbed to sleep, curled up against the seal fur he had given her.

  Breanne Ó Callahan was a beautiful woman with hair the colour of a sunset—gleaming red and gold in the light. Her green eyes reminded him of the hills in Maerr, and there was no doubting her courage. She had a strong will, and he admired her refusal to weep or yield. There were bruises on her face, neck, and arms, as well as the raw flesh at her wrists and ankles, but she had not complained of pain even once.

  * * *

  They had sailed through the afternoon and night, using the stars to mark their path. Rurik slept for a time, and Alarr caught an hour of rest before dawn broke across the sky, revealing the southern coast of Éireann. They would reach the Hook Peninsula soon, and Alarr intended to shelter there and rest for a few days. His father had spoken of Styr Hardrata and his wife Caragh, who had formed their own settlement near the coast. The thought of a true bed with furs and a fire were a welcome respite from the miserable rain that had not once relented. Even in morning, the clouded sky offered very little light.

  ‘What will you do with her?’ Rurik asked quietly.

  ‘She will give us the information we seek about Feann, and we will use her to get inside the gates of Killcobar. After that, I care not.’

  Rurik adjusted one of the sails, and in the distance, they could see the flare of torches from the harbour. ‘Do not get too close to her, Alarr. Question Breanne if you must, but do not soften.’

  He understood his brother’s warning. When it came to women, he found it difficult to remain harsh. His mother had taught him to be kind to maidens, and he could not cast off his upbringing so easily. And there was no doubting that Breanne was a temptation.

  A darker voice within him whispered that he could claim her as his concubine. It would be another act of retribution against King Feann to dishonour his foster daughter in such a way. He imagined this beautiful woman curled up against him, her bare skin warming his. Her reddish-gold hair was tangled against her face as she slept, and he wondered what it would be like to have that silken length against him.

  ‘She will tell us everything,’ he said. ‘But only if we let her believe that we mean her no harm. We will say that we are taking her home in the hopes of a ransom.’

  ‘You’re going to betray her,’ Rurik said quietly.

  It was unavoidable, and Alarr refused to feel any guilt. He had journeyed across the sea for many days, keeping his rage at the forefront of his mind. ‘I will do what I must. The woman should believe that we are helping her. Afterwards, I will kill Feann for what he did to our father and me.’

  Alarr adjusted the sails as they neared land, and he centred his mind upon the settlement ahead. Absently, he rubbed at the scars on his calves. It was nothing short of a miracle that he’d managed to walk again. The healer had treated his wounds, wrapping them tightly so the muscles could heal. For the next year, he had struggled with every step, and even now, he had a limp. No one spoke of his fighting skills any more. They knew, as he did, that his days of being a warrior were over. He could barely keep his balance, much less defeat an enemy. It ground at his pride, a festering resentment that would never fade.

  The dark memory of his wedding day lingered within him, an ever-constant reminder of what he’d lost. Alarr wanted to avenge his family’s honour, and the surest way to reach Feann was through his foster daughter. He would revel in the moment when he could avenge his family, watching the life fade from Feann’s eyes. And after he’d killed his enemy, the ghosts of his past would be silenced at last. If he lost his own life, he cared not. He was no longer the warrior he had once been, and he would rather die than be less of a man. All that mattered now was vengeance.

  When they drew closer to the pier, Alarr took a length of rope. Breanne stirred from sleep the moment he touched her. ‘Where are we?’ she asked.

  He didn’t answer but bound her hands tightly in front of her. Annoyance flared in her eyes, but he would not risk losing such a valuable prisoner.

  ‘Of course, you’re not going to answer,’ she responded. ‘You probably don’
t understand a word I’m saying.’

  Alarr helped Rurik tie off the longboat, and when Breanne tried to climb into the water, he jerked the rope binding her hands and pulled her back. She cursed at him, but he ignored her.

  Once the longboat was secure, he stepped into the hip-deep water and reached for his captive. She fought him, but he held her tightly and strode through the waves until they reached the shore. The settlement lay a short distance from the water’s edge, closer to the river. Alarr lowered her to the sand but kept her rope in his hands, forcing her to walk alongside him.

  ‘If you think I am going to remain your slave, you are mistaken,’ Breanne muttered. ‘The moment you try to sleep, I will disappear. And may the gods curse you if you dare to lay a hand on me. I will cut it off first.’

  She continued to voice her frustration, cursing them with every step. They walked from the water’s edge, up the sandy hillside, to the open meadows. A few sheep grazed nearby, and they continued their path towards the fortress in the distance. Only when they had reached the gates did she stop her endless words. The settlement was newly built, and even beyond the walls, Alarr could see that construction of several longhouses had recently begun.

  Four warriors guarded the gates with long spears, and there was no sense of welcome in their demeanour. Alarr approached with Rurik and greeted them. ‘Tell Styr Hardrata that Alarr and Rurik, sons of King Sigurd of Maerr, have come to seek shelter.’

  One of the men inclined his head and departed, but they were forced to wait until he returned with Styr’s permission to enter. Only then did the guards allow them inside the settlement.

  By now, the inhabitants had begun to stir. The guard led them towards one of the longhouses near the centre, and they passed by men carrying peat for the outdoor fires. An old woman stirred a pot, adding raw meat to the stew as she stared at them.

  Weariness made his vision blur, but Alarr continued walking with Breanne’s ropes in one hand and Rurik at his side. Although he had never met the Norse leader, he hoped to learn if the man had any connections to King Feann or if he had any knowledge to share.

  They followed the guard inside and passed by several tables as they approached the dais. Styr Hardrata rose from his chair and came to greet them. The leader was tall, with dark-blond hair and a light beard. His brown eyes held a welcome, but there was also a sense of caution, as if he would not hesitate to strike them down if they were a threat.

  ‘We bid you welcome, Alarr and Rurik, sons of King Sigurd.’ His gaze narrowed upon Breanne, and he exchanged a glance with his wife. ‘Who is your hostage?’

  Alarr jerked the ropes forward. ‘She is a concubine I bought from Áth Cliath. I intend to ransom her to her foster father, King Feann of Killcobar.’

  Styr’s wife appeared unsettled by their captive. Her long brown hair was braided and bound at the nape of her neck, and she wore a cap. Her violet eyes softened with sympathy. ‘Let me take her, Alarr. She is hurt. I will see to her needs and talk with her.’

  The leader introduced her, saying, ‘This is my wife, Caragh. Will you allow her to tend your hostage?’

  Alarr considered it a moment. ‘As long as she is not permitted to leave the settlement.’

  Styr gave the orders to his men and nodded. ‘If she tries, they will bring her back again.’

  ‘Untie her,’ Caragh ordered. ‘She will come with me. You may speak with Styr a while, and I will make a place for all of you in one of our longhouses. I know you will be wanting to rest after your journey.’

  Alarr could hardly suppress his yawn, and the young woman smiled. ‘Perhaps on the morrow, you can help our men with the harvest. We would welcome your assistance.’ There was no doubting that this was how she intended them to repay their debt, by offering labour in exchange.

  Even so, Alarr was uneasy about letting Caragh take Breanne with her. He didn’t trust his slave not to flee, but neither could he insult his hosts by implying that they could not keep her hostage.

  ‘Bring her to me as soon as you can,’ he agreed. It was the only thing he could say without offending Styr’s wife. He could only hope that allowing Breanne some small measure of comfort would be the first step towards earning her trust.

  * * *

  ‘You must be weary,’ the woman said. Breanne was startled to hear the Irish language flowing so easily from her. Her expression must have revealed her shock, for the woman introduced herself. ‘I am Caragh, formerly of the Ó Brannon tribe. My husband is Styr Hardrata.’

  ‘I am Breanne Ó Callahan.’

  ‘And your foster father is King Feann, is he not?’

  She nodded, wondering if Caragh could help her. ‘He is. I am trying to get home again. I was taken captive and sold into slavery.’

  ‘These men are taking you home,’ Caragh said. ‘Did you not realise?’

  No, she hadn’t. But then, the men had told her nothing at all—not even their names. ‘I cannot speak their language. They have said nothing to me.’

  The young woman’s eyes turned sympathetic. ‘Well, I would not say that they are bringing you home out of kindness. More that they intend to ransom you.’

  That sounded more realistic. But even so, Breanne could hardly believe what she was hearing. She had tried to escape, and the Lochlannach had bought her. ‘Why would they do this? They don’t even know me.’

  ‘They are mercenaries. And you’re wrong—they know exactly who you are.’

  Now, it made more sense why the Lochlannach had taken her captive, if he had known that she was the foster daughter of a king. But how? She had never journeyed to Áth Cliath, nor had she seen this man before.

  Perhaps they had overheard something in the marketplace. Someone else might have recognised her, or he might have heard a rumour. There was no way to truly know. But the realisation that they were bringing her home—even for a ransom—caused such a wave of gratitude, she could barely suppress her smile of relief.

  ‘Who are they?’ she questioned. ‘They have not even told me their names.’

  ‘The older man is Alarr and the younger is Rurik. Both are from the kingdom of Maerr.’

  She had never heard of it, but then, she had never left her homeland or travelled anywhere outside of Éireann.

  ‘Would you care to bathe and change into a clean gown?’ Caragh offered.

  ‘I would be so grateful.’ Breanne had only the rough shift that the slavers had forced her to wear and the seal fur that the men had given her to keep warm.

  ‘I will take you to one of the longhouses. I fear we have only begun building our settlement, and there are many shelters that are still unfinished. We hope to have them completed before winter, but we need the help of every man.’ She offered a slight smile. ‘I had thought, for a time, that Styr and I might travel across the seas. But now we decided to stay here for the winter...’ She rested her hand upon her stomach, and Breanne understood her unspoken blessing of a child to come.

  Caragh led her back towards a small partitioned room that contained a wooden trunk. She opened it and sorted through garments until she chose a green gown. ‘Here. This might fit you.’ She held it out, but Breanne was reluctant to take it.

  ‘It’s too fine,’ she argued. ‘I cannot accept something so beautiful.’

  ‘You may wear it until you are home again,’ Caragh said. ‘And then send it back to me.’ There was no other choice, so Breanne accepted the woollen gown. The stitching was delicate, and she had no doubt it would be warm and comfortable.

  Caragh led her back outside towards a different longhouse that was partially finished. On the way, she caught the attention of a young man and gave him orders in the Norse language. Then she took the gown from Breanne. ‘I will send you a maidservant to tend your bath. I will give her the gown, and she can help you dress afterwards.’

  Breanne thanked her, and Caragh brought her towards th
e far end of the longhouse. Another partition hid the wooden tub from public view. It was not large, but the idea of warmed water was a luxury that she welcomed.

  While they waited for the servants to fill the tub with the hot water, she told Caragh of her foster father’s ringfort where she had grown up. A hollow feeling seized her inside. Had anyone searched for her? Or had they given up, believing she was dead or ruined? It hurt to imagine that Feann had turned his back on her and discarded her as a foster daughter. But it was a real possibility, one she had to accept. She was not of his bloodline. An ache settled within her heart at the thought of being forgotten and alone.

  After the tub was filled with hot water, Caragh added scented oil to the bath. A young maidservant joined them, and Breanne allowed them to strip off her garments before she settled into the steaming tub.

  The warm water consoled her, and she kept her knees drawn up, sinking down as low as she could to immerse herself. She leaned back, dipping her hair into the water, and the maid gave her soap for washing. She scrubbed away the dirt, wishing she could scrub away the memories of captivity so easily. Her wrists and ankles burned from the sores made by the manacles and the ropes. The maidservant brought a linen drying cloth, but before she could help her out of the tub, the Lochlannach returned.

  She covered herself and glared at him. If he had come here intending to glimpse her naked body, it would not happen. ‘Get out,’ she ordered.

  His blue eyes stared at her, but instead of leaving, he turned around. ‘If you want to return home, you must learn to obey.’

  It was the first time she had heard him speak her language. The sound of his words had a foreign cast to them, and she suddenly realised that he had kept silent on purpose. She motioned for the drying cloth and the maid brought it to her. In a swift motion, Breanne shielded her body and wrapped the drying cloth around herself, before she stepped out of the tub.