The Warlord's Wife (27 page)

Midsummer Solstice—1159 A.D.

“Magnus, I can smell the bonfires. We are late. My parents have been waiting for hours. We must dress.” His wife was trying to argue her way out of bed. He grabbed her arm and pulled her back with a little too much force, banging her chin against his chest in the process. “Ouch—that was a bit rough,” she giggled.

He rolled on top of her, grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head. His thigh pushed in between her legs, prying them apart. “You like it a bit rough. Do not bother to pretend otherwise,” he growled in her ear, sucking and biting down her throat.

“Nay. I do not,” his wife lied, and shoved for him to release her.

“I am going to prove that you are wrong and I am right.”

“You are a beast, an arrogant . . .” His wife’s eyes drifted closed, and she melted beneath him, proving that he was right and she was wrong, again.

He took her fast and hard as she wanted, until she called out his name, biting down on his shoulder, shouting her release. She lay before him with hooded eyes, panting for air. She was his, and he was never going to have another moment where he felt more connected, more satisfied, more . . .

He jerked up, staring down at her with the sudden knowledge.

She owned his body and soul. She took him when she wanted, how she wanted, not the other way around. He launched up out of bed.

“Magnus, are you all right? Are you ill?”

He stepped farther away, looking back down at her. She lay on the bed, naked and warm. Her skin glistened with their combined sweat.

This was dangerous. This was a very big problem.

“Magnus, what is the matter?” Lida crossed the chamber. The sultry line of her hips dipped and swayed with every step. Her body controlled his. He could not master himself in her presence.

She controlled him. He would do anything for her.

She touched the center of his brow with her thumb, smoothing away the peaked point. “’Tis alright, you can tell me if you want. I feel the same.” She imprisoned him with her stare. “Magnus, I love you. I have loved you for a very long time, and I have known for a very long time that you love me.” She rose up on her toes and kissed him, softly at first and then deeper, harder, sealing her words, spreading her love throughout his very being.

“’Tis an unnatural feeling,” he said through a clenched jaw. “I have never felt this desire to surrender before. I tried to fight, but I grew tired of pushing it down. I wanted to possess you, make you mine in body and soul. Only, you—you have crushed me under your will, Lida. I cannot surrender this feeling to you. I will not submit to you.”

She shrugged. “Then don’t. It makes no difference to me, Magnus. I know I own you just as much as you own me. Tell yourself that I do not if it makes you feel better. I care not. I know you love me.” Her smile broadened. “I can feel it from you”—she leaned in to whisper in his ear—“all the time. When you look at me, I feel it. When you order me around, I feel it. When you are deep inside of me, I feel it.” She exhaled a sweet breath across his neck and throat. “I love you, Magnus, and I will tell you I love you whenever I want from this day forward. I will call you my love if that is my wish.” She smirked wickedly, walking toward her clothing.

Magnus grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly back. He swallowed down his remorse. “I love you and I will declare it to you whenever I wish.” He crashed his mouth down to her and she leapt her body up, locking her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.

She really was a remarkably strong woman. That was good. She was going to need her strength for what he had in mind for her.

Magnus carried her back to bed, laid her down, and made slow, passionate love to her, whispering his confession of love in her ear as they hovered between bliss and madness.

A hour later, very, very late for the midsummer solstice feast, Magnus and his glowing wife joined the hall full of their friends and family. No one had missed the hosts, not with so many relatives to entertain the year-old twins, showering kisses on rosy cheeks and cheering on first steps. Katia was in her element with all the attention from her royal Danish great-aunt Caecilia, who made up a game of switching languages with every other sentence.

Later, the challenge went out to the head tables that if someone addresses you in one tongue, you must reply in a different.

“My daughter has made you a most becoming new tunic, Magnus,” Ingerid complemented him in Swedish. “The color suits your eyes,” she said, garnering the attention of the crowded hall, and of all the Danish and Swedish diplomats who had made the long journey to celebrate the festival with them.

Magnus nodded his thanks to his mother-in-law and in a well-rehearsed, fluent Finnish tongue replied, “Your braids are very lovely as well, Ingerid.”

The hall fell silent, several smirks and a few gasps escaping. His brother slapped the table and started howling first, followed by his brother-in-law Peter, and then Tero.

Ingerid patted Magnus on the shoulder, looking away as she tried to stifle her own giggle. “Though you are not yet my greatest love, Magnus, I will say you are in my heart as well.”

“Katia!” Magnus’s eyes narrowed in on his daughter, her foot frozen mid-step as she attempted to creep backward from the hall.

“Well done, Far. Your accent is improving nicely.” She burst into a sprint, gigging madly, escaping into the kitchen.

I would like to dedicate this work to the kindness of strangers.

There once was a little girl who had a very hard time learning to read and an even harder time learning to write. She had fallen into the cracks of busy parents and an ill-funded school system. She grew up feeling stupid and used her untapped imagination to talk her way into the next grade every year.

It’s hard to shake off the feeling the label “stupid” gives a girl. Even well into adulthood, with hard-earned, tangible successes to show for herself, that little girl always thought of herself as dumb.

No one in my life did more for me in overcoming this ingrained feeling than four strangers.

I will always be grateful and would like to give thanks to:

Jacki G. Your kind words of encouragement and invaluable online beta help changed my life, literally. You gave me confidence and planted a literary dream in me that I never would have dreamed for myself.

Maggie Jagger, I am so indebted to you for all the time you spent reading over the first chapters of my first completed manuscript, which I ended up chucking out the window when I realized from you just how much I had to learn. Out of the goodness of your heart, you took me back to the basics and gave me more writing skills than school ever did.

I thank the Pilates Goddess Karen, who arranged a chance introduction with a successful new author by the name Coreene Callahan.

Thank you, Coreene, for the long talks in the Pilates studio parking lot and coffee shops. Over the last few years, every one of your suggestions and tips has paid off.

With all that said, this book would never have been published without the hard work and talent of my editor, Julie Mianecki. You are the definition of patience and kindness. You have helped me improve every page, perhaps every line of my labour of love. I can never thank you enough for this incredible opportunity and experience.

If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a review at Goodreads

or any reader site or blog you frequent.

Keep reading for a preview of

THE IRON PRINCESS

Available June 2015 from InterMix

Higher and higher the breeze carried the fluttering, yellow creature. Shading his eyes, Lothair watched, waited, until an upward gust sent the butterfly over the gray stone wall. A linked crown of iron thorns garnished the top of the outer walls. Fearlessly, the beautiful creature came to rest on the point of a razor sharp spike.

Lothair stood with his arms folded as he stared up, contemplating the enormity of Tronscar’s keep. The soft, natural beauty of flora and fauna contrasted with the manmade designs, all of which seemed to be designed to glorify steel and weaponry—the tangible representation of Tronscar’s lust for war, power, and blood. Lady Katia was hidden somewhere deep inside those thick layers of stone and iron. At this very moment, she might be looking down on him out of the colored glass windows of one of the high chambers.

Lothair looked away. Life would be simpler if she did not already possess a corner of his mind, if she wasn’t so captivating. He continued to count the spikes on the west parapet wall. The more he tried to push her out of his thoughts, the more she dug in. She smiled for everyone, for everything, all the time. Lothair could now easily read the differences in all her smiles. For her young female companions, she had smirks and endless giggles that filled the halls and yards with constant female chattering and laughter. For the servant that brought her the bread, she smiled genuinely. For the duke, his own unworthy father, who kept trying to engage her in conversation in Saxon, she forged a grimace-smile.

After Lothair had been seated next to her for a few meals, the jarl seemed to take notice of her smiling in the young swordsman’s direction. They were seated apart after that. Her father had apparently also noticed that she smiled differently for different people.

By the end of the weeklong visit, Lothair was anxious to leave Tronscar. The iron palace was undeniably impressive. Every square inch was carved with intricate patterns. Brightly polished steel and silver works were inlaid into tools and instruments. The custom in the castles of Deutschland he had visited was for the officers to be offered a place to sleep by the hearth in the main hall, with the lower ranked soldiers housed in the haylofts and outbuildings. Not so in Tronscar. Every man was provided a bed. The secondary barracks offered the visiting envoy bunks, stacked five men high by twenty rows deep. The private chambers given to the noblemen were massive in scale, with beds that had plush mattresses of soft linens, furs, and thick wool. The wooden doorframes were carved with forest creatures in a labyrinth of vines.

To understand the character of the Jarl of Tronscar, a man need not look further than the Great Hall: power and wealth balanced alongside art and function. Nothing in Tronscar was not without thought, purpose and design, with the exception perhaps of the opinionated princess that lived above stairs.

Lothair scratched his head, trying to uproot the flower-scented memory of her hair. The harder he worked to not think of the feisty little imp, the more his head rebelled by tormenting him with the remembrance of her last smile and the last searing touch of her small hand upon his.

Nay, he refused to think of her again. The training yards were what he would commit to memory. Aye, an orderly system where bloodthirsty men worked hard every day to improve their skill in killing one another—that was what was truly impressive about this fortress, and nothing more. One day he would replicate much of the well-organized grounds. He had committed to memory his lengthy discussion with the blacksmiths on how to improve on the strength of Lubeck’s steel. He had learned much about the crafting of weaponry, including new methods to smelt and forge iron.

Lothair found such topics endlessly interesting, but the problem was
she
found such topics endlessly interesting too, and had
been a continual presence at his side, ruining the experience. She was part of every one of his memories from Tronscar and he knew not yet how to extract her from his mind, yet he must quickly find a way.

Lothair needed time and distance from Katia’s distracting smiles. He prided himself on being disciplined and she was clearly sent to test him. He resolved to think of his little sister as much as possible, asking himself what he would want a twenty-year-old soldier to do in Margery’s presence. Over and over he would lecture himself, repeating all of the reasons why Katia’s smiles and soft, sweet-natured laughs had no effect on him and never would. She was simply a training tool to help him become the most focused warrior possible.

Lothair needed a hard ride to clear his head. He marched faster toward the stables to borrow a horse.

“Lothair!” Lars, a fellow warrior who had grown up in a neighboring village, walked towards him from across the cobblestone yard. “Going to try and ride off some steam, brother?”

“Something like that,” he said. Lothair took a second look at Lars, whose usual mangy flop of black curls was now freshly clean and tied back with a thong. Lothair knew his friend only bathed for two reasons: either to soothe his mother’s temper or to impress a maid.

“What have you done?” he asked. He knew that look. Lars was an impulsive lout—some poor Norrland maid would be mourning his loss by morrow’s dawn.

“Nothing.” Lars lied poorly. “Can I borrow a few coin?”

Lothair sighed, knowing he would probably regret what he was about to do, but also knowing he could never abandon a mate in need. “Do not make me regret this. You know the instruction from the duke, ‘no Norrland brawling and no maidens bawling’.”

“A mate of the highest order.” Lars rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

Lothair retrieved his purse, unloaded a fair share to his friend, and wished him luck.

The lower bailey was unusually quiet for a change. Most of the men were probably stealing a midday slumber, trying to sleep off the drink from the night before, and the servants and squires would no doubt be packing up for the coming departure. The envoy, along with a large Norrland escort, would be riding out at first light. Lothair was wishing it were already tomorrow.

Lothair arrived at the stables, where the stable master told him that the barracks horses could not be spared. The only beast not spoken for was a massive warhorse at the end of the stable that he warned Lothair to borrow at his own risk. Apparently, the black stallion was known for taking a pound of flesh from each man who dared ride him.

Lothair approached the horse slowly, from a diagonal angle, with his head slightly bowed. He avoided making eye contact and allowed the brute to get a scent and sense of him before tentatively leaning his arms across the top of the half door that penned the creature in.

The height and breath of the horse were impressive. He snorted and stomped a curious greeting to Lothair. After a few quiet moments, a black nose pushed against Lothair’s arm. He slowly reached for the bridle and rubbed the beast’s nose. “Big, grand fella like you won’t bite me, will you?” he whispered in Saxon.

Lothair slowly slipped into the enclosure, which he suspected was reserved to keep the troublesome beast from picking fights with the gentler stock. He offered an apple and was rewarded with a soft nudge to his shoulder for more. “You are a beauty, aren’t you?” He stroked down the horse’s front quarter, hopefully building enough trust that he could venture a ride without spooking the fine creature.

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Katia said softly. She had appeared in the closed stall without a sound.

“How did you get in here?” He twisted, looking around the high-walled pen. The gate was still latched. She must have scaled the sidewall without him noticing.

“His name is Thunder. Did you know I was the first to ride him?” she said, smiling at Lothair. “The Mogador tribe that held him beat him and he could not look at a man without a desire to take a chunk out of his shoulder, but I saw through his ill-temper and loved him straight away.” Thunder stomped his front hoof, jerked his head up, and let out a loud high-pitched neigh of agreement. Katia laughed and stroked the horse, calming him back down.

“You should not be here,” he whispered, looking over the half wall. “Your father would not approve of you alone with a strange man in a closed stall.”

She kept smiling at him, the wrong kind of smile. The kind of smile that told him she was happy and truly excited about something.

“You are not a strange man. You are Lothair, my . . . friend.” She bit her lip and stepped closer to him.

“I am four years older than you.” He raised his hand in warning and stepped back.

“I know. You also have a sister named Margery and your first love will always be the sea.” She raised her brow in a challenge.

“Who told you that?” Someone had betrayed his confidence.

“You did, mostly, don’t you remember? Last night sitting around the bonfire with Tosha and Lars . . . you did drink quite a lot of my uncle Hök’s brew.”

“What did I say?” He swallowed hard, trying not to panic or turn red in front of her. He honestly had no memory of the night before.

She giggled at him in her soft, calculated way. “Just your sister’s name and the sea part. I figured out your age the first night you were here.” She leaned against the wall, not looking like she was going to leave any time soon. “I saw you fight this morning. Your competition was weak. I think he may have still been drunk.” She giggled.

“What did I say about the sea?” He closed his eyes, trying to remember.

“Nothing really, just that you are never going to wed anything but your ship. I was relieved to know that there will always be at least one ship out patrolling for pirates, keeping us all safe.” She dropped her smile and became suddenly more serious. “Truly, Lothair, I think you should tell my father about your passion. I know you think he is just like the rest of them, bent on power and wealth, but I swear he is not. He cares more about one average tradesmen then he does a castle of dignitaries. The lives of his merchants and craftsmen are as dear to him as any of his noble relations. He wants wealth and power, yes, but it is to better protect and serve his people of Norrland. I guarantee that if you ask him for a commission to sail one of his ships in order to protect the Baltic traders, he would be the first to sign on.”

“Katia.” Her name caught in his throat. It sounded too intimate. “I never said your father was not a righteous man. He has a fair reputation. Still, his father did not, and there are thousands of his countrymen that do not. This is the land of Viking bloodlines. I wouldn’t expect your father to put up steel against his own.”

“That is where you are wrong.” Her eyes sparkled with trust and eagerness. “If trade ships are under attack, he will want to do the right thing.”

“Supporting the duke’s peace and trade agreement is the first step.” Lothair could not help but grin down at her bright face, flushed pink from her innocent enthusiasm. He knew of few maidens, certainly none in Saxony, who took an interest in world politics. But the jarl’s daughter was no typical maiden, was she? Her delicate form contradicted her strength and her sharp tongue was masked beneath virtuous femininity. If she hasn’t been born female, he guessed he would have been able to classify her among his closest friends. Nevertheless, she was a beautiful young maiden and their paths were set—they could never be friends. Both his father and her father would surely flog him within an inch of his life for even imagining a friendship with the innocent princess.

***

Katia’s heart pulsed in her throat. Her body hummed with anticipation, as it always did in Lothair’s company. He was so close to her, yet so far away. She longed to reach out and trace her finger down the bridge of his long, straight nose, or run her fingers through his silky looking hair. She stared unashamedly into his lovely green eyes, and heat rose up from her chest and spread across her cheeks.

Blushing was becoming a common occurrence lately, and her pale skin highlighted the insuppressible reaction. Katia had given up dwelling on it. She swallowed the tumultuous emotions welling inside, biting her lip to help keep them locked in. She was having a difficult time remembering what they were talking about. She should say something smart and well thought out, but couldn’t think of anything. He was staring at her and so her mind went blank as she stared back, memorizing the small jagged scar that curved down into his brow. It was the most perfect and interesting brow she had ever seen.

He raised his hand and gently brushed back her hair. His hand came to rest on the nape of her neck. He cradled her jaw, carefully tipping it up, and his face turned moved towards hers.

Bless every star in heaven!
her mind shouted.
He is going to kiss me!
At last. Praise be to all his angels of mercy!

They had come so close to kissing last night at the bonfire, not that he knew that, but this moment was much better. For a start, neither one of them was drunk, and they both would remember this perfect moment forever and always. She closed her eyes, leaned in and felt the radiating warmth from his skin. His lips would be pressing into hers any moment. Hers were dry so she quickly licked them. He was so close, the whisper of his breath mixed with hers. She was ready and waiting—and waiting. Why was he dithering? She cracked her eye open to check.

Lothair was motionless, stiff and silent, not retreating but not advancing. He seemed stuck, staring at her mouth.

She sucked in the heady mix of his warmth and cedary scent. It was all the fuel she needed to do what must be done. Before he could retract the small ground she had gained, she closed her eyes again, leaped up on her tiptoes, and pressed her lips to his.

Score! First point goes to Katia!
She could hear shouts of triumph from the backbenches of her mind. As her heart took its victory lap, her mind struggled to register every sensation that she was feeling.

She took it as a good sign that Lothair did not push her away. His mouth softened. With their lips pressed together, he raised his hand to her face and stroked her cheek with the tips of his fingers, igniting a fire with each light touch.