The Heart's Warrior (2 page)

She froze. Dare she deny it?

His eyes narrowed. “With your cheeks smudged with dirt, you look like a puling boy.”

It had been her intent to pass as a lad to hide her identity, but pride got the better of her. “I am no puling boy.” His deep laughter filled the air, cold and hollow.

“Nay, you are all woman. Your eyes aren’t blue, like most Vikings, but green as the damp moss that covers the trunks of pine. I’ve heard you’re Irish.”

She locked her jaw. “My mother was from Eire.”

His brows lowered in an ominous scowl. “Is she the one who taught you the black arts of witchcraft?”

Breathless with anger, she shook her head. “Of

course not. She taught me the ways of healing.”

“Your people say you practice magic and you’re a

witch. I think you’re also a silly girl who likes to fight with men.”

“Let me up.” She clenched her teeth. “I’ll show you what a silly girl can do with her bow and arrows.”

He flexed his injured shoulder, flinching at the pain it caused. “You’ve already shown me your skill. I should 5

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kill you and be done with it.”

Her throat closed.

Releasing one of her hands, his fingers skimmed

along the column of her throat. She tried to hit him but he leaned hard against her, stifling her fight. Swallowing heavily, her gaze never wavered as she glared at him. She was the daughter of a great earl and would not beg for mercy.

A deep sigh whispered past his lips and he spoke as if to himself. “We hid our ships so an Eiriksson spy might not discover them. Though your people have long feuded with mine, we’ve come to form an alliance and put aside our differences. The king wants us to unite with him against the Eirikssons.”

“You’re lying. You could be an Eiriksson, one of those heathens who murdered my mother last summer.”

“I am no Eiriksson.”

“I have no reason to believe you.”

“Be very careful, witch. Your treachery is well

known. I won’t play games with you.”

His warning made her tremble. “I never play games of war, but I would like to know who you are before I end your life.”

He laughed, a rumble she felt deep in her bones. “I think you’re in no position to make threats.”

Kerstin placed the sharp point of her dagger against his throat and he froze. When he had released her hand, she had taken advantage of the opportunity. Her father and brothers taught her well.

“I underestimated you,” he said with a hint of

respect.

“It would be wise for you to let me go.”

Dipping his head as if cowed, he raised his chest to release her. She gave a satisfied smile and started to sit up. In the next moment, he knocked the blade from her hand and pinned her once again to the ground.

His hearty laughter brought a rush of blood to her cheeks. Her hand throbbed from the blow and her face burned with annoyance. As he lowered his face to hers, his dazzling blue eyes sparkled with wrath.

She jerked her head away. “My father will kill you for this.”

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His probing gaze roamed over her, touching her face, hair, neck and chest. “I don’t think so. Our king has sent me here on a mission of peace, not war.”

She frowned. “Again, you’re lying.”

He drew back, but not enough to allow her an escape.

Crinkling his nose, he sniffed, then nuzzled her temple.

“Your hair smells of lavender.”

Shocked, Kerstin didn’t think to struggle until he lifted his head again. Did he seek to distract her with nonsense?

“Who are you?” she asked.

He showed a chilling smile. “Your new husband. By the king’s word, ere this day is through, you will belong to me.” Outrage flooded her mind. It couldn’t be true. Never would she be trapped into wedding this horrible man. “I’m already betrothed to Elezer of Lade.”

“No longer. The betrothal is broken and you are

mine.”

Her mouth dropped open and she stuttered over a

denial. “But...but that can’t be. Will you get off me?”

He stilled, considering her. “If you run, I’ll catch you.

Will you give your word not to try to escape?”

“Only while the sun is high.” Thankfully the sun

would soon slide behind the western hills.

He squashed her once more and she groaned at his

solid weight, like a wagonload of rocks. “I cannot accept that.”

She grit her teeth. “I won’t promise more.”

For a moment, he hesitated. Then, he lifted himself up and watched as she took a deep breath. Her bow lay close by in the pine needles littering the ground and he positioned himself so she couldn’t reach it without going through him.

He was a shrewd one.

She faced him bravely. “Why have you spared my

life?” The wind blew her curls, clinging with dirt and leaves, about her shoulders. She pushed them back and glared at him. He stood close by, easily within reach.

“I thought you were a boy. I don’t murder women and helpless children.”

Should she be pleased or insulted? “I’m not helpless 7

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and I’m certainly no child.”

His gaze lowered over her body and she felt the heat of a blush rise to her cheeks. “Aye, you are a woman, though it’s hard to tell in your present attire.”

The man’s long hair stirred in the breeze, the color of ripe wheat at summer’s end. He wore no beard like the other warriors, his lean cheeks high and chiseled. Golden and bronzed, his brutally handsome face appeared

angular and harsh.

Kerstin watched as he bent and picked up his sword from where he had tossed it upon the ground. The slim weapon bore the signature of Ulfberht, the blacksmith from Germany, one of the finest blades Kerstin ever saw.

Many a man would covet that sword, and no doubt much rich coin purchased it.

He reached for his helmet and held it beneath one arm, his gaze never leaving her. When he sheathed his sword, she breathed with relief.

The scent of rain teased her nostrils. A storm was coming and she must get home.

His sardonic smile showed even, white teeth. Though his alert gaze remained on her, he gave her a deep courtly bow. “At last we meet, Kerstin of Moere.”

His words brought a thud of dread to her chest. She looked at him with curiosity, feeling as though she should know him. There was something vaguely familiar about him. Her heart pounded. Had the king truly sent him to marry her? How absurd.

The crooked length of his nose showed it had been broken before. His blunt jaw gave him an arrogant look. A thin, white scar ran along his left cheek. Did he have other scars won in battle? Aye, he was indeed a man of war. Above them, clouds gathered in the heavens. He glanced up, his face grim. “Odin must be angry.”

She shook her head. “I am a Christian, like my

mother. I don’t believe in the pagan gods of my father.”

He snorted.

“You haven’t told me who you are. I’d like a name to place you.” She spoke in a tight voice, eager to run home and tell her father what had occurred.

“In time. For now, I wish to know why Alrik sent his 8

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only daughter to meet me in battle. Are all your brothers dead?”

Her youngest brother died less than a sennight ago, killed by one of this man’s warriors. The memory was still raw and a tremor of pain washed over her. “My father and two of my brothers yet live.”

“Why aren’t they here? Do they hide behind your

skirts?” His brows quirked as he looked at her calves.

“Such nice legs. Do you prefer woolen hose to a skirt?”

His words bit into her mind. She had always

preferred her soft tunics and pinafores to the coarse garb men wore, but battle was no place for long, tangling skirts. “My father lies in his bed, wounded by a sword from the last battle he fought against your people.”

“Will he die?”

“Nay, I won’t allow it.”

“You do practice witchcraft, just as your people say,”

he whispered in a harsh voice. “Do you call upon the powers of Hel to aid you?”

Kerstin drew in a sharp breath, hating his

insinuation. At one time, her people had called her a good witch out of fondness. Later on, it became a vile label that brought suspicion and hatred from those who didn’t know her or understand her skill. “I am no witch. I simply tended his wounds and gave him something to ease the pain. I’m more interested in healing than causing mayhem.”

The man stepped closer, taunting her with a wave of his hand. “Your actions today indicate a desire for blood.

Now that I have the Witch of Moere, my brother’s life can be avenged.”

Kerstin gasped. Of course! She knew him now. He

was a Sigurdsson. All his people hated her because they thought she murdered his brother, Bjorn, last summer when he had come to wed her.

“Jonas? Jonas Sigurdsson?”

Even as she said his name, she recognized him from the few times she had seen him at the clan gatherings when she was no more than a child. The muscled body, the stubborn tilt of his head, the harsh jawline. Eyes bluer than the sea.

A brutal warrior replaced his boyish charm. People 9

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didn’t call him the Strong Arm without good reason.

Never beaten in battle, he was the youngest son of Sigurd, the Earl of Hawkscliffe. Jonas—the Undefeated.

Closing her mouth, she blinked her eyes. What a

shame they must be enemies. She found him easy to look upon and respected his fighting skills. “I heard you were traveling the world, selling your sword arm as a

mercenary. You’ve been gone several years. When did you return?”

“Recently.”

She lifted her brows. “Why did you come back? I

would think our farms quite boring after the adventures you’ve had.”

Jonas’s eyes flashed. “I returned at my father’s

bidding when he sent word you had murdered my elder brother.”

“I murdered no one.”

“You deny it?”

“Of course. I would have honored the betrothal my father made with your brother.”

“If you didn’t kill Bjorn, then who did?”

“I don’t know.” She refused to cringe or feel shame over a crime she did not commit, yet she couldn’t push aside the doubts shadowing her mind. Because of Bjorn’s death, people branded her a witch. In spite of the good she tried to do with her healing skills, the stigma remained.

“Now, who is the liar?”

“Nay! I tried to save his life. I wanted him to live.”

“Who would know better how to administer poison

than a witch? Your own people accused you of killing Bjorn.” The low rumble of his voice filled the forest glade, seeming to join with the encroaching storm.

Shifting her weight, Kerstin crunched dried leaves beneath her feet. Sweat dampened her woolen shirt. She tried to ignore the cloying wetness, but wished she could remove the heavy chain mail and yank off the shirt.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she moved back, chilled by her damp clothes and the increased cold. He watched her in silence and though she couldn’t deny what he said, for hours she had tried to purge Bjorn when he became ill, to remove the poison from his body. Her efforts had been in vain. When he had drifted into a deep sleep 10

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and died, she had sobbed bitterly, knowing what his death meant to her people. Already there existed harsh feelings over land disputes. Bjorn’s death meant all-out war and they all paid dearly for it.

A drop of rain struck her hand and Kerstin shivered.

The bleak clouds above them compacted, the treetops swaying like hulking beasts.

“I know you’re ruthless and cruel, Jonas Sigurdsson, but I’ve heard at one time, you were a kind man, a farmer and trader. That you had mercy and delighted in peace.”

His face whitened. As he took a step toward her, his fine mouth curved in a sneer. “Mercy has no place during battle. I know your black deeds and won’t listen to your denials. I wish I could kill you and end this feud between our people, but the king has forbidden it.”

Kerstin held her ground, prepared to meet her death.

Her blood ran cold. A morbid shiver ran up her spine and she drew in a hissing breath.

The wind sprayed dirt in her face and she felt the grit between her teeth. “If you kill me, there will never be peace between our people.”

Flickering doubt filled his eyes, so quick and subtle she almost didn’t notice. He did seem to care.

“Are you frightened of me?” she taunted. “I would think a strong warrior such as you wouldn’t fear a witch.”

“I fear no man, or woman. And I don’t believe in

magic, though I believe in evil.”

She believed the same, but a small hesitancy in his voice told her he wasn’t quite sure of his words.

“Have you become a traitor to our king?” She gave him an accusing glare.

He cocked his head to one side and gave a thoughtful frown. “Why do you think I’ve betrayed our king?”

“I saw the banner you fought under. ‘Twas the royal colors. You have an Eiriksson with you and they conspire to take the throne from King Hakon.”

His shoulders relaxed but his grim mouth betrayed him. “You are mistaken. My men would kill any Eiriksson we found. Like you, we support King Hakon.”

Kerstin knew what she had seen. The vivid red and green of the royal house of Vestfold had flown above them as they fought. They must have an Eiriksson spy with 11

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them—the dirty traitors.

She would take the news to her father and he would warn the king. Jonas wouldn’t be so smug when he faced the vast army of King Hakon.

There might be one other way to end this feud

between their people. Seeking to be brave, she walked to stand before Jonas and tilted her head back to stare up at him. “I can heal the Beast of Hawkscliffe,” she said.

He blanched white and took her arms in his rough

hands. As he lifted her close, her feet left the ground and her chest pressed against his. His furious gaze locked with hers. “What do you know about the Beast?”