Stolen By The Viking

A strange calm passed over him with the knowledge that he would likely die this day. The shouts of kinsmen echoed amid the clang of weapons, only to be cut short when they died. The Irish king started to run towards the longhouse, but Alarr cut him off, swinging his sword hard. The older man caught his balance and held his weapon against the iron.

Feann paused a moment. ‘Stay out of this, boy. The fight isn’t yours. Sigurd has gone too far, and he will pay for his crimes.’

‘This is my wedding, so the fight is mine,’ Alarr countered. He swung his weapon, and the king blocked his blow. ‘And I am not a boy.’ He was beginning to realise that Feann had travelled seeking vengeance, and his intent was to slaughter Sigurd. But what crimes was he talking about?

They sparred against one another, the king toying with him. Alarr struck hard, intending to stop the man. But with every blow, he grew aware that Feann was stalling, drawing out the fight. It was then that he saw men surrounding the longhouse where his father was protecting his bride. Gilla’s father, Vigmarr, was fighting back, trying to defend them.

And then Alarr caught the unmistakable scent of smoke and fire.

He renewed his attack, slashing with his sword as he fought to find a weakness. Feann parried each blow, and when the screams of the women broke through, Alarr jerked his attention back to the longhouse.

A slashing pain struck him in the calves, and he saw the king withdraw a bloody blade, just before his legs collapsed beneath him. Alarr met the man’s gaze, waiting for the killing blow. Instead, Feann’s expression remained grim as he wiped his blade. ‘If you’re wise, boy, you’ll stay on the ground.’ Then he strode towards the longhouse.

Alarr tried to rise, but the agonizing pain kept his legs from supporting him. He called out to his men to attack and defend the longhouse. But a moment later, he watched in horror as the fire raged hotter. Someone threw open the doors, and Sandulf staggered out. Four other men emerged from a different door, and Alarr struggled to his knees. He spied the slain bodies of his father… Gilla… Vigmarr and his wife…

His stomach lurched, and Alarr turned his gaze back to the sky, hating the gods for what they had done. A lone raven circled the clouds, and he could only lie in his own blood while his enemies cut down the remaining wedding guests and returned to their ships.

In the dirt beside him, he saw the familiar glint of a golden brooch.

Chapter One

Ireland—ad 876

The heavy slave collar hung around Breanne Ó Callahan’s throat. Her mouth was dry from thirst, and she could hardly remember how long it had been since she was taken captive. The days blurred into one another, for she had been stolen from her foster home and sold into slavery. The trader had locked her in chains, and she had travelled for days in a wagon with the other women. She knew that he intended to sell her in the marketplace at Áth Cliath, for he could get a higher price for her there.

Exhaustion weighed upon her, and her body ached from bruises where she’d been beaten. It had been especially humiliating when they had taken her to the healer. Although it had been a woman who had touched her, her cheeks still burned at the memory. The healer had verified her virginity, and Breanne knew it was the only reason she had not yet been raped. The slaver knew that he could command a higher price for her innocence. She tried to clear her mind of the terrors rising and the fear of being held down and claimed by a stranger this night.

Breanne clenched her hands together in a vain attempt to keep them from shaking. Thus far, no one had come for her. She had searched in vain for any sign that her foster father had sent men to save her. They might not know where she was being held captive. With each day that had passed, her hope had begun to fade.

Do not surrender, she warned herself. Not yet.

There might be a chance at escape with so many people in the marketplace. She held fast to the frail hope, even as they dragged the first woman to the auction block. Breanne did not know her name, but the girl began to sob at her fate.

The trader called out the woman’s value and stripped her naked in the marketplace. The girl whimpered when he extolled the virtue of her slender body and soft breasts. He turned her around, and there was no denying the lustful gazes of the men.

Breanne turned her attention to the crowd of people, searching for a way out. There were a dozen wooden carts rolling through the streets, and if she could only get to one of them without being noticed, she might hide herself among the barrels or beneath the straw. She would have only precious seconds to act, and only then if she could break free. Her wrists and ankles were chained together, but if she shortened her stride, she could still run. All she had to do was wait until the woman before her was sold. She was last among the women, a lucky place, for soon there would be no one chained to her and she might be able to flee.

Her brain warned that it would be nearly impossible to escape notice. Not if she was running with an armful of chains. But even so, she tried to keep hope. If she imagined the alternative, the panic would rise up and overpower what little courage she had left.

The first woman was sold to a fat merchant, and he seized her hair as he pulled her forward. He groped her bare breast, laughing before he covered her body with a rough shift. Breanne suppressed a shudder. During the auction, her gaze fixed upon a row of three carts. One of them might serve as a place to hide—but first, she needed to create a distraction.

An outdoor peat fire burned nearby, and she spied another cart filled with straw. A fire, she decided. It would allow her to flee unnoticed while the others attempted to put out the blaze.

The second woman was sold, then the third. But before the fourth climbed up to the block, Breanne saw a taller man drawing near. His dark hair hung to his shoulders, and his piercing blue eyes stared at her. He appeared to be one of the Lochlannach, a fierce warrior from across the sea. His skin held a darker tone, and an iron chain containing three hammers encircled his throat. He looked like a man who had spent the entire summer upon the waters.

Breanne lifted her chin and stared back, refusing to let him intimidate her. A hint of a smile lifted his mouth, as if he had accepted her challenge. Danu¸ what if he attempted to buy her? It was clear that she had caught his interest. He appeared to be a man accustomed to getting his own way.

She noticed his strong hands and the way his shoulders filled his tunic. Unlike the fat merchant, there was no trace of weakness in his body. A vision flared in her mind, of being stripped naked before this man. Her body flushed at the thought. His blue eyes never left hers, and she felt a strange pull within her, as if he had somehow caressed her flesh without a single touch.

The warrior took another step closer, and this time, she noticed his slight limp. He wore armour, and a sword hung from his side. Who was he?

Her heartbeat pounded, and she had no more time to wonder, when the slaver dragged her up the stairs towards the block. He held the length of chain in his arms, and Breanne locked her gaze with the Lochlannach, wondering about his intentions. It would not matter. She would be no man’s possession.

She feigned weakness, reluctantly drawing close to the block. Though she continued to walk forward, she waited until she could feel her captor’s grip on the chain going slack as he prepared to strip her naked.

Now.

Breanne dived forward, leaping from the block towards the crowd. As she’d predicted, the unexpected motion jerked the chain from the slaver’s hands. She lunged through the crowd of onlookers, making her way towards the wooden carts ahead.

Many tried to stop her, but she shoved her way past them. The weight of the manacles on her wrists and ankles impeded her movement, but she would do anything to escape.

But a moment later, a hand caught her chains and dragged her backwards. Breanne fought to free herself, but the chains held fast.

‘Let me go,’ she gritted out, but she could not move. When she turned around, she saw the face of the Lochlannach. His expression was unyielding, like iron.

He wrapped the chain around his arm, making it impossible for her to escape him. His blue eyes were chips of ice, with no pity in them. Her heartbeat quickened, for she knew he would never release her.

‘Please,’ she begged.

He ignored her, holding the chains with one hand as she struggled to free herself. The slaver approached and raised his hand to strike her. Before his fist could make contact, the Lochlannach caught the man’s wrist and held it. He spoke in a foreign tongue she did not understand, but his tone brooked no argument. The slaver started to argue, but the man ignored him. Instead, he reached into a pouch at his waist and withdrew a handful of coins. He placed them in the slaver’s palm, and the man’s protests were silenced.

And so, it was done. She had been bought by this Lochlannach. Hatred rose up within her at the thought of being this man’s slave or worse, his concubine. She struggled again to free herself, but it was no use. He kept the chain tight, securing her firmly at his side until he reached his horse. In one motion, he lifted her up, before he swung up behind her.

He spurred the animal and rode towards the outer edges of Áth Cliath. Throughout the short journey, he said nothing at all. She almost wondered if he was even capable of speaking her language. Her only consolation was that he had not attempted to touch her…yet.

The uneasiness inside her intensified, doubling her fears. He was a raider and a Norseman, one who would take whatever he wanted. Why had he bought her? She wanted to believe that it was only a moment of chance, a sudden whim.

But he had been watching her and waiting. He had stopped her from fleeing the slave market, and now, he had claimed her. Gods be merciful.

They reached the river, and he dismounted from his horse, lifting her down. Breanne wondered if she could dive into the water, but he dispelled any thoughts of escape by keeping her chains tight. Inwardly, she cursed the man for taking her. She wanted to return home to Killcobar, and now she might never see Feann again. He and her foster brothers were the only family she remembered, since her parents had died years ago. Was Feann even looking for her? Or worse, had he given her up for dead?

Her heart ached at the loss of her home and family. The pain welled up inside her, mingled with loneliness and fear. She knew not what would happen to her any more. It seemed as if her life had crumbled into pieces, scattering to the wind.

The Lochlannach led her towards the docks until they reached a small boat where another man waited for them. The vessel was not large, and the sail was tied up against the mast. Her captor lifted her inside, and she glanced down at the dark water, wondering if she had the courage to jump. The other man seemed to guess her thoughts, for he shook his head in warning.

The Norseman spoke to the other man in the language she did not know. Another flare of anxiety caught her, for she feared they might take her to their country. She might never see Éireann again, and the thought terrified her.

‘Who are you?’ she asked, even knowing that they might not understand her. The men lifted the anchor and began to row out to the open water. As she’d predicted, they did not answer her question. Once again, she eyed the water, wondering if she dared to jump. But then, the chains would only drag her down to the bottom of the river and cause her to drown.

Though it was still morning, the sky was dark and heavy with moisture. Clouds obscured the sun, and soon, fat raindrops splattered upon her. Breanne welcomed the water, trying to quench her thirst by opening her mouth. The Norseman seemed to notice, and he held out a drinking skin, tipping it against her lips. She took a sip, and the water was stale but welcome. When she had finished, he took it back. Then he reached inside a wooden container and pulled out a heavy fur of seal skin. He lifted it over her, and she realised that it would shield her from the rain.

She was taken aback by the gesture. Why should he care if she were drenched from the rain? It poured over him and his shipmate, soaking through his dark hair. Though he rowed steadily, he kept his gaze fixed upon her.

His attention unnerved her, reaching deep within. Though he had bought her as his slave, she could not deny that he had shown kindness. And it was difficult to reconcile the two parts of this man. What did he want from her?

She remained still while the rain fell steadily. Both men were soaked now, but they appeared indifferent to the elements. When she eyed the other man, she saw that he was watching her with interest. There was no sense of surprise, as if he had expected to have a female slave aboard the ship. It made her question what else he knew.

Breanne huddled beneath the seal skin, and they continued to row until the river met the edge of the sea. Áth Cliath was now behind her, and she could see only a light fog and the water surrounding them everywhere. Once they were further out to sea, the Norseman gestured for her to put out her chained wrists. He withdrew an awl and a small hammer, and she understood his intention. Within moments, he had hammered out the pin and her chains fell to the bottom of the boat. Next, he removed her neck collar, and she rubbed at the chafed skin, feeling relief from the weight. Last, she extended her ankles, and he removed the chains there, as well.

Her wrists were raw, and she tried to ease the soreness. She didn’t quite know what to think of this man. True, there was nowhere she could run, now that they were nearing the open sea. Perhaps he’d meant to offer her comfort, and for that, she was grateful.

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.’