Sent As The Viking’s Bride

She’s the wife he doesn’t want...

...and the woman he needs!

Desperate to escape her murderous brother-in-law and protect her young sister, Ragnhild agrees to marry an unknown warrior, and arrives penniless on his remote island. Only, Gunnar Olafson’s belief in love died with his family—he does not want a bride! But as yuletide approaches, Ragnhild transforms his isolated existence. Can she melt her Viking warrior’s frozen heart?

“Styles’ attention to detail will captivate readers, as will her powerful characters and elaborate plots.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Warrior’s Viking Bride by Michelle Styles

“Styles delves into the powerful psychological forces of doubt and distrust masterfully, keeping me turning the pages, and delivering a wonderfully satisfying ending.”

—Goodreads on The Warrior’s Viking Bride by Michelle Styles

Born and raised near San Francisco, California, MICHELLE STYLES currently lives near Hadrian’s Wall with her husband and a menagerie of pets in an Edwardian bungalow with a large and somewhat overgrown garden. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romances after discovering Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt. Her website is www.michellestyles.co.uk and she’s on Twitter and Facebook.

Also by Michelle Styles

His Unsuitable Viscountess

Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match

An Ideal Husband?

Paying the Viking’s Price

Return of the Viking Warrior

Saved by the Viking Warrior

Taming His Viking Woman

Summer of the Viking

Sold to the Viking Warrior

The Warrior’s Viking Bride

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Sent as the Viking’s Bride

Michelle Styles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08864-0

SENT AS THE VIKING’S BRIDE

© 2018 Michelle Styles

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Tim and Kathy de la Fosse, because you asked

so nicely when we visited and you gave us the

most memorable rooster, aka Hugo Buff-Orpington,

to protect the hens from foxes.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Author Note

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

January AD 877—Colbhasa, modern-day Colonsay

Gunnar Olafson had spent a lifetime dreaming of his own land, but after he learned of his excellent fortune, all he could do was sit in stunned silence. Others would be shouting the news to the rafters, calling for more ale for everyone, but he wanted to savour it and hug it close.

He closed his hand about the tiny carved stone man his mother had given him the last time he’d seen her and recited the vow he’d made on her grave. It had seen him through two shipwrecks, five severe injuries and countless minor skirmishes.

His mind skittered away from the memory of the day he’d made that vow, the day when he knew the soothsayer’s dying words had power to harm those he loved. The curse still clung to his soul, but he wanted to believe that maybe one day, if he made his new lands prosperous, he’d show the gods that he was worthy and those words—all the women he loved would crumble to dust—would cease to have any power.

‘Are you going to tell me why Kolbeinn wanted to speak with you alone? What have you done wrong this Jul? Your oath of loyalty was as loud as any man’s.’ Eylir Rokrson banged his fists together as he settled on the bench next to Gunnar. ‘I won’t have it. We’re still treated poorly because we once followed his ex-wife and then his daughter.’

Gunnar slipped the stone man back into his pouch for safekeeping and regarded his best friend and drinking companion. They had fought long and hard together. He had hugged his good fortune to his chest for long enough. ‘Against all expectation, he has offered me land...on Jura. I had thought he was about to send me to Ireland on another impossible mission. Just to test my loyalty again.’

‘You thrive on such things.’

Gunnar examined the dregs of his Jul ale. ‘He hasn’t been able to kill me yet despite his best efforts. He thinks to put my back to better use and have me till soil even if the island is windswept and nearly uninhabited. We will only truly last long in this land if we put down roots.’

‘Yours is the better fate.’ His friend nodded. ‘Many of our former comrades were put to death.’

‘They betrayed Dagmar.’ Gunnar ignored the clenching of his stomach. ‘In the end I proved my loyalty and that I’d been tricked into giving her that cup of ale.’

‘Which was switched and made you ill.’

Gunnar winced, remembering how he’d inadvertently contributed to his former leader’s abduction. He had rejoiced at her restoration, but his punishment had been to serve her father, Kolbeinn. ‘For the last two seasons, I’ve served Kolbeinn well.’

‘What made him agree to honour the promise of land?’

‘I saved Lord Ketil’s life last season during that storm and, as Kolbeinn’s overlord, he demanded Kolbeinn reward me with land.’ Gunnar regarded the bottom of his goblet. Even now it was hard for him to believe that the man who had come from nothing and who had lost everything had the chance of making his dreams come true. His land. No more fighting in the stinking mud for someone else. No more offering his sword and oath to the highest bidder. He was going to build a hall which all would envy. His success should taste better than it did.

‘Far too modest.’ Eylir clapped him on the shoulder. ‘What next? Acquiring that northern wife you have always talked of? The one with the come-hither smile and plump bosom?’

Gunnar shook his head. ‘First the land tamed, then the marriage. One wild thing at a time.’

‘Send word for her now.’ Eylir made an expansive gesture with his hands. ‘Wanted: one sweet-tempered, buxom blonde who knows northern customs. Someone who doesn’t have inconvenient relatives, but does have accommodating thighs. One who listens, but forgets to open her mouth, except for your tongue.’

Gunnar laughed along with his friend, while privately wondering how much the other warrior had had to drink. ‘It sounds like a description for the woman of your dreams.’

Eylir shook his head. ‘Not I. I want a woman I can share my life with. But I’ve watched you long enough to know what you want—the type of woman who warms your bed when you can be bothered, but who plays no other part in your life.’

Gunnar twisted the goblet between his fingers. It was true he preferred blondes who asked for no more than he was prepared to give. ‘Do you indeed? When I go looking, I will remember your counsel. But I shall require a wife, not a concubine. We can discuss it further the first time you visit me in Jura.’

‘I’m required in the north. It is why I have come to find you.’ Eylir leant towards him, blasting him with alcohol fumes. ‘My younger brother sent word. My sword arm must return north or the family faces destruction. The usual exaggeration, I’m sure.’

Eylir launched into his familiar tirade against familial obligations. Gunnar swirled his ale and listened with greedy ears while he tried not to think about the three snow-covered corpses of his mother and two young sisters before a darkened hut. Families were wasted on those who had them.

‘Family. You’d never forgive yourself if something happened to them,’ Gunnar said when Eylir reached the end of his recital.

‘Aye, you spoke true there.’ Eylir gestured with his hand, sloshing ale everywhere. ‘It is why I will provide you with a wife, the perfect wife for your new venture, one you can get sons on.’

Gunnar stood. ‘Your drunken prattling puts our friendship in peril.’

‘Serious.’ Eylir grabbed Gunnar’s arm. ‘You require a northern bride, but you have land to till, a hall to build. You admirably hold fast to the vow you gave to your mother before you departed, the one about only marrying a worthy northern woman. Wasn’t that the excuse you gave that Irish warlord who commanded you to marry his daughter last season? The redhead who gave you hungry glances and had no eyes for anyone else?’

Gunnar tightened his grasp on the goblet. ‘You should know better than to believe what I say in drink!’

‘Same excuse you gave that pretty widow from Bernicia with her many acres of lands. Or one of the dozen other women who have buzzed around you like bees searching for a honeypot. You’ve acquired your land. What excuse are you going to give for failing to travel northwards and find this elusive bride of yours?’

Gunnar instinctively fingered his mother’s stone man. ‘You exaggerate as usual.’

‘Nevertheless, I will send you a Jul present to remember if you win the wrestling competition.’

‘How much Jul ale have you consumed?’

A self-satisfied smile crossed Eylir’s face. ‘I watched you in practice this morning. Peak physical condition. A man would have to be a fool to bet against you.’

‘Then there are plenty of fools. Maurr is the favourite.’

‘Nobody ever called me a fool.’

The wrestling was a high point on the Jul celebration. During the last two seasons, he had made it to the quarter-final and the semi, never to the final. He’d be out in one of the first rounds this year by his best guess.

‘Your gold to waste.’

His first and second opponents were inebriated and then the next warrior was someone Gunnar personally disliked. And so it continued until he was proclaimed champion.

When he looked over his shoulder as all around him shouted his name, Eylir was there, gesturing with the sack of gold he’d won. ‘Look for your northern bride before next Jul.’

Gunnar allowed the shouts to wash over him. The last thing he needed to worry about was a drunken friend’s idle promise—he had a hall to construct.

Chapter One

November AD 877—Jura, Viking-controlled Alba, modern-day Jura, Scotland

The newly built longhouse shone like a beacon of hope in the thin grey light and behind rose the great purple mountains or paps which dominated the island. The ship had come the long way around, avoiding the great whirlpool. According to the captain, on a day like today, the whirlpool would writhe like a great cauldron and suck the life out of any ship which ventured close.

Ragnhild Thorendottar gripped the side of the boat with her hands and willed it onward towards the shore. Nearly there. Nearly safe. A new life for her and her younger sister, a safe life away from her brother-in-law and his murderous greed beckoned. Some day she would get her revenge and regain her lands, but for now she required safety.

Hard work on a desolate island failed to frighten her. She feared other things such as berserkers in the night, burning houses and, most importantly, her brother-in-law’s fury if he knew that she and Svana had escaped. If he ever discovered they had not perished in the fire, he would send his berserkers after them again. For who would go against one of the King’s closest advisors? Who would take the risk? Who would believe her? Even now, with her burns nearly healed, Ragn scarce credited how completely her safe world had been destroyed.

She tucked Svana’s hand into hers and squeezed. Her sister gave a tremulous smile. Her right eye turned in more than ever, but there was no rolling back of the eyes or the fearful twitching which had begun the night of the attack, after Svana took the blow to her head, a blow meant for Ragn when her back had been turned and which would have certainly ended her life.

Ragn heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe Svana’s affliction would vanish. Maybe her actions had not damaged her sister for ever. Maybe this island would truly be a fresh start, one where the shadows of the past failed to flicker. She pushed the thought to one side and concentrated on the tangible. Dreams had tumbled her into this mess and she refused to indulge in that luxury ever again.

‘Our new home,’ she said, pointing to the gabled hall which shone in the gathering gloom. ‘Soon you will be running in the pastures, helping me to brew the Jul ale and a thousand other things. We will make it a Jul to remember, something to make this year good.’

Unlike last Jul, which had been one to forget, she silently added.

Her sister’s face lit up. ‘Jul is my favourite time of year. I love everything about it—the flaming wheel, the Jul log burning bright during the days of darkness when the Sun Maiden is in the belly of the wolf and most of all the feasting and celebrating when she returns.’ A pucker appeared between Svana’s brows. ‘Will this Gunnar Olafson understand everything which needs to be done? And in the proper fashion?’

‘Jul will happen, sweetling. I promise.’ Ragn tightened her grip and willed Svana to keep her thoughts silent—Ragn had ruined so many things recently, could she be trusted not to ruin this as well?

‘Are you certain he will welcome me as well as you?’

‘Smile,’ she said, putting an arm about Svana. ‘See the great purple mountains? Gunnar Olafson’s farm is at the base of the middle one. It has a good bay and there are good forests with straight trees for building ships. It is as his friend told me. A true home, Svana. Think about that.’

Svana gave her a brave but uncertain nod. Ragn’s heart contracted. ‘A true home. I’d like that. We haven’t had one since...’

‘It is going to happen, love,’ Ragn said before Svana attempted again to blame herself for the tragedy. Svana had been the innocent one. Ragn had been the one to arrange the witch woman’s visit attempting to end the quarrel between her husband and his brother over the inheritance. She’d never anticipated the old crone would prophesy that Svana would bring about her brother-in-law’s death or that her husband would take Svana’s part, refusing his brother’s demand for her immediate death and instead bodily removed him from the hall.

‘Do you think I will be able to meet the farm’s nisser? To make sure he knows that I intend to look after him properly with porridge and everything. That way he will know to favour this farm,’ Svana said, interrupting Ragn’s thoughts.

Ragn stared at the rapidly approaching spit of land, trying to decide if her sister asking about the mischievous elf who was supposed to guard homes but often played tricks on the inhabitants was a good thing. Such creatures in Ragn’s experience did not exist or, if they did, they were not inclined to assist her.

‘Tending to your chores will do more to ensure the farm prospers than putting out porridge. Believe me. This farm will prosper with me in charge.’

‘And this will be my home for ever? You won’t make me marry unless I want to?’ Svana gestured towards her inward-turning eye. ‘No true man will want me like this. I have heard the whispers. What the men on board this ship said about me, what they wanted to do.’

‘Stop doubting my schemes. I might start to think you have lost faith,’ Ragn said lightly.

Svana squeezed her hand. ‘I trust you, Ragn. I just can’t help overhearing what other people are saying.’

Ragn clucked her under the chin. ‘Would you believe them if they said the sky was green? So why believe them about that? We will be fine.’

We have to be, I have no other plan to save her life, she added under her breath.

The boat made a scraping noise as it hit the shore. Ragn was jolted forward and her stomach hit the railing. The ill-favoured crew leaped out and dragged the boat further up the shingle.

Ragn’s legs wobbled slightly when she first set foot on the rough shingle. She forced them to stagger a few steps. ‘Svana, firm ground. Good ground. Safe ground.’

‘It wobbles.’

‘Only because we have been on the sea. It will pass quickly.’ Ragn prayed to any god that her words were correct.

She glanced about the barren windswept beach. Their approach had to have been noted. They had come in peacefully with the shields down. And it was obvious from the smoke lazily curling in the sky that someone was at home.

To hide her discomfort, she directed the long-nosed captain to put her trunks on the shore above the tideline. The man shrugged his shoulders, muttering about the tide turning and having to leave quickly.

When she was about to give in to despair, a large man came out of the hall. A shaft of winter sunshine illuminated him, turning his skin and hair golden. His shoulders were broad and powerful, a man used to fighting and hard work, rather than a courtier like her late husband, a man a woman could count on to fight for her and her family and win. Her next thought was why in the name of Freya did a man who looked like that need to send to the north for a wife? Women would be buzzing about him like bees around a honeycomb.

‘He isn’t very friendly and wants us gone. He should have tankards of ale to offer strangers, but his hands are empty.’ A worried frown puckered Svana’s forehead. ‘Something is very wrong, Ragn, isn’t it?’

Ragn forced a laugh. ‘They do things differently here, I suspect. We will soon have their manners.’

Svana glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. ‘On the ship, they said I brought that storm. I didn’t. I promise. I am not bad luck and shouldn’t be thrown overboard.’

‘As if I’d allow that to happen to you!’

‘You are wearing your serious face, like you did when you spied Vargr and his berserkers riding towards our old home.’

Ragn forced her lungs to fill with air. Vargr believed them dead in the fire he and his men had set. He did not know they had escaped just as the roof caved in. He would not come looking for them, particularly not with the North Sea between them. Vargr had feared the North Sea ever since his father perished on it.

‘Nothing is wrong, sweetling. Wives are for civilising. Warriors are for defending their land. It is why he has sent for a wife—to learn how to be civil. I can do that.’

‘Who goes there?’ her soon-to-be husband asked, placing a hand on the large sword he wore. ‘We are a simple farm, not a market. I’ve little wish to waste your time or mine. Best be gone before the tide turns.’

Despite its roughness, his deep voice was easy on the ear. Ragn placed her hand on her stomach and bid the butterflies to be gone. It was possible the captain had made a mistake and this golden mountain of a man wasn’t her intended. Her husband was probably old, missing a limb and confined to bed. This warrior would lead her to him.

‘Ragnhild Thorendottar, the contracted wife of Gunnar Olafson, come from Viken as requested.’ She made the sort of low curtsy she’d make to the King or Queen.

The only sound was the cawing of the seagulls. The man’s stance turned more foreboding. He drew his brows together.

‘Contracted wife?’ he said after what appeared to be a lifetime. ‘Of whom did you say? Gunnar Olafson?’

‘Are you Gunnar Olafson, also known as Gunnar the Strong Arm, of Kolbeinn’s felag? Or his steward?’ she asked, tilting her head to one side. Her voice sounded thin on the breeze. She swallowed hard and tried again. ‘Or must I seek him elsewhere?’

Ragn watched the man from under her lashes now that she clearly saw him. His features were regular, his hair was a dark blond which had begun to go to brown and had been shaved at the sides but allowed to grow long on top. He sported two golden rings in his beard. Everything about him proclaimed vitality and virility.

She pressed her hands together to stop them from trembling. His gaze raked her form, making her immediately aware of her many failings from her lack of curves to her above-average height and overbearing manner which made men’s manhood shrivel to nothingness. Her late husband’s taunts, the ones he said when he drank far too much ale, echoed in her mind. She tried to list the good things she brought to a marriage—her willingness to work hard, her knowledge of making ale, and...her mind went blank. She no longer possessed any land or riches of any kind, nothing to tempt a successful warrior like this one.

‘I seek Gunnar Olafson.’

‘I am he,’ the man confirmed with a puzzled expression. ‘But I’ve made no contract for a wife. Ever. I have no wish or desire for one at the present. Who plots against me?’

Ragn’s stomach swooped and knotted. There had to be some mistake. She refused to risk Svana on the sea again with that crew. The captain of the boat had driven a hard bargain to bring her and Svana out here—a one-way passage only, no return or onward. Eylir the Black had paid for her passage as the morning gift for the marriage, but the captain had demanded double for Svana. She had relinquished both her grandmother’s gold brooches to pay for it. After sacrificing her gold necklace to calm the waves during the storm, all she had left was her mother’s silver necklace, but that would not pay for the return passage or safeguard Svana from being tossed overboard if the ship encountered another storm.