Michelle Styles - The Viking's Captive Princess

‘You will not use this as an excuse to take this land. Your quarrel is with me and me alone.’

Ivar’s insolent gaze raked her form, burning through Thyre’s clothes. Against her will, the memory of what it was like to lie wrapped in his arms welled up inside her. Angrily she damped it down, but not before a knowing gleam appeared in his eyes.

‘I did not hear you complaining last night. What passed between us was your suggestion.’

‘That was different. It ended this morning.’

‘We are far from finished, you and I.’

The back of her neck prickled a warning. She took a half-step backwards, but his hand shot out, clamping around her waist and pulling her forward. His thigh hit her hip. Ruthlessly he lowered his mouth. His tongue delicately traced the outline of her mouth. Her hands came up and buried themselves in his hair, wanting the warmth to continue.

Abruptly he let her go and ran a finger down the side of her face and neck…

‘Mine.’

This is my third story about the jaarls who raided Lindisfarne and what happened to them afterwards. It is a linked book, rather than a continuation of the story. All you need to know is that the book is set at the beginning of the Viking era and the hero is a Viking warrior. The countries or areas of Ranrike and Viken did exist, but the exact nature of their relationship is lost to the mists of time. Because a number of you have written wanting to know about them, several characters from previous books do make appearances, and it was great fun to be able to revisit the world I created in the other two books. Hopefully you will enjoy reading about Thyre and Ivar.

As ever, I love getting reader letters, either via post to Harlequin Mills & Boon, through my website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, or my blog: http://www.michellestyles.blogspot.com

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Born and raised near San Francisco, California, MICHELLE STYLEScurrently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romance when she discovered Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt one rainy lunchtime at school. And, for her, a historical romance still represents the perfect way to escape. Although Michelle loves reading about history, she also enjoys a more hands-on approach to her research. She has experimented with a variety of old recipes and cookery methods (some more successfully than others), climbed down Roman sewers, and fallen off horses in Iceland—all in the name of discovering more about how people went about their daily lives. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework, in particular counted cross-stitch.

Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com, and would be delighted to hear from you.

Recent novels by the same author:

THE GLADIATOR’S HONOUR

A NOBLE CAPTIVE

SOLD AND SEDUCED

THE ROMAN’S VIRGIN MISTRESS

TAKEN BY THE VIKING

A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER

(part of Christmas By Candlelight )

VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE

AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE

A QUESTION OF IMPROPRIETY

IMPOVERISHED MISS, CONVENIENT WIFE

COMPROMISING MISS MILTON

In memory of my brother Eric

(1962–1992),

who first listened to my stories and who believed.

796—on Norway’s border with Sweden

‘Thor’s Hammer, Uncle Ivar, you were right! They are waiting for us. Sitting there. Bold as you like!’

Ivar Gunnarson, jaarl of Viken, glanced towards where his nephew pointed. In the shadow of a rocky island Ranriken dragon boats lurked. Ivar tightened his grip on the steering oar, moving the oar fractionally to the right, and the Sea Witch responded instantly to his command.

‘The Ranrike honour us. Five boats against a single boat. It will make for an interesting race.’

All movement had stopped on the boat and the men had turned towards Ivar, their expressions a mixture of fear mingled with anticipation as their calloused hands lightly rested on the oars. Ivar knew he would prove worthy of their trust. He would see them safely home. Ivar put his trust in things—the strength of his sword arm, the tautness of his sail, the trueness of his aim—rather than the mumblings of priests or the wearing of amulets. Deeds, not words.

‘But, Uncle Ivar,’ Asger said, ‘why are they waiting for us now? Why didn’t they attack us when we were going out to Birka?’

‘They were no danger to us on the way out to Birka, young Asger. Listen to your uncle,’ Erik the Black shouted from where he sat. ‘The Ranriken king wanted us to do the hard work. He desires the spices and silks we are bringing home to Viken, but fears the open sea. Your uncle predicted this for months before the voyage began. Despite all those who proclaimed a supernatural cause for our boats not returning, your uncle said there was another cause. Trust him. He knows the sea and its ways.’

Other oarsmen echoed Erik’s words and Asger’s worried frown disappeared.

‘And now the race with the Ranrike begins.’ Ivar adjusted his grip on the handle of the steering oar as he considered the silks, amber and other precious cargo that filled his hold. More than a king’s ransom if he could make it to the markets of Kaupang. ‘Here is where you learn what it is to be a true Viken warrior and a member of the felag, Asger.’

‘How can we hope to succeed against the boats and the storm?’ Asger wiped his hand across his mouth, his face becoming pinched as he glanced towards the clouds skittering across the sky.

‘We go forward, outrun them. The Sea Witch is the fastest of the Viken ships under sail. She will do anything I ask her.’

‘Anything? Even with those storm crows hanging in the air?’ Asger asked, pointing to the gigantic flock of black-winged birds beginning to circle the boat. ‘You know what they say about them and this passage. The crows are Ran’s messengers, telling her where to cast her net for men’s souls, Uncle Ivar.’

‘Crows are birds. They enjoy the wind. It gives them a chance to spread their wings,’ Ivar said.

‘Oh, I had not thought about them enjoying the wind.’

Ivar concentrated on the waves hitting the boat. Some day when the time for voyages had ended and he could again think about getting a wife, he would like to have a child like Asger. In time, the lad would make an able warrior.

The wind stirred the sea into a froth of white-capped waves and the sound of the crows screamed in his ears. Ivar kept his hand steady on the steering oar. The Sea Witch could hold her own in any contest with the weather. The keel and the rigging had been made to his design; if they held throughout the voyage to Northum-bria two years ago, they would hold now.

‘Erik the Black, did you put new rope on the right rigging?’

The seafarer looked up from where he sat at his oar and scratched the side of his nose. ‘I did. Exactly how you instructed, Ivar.’

‘The Ranrike expect us to make for the nearest inlet. Once there, all they have to do is wait and lurk, putting the stopper in the jug and stealing all our hard-won cargo.’ Ivar paused, allowing the men to absorb his words. Then he raised his fist. ‘I refuse to have that happen. We will outrun this storm and their boats. We will make it back to Kaupang.’