THE CHIEFTAIN’S BRIDE
By
Kate Hill
(c) Copyright by Kate Hill, April 2005
Cover Art by Eliza Black, (c) Copyright April 2005
Smashwords Edition
Published by New Concepts Publishing
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
Northumbria, 1063
“But I don’t want to marry another.” Marion took her husband’s cold hand and touched her lips to the back of it in an uncharacteristic display of affection. Theirs had not been a love match, but she had developed feelings for the aging warrior during their five-year marriage.
She’d just turned eighteen when the King had awarded Raynor the village of Ravenhill on the eastern boarder of Northumbria. In return, Raynor had kept the coast safe from raiders and Norse marauders who still haunted the neighboring Scottish shores. His defense of the very land he had once preyed upon had been a source of many arguments between Marion and Raynor.
“The King has already agreed that you and Ravenhill will belong to my cousin Wyborn. He will keep our village safe and prosperous. He will not abuse you.”
“I’m not worried about myself.” She blinked back the tears that threatened to spill. Wyborn, the last of the Norse conquerors, held property in Scotland and his homeland. Marion had no desire to wed him. “I’m not ignorant of the stories about your cousin. He’s a monster. He’s--”
“If Wyborn is not given this land, he’ll come and take it. Only his devotion to me stopped him from raiding these shores long ago. At least this way, none of what we’ve worked for will be destroyed. You and our people will be protected.”
Marion turned for a moment to stir the mixture of herbs in the black pot hanging over the fire. The strong scent permeated the room, but over the past few days, the herbs had eased Raynor’s troubled breathing. The pungent odor clung to Marion’s clothes and hair in spite of how she scrubbed herself daily.
“But I could rule. I still have your warriors to serve as a defense, and I know how to keep our land prospering. You know that I’ve provided you with advice that has saved, even earned, you gold.”
Raynor smiled, his withered hand clutching hers weakly. He had been more like a father to her than a husband. When they’d met, he had never spoken of it, but she knew by his avoidance of the marriage bed that he had lost his ability to enjoy women long ago. She had respected him enough to ignore the condition, not that she any desire to consummate their marriage in the first place. Wyborn would be another matter. Though his cousin had been little more than a boy when they’d last met, stories of Wyborn’s prowess filled Raynor with pride and hope.
“Wyborn is a fine man and Marion a good woman. No longer the willful child I wed, she will perform her duties toward him.” Marion didn’t respond, as she knew from the blank look in his eyes and the softness of his murmurings that he was no longer conscious of her. Still, his next words struck a chord of fear inside her. “I pray that Wyborn will appreciate the woman he has been promised as well as the land he has been given.”
The old warrior’s voice faded and his breathing ceased.
“Raynor?” Marion whispered, tears streaking her face as she lowered her forehead to her husband’s still chest. “Oh, God, Raynor, what sort of a curse have you brought upon us?”
“My lady?”
Marion wiped her cheeks with her sleeve and glanced up at the tall, slim boy with a reddish beard. In spite of his rugged appearance that made him appear like an experienced man, his blue eyes belied his youth.
“Stig, he’s dead, and for us this is only the beginning.”
“Raynor and the King sent word of his illness to Wyborn months ago. I’m sure he’ll be arriving any day to take what has been promised him.”
“Raynor may have been willing to surrender our land to his boar of a cousin, but I’m not so eager to see our home ruined. Wyborn will take what’s his. The King wills it. We have no way of stopping it, but should Wyborn not be as worthy as Raynor believed, we will stop him.”
“He’s a skilled warrior and a sharp-witted man. What we’ve been planning is risky, my lady.”
“One way or the other, I will be prepared for him. Already I’m as accurate with throwing a dagger as you are, and our training with the bow and arrow is coming along quickly.”
Stig closed his eyes and muttered a silent prayer. “If anyone knew what I’ve been teaching you, they’d lock us both away for madness.”
“I’d rather be a madwoman than the wife of an ogre.”
Marion stood and touched Stig’s forearm. The youth’s eyes snapped open and he gazed at her. Since the moment they met, Stig had been her most faithful friend. She knew he wanted a deeper relationship with her, but he was too considerate to press the issue. Still, he had never been able to deny her anything she asked for, though he’d tried when she’d come to him months ago with the insane idea of learning a warrior’s ways. Stig finally relented and coached her on how to throw daggers and fire a bow and arrow, all the while complaining that if Raynor ever discovered what he was teaching his soft, gentle wife, he would have his head chopped off.
“We have to inform the others and prepare for the funeral,” Marion said, casting one last, sad look at Raynor before following Stig out of the chamber.
* * * *
Draped in a somber black tunic, Marion stood beside Stig and stared at Raynor’s grave. Around them, servants, villagers, and warriors assembled to pay their respects to their fallen leader. Marion sensed genuine sorrow from all of them, for in spite of his brusque nature, Raynor had been a good, fair man. Only in the eyes of one person did she notice a brilliance borne of greed. Bodin had been Raynor’s strongest swordsman and a favored warrior. Still, the man had always been the first to rebel against Raynor’s orders. Though he inevitably bowed to the older man because Raynor was so revered by his other warriors that any slight to him was grounds for battle. Now Raynor was dead and there was no one to stop Bodin from freely admitting what he wanted.
At the feast following Raynor’s funeral, the battle-scarred, red-headed warrior would no longer curb his tongue or disguise his desires.
* * * *
“Raynor is dead, which leaves us without leadership.” Bodin stood in the smoky hall that smelled of burned meat and strong wine. The people seated at long wooden tables drank from carved mugs and gobbled from trays laden with meat, bread, and fruit. They paused in their eating to glance at him.
“Wyborn is coming,” said Stefan, a warrior seated at Marion’s left side. “The King is recognizing him.”
“Should we give everything we’ve worked for to Wyborn? What does Wyborn know of our life here? What does Wyborn care?”
Questioning murmurs echoed through the hall. Marion and Stig exchanged nervous glances.
“For years we have defended this coastline against the likes of Wyborn,” Bodin sneered the warrior’s name. “There is no reason we should surrender to him.”
“Wyborn has never been driven from land he intends to conquer,” Stig said. “If we fight him, we could destroy ourselves and incite the King’s wrath.”
“No. If we drive Wyborn off, the King will bestow leadership on one of us. Nothing will change.”
“And to whom will this leadership go?” Marion asked in a soft yet unwavering voice.
“I was Raynor’s second in command. That is known. And since I’m the one who has voiced this plan, it’s safe to say that I will lead us into battle. After we’ve won, I will go to the King with our demands.”
“No. I do not agree to this. Raynor was my husband. Until Wyborn arrives, this land is my responsibility. I will not allow us to go into battle.”
The room fell silent as Bodin and Marion glared at one another across the table.
“I respect your wishes, my lady, but I think everyone here will agree that living under Wyborn’s rule will not benefit us. I’ve seen his work firsthand. I’ve seen fields run red with blood, heard the cries of women and children, and seen men slaughtered by his sword. I was born and raised in among Danes. There is little that shocks me, my lady, but Wyborn has the strength and temper of the god Thor and a heart of ice. If Wyborn comes here, life as we know it will end. One way or another, people will die, so I say we die fighting!”
Warriors stood and raised their cups, shouting with the thrill of oncoming battle. It had been a long time since they’d met a true challenge, and Bodin’s words reached the love of glory in their hearts.
Only Stig and a handful of other warriors remained seated and silent with Marion.
That night as she retired to her chamber, Marion’s head pounded with anguish. It was bad enough that she might have to deal with Wyborn, now Bodin threatened her as well. From the moment she had met the tall, red-headed warrior, she had disliked him. She hated the way he had confronted Raynor, then feigned loyalty. She hated how he leered at her when no one else was looking, and she hated the contempt with which he treated anyone of lower rank than himself. She would rather see their village destroyed by Wyborn than be at the mercy of Bodin.
“You should invite me in now, because soon we’ll be sharing this chamber,” Bodin said from behind Marion, causing her to jump. He placed one of his heavy hands on her back and she moved away in disgust.
“Don’t ever touch me. You might have everyone else fooled, Bodin, but I know what you really are.”
“Then you know how much I’ve always wanted you, Marion.” His savage tone and look were at odds with his complimentary words. When he grasped her shoulders, her hand slipped into the folds of her skirt, her fingertips touching the smooth handle of the dagger she’d hidden there.
Though her heart pounded, she lifted her chin and met his gaze with confidence. “Are you certain you want to attempt this without ensuring your position?”
He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You’re assuming that if you fight Wyborn, you’ll win. But what if you don’t?”
“I will.”
“Say by the slim chance you lose, difficult to imagine for such a powerful man as yourself.” She wondered if he was intelligent enough to note the sarcasm in her voice. “Nevertheless, it is a possibility. If what you say about Wyborn is true, he might be a upset to think that you defiled his promised bride.”
“He won’t care. You’ll be just another slut to him. Women aren’t something to hold grudges over.”
“Let’s hope that Wyborn feels the same. He might want to be the first to sample his goods, so to speak.” She saw hesitation in Bodin’s eyes and pressed her advantage. “Why take such a risk? If you drive Wyborn off, then most likely I’ll belong to you. I’ll go to you willingly.” Marion clutched the dagger tighter. Only after I geld you.
“Be glad I’m in a kind mood tonight, my lady.” Bodin lifted a tendril of Marion’s brown hair and bent to kiss her mouth. She turned her face away so that his wet lips brushed her ear. “Raynor was old, so I know you’ve never had a real man. Prepare yourself for our wedding night.”
* * * *
To Marion, the next few days passed like the evil prelude to a nightmare. While Bodin convinced most of Raynor’s warriors to prepare for battle with Wyborn, the four who remained loyal to Marion made their own plans with her. Her allies were Stig, Stefan, an older man called Erik who had once sailed with Wyborn’s father, and Erik’s son Olav. Each night after dark, the five of them met in Raynor’s old chamber. Stefan and Olav pretended to listen to Bodin and carried any information they learned to Marion and the others. On the third night, which was to be their last secret meeting, Marion sat at the round wooden table by the window. Stig, Olav, and Stefan gathered around her and Erik stood behind her like an enormous gray bear.
“If Wyborn comes, it won’t matter to him if we’re with Bodin or not. He’ll see nearly every man in this settlement charging his party with swords and there will be a bloodbath,” Olav said.
“If he’s anything like his father was, there won’t be a settlement left, should Bodin be stupid enough to attack.” Erik added.
“Then one of us must meet him before he arrives and tell him what Bodin is planning.” Stefan’s gaze swept his companions. “And pray that he listens before he kills.”
“He’ll listen,” Marion said. “He has to. Raynor said he could be a fair man. He trusted him, and for now, so must we. So who will go?”
The men looked at one another, but Erik was the first to speak. “I knew his father. He’ll recognize me.”
“I’ll go with you, Father.”
Erik shook his head. “No, Olav. The three of you must stay close by Marion and see that she’s protected.”
Stig glanced at Marion and smiled slightly, affectionately. “No matter what happens, you will be safe, my lady.”
“My concern isn’t for myself, but for all of you and our common folk. We haven’t seen battle since Raynor lead us. I’ve watched too many people suffer and die. I don’t want that to happen to us again.”
She gazed at each of her friends before they left the room in silence. Once she was alone, Marion sank to her knees before the wooden crucifix hanging on her wall, the one her parents had given her shortly before they’d been killed during a raid in Scotland years ago. She prayed for peace and the strength to fight if she was forced to.
* * * *
Wyborn the Indomitable stood on the bow of his ship and squinted toward the misty shoreline. He hadn’t been to Northumbria since he was a boy on a raid with his father. It had been his first true fight, the first time he’d sliced flesh with his blade, the first time he’d felt his blood run hot and free from a serious wound. Wyborn had been a tall, strong youth who appeared older than his twelve years. Both he and his father had eagerly awaited the battle. What a disappointment it had been when Wyborn’s chest had been sliced halfway through the fight. He scarcely made it back to the ship and had been ill with a fever for weeks. His broad chest still bore the faintest scar. Compared to the many thicker, jagged scars he bore, it was scarcely worth noticing, yet it was the one he remembered most clearly.
He’d learned quickly about the brutality of life. The years had molded the naive child who charged into his first battle seeking glory into a man who defined glory to his people. Years of training with heavy weapons, riding, and sailing had provided Wyborn with a body as hard and defined as an arctic glacier. In spite of his physical attributes, Wyborn was intelligent enough to know that brute strength might make a warrior, but not a leader. He strove for complete power of mind and body. In silence, he had listened to masters of strategy and absorbed all they told him. He observed his friends and his enemies. Nothing escaped his shrewd eyes, and he was not above admitting his own ignorance to learn from someone more knowledgeable and experienced. His closest companions often teased him for being too silent and serious, yet they never pushed him very far. In spite of his lenience for those he liked or admired, everyone knew of his ruthlessness when he was provoked.
“So what do you think this bride of yours will be like?” Kell, Wyborn’s closest friend, shoved his straggly auburn hair from his face and looked at his leader. “Short and scrawny like her male counterparts?”
Wyborn’s gaze didn’t move from the shoreline. “We’ll find out when we see her.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to settle here. Do you know how bored you’ll be? You’ll have to send for Hallye for diversion.”
At the mention of the woman from his village who had been chasing him since childhood, Wyborn’s annoyed gaze shifted to Kell. “If you ever bring that woman here, I’ll cut your sword arm off at the shoulder. Mark me.”
“After you get a look at this other woman, you might be wishing for Hallye.”
“Hey, what’s he doing?” A warrior several feet from Kell pointed to a small, one-man boat approaching their fleet. The man on board was tall and thickly built. His gray hair hung in a wild tail over his broad shoulders.
Several archers raised their weapons, but Wyborn held up his hand for them to hold their fire.
“Wyborn!” called the man on the ship. “I must talk with you. It’s me, Erik.”
Wyborn’s solemn lips curved upward in the slightest smile as he recognized the gravely voice and scarred face of his father’s oldest friend.
“Get him,” Wyborn ordered Kell.
Within moments, Wyborn and Erik stood in relative privacy. The wind blew froth from the churning waves onto their faces while Erik described the violent welcome awaiting Wyborn’s army. When the older man finished, he stared intently at the warrior chief, awaiting his reaction.
Finally Wyborn said, “I appreciate your loyalty, but I’m not a fool. I was expecting rebellion. My men are prepared to take the shore in full armor with weapons ready. I have another troop coming by land from the opposite side. We’ve gauged everything so that both parties will arrive at the same time. Your settlement will be surrounded. If Bodin has as much brains as he has nerve, he’ll surrender.”
“What about the ones who’ve followed him? Not all of them are bad men.”
“They need leadership. Believe me, they’ll have it.”
Erik watched Wyborn carefully. “I didn’t only come here out of respect for you, but also for the Lady Marion.”
“What of her?”
“She’s a good woman. She’s intelligent and strong. She deserves to be treated well.”
Wyborn nodded. Though he didn’t need anyone telling him how to care for his new bride, he sensed that Erik had respect and affection for the woman. For the rough, old warrior to speak so highly of her said much about her character. For the first time he felt the kindling of genuine interest in meeting the Lady Marion.
Chapter Two
Wyborn’s booted feet landed with a splash in the cold water along the shoreline. He grasped the bridle of his chestnut stallion and led the shaggy animal to shore. His men presented a ferocious picture clad in their battle-mail, but Wyborn stood out amongst them. He was at least a head taller than the rest, except for Erik and a lanky youth named Leif. Beneath a bronze helmet, his long, wild, ash-blond hair snapped in the strong sea wind. His broad shoulders and chest were covered in chain mail and his breeches, damp from the splashing water, clung to the muscular length of his legs. With his broadsword sheathed on his back, he mounted his horse and ordered his men to follow him.
Though the group rode calmly, they were aware of the impending attack and were prepared when the first arrows sailed through the air. Their horses started and several men were injured, but Wyborn’s archers returned fire before the rush of Bodin’s warriors galloped at them from the distant trees.
In spite of years of experience, Wyborn felt a thrill course through him at the first clash of steel. In the rush, he knocked an oncoming warrior from his mount. His men outnumbered Bodin’s warriors and Wyborn guessed that his second party had already reached the settlement. Smashing another man onto the rocky ground, he rode toward the village. As he guessed, his second infantry was already engaged in battle. He had the advantage, yet he felt no gladness as he watched the men hacking at each other while frightened villagers screamed for their children and ran. Didn’t Bodin have enough intelligence to hide those who needed the most protection?
Wyborn dismounted with surprising grace for such a large man in battle armor. No sooner had his feet touched the dewy grass than three men surrounded him, bellowing as they raced at him with their bloody swords. While he blocked and cut down two, the third managed to slice the unprotected area between his shoulder and biceps. He scarcely noticed the injury, but turned and almost completely severed the man’s hand from his wrist. The man’s scream mingled with the others echoing through the village. Wyborn kicked aside one of the other fallen swordsman who was crawling toward him with a dagger in his hand and fury in his eyes. The man landed face down in a patch of mud.
Wyborn glanced around the village, noticing several thatched cottages, barns, and a manor house. Leif and several of his men were entering the manor through the tall wooden doors. He followed. Now that the settlement was his, he wanted a look at his intended wife.
* * * *
Marion stood in the great hall dressed in a flowing cotton shirt and leather breeches, men’s attire that she had made in case such a dreaded situation arose. Across her chest was a specially made strap that held several daggers. In spite of her outwardly calm appearance, her heart beat violently and she willed her hands not to tremble.
The sounds of battle raged outside the walls of the manor house. Glancing through a crack in one of the boarded up windows, she saw Bodin’s men fighting a small army of Norse warriors. She noted that they hadn’t come from the shore, but rather across the land.
Olav gripped his sword tightly. “Wyborn is as shrewd as his legend claims.”
He and the other two poised for battle, their gazes fixed on the door. Marion knew that they would have preferred to be outside amidst the action, but they had sworn to protect her and she was grateful for their loyalty.
She nearly screamed when the door burst off its hinges and several men covered in dented, bloody armor, matted cloaks, and rounded helmets strode into the hall. Immediately, Stig, Olav, and Stefan attacked them, but they were greatly outnumbered. Thrown by one of their enemies, Olav crashed onto a long banquet table. He fell unconscious amidst the splintered wood. Stefan and Stig battled two men each. Three more caught sight of Marion and moved toward her. She slipped a dagger from a sheath and flung it at the first man, striking him in the neck. Howling with pain, he clutched his throat. She withdrew another and let it fly. Her practiced aim was true and she struck the warrior in his shoulder joint where the armor couldn’t protect him. Narrowing her eyes to take aim at the third man, she suddenly faltered. A tall, particularly savage-looking warrior filled the doorway, blocking out the light shining in from the sunny morning outside. Though she couldn’t see much of his face through the shadow of his helmet and a layer of blood and dirt, his eyes stared at her like dark jewels beneath wickedly arched brows. She flung the dagger at the brute and he turned slightly so the blade soared passed him.
Before she could reach for another, one of the warriors lunged at her, grabbing a fistful of her hair and jerking her head back so hard that she thought her neck would snap. His free hand ripped the strap of daggers from her shoulder.
“Let’s have some of that fury where it feels good, wench,” Marion’s captor sneered, twisting her arms behind her back and slamming her face first on another wooden table. His knee shoved her legs apart and she struggled, overcome by anger and fear.
Suddenly she was free. She turned and saw the beast from the doorway fling her attacker against the wall.
“I told you on the ship, Leif, none of that,” snarled the beast, his voice a deep echo in the now silent hall. Marion glanced around, noting with relief that Stig and Stefan, though held at sword point on the floor, didn’t seem to be seriously hurt. “We’re to take what’s mine, not destroy it.”
Marion’s eyes widened. So this was Wyborn the Indomitable, the man she’d dreaded. The man she’d wished for over Bodin.
He turned his fathomless gaze to her. Beneath the blood and filth, his features were rough but handsome.
“Tell me where to find her.”
Marion blinked. He’d said something to her, but she’d been so consumed with discerning the face beneath the gore that she hadn’t heard a word.
“Find who?” She groped the table behind her, searching for the daggers that the man Leif had tossed aside.
“Lady Marion. I want to see her. Now.”
Marion lifted her chin and drew herself up to her full height. Not that it mattered, since she was just about level with his chest. Why did he have to be so bloody big? “I’m sure she has no desire to see you.”
“I don’t care if she wants to see me or not. We have business to discuss. Now tell me where she is.”
Marion’s deft fingers slipped a knife from its sheath and she lunged at him with a shriek of fury. Wyborn was quicker. His gloved hand grasped her wrist and shook the knife from her grip. He dragged her so close to his body that blood from his mail-covered chest smeared her cheek.
With a bellow of rage, Stig leapt, his hands reaching for Wyborn’s throat. The warrior chief, still holding Marion with one arm, slammed the back of his fist into Stig’s face. The youth crashed to the floor, blood streaming from his mouth.
“You heathen bastard!” Marion snarled, squirming from his grip and kneeling beside Stig. “He was only trying to protect me, you bloodthirsty ox! Before you do any more damage, I am Marion!”
One of Wyborn’s eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Well you’re everything I expected! You disgusting, filthy, violent....”
Several of Wyborn’s men laughed. To further increase her fury, he smiled as well. An auburn-haired man stepped through the door and all humor faded from Wyborn’s face. “Is the village secured, Kell?”
“Yes.”
“Bodin?”
“He’s nowhere to be found.”
“For a man who caused so much trouble, he’s quite a coward. If Bodin shows his face anywhere near this settlement again, kill him on sight, no questions asked. For now, see to the wounded. Once that’s taken care of, assemble everyone outside.”
Kell nodded and left, followed by the others. As Leif passed Wyborn, he kept his gaze cast down, Wyborn grasped his arm and nodded in Marion’s direction. “Apologize to her.”
“I’m sorry, Lady Marion. I didn’t know who you were.”
“That’s not the point, Leif.” Wyborn’s face remained calm, but his eyes shot a look of death at the younger warrior. “You were given an order. This isn’t some one-day raid. This is our land and our people. We’re here to protect them, not violate the women and kill the men.”
“I know that. It won’t happen again.”
Still crouching on the floor, Marion stared up at Wyborn, apprehension filling her soul. He extended a leather-gloved hand to her. Hesitantly, she took it.
“Show me my room. We have to talk.”
Marion glanced at her hand swallowed by his larger one and was shocked that except for the roughness of his glove, she could scarcely feel his touch. It amazed her that a man like him was capable of any kind of gentleness. Slowly, she withdrew from his grasp, her heart pounding as she led him up the creaky wooden steps.
She opened a door to a spacious room that had a fireplace with an animal-skin rug and two high-backed chairs in front of it. On the opposite wall stood a bed, an oak trunk, and a small, round table with two chairs.
“This room was Raynor’s. I suppose it’s yours now.”
Wyborn didn’t speak right away, but walked to the slim, rectangular window on the farthest wall and glanced out.
“You cared for your husband?”
His question was softly spoken and unexpected. Marion stared at him, trying to catch his gaze to see if his eyes were truly such a dark, lovely blue, or if she had merely imagined them.
“He was a good man.”
Wyborn turned in her direction. Her stomach tightened when she realized that his eyes were even more beautiful than she’d originally thought. “Yes, I cared for him.”
“Then I’m sorry for your loss.”
Again his words surprised her.
“You needn’t worry about your safety or the safety of your people. There will be changes, but only for the better.”
“You haven’t even been here a day. How do you know what changes will be for the better?”
“Some faults are obvious, others will reveal themselves in time.”
“I can’t believe I’m going to have to go through this again.” She folded her arms across her chest. “What is it with you Norsemen? Are all of you so arrogant?”
“Arrogant?” Not a muscle moved in his face, but genuine shock shone in his eyes. “I’m only trying to let you know that you needn’t fear me.”
Her fists clenched. “Fear you? I assure you I’m not in the least bit afraid of you. My only concern is that you will harm my people.”
The slightest smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. His gaze swept her in a manner that made her want to squirm. Damn him! It was as if his eyes could see straight to her soul.
“I didn’t think women here used weapons. Who taught you? Surely not Raynor.”
“I didn’t expect you to approve of a woman being able to defend herself.”
“I didn’t say--”
“You didn’t have to. I know how you think.”
“So you’re an oracle too?” His tone was sarcastic.
“Just because the King has ordered me to marry you, doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“As you said, I haven’t even been here one day. How do you know if you’ll like being married to me or not?”
She was about to argue, then changed her mind. Folding her arms across her chest, she studied every inch of his mail-and-leather-clad body, wondering if he was as big and exquisitely proportioned as she imagined beneath his armor. One thing was certain, he was filthy, whether it was from the recent skirmish or not, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that it had taken years for her to make Raynor understand the value of cleanliness, and they had never even lain together as man and woman. She was certain Wyborn would expect her to perform her wifely duties. A man like him must have the virility of a herd of stallions. Of course she would do her best to keep him at bay, but if worse came to worst and she had to make love with him, she wanted him clean. She shook her head slightly when she realized that her heartbeat quickened at the thought of him taking her in his arms and claiming her body. Would he touch her with the same gentleness as when he’d taken her hand, or would he be rough and ferocious? Would his sapphire eyes become even darker with passion? Did his solemn mouth feel as tender as it looked?
“How could any decent woman like being married to you? Not only are you far too tall, but you’re filthy, violent, self-important, and a heathen.”
“You’re sure you haven’t forgotten any of my attributes?”
“And you’re sarcastic. Another thing--” She stopped mid-sentence, noticing for the first time that some of the blood on his sleeve was running fresh and not merely stains on his armor. “You’ve been hurt?”
He glanced at his arm. “Just a scratch.”
Stepping closer, she inspected the wound. “You could die of infection from a scratch like this. I’m a skilled healer. Take off your shirt.”
“Healer, warrior. Do you have any other secrets I should know about?”
“I imagine you’ll find out.”
Smiling slightly, she left the chamber to retrieve bandages, a needle, and thread.
While Marion gathered her healing tools, she ordered a servant to bring heated water to Wyborn’s chamber. When she opened the door, she nearly lost her grip on the leather bag she carried. Wyborn sat in one of the chairs by the hearth, his armor arranged on the bed. She thought the bulky chain mail had enhanced his virility, but if possible, he was even more magnificent out of it. His cream-colored cotton shirt clung with sweat and blood to his well muscled body. The throat was open in a v-shape and crossed with unraveled cotton ties, exposing his broad, hard chest. Matted tendrils of ash-blond hair grabbed at his shoulders and brushed his back. Never in her life had she seen such a beautiful man. The sight of him weakened her legs and sent her heart racing out of control. Cursing her attraction to him, she approached.
He had been inspecting his sword, but suddenly turned his blade-sharp gaze to her.
Marion cleared her throat and knelt beside him, taking a close look at his injury. The bloody sleeve was rolled up to his shoulder, exposing an oozing slice in his upper arm. She dipped a piece of cloth in the bowl of warm water beside his seat and began cleansing the wound.
“When I’m done with you, I’ll go help the others. I’m sure your men did plenty of damage.”
“No more than Bodin’s, but it doesn’t matter. They’re all mine now.”
She shook her head at his words, biting back a retort since she was too busy concentrating on his arm. Though wary of him and his intentions, she touched him gently, knowing that such a wound must be painful in spite of how indifferent he seemed to be. After bathing away the blood, she threaded a needle and began stitching his flesh.
“Am I hurting you?” She tried to sound disinterested.
He shook his head and smiled. “I said it was just a scratch.”
“Some of the servants saw you sever the hand of the man who did this to you. He’s dead.”
“He shouldn’t have attacked me.”
“He was our best swordsman.”
Wyborn lifted an eyebrow. “That’s good to know. I thought I was losing my skills.”
“Losing your.... They said three men attacked you at once.”
He shrugged. “That’s battle. You should know. You fought off three of my men yourself.”
“I was throwing knives from a distance.” She finished stitching, then bound his arm with another strip of cloth. Even after her work was done, she remained kneeling beside his chair unconsciously resting her hand on his forearm. His skin was warm, roughened by a sparse covering of blond hair. The muscles beneath it were hard from years of carrying his enormous sword.
She glanced at the blade resting against the chair beside him. Her hand moved from him to touch the sword handle. The steel was molded into ridges, and even though it was dirty with blood and earth, she noted the sharpness of the blade. She had often wondered what it felt like to control such a weapon.
Her hand curved around the handle and she met his gaze. “May I?”
He didn’t smile, but she sensed his amusement. “By all means.”
Marion was not a weak woman, but even using both hands, she could scarcely lift the weapon. Grudgingly, she had to admit that she respected the strength of warriors like Wyborn who were able to wield such blades with speed and agility.
Standing, he took the weapon from her and held it up, his gaze focused on its tip. “I’ll get you a smaller one.”
“You will?”
“Why not?”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll try to use it against you?”
He tossed her a look that expressed exactly how much she intimidated him.
Angered by his arrogance, she glared at him. “You think I couldn’t learn how to use a sword?”
“If I didn’t think you could, I wouldn’t offer you one. I have to get back outside. Come with me. The wounded need your skills.”
He was right. People were suffering while she ogled a blond barbarian. Marion cleaned and replaced the needle and slung her leather bag over her shoulder before following him to the great hall.
* * * *
For the next several hours, Marion pushed thoughts of Wyborn and the fate of her people to the back of her mind and concentrated on tending the wounded. She stitched and cauterized injuries, removed arrowheads, and set broken bones. Stig approached her while she was stitching a gash in a man’s leg.
“Did he harm you?” The youth glared at Wyborn who squatted a short distance from them, restraining a man while another wrenched free an arrow embedded in his shoulder. Marion noted that while Wyborn wore his position with arrogance, he wasn’t above assisting in lowly tasks when help was needed. She desperately wanted to hate him, but found that she couldn’t.
“No, he didn’t hurt me.”
Stig touched his knuckles to his swollen mouth. “It’s a wonder he didn’t try to kill me.”
“I don’t think he has an interest in killing us.”
“You trust him?”
“Not yet, but according to the King, we must accept him. Perhaps we should give him a chance before we rebel.”
“I doubt he’ll give us a choice.”
Marion glanced up from her work and noticed Wyborn staring at her and Stig. She looked back down to the leg she had started to bandage and said, “Will you bring me some fresh water?”
To Marion’s relief, Stig left immediately. If Wyborn had floored Stig with his fist, she hated to think what would happen if he suspected an affair between her and the young warrior.
It was late afternoon when every able person gathered outside the manor house. Marion, her clothes now as bloody as the warriors’, stood in the row closest to Wyborn who had moved to the front of the crowd. Tall and strong, his ragged mass of hair snapping in the breeze, he was an intimidating figure. To Marion, he was something wild, a forbidden temptation, a creature who, like a wolf, could be both violent and gentle.
“For any of you who don’t know, I’m Wyborn. From this moment on, you will look to me for everything.”
Anger suddenly replaced her attraction to him. The man was arrogant beyond belief.
“Your attack this morning was expected. My men were given orders to kill as few of you as possible. I have never given such an order before and I never will again. From here on out, any one of you who acts against us will be killed.”
Marion bit down on her tongue to keep from shouting her disapproval. Inciting an argument against him would create unrest and though she hated to admit it, she knew he had to establish control from the beginning.
“I have not come to disrupt your lives, but to enrich them. You will learn much, but I’m sure I will as well. I promise you protection and prosperity. In return, I demand your cooperation.”
Stefan said, “It is rumored that you’ll be marrying Lady Marion.”
“One of your priests will be arriving tomorrow. We’ll be married by sunset.”
Marion drew a sharp breath, her gaze meeting Wyborn’s. She hadn’t expected him to act so quickly. Marrying her so soon after Raynor’s death seemed improper, but she noticed that Wyborn was not a man to waste time on propriety. He wanted immediate control over her and Ravenhill.
He dismissed the people by stepping inside.
Stig, Olav, and Erik approached Marion.
“I can’t believe him!” Stig snarled. “Raynor hasn’t even been dead a month, and he wants to wed you.”
“Most likely he wants to bed her,” Olav muttered.
Erik elbowed his son in the stomach so hard that Olav doubled over. “Speak to Marion with the respect she’s due, boy! And as for Wyborn marrying her, it’s his affair. She has been promised to him, and I understand that he’s trying to create unity. We all know that Raynor hadn’t been himself for the last months of his life and this land has been neglected. We’re in need of strong leadership here.”
“It looks like we’ve got it.” Marion clenched her teeth. “I only hope his actions are as fair as his words.”
“I don’t like him.”
“Doesn’t much matter if any of us like him, Stig,” Erik said. “He’s here to stay and the three of you better make the best of it, or you’ll answer to me.”
“They won’t have the chance.” Marion huffed, folding her arms across her chest. “Wyborn will probably lop their heads off.”
“Enough chatting like a bunch of kitchen maids,” Olav said. “It will be dark soon and there’s still work to do.”
Marion walked slowly to her room, glad that Wyborn was nowhere to be found. She needed time alone. In her chamber, she dumped her bag of healing tools on a chair by the hearth, stripped off her bloody clothes and burned them, hoping that some of her fear and anger would dissipate with the rising smoke.
She slipped into a coarse wool robe and stretched out on the bed, closing her eyes and attempting to relax every tired muscle. Tomorrow she and Wyborn would wed. And bed, she thought, remembering Olav’s words. She’d never been with a man and was curious what it would be like. From some women, she’d heard stories of paradise, from others, tales of hell. Wyborn was so big and she wondered if other parts of him were as formidable. She recalled the gentleness with which he had held her hand earlier. While they’d been tending the wounded she had overheard him express concern for the villagers who had been left unprotected during Bodin’s attempted rebellion. Wyborn didn’t appear to be the sort of man who derived pleasure from tormenting those weaker than himself, so she really had little fear of the marriage bed. Her heart fluttered a bit at the thought of touching him intimately.
“Damn you to hell, Marion! Are you so ready to place your desires above the needs of your people?” She pushed herself off the bed. Did she want to trust Wyborn because she really believed he was worthy of that trust, or because she couldn’t wait for them to copulate like a couple of animals?
Though tired from the physical and emotional exertions of the day, she was too anxious to sleep. She slipped a dress over her head, bundled herself in a robe, and left the house. Partway into the woods behind the settlement there was a special clearing where she often went to think and relax. The moon was nearly full and shone through the trees, creating shimmering dapples on the water. She shrugged off the robe, slid the dress sleeves down her arms, and let the thin article fall to a pool at her feet. Naked, she waded into the water, ducking under to wet her hair. Floating on her back, she gazed at the stars. In spite of the peaceful night, she was suddenly gripped by the strangest feeling that she was not alone. Her heart pounding, she stood and folded her arms over her breasts.
On the far side of the river, in the shadow of a low-hanging branch, stood the tall figure of a powerfully muscled man. Waist deep in water, he moved forward. Moonlight streaked Wyborn’s wet, ash-colored hair. Rivulets of water streamed down his sculpted torso.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I should ask you the same thing. Why are you here alone and naked? Have you no sense of danger? Bodin could still be lurking around.”
A shiver crept up her spine. She hadn’t thought of that.
He stepped toward her, and she backed away, her gaze raking his body, noting every curve and plane, every scar marking his flesh. Goodness, he was beautiful.
“You were surprised when I announced our wedding plans.” He stopped walking and so did she.
“Raynor hasn’t been dead for very long. I thought you’d give me time to mourn.”
“Our wedding is just a symbol of the unity of Ravenhill. I don’t intend to rush your grieving or expect you to consummate our marriage until you’re ready.”
“You don’t?” She tried to sound relieved in spite of her disappointment.
Shaking his head slightly, he moved closer. Her arms, which were still folded across her breasts, brushed his chest. It felt cool, roughened by a few curling blond hairs. She tilted her face up to his. Staring at her, he parted his lips slightly. Her heart pounded when she realized how little they’d have to move for their mouths to touch.
To keep from kissing him like some wanton hussy, she asked, “So tomorrow you won’t expect us to make love?”
He shifted his gaze from her mouth to her eyes and she nearly smiled upon noting his startled expression. At least he wasn’t completely beyond human feeling.
“No. Unwilling females don’t interest me.” He walked passed her without so much as brushing her with his shoulder. The muscles of his buttocks and legs tightened when he stepped out of the water. Marion’s mouth went dry as she imagined her naked curves trapped between those powerful thighs.
While pulling on his breeches and shirt, he kept his back turned and said, “Get out of the water. It’s time to go home.”
She shot him a deadly look. Who the hell did he think he was, ordering her out of the water like she was a child?
“I’m not ready. You go back of you want to.”
He turned. “If you don’t obey, I’ll drag you out myself.”
“You arrogant, condescending...”
He walked to the edge of the water and strode in. When the water reached his calves, she shouted, “All right! All right! I’ll come out. Just go back up there and turn around.”
He did as she asked. Clenching her teeth in frustration, she left the water and dressed quickly.
“You may turn around now.”
His gaze swept over her robed figure before he led the way back to the house, Marion almost running to keep up with his long, quick strides.
Once in her room, Marion leaned against the door and closed her eyes, confused by her mixed feelings regarding her husband-to-be. She despised his arrogance and his belief that he could tell her and everyone else what to do.
She deepened her voice and mocked, “Get out of the water. It’s time to go home.” Who did he think he was? “He’s master of this place now, that’s who he is.”
Though she’d been married before, she’d enjoyed a good amount of freedom. At first Raynor had been so involved in keeping their land secure that he’d paid her little attention, then his age and failing health affected him, giving her even more freedom and power. Wyborn was far from old and unhealthy, and apparently he was comfortable with balancing his marital life with his duty, which was why it surprised her that he would willingly postpone their wedding night. She’d seen lust in his gemstone eyes when he’d looked at her in the river and she wondered how long he’d wait before demanding his marital rights. Recalling how the moonlight glinted off his water-slicked body, she sighed. Perhaps she would be the first to demand that they consummate their marriage.
Never, she thought. I would sooner die a withered old virgin than throw myself at an arrogant ass like him.
After removing her robe and the damp dress, she slipped beneath the bed coverings. Thinking about her coming marriage, she wished her stomach would stop churning. When she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of passionate sapphire eyes and a scarred, muscular body that enveloped hers like a tender, breathing shield.
* * * *
“This dress is just as lovely as ever, my lady.” Brenna, Marion’s maid and closest friend, adjusted the sleeves on the honey-colored gown draping her mistress’s small, curvaceous body. The V-neck, flowing sleeves, and border were embroidered with green and gold thread. It was the dress she had married Raynor in, the only expensive one she owned. When her family had been slaughtered years ago, everything of value except her title had been taken. Afterward, Raynor had to be thrifty, since everything they owned was needed to support Ravenhill.
“You look beautiful, and for once all those looks of yours won’t be wasted.”
Marion raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed Wyborn’s appearance.”
“He’s just a man, Brenna.”
“But what a man! I shouldn’t be saying this, but you should hear the talk in the kitchen. You’d best keep him busy nights and not give him the time or strength to flirt with those blue-eyed servants Raynor brought with him from his homeland. There are rumors that Norse women are experts in lovemaking.”
“Better he take them than me. I’m harnessed to him legally. That’s enough punishment for any woman.”
Brenna’s eyes narrowed in her wizened face. She was an aging woman and had observed many things. Perhaps she guessed that Marion’s venomous words disguised strong attraction to Wyborn.
“Brenna, can we do this any faster? I have to see to the wounded before I prepare for my wedding.”
“It’s finished. The priest arrived about an hour ago and he’s resting. The ceremony will be performed at dusk, so I’ll have your bath ready by late afternoon.”
Marion was about to undress when someone knocked on the door. Brenna opened it and both women glanced at a man with wild auburn hair and a flaming beard. Marion knew him as Kell, a warrior who spent much time in Wyborn’s company.
He flashed a charming smile. “Good morning, Lady. I’ve come to give you some information regarding the ceremony.”
“And what information would you have regarding my lady’s wedding?” Brenna glared at him. “The ceremony and feast have already been planned, at least as well as we could on such short notice.”
“Silence, crone. I was speaking to the Lady.”
“Crone? Have you barbarians no respect for your elders? You’re scarcely out of swaddling and you’re speaking to me like this?”
Brenna continued scolding him and Kell raised his aqua eyes to heaven.
Marion stifled a giggle. “Perhaps we should hear what he has to say, Brenna.”
“As you know, it will be a Christian ceremony, so we have left the planning to you.” He glanced briefly at Brenna who nodded in a manner befitting a queen rather than a servant. “However, there are a few of our old traditions Wyborn insists upon.”
“They probably want to slaughter a horse in honor of their bloodthirsty gods,” Brenna muttered under her breath.
“Wyborn has decided to forfeit the animal sacrifice,” Kell continued, unaware of Brenna’s sarcasm.
The maid and the Lady exchanged disgusted looks but waited for Kell to go on.
“He will be presenting you with a sword.”
“So soon? I didn’t expect it as a wedding gift.”
Kell looked confused. “Lady?”
“He said he’d give me a smaller sword and teach me how to use it.”
Kell burst out laughing. “Of Wyborn, I wouldn’t doubt it, but I’m referring to a sword that you will keep for your firstborn son. It’s our way.”
“Oh.” Marion blushed. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about your traditions. Raynor converted to Christianity. I thought most of your people have as well.”
“Wyborn’s beliefs are rooted in the past. He won’t convert,” Kell stated. “However, he is very familiar with your traditions. He has studied your ways so we wouldn’t arrive here in ignorance.”
“I see,” Marion whispered. She knew something of Norsemen and spoke their language fluently, having been married to one. Still, Raynor told her little of their Pagan traditions. She glanced at Kell. “I have to change out of this dress. Would you wait for me in the hall? I have many questions before I marry Wyborn.”
“I am at your service.”
No sooner had the door closed behind him than Brenna said, “That boy’s got spirit. Heathen or no, there’s something I like about him. I wonder how he’d feel about a bride? I have a niece who’d be perfect for him.”
Marion stifled a laugh. Poor Kell. She would have to warn him.
* * * *
Kell accompanied Marion on her rounds, aiding her with the wounded and answering her questions about his people’s traditions and beliefs. Some were familiar to her, others were completely new. If Wyborn was willing to arm himself with knowledge, she would do the same.
When she’d finished tending those inside the house, she hoisted her bag over her shoulder and stepped outside to help those with minor injuries. Kell left her to assist the men who were making repairs throughout the settlement.
Walking through the village and along the wall, she paused to change bandages and see that infections hadn’t set into minor scrapes. All the while, she searched for Wyborn. Finally she caught sight of him behind a barn splitting logs for repairs. Again his raw virility struck her hard, sending her heart aflutter. He lifted the ax with animal grace, the damp cotton of his shirt pulling across his broad back. With the downswing, his muscles tightened sensually.
Approaching, she noticed that the injury on his arm had bled through his sleeve.
“Let me look at that,” she said, causing him to pause with the ax in midair.
Lowering the weapon he kicked aside the log and sat on the chopping block so that she could better reach him.
“You’ve gotten plenty of work done this morning,” she said, rolling up his sleeve.
“There’s no time to waste.”
She unraveled the bloody bandage and cleansed the wound. “You tore the stitches.”
“Cauterize it. I don’t have time for this.”
“Stitches will hold fine if you stop swinging that ax for a while. This is our wedding day. Shouldn’t you be preparing for the ceremony?”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be ready. I spoke with Kell. He said we should exchange swords tonight.”
“It’s not necessary for you to give me one. You couldn’t have known--”
“You’ll have my father’s. It’s one of the only things I have left of my family.”
“Then I shouldn’t have it. Save it for our son.”
“He’ll have the one you give me. I want you to have it.”
He smiled at her and she couldn’t help responding in kind. For a moment, her wedding jitters were forgotten.
Chapter Three
It was mid-afternoon when Marion returned to her chamber to prepare for her wedding. Even as she soaked in a warm bath of rose-scented water, her heart pounded from nerves. After she’d fixed the stitches in Wyborn’s arm earlier, she had grudgingly left him to tear them again as he had “work to do and no time to act like a lazy woman.” Stig and Olav had approached her. The two offered to sneak her out of the village if she truly hated the idea of marrying Wyborn. Though she’d been touched by their loyalty to her, she made it clear that she intended to marry for the sake of the village. Until Wyborn gave them reason not to, they would cooperate with him. Looking relieved, the men had left her with good wishes for the coming ceremony.
Brenna stepped into the room and handed Marion a fresh robe. “Come, my lady. It’s time to get you dressed.”
Marion slipped into the robe and sat while Brenna combed the tangles from her hair and braided it.
“It’s a fine, handsome man you’re to wed. He’ll give you many lovely babes.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“You’d best forget that attitude. You can’t stay a virgin forever. There’s no way Wyborn won’t claim his rights, and you could certainly do worse. He seems like the kind of man who’ll be gentle.”
“He’d better be,” Marion fingered one of her daggers on the table in front of her, “or else I’ll see to it there are no children.”
Brenna shot her a look of fury and concern. “Don’t try that with the likes of him.”
“The stupid ox doesn’t frighten me.”
“Raynor indulged your sharp tongue, but Wyborn won’t look at you in the same fatherly manner. He’s young and strong, and I’ll wager his appetites are just as strong. With the right man, lovemaking can be a wonderful thing. I remember the first night with my own dear husband, God rest his soul....” Brenna’s voice drifted off and she smiled at the memory.
Marion patted the old woman’s hand. “Thank you, Brenna, but Wyborn and I will get through with this on our own.”
Brenna respected her Lady’s wishes and spoke only of the ceremony and the fine feast, which the servants had spent the day preparing. The great hall had been cleaned and readied for the ceremony. A priest visited the settlement often, since Raynor and his men had converted to Christianity. As Kell had told her earlier and Wyborn reinforced when she’d asked him that afternoon, her new husband would not abandon his Pagan beliefs. At least he agreed that she could raise their children as Christians. She reflected that in some ways he would make an ideal father with knowledge and skills to pass on to his sons and daughters. When she’d told Brenna he was a stupid ox, she’d spoken out of spite and apprehension, not because she believed it was so. One only had to speak with Wyborn to know that in spite of his rough manner and appearance, he was intelligent.
Goodness, what was wrong with her? Handsome, intelligent, strong. What other god-like qualities could she give him? Yet he was all those things. Damn Raynor! Why did he have to recommend Wyborn as his successor? She’d never felt so torn in her entire life as when she’d first met the eyes of a certain Norse chieftain!