Viking
RAVES ABOUT
NEW YORK TIMES
BESTSELLING AUTHOR CONNIE MASON!
VIKING!
“This captive/captor romance proves a delicious read.”
THE DRAGON LORD
“This is a real keeper, filled with historical fact, sizzling love scenes and wonderful characters.”
THE OUTLAWS: SAM
“Ms. Mason always provides the reader with a hot romance, filled with plot twists and wonderful characters. She’s a marvelous storyteller.”
THE OUTLAWS: JESS
“
Jess
… is a delight. Typical of Ms. Mason’s style,
Jess
is filled with adventure and passion. Ms. Mason delivers.”
THE OUTLAWS: RAFE
“Ms. Mason begins this new trilogy with wonderful characters … steamy romance … excellent dialogue … [and an] exciting plot!”
THE BLACK KNIGHT
“Ms. Mason has written a rich medieval romance filled with tournaments, chivalry, lust and love.”
GUNSLINGER
“Ms. Mason has created memorable characters and a plot that made this reader rush to turn the pages….
Gunslinger
is an enduring story.”
ROMANTIC TIMES
PRAISE FOR CONNIE MASON!
PIRATE
“Ms. Mason has written interesting characters into a twisting plot filled with humor and pathos.”
BEYOND THE HORIZON
“Connie Mason at her best! She draws readers into this fast-paced, tender and emotional historical romance that proves that love really does conquer all!”
BRAVE LAND, BRAVE LOVE
“Brave Land, Brave Love
is an utter delight from first page to last—funny, tender, adventurous, and highly romantic!”
WILD LAND, WILD LOVE
“Connie Mason has done it again!”
BOLD LAND, BOLD LOVE
“A lovely romance and a fine historical!”
TEMPT THE DEVIL
“A grand and glorious adventure-romp!
Ms. Mason tempts the readers with … thrilling action and sizzling sensuality!”
The first time he saw her she was clothed in naught but moonlight and mist and the midnight cloud of her lustrous hair. She moved as if she were made of shadow and vapor floating on a gentle breeze. He hadn’t come for plunder or rape. Not this time. He’d been lured to the island by the whisper of the wind and the sultry call of a Valkyrie.
She was bathing in a narrow stream in a moon-dappled glen, her nude body shimmering like polished ivory, her shiny black hair falling to her waist in rippling waves. She was young and beautiful and exquisitely fashioned. Not large and strapping like Viking women, but small and delicately put together. A throbbing began in Thorne’s loins.
He had to have her.
Viking!
Connie Mason
© 1998, 2012 Connie Mason. All rights reserved.
To my grandson, Mason Robinson Osborn
The Isle of Man, 850 AD
The first time he saw her she was clothed in naught but moonlight and mist and the midnight cloud of her lustrous hair. She moved as if she were made of shadow and vapor floating on a gentle breeze. He hadn’t come for plunder or rape. Not this time. He’d been lured to the island by the whisper of the wind and the sultry call of a Valkyrie.
Thorne the Relentless was not a superstitious man, nor one who acted recklessly, yet he had been lured to this dark shore by a powerful force more potent than his own survival instincts. His captains never questioned his orders to put ashore as his fleet of dragon ships scraped the shoreline. Nor did they stop him when he jumped into the water and
waded through the surf to the sandy beach.
The firstborn son of the powerful jarl Olaf, Thorne had never led them astray. Thorne’s vast knowledge of the sea and trade routes had made rich men of all his dragon ship captains and their crews.
“Wait here for me,” Thorne ordered as the captains of his five dragon ships waded to shore behind him. “Find a river, fill the waterbags and set up camp while I explore. Tonight we will dine on fresh game.”
“Shall I come with you, Thorne?”
Thorne dismissed Ulm, his most trusted captain, with a wave of his massive hand. “Nay, I go alone. Do not let the men stray inland. We are not here to plunder. Our ships are already filled with rich cargo from our latest raid upon the Norman coast.”
Ulm wagged his head of shaggy, unkempt hair in reproof as Thorne disappeared into a thick forest of hardwood trees. Thorne rarely if ever acted precipitously, or without a valid reason, and his men knew it. Putting ashore now made no sense to anyone but himself, Thorne mused. True, they were low on water, but it was not yet a problem. Though Ulm might silently wonder about his decision, Thorne knew Ulm would never question orders from a man whose skill and carriage had kept them all alive during countless raids across treacherous seas and hostile lands.
A wary deer turned and fled at the sound of Thorne’s leather-clad feet treading upon damp earth and dead leaves. Thorne paused, listening to
the wind whispering in the trees, raising his face to the wedge of moonlight spearing through the lofty branches. Had he tried, Thorne couldn’t have explained the mysterious, seductive urgency that had beckoned him to this place. If it was magic, he wanted nothing to do with it. Yet how else could he explain the bizarre circumstance that had lured him to the island? It was almost as if destiny had preordained his arrival on this deserted strip of beach. Why?
Then Thorne stepped into a clearing and saw a vision that made his heart thump within the confines of his chest. She was bathing in a narrow stream in a moon-dappled glen, her nude body shimmering like polished ivory, her shiny black hair falling to her waist in rippling waves. She was young and beautiful and exquisitely fashioned. Not large and strapping like Viking women, but small and delicately put together. A throbbing began in Thorne’s loins.
He had to have her.
She turned slightly, as if sensing his presence. Thorne sucked in a ragged breath, captivated by the sight of a pair of perfect breasts crested by rosy nipples. His mouth went dry with longing. Thor’s hammer! She was lovelier than the goddess Freyja, Thorne thought as his expression turned lustful. The throbbing in his loins was almost painful now as his shaft swelled and hardened.
His gaze slid past her breasts to linger on her tiny waist; he could easily encircle it with both his hands. Her hips were gently rounded, her legs long
and shapely. The dark, mysterious patch between her legs seemed to beg for the touch of his hands and mouth. Her ankles were finely turned, her feet small and delicate. He must have groaned, for she looked in his direction, poised like a frightened deer on the verge of flight.
Thorne stepped from the shadows into the moonlight. The girl—she could hardly be called a woman—gasped, apparently frozen by fear as she spied the fierce Viking warrior, a man her people had learned to fear. Vikings had terrorized her island for years, but none had landed so close to her home before.
Never had Fiona seen so fierce a warrior. He was a veritable giant. His chest was thick and solid, his legs long and sturdy as the oak trees that grew in the forest. Golden blond hair escaped from beneath his iron helmet, sweeping over his massive shoulders. He was beardless. He wore a shirt of ringlink mail that reached to mid-thigh and a tunic beneath it that left most of his muscular arms bare. His flat-soled boots were made of leather and were laced up his legs to fasten at his bare calves. Her attention was drawn to the silver buckle adorning his leather belt, and to the assortment of weapons he carried.
His sword was long, its hilt finely carved and decorated with silver. A throwing axe, dagger and battleaxe were thrust into his belt. Even in the darkness Fiona sensed the violence in him, and fear shuddered through her. The shudder seemed to release her from her frozen stance and she turned to flee.
Thorne knew the moment the mystery maiden decided to flee and reacted swiftly. She had scarcely taken a single step before Thorne reached her, jerking her against him.
“Do not go,” he said in a voice made rough with lust. “Who are you? Are you real, or a figment of my imagination?”
She stared at him, apparently stunned to hear him speak to her in her own Gaelic tongue. She had no way of knowing that Thorne the Relentless was not just a raider, but a trader who had learned many languages during his travels to distant lands.
“Who are you?” Thorne repeated.
She raised her eyes to his and the breath slammed from Thorne’s chest. Her eyes! They were so vivid a violet that he dared not stare into them too long lest they bewitch him. But it was already too late. He was forever and irrevocably lost in those captivating violet depths. His gaze lowered slightly to her lips. Full and lush and enticing. If he didn’t taste them he would surely perish.
Thorne was a man who took what he wanted, when he wanted, and he hungered for this woman. Unaccustomed to asking for what he wanted, Thorne crushed the entrancing maiden against his muscular chest and kissed her with all the fury and passion he was capable of.
Overwhelmed by this untamed marauder, the maiden uttered a protest and tried to defend herself against the obscenity this Viking intended for her. Rapine and plunder. Christians since St. Peter visited their island, the maiden and her countrymen
prayed daily for deliverance from the fury of the Norsemen.
She whimpered, frightened and bruised as he plundered her mouth. Her breasts and stomach wore the imprint of his mail and her buttocks bore the marks of his large hands. She wrested her mouth free and cried out, “Nay!”
The husky quality of her voice sent shivers of awareness through Thorne. “So, you
can
speak. Who are you, lady?” He held her like a vise with one hand while caressing her breasts with the other.
She shook her head, determined to tell this fierce Viking nothing. She was frightened out of her wits at the thought that this brutal man may be the Viking the old Celtic wizard, Brann, had described from a vision he’d had many years ago. According to Brann, her future and that of a Norseman were intertwined. Surely this savage Viking wasn’t the man fate had given her. God wouldn’t be so cruel, so unfeeling, would he?
“I don’t care who you are, lady,” Thorne said roughly. “I will have you nonetheless.” He lifted her in his arms and bore her to the ground.
She gazed into his fire-and-ice blue eyes and knew she had to escape. What he wanted to do to her was wrong and sinful. When he knelt above her to remove his mail, she gathered her wits and reacted with a daring she hadn’t known she possessed. Bending her knees, she kicked him backward onto his rump and leapt to her feet while he was struggling to rise. Then she turned and ran into the shadowy forest.
Grunting in dismay, Thorne sprinted after her. But burdened as he was by his armor and weapons, he was no match for the fleet-footed maiden. She had escaped him.
“Odin take you!” His curse thundered through the forest, disturbing all manner of night animals. He ached with unrequited need, and he had a dreadful premonition that no woman would ever please him as the mystery maiden would have. One word came to mind. A word so frightening he dared not say it.
Witchcraft!
The maiden had cast a spell upon him. She had bewitched him. He had to flee now or risk his soul.
A short time later the five dragon ships slipped from shore and sailed into the dark mist rising from the sea.
Kaupang, a trading port on the Norwegian coast, one year later
“Loki take you, Thorne! You haven’t been yourself since you went a-Viking last summer. You’ve all but lost your appetite for women. What happened during that voyage?”
Thorne sent his brother a quelling look, then glanced around to see if any of the thralls were lurking nearby to hear them. They were alone. The thralls had long since retired to their shelves and benches lining both sides of the hall. Thorne knew his brother wouldn’t understand his reluctance to rut with just any woman, so he didn’t attempt to explain.
“Nothing is wrong, Thorolf. I haven’t seen a woman who appeals to me.”
“I don’t believe you,” Thorolf scoffed. “Ulm said you haven’t been the same since your dragon ships put ashore on the Isle of Man. He thinks something happened there. I know you haven’t been sleeping well; I hear you pacing at night. You’re short of temper and quick to lash out. You rarely take a woman anymore. Has Tyra ceased to please you? ’Tis not like you, brother.”
“Naught is wrong,” Thorne repeated, as if trying to convince himself.
“Tell that to someone who doesn’t know you as well as I. ’Tis not like you to go so long without a woman, or to remain at home when you could go a-Viking.”
“Perhaps ’tis because I’m now betrothed,” Thorne opined.
Thorolf threw back his shaggy head and gave a shout of laughter. “Not you, brother. Marrying Bretta will not stop your wild ways. I’ve fought at your side, Thorne the Relentless. You’re as fierce as any Viking berserker I’ve ever seen. ’Tis time you told me the truth.”
“I agree.” Thorne’s father strode into the hall and stopped before his sons, hands on hips, legs spread wide. Olaf was even more massive than either of his two sons. His yellow hair and beard were shaggy and streaked with gray. His huge, brawny body was covered with battle scars, and he was missing two fingers on his left hand.
“Thorolf isn’t the only one who’s noticed your strange behavior,” he told Thorne. “You’ve been acting like a man bewitched.”
Thorne started violently. He knew Olaf’s words were meant to be teasing, but his father had come too close to the truth for his liking. Thorne had long since decided he’d been bewitched. Since that night he’d been lured to the Isle of Man, he’d been unable to forget the beautiful, mysterious maiden. She continued to haunt his dreams and make his waking hours unbearable. Sleep was a luxury no longer allowed to him. The maiden was a witch, there was no other explanation. And he was doomed to live in misery for the rest of his days.
Olaf’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Odin’s balls! That’s it! You’re bewitched.”
Thorne glanced down at his hands. They were strong hands, hands accustomed to wielding weapons, to slaying enemies, yet they rested uselessly in front of him now. A man of his awesome strength and determination should be capable of conquering his erotic dreams, yet he could not. It was almost as if the dark-haired, violet-eyed maiden had invaded his mind and was slowly seducing him to madness.
“Aye, Father,” Thorne said with considerable anger. “There is no other explanation. I am bewitched.”
“By Odin’s beard! What are you saying?” Thorolf roared. “Someone must have bashed you on the head, else you would never make such an outrageous statement.”
“I encountered the witch on the Isle of Man,” Thorne explained. “She lured me to her shore, I swear it. She spoke to me through the wind and the waves, promising me a taste of Valhalla. She is as beautiful as a Valkyrie, with hair as black as midnight and eyes the color of the violets that grow upon the hills in summertime. She was naked, her body shimmering like ivory in the moonlight. And I wanted her more than I have ever wanted another woman.”
Thorolf moved to the edge of his bench, apparently enthralled by Thorne’s tale of witchcraft. “By Odin’s beard! A woman such as you described would have to be a witch. What happened? Did she cast a spell upon you? A story like this is worthy of the most talented scald. He would sing it throughout the land.”
“I spoke to her in Gaelic, but the witch refused to answer,” Thorne said, delving deeply into his memory. “She uttered but one word.”
“What word was that?” Olaf asked. He seemed surprised that the fiercer of his two sons would allow a woman to bewitch him.
“She said ‘nay’ as I bore her to the ground. I wanted to be inside her, could think of nothing else. I was hard and aching and wanted to ravish her. When I paused to remove my mail, she caught me off guard and escaped. I tried to follow, but she seemed to disappear into thin air. Only a witch could do that. Instead of searching the island for her, I panicked and ordered my men to their ships. I felt, nay, I
knew,
I had been bewitched, and it
frightened me. Never have I been so utterly captivated by a woman. The beautiful witch I encountered on that misty isle that night has made my life miserable ever since.”
Olaf’s blue eyes, so like Thorne’s, gazed with pity upon his son. He could tell that Thorne was suffering and he liked it not. He rubbed his bearded chin as he pondered Thorne’s plight. Olaf had never believed in witchcraft, but he was not one to dismiss something he did not understand. If Thorne believed he was bewitched, then something must be done about it.
“You must go back to Man,” Olaf decreed.
“For what purpose?” Thorne asked. “I never want to see that cursed place again.”
“Since when have you ever turned down a chance to raid and plunder?” Thorolf jeered. “Heed our father, Thorne, for he is wise and will tell you how to break the witch’s spell.”
“Very well. I will take my dragon ships to Man, to raid and plunder the land. When I am through, they will curse my name for generations to come.”
“Aye,” Olaf said, obviously content with his son’s response to his advice. “But there is more. You must find the witch and slay her. Her death will free you from her spell.”
Thorne stared at his father, his eyes blazing with unholy light. Of course! It was all so clear now. He should have thought of it himself and ended all those months of erotic torture. Once the witch was dead she could no longer enchant him, or make him ache to possess her.
“I will gather a crew and undertake the journey,” he said, anxious now to be off. “Every inhabitant on the Isle of Man will learn to fear the name of Thorne the Relentless.”
Thorolf nodded sagely. “ ’Tis a wise decision. You must kill the witch and break the spell. Besides, the plunder and captives will bring us new wealth. Byzantium clamors for fresh slaves to meet their demands.”
“Will you explain to Bretta the Fair why our marriage must be delayed, Father?” Thorne asked. “I know you made arrangements for us to wed at the
althing
this summer.”
“The wedding can wait. I will invite Bretta to stay with us while you go a-Viking. The wedding can take place upon your return. Once the witch is dead, you’ll be able to concentrate on wedding Bretta and producing children.
“We will await your return, Thorne. May Odin the All Father see you safely to your destination, and Thor the thunder god give you strength to defeat the witch.”