Strian

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance; Historical Romance; Ancient World Romance; Medieval Romance; Scottish & Highlander; Viking Romance

Synopsis

A warrior with a wounded heart . . .



Strian Eindrideson has served alongside his friends since he was old enough to swing a sword, but beneath the handsome but brutal exterior lies a wounded heart. Separated from the only woman he ever loved, Strian searches for his missing wife until a pair of blue eyes captures his attention during a raid. Will love be enough to repair the damage caused by so many years apart?



A survivor with a painful secret . . .



Gressa Jorgensdottir thought she had everything her heart desired until a battle left her near death and torn away from the man she had married only months earlier. When that man from her past returns her to a land where her Sami heritage makes her an outcast, Gressa must decide whether her life with Strian holds more promise than the pull from secrets that bind her to Wales. Will their need to protect one another be their undoing?



Torn apart during one battle only to be reunited during another, Strian and Gressa must learn to trust one another again, sharing the truth of their time apart while relying upon one another to survive. Will their pasts drive them apart even when their hearts call to one another?



Contains mature themes.

Release date: December 11, 2020

Publisher: Oliver Heber Books

Print pages: 284

Sample

Chapter One

Strian looked over his shoulder at the woman rowing just two benches behind him. Other Norsemen surrounded her, but she appeared out of place and alone. Despite trying to remain focused on navigating his ship toward the fjord just beyond his home, Strian Eindrideson failed to overcome the temptation to look back at Gressa time and again.

Gressa Jorgensdóttir refused to lift her gaze from the shoulder blades of the people seated in front of her. She followed the rhythm of the other rowers as her oar dipped and slid first through the water then in the air before returning to the water. She could feel Strian’s eyes on her even though she had not looked up in hours. She refused. She refused to acknowledge him, and she refused to acknowledge her own feelings, or rather the ones he stirred in her. She forced her mind to focus on the motions needed to keep her oar synchronized with the other rowers. She would not allow herself to think about how her hands, blistered and raw, ached from rowing for hours after not having touched an oar in years. She would not think about how her stomach rumbled from refusing anything but the most meager amounts of food; one of the few rebellious acts available to her. She would not think about how once again fate forced an abrupt sacrifice of the life she had. She would not think about Strian. There was far more for her not to think about than what she was willing to entertain, but her attempts to force her mind away from the painful topics only made them linger in the forefront of her mind even more. Gressa caught herself before she shook her head.

Strian gave up all attempts at ignoring Gressa the second day aboard his ship. It was an exercise in futility to pretend she did not exist. He had never been able to ignore her, and ten years of separation had not changed that. Gressa stood out from the rest with her heart-shaped face, dark brown hair, and deep blue eyes with their almond shape, giving proof to her Sami heritage. None of her clothes resembled the ones he remembered. Gone were the conical rolled toes on her boots or the beading at the hems of her wrists and collar that she wore at home. The more subdued forest colors of a Welsh bowman replaced her Sami clothing. Her clothes had always made her stand out, first as a Sami and now as a Welshwoman. But Strian knew the clothes did not matter. His memories clutched to the images of Gressa when she was undressed. He snapped his eyes back to the water and slammed the door shut on those memories. They had haunted him ever since he last saw Gressa, and now they caused a painful knot to squeeze his heart.

“Captain, Tyra’s given the signal that we are only five knots from the entrance to the fjord. We will be home soon.” Strian nodded once to his first mate and followed the man to the stern where he took the rudder from one of his oarsmen.

Now that Strian was behind Gressa, it was easier for him to watch her. It was not so obvious when she was in his line of sight as he navigated the ice and sandbars. He had been sailing in and out of his homestead’s natural harbor since he was a child. He could spare some of his attention and continue to watch Gressa. The linen shirt she wore stuck to her sweaty body, and he could see the muscles ripple through her back and shoulders as she continued to row. He watched her head twist slightly to the side as though she might look back at him. He knew she was aware he watched her, but he had caught her staring at him just as many times.

Strian guided his longboat into the harbor and docked beside Bjorn’s and Tyra’s boats. He avoided Freya because their falling out just before they left Scotland remained unresolved. Strian knew Freya felt guilty for their argument, and he did not enjoy being at odds with one of his oldest friends, but he would not overlook her high handedness as their leader or her unwillingness to hear why he wanted to remain in Scotland. Strian approached Gressa and waited until she noticed him. It was only a matter of a heartbeat before she looked up at him.

“Stay next to me,” Strian whispered. When Gressa looked ready to object, Strian raised an eyebrow in warning. “It’s been ten years.”

Gressa sucked in a breath and looked at the place where she had grown up. “Everything looks different but it still all looks the same,” she breathed.

“You’re right about that. Much is different, but the people are the same.”

“Then you should have left me in Scotland,” Gressa hissed. “They won’t want me now any more than they did before I left.”

“Is that why you hid? Is that why you didn’t try to find me?” Strian’s deep voice rumbled in his chest, and Gressa could feel it as he leaned against her shoulder. He intended his words for only her ears.

“Does it matter?” She knew those were the words that would push Strian away, giving her space to think, but she had not anticipated the depth of hurt she would see when she looked at him. He reeled back from her.

“Why would you ask that? Of course, it matters. You still haven’t told me what happened when we got separated.”

“And I don’t intend to.” Gressa’s mind filled with images of the battle they fought side by side then the injury that nearly killed her. She remembered being near death and calling out for Strian, but he never came. This brought back memories of the past ten years she had spent building a life in Wales.

“You will explain one of these days. If you won’t volunteer the information to me, then Jarl Ivar will demand it. You still wear your fealty ring at your wrist. I’ve seen it several times.” Strian did not wait for her answer before grasping her upper arm and pulling her toward the gangplank that was lowered to the dock. His hold was not so tight that Gressa could not have broken away, but she did not want to. Try as she might, she still longed for any contact with Strian that she could manage. Her pride railed at him maneuvering her about like livestock, but every other part of her longed for their bodies to touch.

“What will you do with me?”

“I told you before we left, I changed my mind. You are not a thrall. I said it in anger and hurt.” The last word came out more of a mumble. “I couldn’t have made you one in truth, and there is no point in pretending. You are a free woman just as you were before.”

“Being a thrall would be better,” Gressa grumbled.

“And why is that?” Strian’s curiosity got the better of him. He could not imagine Gressa ever accepting being a slave.

“I would be safer.”

“What do you mean? You are returning to our people. You grew up here, and everyone knows your family.”

“Exactly. Everyone knows I’m half Sami.”

Gressa glared at Strian waiting for him to understand. She wanted to tap her toes with impatience as she waited for him to piece it together, but it did not seem to get any clearer to Strian the longer she waited.

“It was bad enough that my father captured my mother and made her his concubine, but when she died giving birth to me, and I wasn’t a boy, it made me completely useless in his eyes. You know all of this. You heard him.”

“I do, but I don’t see how that has to do with your safety. You’re home.”

Gressa balled her fists and wanted to lash out at him for being so dimwitted.

“This isn’t my home. How many times must I tell you that my home and my people are in Wales? My father never wanted me, and neither do any of these Norsemen. To them, I’m tainted. I’m more Sami than Norse. In Wales, none of that mattered. You should have left me where you found me.” Gressa felt the burn of tears behind her eyes, but she refused to allow any to fall. Strian leaned forward, nearly bending in half to look into her eyes.

“You are home. You will be safe. And you are not going back to Wales!” He was nearly yelling by the time he finished.

“Then my death will be on your hands because I promise you, I was safer in Wales. Damn it, I was safer fighting in Scotland.”

“With Gr—” Strian did not have a chance to finish because it was their turn to disembark, and he could see Jarl Ivar and Frú Lena approaching. They had already greeted the others, and now it was his turn. He tugged Gressa along beside him until they were both on the dock.

“Strian, it is good—” Ivar’s eyes widened as he took in the slender figure standing next to Strian. “Gressa?”

“Yes, Jarl Ivar. It’s me.” Gressa raised her chin, and the defiance was clear to everyone.

“We thought you were dead. I made Strian—I mean, I forced—Dear gods, child. I’m sorry. I should have listened to Strian.” Almighty jarl’s loss of words frightened Gressa more than any threat he might have lobbed. “Dear gods. Strian—”

Ivar Sorensen’s shock was garnering attention that made both Strian and Gressa uncomfortable. The man was just as tall and as well muscled as Strian, who was more than twenty years his junior. It was disconcerting to see their leader so befuddled, and his face had lost all its usual ruddy color.

“Gressa,” Lena intervened. “It fills my heart with happiness to see you return. Life has not been as sunny without you.”

Coming from anyone else, Gressa would have felt Lena’s words were a barb, but she had known the woman her entire life. She was the only one in the homestead who had been willing to attend her birth, and even though Gressa’s mother did not survive the delivery, it was Lena who ensured Gressa had a place within their tribe. Lena brought Gressa into the jarl’s longhouse when it was obvious that her own father would not provide for her. When the older woman opened her arms, it was the invitation she needed. Gressa lurched forward and allowed Lena to enfold her in an embrace that felt like home.

Strian watched as Gressa willingly allowed Lena to hold her, and the jealousy and pain from being excluded burned a gaping hole in his heart. Gressa had not welcomed him as she did Lena.

“I think you have much to tell us,” Lena smiled as the two women backed apart.

“She has nothing to say that any of us want to hear,” called out Freya as she walked past. “She is a traitor, and she would have made Strian one, too. We should have left her where we found her. As Grímr’s woman.”

Freya’s last three words, “as Grímr’s woman,” had the exact intended effect. Strian pulled Gressa behind him and put his hand on his sword hilt. He challenged anyone to speak or come near him or Gressa. The crowd on the dock morphed from excited to vengeful with those three words.

“Come to the longhouse. I think you have much to explain,” Ivar boomed. His lack of anger reassured Strian, but as Gressa clung to the back of his fur cloak, he knew she was unconvinced of her safety. As Strian looked around, he was certain she was right to fear the others.

“Jarl.” Caution drove Strian’s choice of words. “There is plenty to tell and plenty to hear, but the others can do just as good a job as I can. Besides, Tyra and Bjorn are to marry tomorrow. I heard the announcement before I even left my ship. I think it would be better if we didn’t appear in the great hall.”

“Nonsense. That will only make it look like you have something to hide.” Ivar murmured. “Nothing will happen to Gressa. Anyone foolish enough to try, will answer to me.”

The others left Strian on the dock with Gressa still clinging to him. He reached behind him and gently pulled her to stand beside him.

“He’s wrong, Strian. I know it. You shouldn’t have brought me here. I’m not safe.” Gressa looked around and saw that they were alone at last. She let the tears fall that she had been swallowing for days.

Strian wrapped his arms around her loosely, and when she did not shy away, he pulled her to his chest. She burrowed into the familiar warmth and sobbed. She had fought her own will and Strian’s for the past fortnight, and exhaustion overcame her. She knew she would regret accepting this comfort, but she needed it as much as she needed her next breath. Strian ran his hands over her hair as his other arm wrapped around her waist, and his thumb drew circles on her ribs.

“You may not want it, you may not accept, you may not even believe you need it, but you will always have my protection, Gressa. Always.” Strian kissed the crown of her head, and he felt her tense before her entire body went lax. He was quick to catch her before she dropped to the ground. “Gressa?”

She made a soft sound like a wounded animal then her eyes fluttered open.

“Gressa, you’ve eaten so little since I found you. You insisted upon taking your turn at the oar, and you don’t have enough clothes for this far north. You will make yourself ill.” Strian paused for a moment as a thought came to him. “Is that what you’re trying to do? Are you trying to make yourself sick enough to die? Do you want away from me that badly?”

Gressa looked tiny as she curled further into the warmth of Strian’s body. She tried to shake her head, but the effort was too much.

“No. I love you.” Those were the last words she spoke before she succumbed to blackness. Strian looked around, but there was no one else on the dock. He lifted Gressa into his arms and walked to his longhouse.

 

Chapter Two

 

Strian struggled to open the door with Gressa still in his arms, but he pushed against the wood until it gave way. He walked into the place he had called home for most of his life. He had been born in this home, and he had lived there with his parents until they were both dead. There had been several years when he lived with his aunt and uncle, but their house was never home. Even when his aunt and uncle were still alive, he always came back to this building when he needed to feel connected to his family. Since his uncle’s death, he had returned to his parents’ home. His aunt and cousins were already dead, and his uncle’s shame blighted that longhouse. Here, he could still hear the voices of the people he loved and missed most.

He walked across the center room until he came to the doorway that led to his chamber. He looked down at Gressa, her eyes closed and the blue veins shining through translucent skin, then pushed open the door. He pulled back the covers to his bed as best he could before laying Gressa on the mattress. He pulled her boots off and pulled the covers over her. He went to the chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out more blankets. There was one left at the bottom. It was a blanket he thought of often but refused to look at or touch. It had lived at the bottom of the chest since he returned from a raid ten years ago without his father or his wife.

Strian looked at Gressa once more and remembered the smile on Gressa’s face when she presented the blanket to him as a gift. He ran his fingers over the stitches that represented them coming together as one. He had no more time to reminisce because Gressa called out to him.

“Strian?” Gressa’s eyes were closed, and her voice craggy as though she had not used it in days. “Strian, don’t leave! I’m over here! Don’t go. Don’t leave me. Why can’t you hear me?”

Strian realized she was dreaming. Or rather, she was having a nightmare of the day fate separated them.

“Strian!” Her scream turned into a whimper as her fingers combed through the air grasping nothing.

“Gressa, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I can hear you.” Strian sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand. She relaxed as the pressure of his hand on hers registered, but she did not say another word. Strian let her sleep as his mind ventured to the same place that caused Gressa’s nightmare, the day war separated them. The day he lost his wife.

“Stay close to me, Strian. When I run out of arrows, then you can move ahead. Let me pick off as many as I can before you have to fight.”

Strian looked down at the little pixie face set in stone. His wife of three months was not joking. Gressa intended to protect him from the battle that was about to begin. She was just as fierce as any of the other shieldmaidens. She had the same skill and strength as Tyra and Freya, but unlike the other two women, she had something worth defending. Strian knew she would fight to the death to protect him just as he would do the same for her.

His tribe had been tracking a band of neighboring Norsemen for close to a month after they raided his tribe’s home. Strian and Tyra both lost their mothers in that raid, and Lena had almost died while trying to hide the other women. Gressa and Strian, along with Leif, Freya, Tyra, and Bjorn, had been with their fathers on a fishing trip when neighbors to the south overran their homestead, killing any and everyone they saw.

“Strian, are you even listening to me?” Gressa pinched his forearm. “Stay behind me. You are a much bigger target than I am. Wait until there are few arrows flying before you charge forward.”

Strian wrapped his large hands around Gressa’s trim waist and lifted her until she was eye level with him. He gave her a firm peck before putting her back on the ground with a spank to her backside.

“I remember it was me who pledged to protect you. Don’t be reckless, Gressa.”

She pinched his arm again before rising on her toes and kissing his chin, the highest part of him she could reach since he was a foot taller than her.

“I would say the same to you. Just because you’re bigger than most warriors doesn’t make you any less mortal. You aren’t one of the gods, even if you look like one.” She grinned as she slapped his backside for good measure.

They heard the call go up from Ivar and Eindride, Strian’s father. They moved into their position in the shield wall and waited for the order to move forward. It was only moments later that the first arrows bounced off their shields. Strian kept his shield locked with those at his shoulders, only pulling back long enough for Gressa to poke her bow and arrow through. The band of warriors moved as one with the shield wall unbroken, creating openings for archers to shoot at their enemy. They made steady progress, and Gressa would soon run out of arrows before the first chink in the shield wall fell. It was like a domino effect after that. One warrior after another screamed out in pain and tumbled to the ground, some to writhe in agony as others turned to stone.

“The shield wall won’t hold much longer. Gressa, get behind me when it does. Shoot over my shoulder when you can, but otherwise stay down!” Strian had to yell to be heard over the cacophony of battle sounds even though Gressa was only inches away from him.

“All right.”

They continued to advance, and Strian could hear his father’s voice from further down the line, booming like thunder. The shield wall gave way, and the melee began in truth. Warriors from both tribes clashed as they wielded their shields as weapons just as they did knives and swords. Blood splattered across Strian’s chest as he used his long reach to block anyone who might try to get past him and get to his bride.

“Strian, to the right.”

Strian twisted in time for Gressa to release an arrow into the neck of a man he had not even seen approaching them.

“Thank you.”

“You can make it up to me tonight. With that thing you do with your tongue.”

“You’re thinking about that right now?” Strian chuckled even though they were amid a gruesome scene.

“I need something to look forward to.” Gressa teased as she threw her knife into the eye of a man who prepared to charge them.

“I will gladly offer that if you don’t fall asleep again while I make love to you. It’s rather insulting.”

“That happened only once. And it had been a long day of riding and then fighting. It wasn’t a reflection upon your skills.”

Strian’s snort turned into a grunt as he lunged forward and brought his blade across his enemy’s ribs. The fighting became too intense to continue talking. Strian would regret for the rest of his life that he had not tried harder to keep talking to Gressa. He might have discovered she was missing far sooner.

Gressa tripped over a body with sightless eyes as she tried to keep up with Strian. A fight with another shieldmaiden, who wielded a sword and an axe, forced her to fall behind. She was a fierce opponent but held too high an opinion of herself if she believed she did not need a shield. Gressa hacked and slashed until her opponent lay waiting for a Valkyrie to carry her to Odin. By the time Gressa could look around for Strian, she could not spot him. She scanned the battlefield, but he was nowhere in sight. She controlled the panic that wanted to take hold as fear flooded her. She was not scared about her own safety but that of Strian.

She rushed forward toward other members of her tribe, but she still could not find her husband. She was nearly to where Freya and Tyra fought alongside one another, but fire ripped through her back and into her thigh. She staggered several steps until her leg went numb, and her entire body felt as though it disappeared from beneath her neck. Gressa pitched forward and landed with a thud, her head ringing with the vibration and the sounds of the ongoing battle around her. She looked around, but when she sensed someone stepping over her, she shut her eyes and remained motionless. Later, she would look back and realize pretending to be dead was what kept her from dying. Whoever felled her assumed they had killed her too, because they left her where she lay.

Gressa laid in the same spot, blood pooling around her, for what felt like hours. The battle shifted away from her, and the sun moved across the sky. She forced herself into action and dragged her uncooperative body behind her as she crawled on her elbows until she met the tree line and could hide. It was several hours later that she heard a voice she recognized.

“Gressa!” The voice screamed over and over.

“I’m here.” She could not muster more than a whisper. No one, not even her, could hear her as she tried to lift her arm. Most of the bleeding had slowed, but she was too weak to do more.

“Gressa! Where are you?” Strian’s despair was palpable, and her heart ached to cause him such pain when she was so close.

“Strian, we must go.”

Gressa twisted her head to see Bjorn running toward her. She tried to call out to him, but no sound came from her mouth.

“Strian, we’ve searched for hours. No one has seen Gressa. They may have taken her.”

“All the more reason to search for her. Bjorn, I’m not leaving without my wife. Go without me. But I will not leave without her.”

“You have little choice. Ivar is ordering us all back to the boats.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Bjorn was incredulous. “You can’t say no to the jarl’s order.”

“I can, and I am. I already found my father’s body. Without Gressa, what do I have to return to? Nothing. I am not leaving without her.”

Gressa watched as Strian changed directions and started to walk toward where she hid in the bushes. She reached out her hand and called to him.

“Bjorn, shh. What was that? I’m sure that was Gressa calling me.”

Gressa held her breath before trying to yell as loudly as she could, but it was more a whimper than a bellow.

“There it is again. I know I heard my name.”

“I didn’t hear anything. Come on, Strian. We must go. Ivar won’t wait much longer.”

“And I told you, I’m not going anywhere without her.”

Gressa watched in horror as Strian drew his sword against his best friend, and in turn Bjorn pulled out his knife. They circled one another, but before the fight could begin, it ended. Leif and Ivar lunged forward and caught Strian’s arms as Bjorn, joined by Strian’s uncle Einar, caught his legs. He twisted and writhed, head butting Leif more than once, but he was no match for the four large warriors. They bound him and dragged him away.

“I curse each one of you. I will never forgive you for this. She is alive and nearby. I know it, and you’re abandoning her. May the gods curse each of you. I won’t leave my wife.”

Those were the last words Gressa heard from Strian even though his howls carried through the air. Anyone who had not seen Strian being restrained would have thought it was an enraged wolf baying at the moon.

Exhaustion had a choke hold on Gressa as the last dregs of energy evaporated along with her hopes of rescue. She regretted thinking the trees would offer her safety. Instead, they were her undoing. She closed her eyes and gave into the craving to sleep.

“Here’s one,” a whiny tone filled Gressa’s ears as her eyes fluttered open. She snapped them shut when pain surged through her back and leg. She gagged as the excruciating tingling and burning rippled from her wounds into every inch of her.

“This one is alive. Barely. I saw her fight. She’s worth keeping. She’ll bring plenty of money if she survives.”

Rough hands grabbed Gressa’s hair and lifted her head from the ground.

“Yes, this is the one I saw, too. Remarkable archer and would be good with a sword if she paid more attention to those around her. I was the one to cut her down. I claim her as my thrall.”

Gressa watched a middle-aged woman walk around her until the older woman’s toes slipped under her shoulder. Gressa could not swallow the groan when the other woman used her foot to push her onto her back. Gressa was in agony as her wound hit the ground. Any thoughts of responding were gone when blackness swallowed her once more.

Gressa had never been seasick, but she was sure she would be as her stomach pitched one direction then the next. She struggled to open her eyes as they felt crusted shut. Her tongue slid along her salty lips, and Gressa knew she was on a boat.

Various thoughts fluttered through her head, but the two loudest were that she did not know whose boat she was on or where it was headed.

“Mae hi'n effro.” A man’s voice floated to her. She searched her memory for the words she heard, but there were barely any memories to begin with, let alone ones in a foreign language.

“Who are you?” Another voice asked in her own Norse tongue.

“Gressa,” She mumbled.

“Gressa what?”

She refused to give any more information until she knew who held her captive and where she was going.

“Gressa what?” The voice repeated. After a long pause, a sigh followed. “You can make this easy for yourself or you can dig your own grave. I already know you are one of Ivar’s people, but you aren’t really Norse, are you?”

Gressa bit her tongue. She refused to say or do anything. The owner of the voice came into focus. It was the same middle-aged woman who had found her on the battlefield.

“You recognize me. Very well. You remember that I claimed you as my thrall?” Again, the voice waited, but Gressa did nothing. “I decided it’s worth more to sell you than keep you as my slave. I just have to keep you alive.”

“Sell me back then,” Gressa managed to choke out.

“Back? To Ivar? To that husband who nearly got himself killed trying to abandon his people for his Sami bride?”

Gressa lifted her head at the woman’s last comment.

“Oh, yes. We watched from the bushes. Not only was your husband bound and dragged to his jarl’s ship, he jumped overboard the moment they untied him. He was trying to get back to you. Last any of us saw him, they lashed him then shackled to the mast.” 

Gressa stifled the sobs that fought to escape her throat. She looked away from the older woman as she pictured Strian fighting not only their jarl, but his uncle and his best friends. Fighting them to get to her. She prayed to Frigg and Freya that he would do nothing to get himself killed. She shifted slightly, but this time she could not suppress the sound that escaped as her wound shot blazing pain to the very tips of her toes and fingers.

“I wouldn’t move around so much if you don’t want to bleed to death. You won’t do me much good dead.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“You shall see when you arrive.” The woman bent over her and ripped apart the vest and tunic she wore. A bucket of water seemed to appear out of nowhere, and the woman dumped the saltwater over Gressa’s wounds. It felt like a thousand pinpricks dancing across the serrated skin of her back and leg. Before she caught her breath, the searing pain intensified as Gressa caught a whiff of syra, a fermented wine, as the woman poured it onto the wound. It was believed to have healing properties, but Gressa could not get past the putrid odor. 

“I must stitch this.” The middle-aged woman, whose name Gressa still did not know, took a needle and thread from a pouch tied at her waist. Gressa had no way of knowing if the woman knew what she was doing, but she trusted her. She hated to admit it, but it was obvious the woman was a seasoned warrior. Gressa was certain her wounds would not be the first the woman had sewn. Her would-be healer yanked the belt from Gressa’s waist.

“Here.”

Gressa took the leather and bit down on it before rolling back onto her stomach. It took the woman over an hour to stitch Gressa’s back and leg, and by the time she finished, Gressa had a raging fever and was unconscious.

The next time Gressa awoke was when the boat bumped into something and lurched to one side. She lifted her head to see they were docked, and it was the dock that they had knocked against. Gressa had no idea where she was, how long she had been asleep, or what would happen next.

“I see our invalid has rejoined the living.” The words came from a voice she did not recognize. “You’ve been battling a fever for a week and barely been awake. I doubt you remember any of it.”

Gressa tested out shaking her head. There was a dull ache in her skull that matched the ache that seemed bone deep in her back. She tried moving her injured leg, and relief flooded her when she could flex her foot. She had feared she would lose the leg.

“Where are we?”

“Your new home. Wales.”

 

Chapter Three

Strian sat beside Gressa until she awoke. He had a pitcher of water and a tray that held cheese, bread, and an apple waiting for her.

“Water,” Gressa croaked. Strian helped prop her up as she sipped the cool liquid. “How long have I been asleep?”

“The rest of the day and into the night. I would say it’s an hour or two after midnight. Would you like something to eat?”

“The apple, please.” She reached for it, but her hand remained empty. She watched Strian peel then cut the apple just as she had always preferred. He did not appear to give much thought to his actions, as though it was still a habit. He passed the wedges to her and waited in silence as she ate.

“What happens now?” She asked around the bite of apple she had taken.

“I’m guessing you would like to bathe and have fresh clothes.”

Gressa’s brow creased as she was uncertain if Strian was being purposely evasive. She looked into his gray eyes; never having forgotten how they were so translucent that they appeared almost silver. It matched his sun-bleached hair. He wore it longer now than when they had been a young couple of seventeen and nineteen. Her fingers itched to comb through the tresses just as she had done countless times while he courted her and then during their all too brief marriage. She forced her mind to return to the present.

“It’s the middle of the night. I can’t go to the bathhouse at this hour.”

“If you want the steam and then the cold water dunk, then I will take you and stand guard outside, but if you’d prefer to stay here, then I still have the tub I could fill.”

Gressa’s cheeks flamed red as a vivid memory of them making love in the tub on their wedding night and then several more times when his parents socialized at the jarl’s home.

“Why are you being so solicitous?”

Strian chose to ignore her, instead moving to a chest that sat in a corner. He lifted the lid and pulled out several pieces of clothing. Gressa gaped as he laid out the beautifully stitched knee-length tunic and the wide leg pants worn under the tunic.

“You kept my clothes?” she murmured.

“Of course. I assumed you would need them again one day.” Strian returned with a pair of her Sami rolled toe slippers.

“But it’s been ten years.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” Strian’s voice was tight as he forced out those three words. Gressa filled her lungs until they hurt, knowing she should not start this discussion now, but her curiosity would go unsatisfied until she had her answers.

“Why don’t you have a wife?”

Strian’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I do have a wife.”

Gressa considered playing ignorant but decided better. “A companion then?”

“I pledged my fidelity to my wife.”

At that, Gressa snorted. “You as much as admitted when we were at Castle Varrich that you’d been with other women.”

“You assumed that. I never said I had.”

“You accused me of having been with other men.” Gressa snapped her mouth shut wishing she could retrieve the words that hung in the air.

“A shame only one of us was right.” Strian turned to walk out of the room, but Gressa tumbled forward as she tried to rip the sheets out of her way. She grabbed Strian’s arm and pulled none too gently.

“I explained that. I explained I had no choice. He didn’t bed me.” Gressa looked away, too ashamed to meet his eyes. “He made me do something else. On my knees.” The last part came out as only a whisper.

“There was always a choice, Gressa. You chose to remain with the Welsh. You chose to travel with the other archers. And you chose to warm Grímr’s bed. They are not your people.”

“They are.”

Strian caught Gressa’s hand as she swung at his cheek.

“They are not. Tell me. How many other women came with you?”

“None,” Gressa’s forehead crinkled. “None are experienced fighters like I am. There are many who can shoot, but none who have fought like I have.”

“And it was vital that you go? I saw other Welsh archers as good as you. Why would your prince send you as the only woman?” Strian paused for effect. “I can tell you why he sent a beautiful woman to an evil man. You were either part of the payment or they meant you to be an enticement.” Strian leaned forward. “Unless you are a spy. Did you fuck him so you could take information back to your precious prince? Is that who you are bedding?”

Gressa wailed in anger as her knee came up and struck Strian’s groin. When he bent over double, she brought her fists down as one and struck the side of his neck.

“I’m not a whore,” she screamed. “And you have a foul mouth these days.”

She was not sure if she was angry at Strian’s insinuation or because he spoke aloud what she had deduced weeks ago. It was one thing to hear her own mind chide her, but to hear Strian voice the second greatest betrayal of her life was more than she could bear.

Strian pushed his shoulder into her middle causing her to fall backwards, but he cradled her head before she landed. He covered her body with his and groaned as she writhed and struggled beneath him. His bollocks hurt from the combination of her striking him there and the growing arousal from having her beneath him.

“Yield,” he ground out.

“Never,” she spat.

“I’m sorry.”

Gressa froze. She had not expected those being his next words. “For what part?”

“All of it.”

Gressa’s heart broke as she saw the pain in Strian’s eyes. It was there whenever he looked at her. She had seen it disappear when he spoke to his friends and then flood back in when he saw her.

“The past is the past,” she whispered. “But I am not a spy nor was I the prince’s mistress. His wife is my friend. I realized he wasn’t mine weeks ago. You’re right. I’m sure that’s why he sent me, but I hate hearing it said aloud. It makes it real, and I can’t deny it.”

Strian stood and pulled her to her feet. “I wish they hadn’t manipulated and used you. You don’t deserve it. Do you think your friend, the prince’s wife, knew you were being sent?”

“Of course, she did. We said our goodbyes.”

“And she didn’t warn you? Neither of you figured it out? Or did she know all along and said nothing?”

Gressa eyes widened then slammed shut. She shook her head, and when she opened them, tears streamed from them.

“She and the prince have a good marriage. She counsels him on most things. It was her idea,” Gressa choked out.

“Then who else do you have to return to? Grímr?”

Gressa bit her tongue before she said things she could not take back. “I told you I made that choice rather than wait for him to force me. I told you I did it because he threatened to kill you. You specifically. He may have wanted Ivar, Freya, and Leif dead to claim this homestead, but he wanted you dead for the sheer pleasure of watching the life slip away from you.”

“Why would I matter that much to him? I don’t believe you.” Strian shook his head as he looked into the fathomless blue eyes he once thought he could drown in.

“It had always been your uncle Einear’s plan to kill you just as he did your father along with his wife and children. But it was his ineptitude, or at least that’s what Grímr believes, that ruined his plans. Grímr had been content to let his brother Hakin and your uncle do all the dirty work. But it was you and Leif, Freya, Tyra, and Bjorn who burned his homestead. It was Freya and Erik who discovered his wife’s slave trade. That discovery cost Grímr financially. It may have been Inga’s treachery that led to her own brother killing her. I know Rangvald had no other choice.” Gressa rushed to explain what she had learned, hoping that sharing the information would prove she was not there as a spy. What spy would give away so much?

“I still don’t see how any of this has to do with me. I wasn’t with Freya and her husband when they went scouting. I wasn’t the one to kill his bastard son. Freya was the one who caused Hakin to bleed to death. I have merely been a silent warrior through all of this.”

“You have to know that Grímr’s mind is warped. It doesn’t think like a normal person’s. He believes that you are one of Ivar’s favorites just like Tyra and Bjorn are. Ivar has always treated the three of you more like his own children than just tribe members. He wants to capture and torture you in front of the others. When I overheard two of his sons talking about all of this, I had to find out what he planned. You deduced why they sent me as the only woman before I did. Maybe I fulfilled the Welsh prince’s plans, but I didn’t do it for the prince’s alliance with Grímr.”

“Then why did you? If you really hadn’t been with another man since me, why choose Grímr?”

Gressa threw her hands up in the air. “He gave me the choice of coming willingly or by force. Was that ever really a choice?”

“And you just happened to learn all this information about your enemy. How do I know you’re not really on Grímr’s side and you’re not filling my ears with lies?” Strian pulled the door open and then slammed it shut behind him.

“Because I love you,” Gressa whispered to an empty room.