Wedding Night with Her Viking Enemy
Автор
Lucy Morris
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Chapter One
‘What do you think of your betrothed—do you like pretty men?’ whispered Ingvar, his hot breath and cruel words too close for Sigrid’s comfort.
She tried her best to hide her revulsion. Angering her half-brother was never a good idea and this meeting was already heavy with tension. Her marriage to Hakon Eriksson would end the feud between their two families, if only Ingvar would allow it. Something about his spiteful tone made her worry. Peace was held on the balance of a knife’s edge and she suspected her half-brother longed for it to fall.
Sigrid had never liked Ingvar and liked him even less after his behaviour this past week. Now she despised him and wished he were dead. At least then she and her sister could be free of him and the entire Sigurdsson family—she had never felt like one of them anyway.
Her parents had died only weeks apart after a fever had ravaged their island. Sigurd first—which Sigrid barely noticed—followed by her mother, who had managed to struggle through her illness to give birth to Sigrid’s little sister Alvilda before passing away.
Ingvar had not been sympathetic to her loss, slapping her more than once and threatening to throw Alvilda out if Sigrid didn’t stop the newborn from crying. Her mother must have known what would happen, as she had urged Sigrid to take Alvilda to her brother’s home if she died. Thankfully, Ingvar had granted her request to leave, but had offered nothing more than a horse and a ship to the mainland. No guard, despite the three-day journey ahead of her, or the fact that she had seen only fourteen winters herself at the time.
It was the most frightening journey of her life and she still remembered the shock on her Uncle Njord’s face when he’d opened his door and found young Sigrid clutching a hungry baby Alvilda in her arms. She had begged her uncle to take them in, swearing that she would work hard to pay for their upkeep.
A promise she had kept.
She had become the mistress of his hall quickly, running his household smoothly, as well as his merchant trade business in his absence. Her uncle wasn’t a cruel man—a little cold, perhaps—but he travelled often and Alvilda had been safe and happy for the past eleven winters because of him, so Sigrid could easily forgive his lack of affection towards them.
If only we could have stayed there for ever...
Unfortunately, the King had decreed that all family feuds should end between the noble families. Ingvar had moved quickly to placate the King, ordering Sigrid to marry Hakon Eriksson and proving that, no matter how little Ingvar cared for her, he had not entirely forgotten her, or her value as a bride...
Sadly.
‘Which one is he, again?’ asked Sigrid casually, not because she didn’t know the answer, but because she had found it was always better never to answer any of Ingvar’s questions—or give away her true feelings. He had a habit of using her answers to mock or entrap her.
Poor Alvilda was proof of it.
She still had no idea where Ingvar was holding her sister. They had been separated on the first night of their arrival, her young sister taken to ensure Sigrid’s compliance. Which was ridiculous as she had been willing to marry Hakon from the start—she was not stupid enough to defy the King. She suspected Ingvar had separated them just to be cruel. But he had promised they would be reunited at the wedding ceremony—so she only had to wait one more night...
If he kept his word.
‘There is not a single useful thought in that pretty head of yours, is there?’ Ingvar flicked her forehead with a sharp snap of his finger, then gave a loud snort of laughter when her eyes watered with pain.
Sigrid glanced towards the Eriksson brothers, afraid one of them might have seen the humiliation. Only one of them was watching—Grimr, the middle brother. He saw everything. She had caught him staring at her more than once since they had arrived and his dark expression had not changed since the feast began. She was not sure what she had done to incite his wrath, but he stared at her as if the mere sight of her were an insult to his honour.
Well, she would not be cowed or embarrassed by him.
Respect is earned and rumours mean nothing! she told herself firmly, knowing that once again she would have to carve a place for herself in another man’s home. She had done it before, she could do it again.
‘Hakon!’ barked Ingvar, drawing her betrothed’s attention. ‘I am sorry your men had to sleep in your ship tonight. But as you are not yet family, I thought it would be best to be cautious...’ Ingvar scratched at his bald head thoughtfully ‘...at least until honour and marriage bind us.’
‘I doubt all of my men could fit in your hall as it is. I had forgotten how small it is,’ replied Hakon coldly. But he gave Sigrid a gentle smile. ‘Although... Sigrid lights it up with her beauty. I consider myself lucky to be marrying her tomorrow.’
Sigrid gave a polite smile, while a vein in Ingvar’s scalp bulged. She rallied her courage, determined to ease the tension in any way that she could. She had to think about her sister’s safety—she couldn’t act rashly, no matter what happened.
Ingvar leaned forward, bitterness coating his words, although thankfully no axe was thrown. ‘You and your family have always been fortunate, Hakon.’
Sigrid took a moment to examine the man she would marry tomorrow.
Hakon was big and blond, with blue eyes. He looked exactly like his brothers Grimr and Egill, handsome and powerfully built. However, their characters seemed very different from one another.
Hakon seemed the most even-tempered of the three. Intelligent and thoughtful, he reminded her of her uncle. Hopefully, he would make a good husband for her, one that would be reasonable and courteous. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be the only man she would have to get along with—as both of his brothers still lived at his hall.
The youngest, Egill, drank deeply and was always smiling. He made those around him laugh often with his charm and wit. Several of the thralls were already admiring him from afar—probably hoping he would carry one of them to his bed later. There was always one wild buck in a family, and at least Egill didn’t appear ambitious or violent. Sigrid imagined he would be easy to live with once she’d established some rules.
Grimr, on the other hand... Now there was a far more worrying prospect for her. Cold as ice, he sat in silence and ate slowly—with a strange sort of menace that made Sigrid’s stomach churn. He had a suspicious and narrowed gaze that constantly searched the room for any sign of weakness or deceit.
Twice she had shivered under his probing gaze, feeling as if she were all alone within his ocean eyes, as if she could not deny him anything, even her secrets. As he sat before his platter, she wondered if his hungry eyes were contemplating eating her up, like a wolf gnawing on an empty bone, relishing the taste of a kill yet to come.
I have nothing to hide! she told herself, yet she felt as if she did, under his disapproving gaze. The shame of her birth was a constant companion.
If anyone was going to cause trouble, it would be him or Ingvar.
Frigg, goddess of mothers and wives. Please, grant us peace.
‘And!’ Ingvar declared loudly—and she suspected he had been trying to think of a retort for a while now. ‘It would be a far bigger hall if my family had not been so unjustly treated for all these years!’
Sigrid’s spine stiffened as she sensed the approaching storm begin to swell. Ingvar’s hand was a tightly closed fist, which lay uncomfortably close to hers on the table. She quickly slipped her own into her lap, not wanting to be within easy reach. The bruises from a couple of days ago hadn’t fully healed yet and she didn’t wish to add to them, not when she would be married soon, and free from this nonsense.
The Sigurdsson line had been obsessed with the ‘injustice’ done to them by the Erikssons for decades. Ingvar claimed it was about land promised and then denied, two or three generations back.
Sigrid herself had learned the truth while living with her Uncle Njord. He was her mother’s brother and so bore no ill will towards the Erikssons or the Sigurdssons. He said it was a long-held grudge from a minor insult made years ago. But it was Ingvar Sigurdsson, also known as Ingvar the Bald, who kept the fire of the feud burning brightly—the Erikssons were frankly too important to care about such a petty dispute.
It was also why King Harald Fairhair had insisted Sigrid marry Jarl Hakon Eriksson, ending Ingvar’s bickering once and for all with a marriage alliance. She did not mind the prospect of marriage...it wasn’t ideal, but she had always known it would be a possibility.
She had hoped for a man like her uncle and the gods seemed to have granted her request. Hakon seemed like the type of man who would leave her to fulfil her duties without fuss or interference, and, most importantly, would allow Alvilda to live with them.
Would Ingvar ruin everything by causing a brawl?
She would much rather have Hakon as a husband than one of Ingvar’s allies.
With her breath held tight, she waited for Hakon to rebuke Ingvar. Even the men around the room were quietly putting their hands to the hilts of their swords in case it descended into violence.
Hakon said nothing, his sharp blue eyes staring down Ingvar as if daring him to accuse him openly.
Unable to bear it a moment longer, she quickly grabbed her horn of ale and raised it. ‘I welcome the peace and prosperity that our marriage will bring, Jarl Hakon. Skol!’
‘Skol!’ answered Hakon with a respectful nod and the whole hall seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as they raised their own horns with a mumbled cheer.
Ingvar’s hand slipped under the table and gripped her thigh, his dirty nails digging into the fabric to pinch the skin beneath. ‘I did not give you permission to speak,’ he hissed. ‘Perhaps I should remind you of your place...later.’
She sipped from her ale a second time to hide her grimace of pain. His hold eased and then smoothed out into a horrifying caress, before thankfully leaving her entirely. It only confirmed her sickening suspicion that her half-brother desired her. ‘I will be married tomorrow, Brother.’
‘Brother? I doubt your mother was ever faithful to my father...we look nothing alike, my dear...’ Ingvar leaned around to face her, blocking out the sight of Hakon and his brothers. The smell of stale ale and rotten teeth hit the back of her throat and made her want to retch.
‘Besides...’ he said, with a knowing smile ‘...you cannot marry a dead man.’
Sigrid sucked in a shocked breath, as though Ingvar had thrown her into the icy sea. He might as well have—she felt as if she were drowning.
She should have known. This wedding was a lie. It could only ever end in war and death.
Grimr watched as the tall and elegant Sigrid left the feast abruptly without even a polite excuse to her brother or betrothed.
She made her way up to the gallery above, her eyes catching his as she turned at the top of the stairs. She paused and gripped the railing, her face as pale as the moon, her eyes pained—no, imploring, as if she were begging him to do something, but then her eyes flicked momentarily to her brother and with a grim expression she turned away.
What was wrong with her?
Many brides were nervous before their wedding, especially with arranged marriages—it was normal. Except, Sigrid hadn’t looked nervous, she’d looked afraid, when only moments before she’d been the first to raise her horn in celebration.
As always, Grimr found his mind searching for the very worst of possibilities, but even Ingvar wouldn’t be stupid enough to risk the wrath of the King.
Maybe she is just sorry to leave her brother? he thought dryly.
He had seen Ingvar’s hand slip beneath the table to squeeze her leg. Surely, it was just a brotherly reassurance... Except, the placement...so high on her thigh...it felt wrong. The idea of touching a sister so intimately made his stomach revolt.
Ingvar Sigurdsson was far older than Sigrid and definitely uglier—much like his father had been. There were rumours that the siblings were not related by blood at all. Sigurd had acknowledged Sigrid at birth—had even given her the female version of his own name—but some said it was only because he was so embarrassed by his second wife’s constant infidelity.
Perhaps Ingvar had taken Sigrid to his bed already? By the looks of the hideous troll, he doubted Sigrid would have submitted to that indignity willingly.
He would tell his brothers about it later, but he doubted it would make any difference to Hakon. Sigrid carried the Sigurdsson name: their marriage would officially bury the family feud into the past, where it belonged. Hakon would not care about the rumours of his bride’s birth or whether she was a virgin. He was probably grateful that his future wife was not bald or as ugly as her brother.
And she certainly isn’t ugly.
Grimr had never seen such a golden beauty; she looked as if she could be the goddess Freya: tall, strong, and deliciously curved, with pretty grey eyes and features that were both commanding and somehow enticing.
Obviously intelligent, judging by the way she had skilfully deflected the growing tension earlier, and seemingly not opposed to the marriage either. She had been polite and welcoming upon their arrival—not overly warm, but calm and measured, much like Hakon. A woman who knew her worth and wielded it like a weapon.
The perfect match for a jarl.
Why then did Grimr not like her?
Why had his stomach twisted painfully when he had first seen her and, worse, why did he taste only bitter jealousy when he thought about his brother marrying her?
‘What is it, Grimr? You look as if you are the one to be chained in marriage, not Hakon!’ Egill chuckled, draining yet another horn of ale.
‘You should keep your wits about you,’ Grimr warned, his eyes sliding over the men that surrounded them. ‘We are in the heart of our enemy.’ He hated that they had had to leave their own warriors at the jetty. If it came to bloodshed, they were drastically outnumbered.
Sigrid’s odd behaviour on the stairs had only worried him further. But they had broken bread and tasted salt: the laws of hospitality dictated that they were safe within Ingvar’s walls. Besides, King Harald had ordered this marriage. There should be nothing to fear...except Grimr was well aware how quickly things could spiral out of control and that deceit was always just a broken word away.
Egill shrugged cheerfully. ‘When I am drunk, I never sleep well. This...’ He waved his empty horn in the air until a young thrall ran over to refill it. He gave the woman a sunny smile that seemed to melt her like butter on a hot day. ‘This...’ he repeated with a heavy slur as he turned back to Grimr, ‘is to ensure I do not sleep well.’
Grimr rolled his eyes with a heavy snort. ‘Idiot.’
Hakon smiled at their youngest brother affectionately. ‘Leave him be. It is only right that one of us should get drunk tonight. Tomorrow I will finally be wed... I was beginning to think it would never happen!’
Grimr nodded, feeling another twinge of guilt at having admired the woman his brother would marry.
She is to be my sister! he reminded himself with disgust.
He had no right to feel anything towards her, especially not desire! He hadn’t asked to feel that strange attraction to her, hadn’t expected it or intended it, but still he felt as if he were betraying his brother. He had vowed long ago never to lie, but how could he admit such a thing to the one man who mattered most to him?
Perhaps my feelings will fade once they are married and one day we will laugh over it?
That seemed possible—after all, Grimr wasn’t the kind of man to lust after another man’s wife. Or at least he hadn’t thought he was, but perhaps that was another way in which he took after his father. Another shame for him to bear. He’d probably make as terrible a husband as his father had done. Was that why the man had never been faithful to their mother, because he lacked control? That made Grimr even angrier about his budding obsession with Sigrid, a woman he did not deserve. Hakon deserved a pretty woman like her, someone to warm his lonely nights.
Hakon had been betrothed twice before without much luck. His first had been a childhood promise made by their parents—sadly, the young girl had died unexpectedly before reaching adulthood. The second had been a neighbouring chieftain’s daughter who had fallen in love with one of Hakon’s friends.
The last failed betrothal had hurt his brother far more than he would ever care to admit. Grimr only knew because Hakon had drunkenly confessed not long after that he considered himself unlucky in love. Rather than condemn himself to another poor match, he had told the King that Grimr was his official heir.
Hopefully, this marriage would mean that Grimr could step down from such an unwelcome responsibility. The title of heir did not sit well with him. He had ambitions for his own land one day. Nothing to rival his brother, of course, but enough to occupy his days.
After all, Hakon was young and strong, so it was unlikely that Grimr would inherit any time soon—if ever. Besides, if the position came at the cost of his brother’s life, then Grimr would rather have nothing. It was one of the reasons why he had insisted Hakon accept this alliance—to ensure Grimr would not be heir. Once Hakon was settled with children of his own, Grimr could seek his own path.
A settlement in England, or perhaps a large farm near his brother’s lands? He would not mind staying close to home, or even remaining as Hakon’s second-in-command for the rest of his days. It would not be an exciting life, but it would be a good one, despite the lack of personal glory and success.
There was an easy comfort to remaining at his brother’s side. They complemented one another and he could not imagine a life where he could not rely on Hakon’s calm decisions or laugh at Egill’s jests. It went against Grimr’s nature to be patient, but he knew he would have to wait and see before making any decisions regarding his future.
Besides, Hakon still needed him now—Egill had charm and skill, but he was unreliable at best. Drinking heavily while in the home of their enemy was only one of his many errors of judgement.
So much was uncertain and it made his head ache. He stood up. ‘I think I will retire for the night.’
‘Already?’ asked Hakon with a raised brow, although he knew how awkward Grimr found feasts at the best of times. He did not have the patience to deal with drunkards and rarely let himself lose control.
‘One of us should remain alert!’ Grimr said, frowning with disapproval at his youngest brother.
Egill slurped back another horn of ale, then wiped his sleeve across his mouth with a lazy grin before belching loudly. ‘Well volunteered, Brother! I think you should take a bride next... One of the girls back home—there’s some lovely beauties up in the mountains. And I think I’d prefer a proper celebration next time—this feels more like a funeral.’
Hakon laughed, patting Egill on the back when he started to hiccup. ‘But what about you, Egill? When will you marry?’
Egill shrugged. ‘One day. When Grimr no longer needs me.’
‘Me?’ snapped Grimr, pausing before he left the bench to glare at his younger brother. ‘I do not need you!’
Egill swayed in his seat and pointed his horn at him dramatically. ‘You need me the most, Grimr!’ He turned to Hakon, who was trying his best not to laugh. ‘Why is he always so moody and stern? He needs the love of a good woman to soften those sharp edges of his! Someone ripe and passionate, and—’
Grimr snorted with disgust and strode away, taking the steps two at a time towards the bedchamber they’d been shown on arrival. They’d already put their packs and bed rolls inside, so there was nothing for him to do but fall into bed and hope the next few days passed quickly and without trouble.
He couldn’t wait to go home.
