A Viking For The Viscountess

A Viking

for the

Viscountess

by
 

Michelle Willingham

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Text copyright © 2014 Michelle Willingham

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

Published by Michelle Willingham

www.michellewillingham.com

ISBN-13: 9780990634508

ISBN-10: 0990634507

Cover by Robert Papp and
The Font Diva

Digital formatting by Author E.M.S.

CHAPTER ONE

EAST ANGLIA, 811

H
e would die in an hour. Perhaps sooner, if the gods called to him.

Arik Thorgrim lay prone upon the deck of his ship, feeling his strength slipping away as the blood pooled beneath him. The battle-ax wound was too deep, and he’d already seen the grim looks upon the faces of his men. They knew, as he did, that his life was over and he would soon join his brother warriors in Valhalla.

The chill of the night air turned his skin cold, numbing him to the brutal pain. Though most men might fear death, he welcomed it. For this night he would claim immortality and leave behind the woman who had betrayed him.

He closed his eyes, trying to blot out the image of Svala’s face. Her long golden hair had flowed against her hips, her beauty tantalizing the dreams of any man. A smile from her was beyond price, worth every last piece of gold he possessed.

And then, as if to taunt him, he recalled her bare legs wrapped around Eyker’s waist, her head thrown back in mindless lust. Arik had stumbled upon them together when he’d returned to their camp after raiding the southern coast. He had believed Svala was a shy virgin, only to learn that she’d given herself to his enemy.

Her infidelity and lies had sliced deeper than any blade. But when he’d gone to murder Eyker, the man’s brother had struck him in the back with a battle-ax.

So be it. There was a place in the frost-laden depths of
Hel
for a coward without honor.

The waves of the sea grew rougher, and dimly, he heard the call of his
böndr
as the ship tossed. The men had sailed with him over the past few months, leaving behind their families and farms to seek wealth. His brother, Magnus, had built a settlement along the northeast coast of East Anglia, and Arik had asked his men to bring him there. He could not survive the journey to Rogaland to see his parents again—but he could reach his brother’s home within hours.

Magnus was his closest sibling, and if the gods willed it, he might look upon his brother’s face before he died. He wanted his body to be buried with honor.

Arik lay motionless, letting the sea take him. The ship rolled him to his back, and the searing pain nearly sent him into a void of darkness. He stared up at the clouded moon, while it transformed into an orange haze of blood. A dark shadow eclipsed the surface, and his vision wavered.

Would that I could have another chance at life.

The icy hand of Death beckoned closer, and he felt his body trembling with the last fight to live. Regrets flowed over him, but there was nothing that would change his fate.

He’d have made far different choices. He wouldn’t have left his father in reckless defiance to go a-viking. He would have taken a quiet woman as his wife. Then at least he’d have a son or daughter of his blood to live on. But now, only his brother remained.

When he blinked, there were no other clouds in the sky, and the night was clear. Strange for it to be so, while violent sea waves tossed his wooden vessel. He thought he spied another ship, a strange wooden boat that did not resemble anything he’d ever seen before. The mast towered over the deck, and he could only imagine how large the sails would be when they were unfurled. These men, too, were caught in the storm.

Although the ship lurched, Arik’s wounded body remained motionless, as if an invisible hand pinned him to the deck. The swells crashed against the side of the boat, and he feared it was Jörmungand, the serpent of Midgard, rising from the depths to devour them all. Amid the roar of the sea, he heard the shouts of terror from his men before they were swept under by the frigid waves, their lives claimed as sacrifice.

Silence cloaked the night, and the agony of his wound began to fade. Arik took a breath and saw that the blood upon his hands was gone. When he reached back to touch the ragged skin where the battle-ax had cut him down, he found that it had healed completely. A coldness drifted over his skin, but he refused to let the fear gain a foothold.

He was dead now. There was no other explanation for his wound disappearing. No doubt his body now rested on the bottom of the sea. He had to finish this journey to the afterworld alone, and he suspected he would soon see the spirits of those who had fallen before him.

Not yet,
he heard a woman’s voice whisper upon the wind.

He blinked, wondering if he had only imagined the words. All was still now, and the sea had calmed. Arik rose to his feet, testing his strength to stand. At the front of the boat, he stared into the darkness, hoping for a glimpse of Asgard, where the gods dwelled. If there was land nearby, he couldn’t see it. He leaned back to look at the stars, trying to determine his whereabouts. The waves bobbed his ship, but the motion was gentle. With his hand upon the rudder, he questioned whether to steer or let the sea guide him. In the end, he surrendered command of the vessel, for he had no way of knowing where the gods would lead him.

As the sea shifted and blurred all around him, he suddenly spied the prone figure of a body in the water. Her golden hair streamed around her, and his heart seized up, not knowing if it was Svala. Had she joined him in death? Or had the gods sent her to him, as a gift?

Whether or not she was real, Arik didn’t hesitate as he dove from the ship to save her.

NORFOLK, ENGLAND

ONE THOUSAND YEARS LATER

Juliana Arthur, the Viscountess Hawthorne, tucked her son into bed, kissing his forehead. “Sleep well, Harry.” The boy smiled up at her and snuggled deeper into the threadbare sheets. She had dressed him in two nightshirts and woolen socks, as well as a cap to keep him warm. Often at night, he would slip out of his trundle bed and crawl inside her own bed, while the wind rattled the shutters of their small house.

“Will we go back to Hawthorne House in the morning?” he asked.

“We might, if your father returns.” She smoothed his hair and gave an encouraging smile. “Now close your eyes.”

As soon as he did, her smile faded. She had been telling Harry the lie for months now. They could not return to Hawthorne House, no matter how badly she wanted to. For the past six years it had been her sanctuary. She loved every blade of grass on the estate, and it had become her home after the viscount had abandoned her there.

Juliana supposed she ought to be devastated that her husband had gone traveling on the Continent without her. She did want William to come back—truly she did. But not because she loved him or because she missed him. No, she wanted him back to save them from this poverty.

God forgive her, she’d been so glad at first, when she’d heard the news that he might never return. She’d swept her infant son into her arms, hugging him with joy. No longer would William tell her how worthless she was, how fortunate she was to be with him. He wouldn’t give her orders on how to dress, what ladylike pursuits to indulge in, or how she should best please him in bed. Her son would never know his father, and nothing could have dimmed her elation at that moment.

But then, a solicitor had arrived at Hawthorne House six months ago, informing her that her marriage was invalid and she’d been nothing more than William’s mistress. Her husband’s brother, Marcus, had swiftly stripped her son of his inheritance and title, and though she’d tried to fight back, he would not allow it.

“You were never his wife,” Marcus said coldly. “His mistress, perhaps, but nothing more.”

“But I was,” she whispered. “We eloped in Scotland. I signed the registry.”

“There was no registry. And no written record of the marriage.” Marcus folded his hands, with not a trace of sympathy in his demeanor. “My brother deceived you into believing it, likely so you would share his bed.” When she started to argue again, he cut her off. “You’re a practical woman, Juliana. Why would a viscount wed a fisherman’s daughter?”

He made it sound as if she was no better than a scullery maid. Yes, her father had been a common man, but her mother was nobility.

“My grandfather is a baron,” she argued. “And William loved me.”

“Whether or not he loved you is beside the point. You were never married, and your son is a bastard.”

Her mouth moved to deny his words, but no sound came out. She clenched her knuckles hard, feeling as if she’d entered a nightmare from which she couldn’t wake up.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why he hid you away in the country, never bringing you to London? It was because he didn’t marry you at all.”

Deep inside, she feared Marcus was right. She’d spent months paying runners to search for a record of their elopement. And still, the search had come up with nothing.

Either her husband had lied to her, or Marcus was lying to prevent her son from inheriting. He’d escorted them out of Hawthorne House with hardly more than a trunk of clothes. To keep Harry from being afraid, she’d told him that they were going to visit his grandfather. She’d woven an elaborate tale of how they would spend a few months by the sea and he could build castles in the sand.

Her life had felt like that sand castle, crumbling to pieces all around her. Especially when her father had died a few weeks later, leaving her grief-stricken.