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A Deal With Her Rebel Viking
Michelle Styles
Her terms: free her family His terms: seduction? Defending her home, Lady Ansithe captures outlaw Viking Moir Mimirson. The prisoner will be the ideal ransom for her father, held hostage by the Danes. Yet Moir’s flirtatious negotiations exhilarate practical Ansithe as much as they surprise her… Can she be sure that this hardened warrior will work with her, and not betray her? And what of his stolen kisses…can she trust those?
Her terms: free her family
His terms: seduction?
Defending her home, Lady Ansithe captures outlaw Viking Moir Mimirson. The prisoner will be the ideal ransom for her father, who’s being held hostage by the Danes. Yet Moir’s flirtatious negotiations exhilarate practical Ansithe as much as they surprise her... Can she be sure that this hardened warrior will work with her and not betray her? And what of his stolen kisses—can she trust those?
Born and raised near San Francisco, California, MICHELLE STYLES currently lives near Hadrian’s Wall with her husband and a menagerie of pets in an Edwardian bungalow with a large and somewhat overgrown garden. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romances after discovering Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt. Her website is michellestyles.co.uk (http://www.michellestyles.co.uk) and she’s on Twitter and Facebook.
Also by Michelle Styles (#ua22c4c32-9e12-54de-84d2-1aae64e50835)
Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match
An Ideal Husband?
Paying the Viking’s Price
Return of the Viking Warrior
Saved by the Viking Warrior
Taming His Viking Woman
Summer of the Viking
Sold to the Viking Warrior
The Warrior’s Viking Bride
Sent as the Viking’s Bride
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
A Deal with Her Rebel Viking
Michelle Styles
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08962-3
A DEAL WITH HER REBEL VIKING
© 2019 Michelle Styles
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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For my niece Elizabeth
Contents
Cover (#uc9fceb77-5acf-503f-9ba6-3adfc3d82a3c)
Back Cover Text (#uc17dc324-e821-5f6b-9943-2aad31488712)
About the Author (#u2c0104ab-82af-5e63-93ae-d470397321ba)
Booklist (#u879aa04c-e1f4-5f7f-bc72-775b6a342097)
Title Page (#ua9707009-6c3f-57b1-a649-d79d1c935432)
Copyright (#ubab6bd24-c072-5550-9a8e-1e16bf8517e4)
Note to Readers
Dedication (#u6e71dd8b-60c5-573b-bfa2-485de5cacaae)
Chapter One (#u9b27502d-b981-5215-a0e6-400039452046)
Chapter Two (#uab15ac3b-1c85-5d34-8132-82ded592e537)
Chapter Three (#u51997e83-2bb5-54a0-8d3c-3d3ca221c7dc)
Chapter Four (#uc257d1d8-4bf8-5e21-a405-c64ff95c330e)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ua22c4c32-9e12-54de-84d2-1aae64e50835)
Late June AD 873—Manor of Baelle Heale, Forest of Arden, West Mercia, now modern-day Balsall Common, near Birmingham, England
A late-morning heat haze shimmered on the water meadow, where a cloud of blue butterflies rose in the slight breeze. Peace personified. Ansithe, middle daughter of the ealdorman Wulfgar, whose manor lands included the meadow, breathed in deeply and made a memory before adjusting the quiver of arrows she’d slung over her back.
The water meadow in bloom with yellow, pink and blue wildflowers had to be one of her favourite places in the whole world. No one bothered her here, or complained that she was weaving a cloth of dreams instead of a woolen one. Her eldest sister’s jibe earlier that day about Ansithe’s housekeeping standards and how no one decent would want a widow whose weaving threads always tangled rankled. She had run the household capably before Cynehild and her young son had arrived, fleeing the Mycel Haethen or the Great Heathen Horde of Danes’ inexorable advance in East Mercia. And she did her best thinking outdoors, always had.
Someone had to work out a way to save their father and Cynehild’s beloved husband who had both been taken prisoner. They could be freed, according to the message from the Danish warlord who held them, for a price, gold that they didn’t have. He had sent the severed finger of Cynehild’s husband to back up his demand. If Ansithe could engineer a way to free them, then maybe her father would understand she was indispensable to the smooth running of the estate and any talk of her entering into a new betrothal would cease. One unhappy marriage was enough for a lifetime.
She withdrew an arrow from her quiver, imagining the tree knot was the commander’s head, but the sound of tramping feet made her freeze.
Ansithe retreated to the shade of the great oak which stood at the edge of the meadow. She concentrated on forcing air into her lungs. It would be nothing—a deer if she was lucky, or a wolf if she wasn’t.
She turned slightly. Her heart skipped a beat. The Heathen Horde, here in Baelle Heale rather than where they should be—fifty miles to the east in the conquered lands. Openly. And not skulking in the shadows or keeping to Watling Street, the Roman road which ran a few miles from Baelle Heale.
Ansithe flattened herself against the oak and watched their progress as the group of warriors emerged from the woods. They seemed in no hurry and in no mood to conceal themselves.
The lead warrior, a tall blond man with broad shoulders, put his hands on his hips and examined the water meadow as though he owned it. She admired his chiselled cheekbones, and tapered waist for a long heartbeat until she noticed the large sword hanging from his belt alongside the iron helm. Her blood ran cold.
She wanted to scream that it wasn’t his land, that the people here were not weak and lily-livered like the Eastern Mercians, giving in without a fight, but managed to choke the words back.
Shouting at a warrior was likely to get her killed. Despite the sentiment her older sister had recently voiced about her reckless, mannish ways, Ansithe knew she possessed some modicum of self-preservation. She concentrated on keeping still and silently willing the warriors to move on.
The warlord turned his head as if he’d sensed her unspoken defiance, gazed straight towards where she stood and took a half-step towards her, saying something to the others with a slight smile on his lips.
With trembling fingers, she notched her arrow in the bowstring and muttered a prayer to all the saints and angels. Just when she thought she would be forced to loose the arrow and fight to her death, a wood pigeon arched up into the sky, launching itself from a branch above her with a loud clap of its wings.
Another man pointed to it, giving a harsh laugh and saying something that Ansithe didn’t quite catch. Her warrior nodded, but gave one last searching look at the oak before striding in the direction of the river.
Ansithe lowered her bow and drew further back before his ice-blue eyes spied her again.
She knelt on the ground, grabbed a handful of dirt and raised it.
‘I will defend this land or die,’ she vowed.
The manor-house yard appeared unnaturally still in the late afternoon shadows when Moir Mimirson entered it, following in the wake of his younger charge and his four companions.
A rundown air clung to the once substantial hall. The barns needed fixing and the stone walls had tumbled down in three places. Even though this area of Mercia had not witnessed a battle, Moir was willing to wager that the war had irrevocably altered this place, taking the able-bodied to fight and leaving only the weak, infirm and the women to defend it. Easy pickings for a raid, but such a thing would be a violation of the treaty his jaarl sought to sign with the Mercians.
The sheer stillness of the place made his skin prickle, just as it did before a battle was due to start. Instinctively his hand went to the amber bead he wore about his neck, the one which had belonged to his mother. Before any battle, he touched it and remembered his final vow to her—to be better than his father. Always.
‘There’s nothing here,’ Moir called in a low voice. ‘They have departed. I can’t even spy a hen or a pig for supper. We should move on, discover the way to Watling Street and return to your father—something which would have been easier if you had not tangled with our guide and made him abandon us.’
His wayward charge halted. His face contorted as it always did when Bjartr was forbidden anything. ‘Why was it my fault that the guide ran off? Or that we got lost trying to discover where he’d gone?’
‘Men tend to dislike having swords held at their throat when they quite rightly suggest that looting and raiding is not what one does when trying to negotiate a peace treaty.’
Bjartr’s mouth turned down in a petulant pout. ‘You should have stopped him. You are supposed to be my steward. And you should have provided us with proper food. My belly is rumbling. My father, your sworn jaarl, assigned you this task. Or are you like your father—given to disloyalty?’
Moir struggled to control his temper. Bjartr had not been alive when the tragedy with his parents had occurred. Bjartr’s recollection bore passing little to the truth of why Moir had been sent on this fool’s errand of a mission and was now having to play nursemaid to a group of barely blooded warriors rather than providing protection for his jaarl at the delicate negotiations with the Mercians and the other warlords.
‘I swear I heard bells earlier and that means an abbey,’ another warrior said, winking broadly at Moir. ‘There is always gold for the taking at a place like that. Here? Even the chickens have flown.’
‘Asking for hospitality remains the custom in the North. I suspect they follow similar customs here.’ Moir tried one last time. His sense of looming disaster rather than victory increased with every breath. ‘It is why we set out with gifts for those who favoured us. We can still ask for food to ease our starving bellies.’
Was this the meaning of his vision of a Valkyrie earlier? To be wary of this place?
‘Instead of being the rock who held the shield wall together, you have become my father’s craven hound,’ Bjartr jeered. ‘My father will be beyond proud when I return laden with gold and hostages—no matter what he told you about keeping the peace.’
Moir firmed his mouth. Any treasure to be found was probably safely buried long ago. Hostages simply caused unforeseen problems. And he was loyal to Bjartr’s father, Andvarr, the man who had taken a chance on him a long time ago. ‘You think seven warriors are enough for an all-out attack? How are you going to deploy them?’
‘Are you coming, Moir?’ one of Bjartr’s more obnoxious companions called. ‘Or does blood run true? Will you be as craven as your father was?’
