The Viking Warrior's Bride. Harper George St.

was almost sorry she hadn’t made him do it. ‘A pity I missed that. What did it entail? Would you have extolled my many virtues and sang a song about your many successful exploits?’

      His smile widened and he took her hand. The touch was so unexpected that it wiped the smile from her lips. His fingers were strong and warm as they closed around hers, making her hand feel tiny by comparison when she had never felt tiny in her life. His skin was lightly calloused and rough against hers, but somehow the sensation wasn’t repugnant. Not as it should have been.

      ‘Not at all. I’d have promised you a say in the training of your warriors, but I must say that I’m very glad it didn’t come to that.’ His hand tightened around hers and he turned to face the friar, a smile still on his lips.

      She followed his lead and faced the friar as well, but she ground her molars as she did so. She was almost certain he was lying, teasing her simply to make her feel that she might have got the concession from him had she only tried harder. This entire thing was a game to him and one in which only he seemed to know the rules. The friar began to speak, droning on in Latin, and she was too incensed with her groom to pay attention. She did try to jerk her hand away from him, but he only smiled wider and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, holding it there with his other hand. Rodor gave her a disapproving look, reminding her that her people were watching and she had to put on a serene face.

      So that’s what she did. When it came time for her to repeat her vows, she said them loud and clear for all to hear, but she did it without once looking at her groom. Only the ceremony didn’t end with the reciting of vows as it had for Annis. This one had to incorporate the Danes’ own heathen tradition. Rodor had given her a quick explanation of what was to come. Now she had no choice but to participate.

      As her father’s only living male relative, Eadward stepped forward, bearing her father’s sword in front of him. Gwendolyn took it by the hilt, her gaze lovingly tracing the carved beast’s head. It was the first time she allowed herself to consider the fact that her father wasn’t here to see her wed. The ache of unshed tears unexpectedly welled in her throat, forcing her to blink several times to stop them from falling. Closing her fingers around the hilt, she brought it to her chest and held it there for a moment as she said a silent prayer that she hoped would reach him.

      When she opened her eyes, Vidar was facing her. His face had lost its humour. His eyes were intense and serious when they met hers. She nearly looked away from the power of his gaze, but forced herself not to. ‘This sword belonged to my father. It was given to him by his father who had wielded it before him. It has held true the strength and honour of my family for generations.’ Taking a deep breath, she forced the next words out. ‘May it continue to do so in your hand. May it protect you and guide you as the new...’ She paused and sucked in a breath, stumbling over the words. ‘The new Lord of Alvey.’ Holding the sword out to him, she only released the breath she’d been holding when he took it.

      There. It was done. The awful thing she had dreaded was done. He was her Lord now and he’d taken her father’s sword. And yet she still stood here and nothing awful had happened...yet. Perhaps their future wouldn’t be so dreadful after all.

      Vidar propped the sword against his leg and took the ring from the smallest finger on his left hand. She hadn’t noticed it before, but it was a coiled gold band. Placing the ring on the hilt of the sword, he held it out to her, offering it to her. When she hesitated, uncertain of this ritual, he nodded and his brow raised in challenge. Swallowing thickly, she retrieved the ring. The gold would curve her finger in one complete circuit and each end was tipped with amber stone.

      ‘With this ring, I take you as my wife. I offer you my protection and loyalty. I pledge to you that I will give my life before allowing any harm to come to yours. From now until eternity, we are one.’ The deep husk of his voice raked over her senses in a way that she wasn’t prepared to face. She’d expected words, but somehow those words seemed genuine. She met his gaze and saw nothing but his solemn vow to uphold them. Her heart inexplicably beat harder in her chest. His words didn’t matter. She knew that he’d have said those words to whomever he’d been forced to marry, but for some reason she didn’t understand, she felt them in her heart along with a strange awareness that fluttered in her belly.

      She didn’t quite know what to say. Everyone was watching her and she realised that she should have listened to Rodor when he’d been telling her what to expect. As if he sensed her confusion, he stepped forward and pressed something into her hand. It was a ring similar to the one Vidar had given her, except the gold was thicker. Vidar or Jarl Eirik must have given it to Rodor, because it was clear they were a matched set. Realising now what she was meant to do, she balanced it on the flat of the hilt of the sword and offered it to Vidar.

      She wasn’t certain what she was meant to say, so she simply said, ‘With this ring, I accept you as my husband.’ That must have done it, because he nodded and placed the ring on his finger, then he carefully wrapped his hand around the blade and took the sword.

      She’d neglected to put the ring on her finger, so she made to rectify that, but he stopped her by covering her hand with his. Gently, he took the ring from her and slid it on her finger. He didn’t say anything, but it felt like he’d claimed her. A knot churned in her stomach. The idea of being owned by any man revolted her, but there was something about this man that terrified her.

      He moved away, only to turn back with a sword Jarl Eirik had given him. It was ornate, with two rubies set into the gilded hilt. He held it out to her lying flat on both of his palms. ‘I am entrusting this into your care to be given to our first-born son. May you bear me many.’

      She nodded and took the sword from him, handing it off to Rodor. ‘I accept,’ she said, her voice low enough that only Vidar and Rodor were likely to hear her. ‘But we never agreed to children.’

      Now that the ceremony was finished, he’d relaxed and even smiled at her when she said that. ‘I’m looking forward to the challenge, my lady.’

      He didn’t seem fazed at all, or even worried that he wouldn’t be able to win the challenge. She frowned and her scowl deepened when the Danes gave up a mighty cheer when Vidar took her hand and raised it.

      They were well and truly wed now.

      * * *

      Vidar brought her hand to his lips, but his gaze caught on her full lips. They were soft and pink and he longed to kiss them. From the moment she had appeared in her gown, he’d been struck by this fierce wave of possessiveness. It was as if his body hadn’t recognised her as his until that very moment, which made no sense because she’d been his since the first moment he’d seen her.

      Perhaps it was that she hadn’t seemed quite so feminine then. Nay, that wasn’t right, because even now he could recall how her hips and buttocks had appeared very womanly in the glimpse he’d had beneath her long tunic. Then he realised what it was. It wasn’t the gown, though the deep blue colour complimented her greatly. It wasn’t that her hair had been left to fall down her back beneath the veil.

      It was her eyes. She looked for all the world like a queen as she looked at him. Her chin was raised proudly as if she challenged him to touch her. But beneath that exterior, her eyes were vulnerable. There was a crack in her façade and she was terrified. Whether she realised it or not, he couldn’t say, but she was looking to him for reassurance.

      That thought sobered him and he was struck with how much power he held over her. Never in his life, never once—including his many battles and their casualties—had he had such control over the life of one person. Or more specifically the livelihood and contentment of one person. As she stared down at him, her eyes revealing more vulnerability than she knew, he became drunk on that power. Began to revel in it, even. She was beautiful and strong. A veritable queen.

      And she was his.

      Their cheering grew louder as his men came up behind him. Before he realised what they meant to do, they’d hoisted him over their shoulders to carry him off to celebrate. A marriage was always something to celebrate, whether the couple were happy with the arrangement or not.

      ‘Congratulations,