The Viking Warrior's Bride. Harper George St.

than I expected,’ Vidar explained, raising a brow. She recognised it for the challenge that it was rather than a compliment to her appearance.

      ‘You’re younger than I expected,’ she countered. He was younger than she’d thought he would be, she realised as she saw him clearly for the first time. She’d prepared herself for an older man, someone like Rodor. Jarls were supposed to be older men. But Jarl Eirik didn’t appear to be that old and his brother was obviously quite a few years younger. He was probably only scarcely older than her own twenty winters. Although there was nothing about him that said anything other than full-grown man. His chest was broad and she could tell from the way the fabric of his tunic hugged his shoulders that his muscles were well developed.

      ‘Young and virile,’ he quipped, somehow putting extra emphasis on the word virile. ‘Isn’t that what was called for in the agreement?’

      She felt heat rise on her cheeks. An image of his nude body flashed through her mind and there was no place in this discussion for that.

      Jarl Eirik cleared his throat, clearly uneasy with the direction the conversation had taken. ‘I can have Rodor, or someone else of your choosing, taken down to the ships and shown the bride price to reassure you.’

      Gwendolyn nodded, having trouble getting that virile thought to stay out of her head. ‘In the morning will be soon enough.’

      Jarl Eirik inclined his head. ‘Then we should speak of the actual ceremony. I must apologise, but I’d have it take place sooner rather than later. I’m needed at home.’

      Her mind raced with a hundred excuses. If she could put it off for years, then she would. But much to her surprise, Annis spoke first. ‘The ceremony should take place with the new moon.’

      Gwendolyn stared at her sister, certain that she had imagined the interruption from the meek woman. But then her sister spoke again, her gaze on the Jarl. ‘I know my sister doesn’t put much faith in the stars, but I believe they tell us more than most of us ever realise. Our parents’ marriage and even my own marriage began with a new moon, and I believe hers will be most fortuitous if allowed to follow the tradition.’

      Gwendolyn looked at her sister, confused by what amounted to a betrayal. Annis knew how she felt about this marriage. The new moon was in three days. Three days to prepare to become that Dane’s wife. Three years wouldn’t be long enough to prepare for that. Before she could utter an objection, Jarl Eirik’s smile broadened. ‘Perfect. If your family has a tradition, then I most certainly do not want to be the one to break it.’

      Annis smiled and blinked as if she was a little stunned that her suggestion had been accepted. ‘Wonderful. That gives us three days to plan and prepare a feast.’

      Gwendolyn opened her mouth to protest, but Rodor kicked her leg underneath the table and she ended up swallowing a yelp of pain. Her gaze again found Vidar’s across the table and she was surprised to find that he frowned, his brows pulled together as his gaze narrowed on hers. In the light of the candles flickering overhead, she realised that his eyes were the clearest shade of blue she’d ever seen. Not grey, or flecked with green, but clear like the bluest sky. And at that moment there wasn’t a speck of kindness in them. She didn’t understand what a life with him would mean for her and that sent a wave of anxiety tumbling through her. Would he be cruel? Would he expect her to be a wife like Annis? Someone sweet and biddable and unconcerned with things outside her own home? Would he try to take away the only life she’d ever known?

      ‘In three days, then,’ he agreed, sending her heart plummeting to her stomach.

      Perhaps it was possible that he didn’t want this marriage either. His attitude made her think he wasn’t thrilled with the arrangement. If she talked to him, perhaps he’d agree that the marriage should be in name only.

      It was her last hope, but something about him...something about the way he looked at her made her think she wouldn’t be successful.

      * * *

      The preparations for the wedding feast began the next morning. Annis had sent a messenger off to her farm to fetch Eadward who would bring goats for the celebration. The hunters had been sent to bring venison and the fishermen were at the river to bring fish to the table. The servants began preparing the pork over the roasting fires.

      Gwendolyn had barely slept the night before. She’d spent part of the night tossing and turning in her bed and the rest of the night pacing around her chamber. There was nothing for it. She was well and truly obliged to marry this Dane. Vidar and Jarl Eirik had already been at her table when she’d emerged from her chamber the next morning. She’d barely been able to bring herself to look at either one of them. After a quick breakfast, Jarl Eirik took her to the ships so that she could verify that the payment he’d brought was sufficient.

      He didn’t call it payment. He called it mundr. It was the bride price her father had demanded from him. Whatever its proper name, it was the gold, jewels and horses that Jarl Eirik had paid for the privilege of having his man marry her. Apparently the barrels and chests were her worth. She wasn’t worth a coin more or a jewel less. Her stomach churned as she looked it over.

      Seeing it made the betrothal suddenly seem real and it made her think of her first betrothal. Cam had asked her father for her hand on the eve of her seventeenth year. As Rodor’s son, he had nothing but the wealth his family had earned working for her family. He had his sword arm, his strong mind and his friendship with her brother that he’d use to support them and their eventual children. There’d been no talk of gold exchanging hands. She’d always known Cam and her father had approved of him. That was the way it was meant to be. These strangers were not supposed to be here.

      Closing her eyes, she turned away from the treasure. It would do no good to think of the past. A quick glance at Rodor found him looking at her, the sober expression on his face seeming to repeat his warning of the previous day.

      ‘Think of the consequences to our people. A true leader must put everyone else before himself...or herself.’

      ‘Everything appears to be in order,’ she said.

      Rodor nodded. ‘It does. You honour us with your mundr. I accept in place of her father.’

      Gwendolyn bit her tongue lest she dispute him. As if they had any choice in accepting the payment. As if the Jarl had any intention of ‘honouring’ her with the payment. He wanted to expand his holdings and this marriage was the only way to do that. For generations the Alveys had existed comfortably in the north with no need for such arrangements.

      But that era had come to an end and it was time to accept that.

      Drawing herself up to her full height, she forced herself to nod in acknowledgement of the gift and Rodor’s acceptance. ‘Thank you, Jarl Eirik.’ The words tasted bitter on her tongue and nearly choked her on their way out, but she said them because that was her role here as Lady of Alvey. She would not allow these Danes to take that away from her.

      Rodor continued speaking with the Jarl to make arrangements for unloading it as well as where the rest of the Danes could make camp. She waited as long as she could before making her excuses about needing to see to feast preparations and leaving. She stalked up the hill, her breath coming in short huffs as she made it to the front gate of her home.

      Annis had the preparations well underway so there was no need for Gwendolyn’s help. Instead, she stormed directly to the practice yard. The warriors spent every morning sparring and she was in need of her sword to work off her anger and frustration. She practically ran to the yard, which was on the back side of the granary. Yet when she turned the corner, she skidded to a halt because Vidar was standing there with his sword strapped to his back, calling out orders to the men. Her men.

      He had two score of them lined up in rows of two facing each other. Each of them stood in squares drawn off on the ground with sticks or lines of small stones. At his command, they began sparring with their swords and struggling not to step out of the box. His own men, the Danes, lazed around the edges of the sparring field, watching with amusement.

      ‘What are you