Marrying Her Viking Enemy. Harper St. George

and stroked Tova’s silken hair, stifling a grunt of pain as he pulled at the wound on his shoulder. ‘She’ll rule this place soon.’

      ‘You’re hurt, Rolfe!’ Lady Gwendolyn exclaimed. She rushed around to his back and pulled at his tunic. He grimaced as the blood that had dried to the linen under-tunic pulled at his wound and looked across the hall to distract himself as she prodded.

      He’d been vaguely aware of the woman he’d seen atop the wall working across the hall this whole time. He found her now, trying her best to not appear as if she was curious about him as she filled cups with mead, all the while she kept stealing glances at their small group. Her expression was filled with the same wariness and grim determination he’d seen on her face outside. A thick braid of dark hair fell over her shoulder, across her lush breast and nearly down to her waist. She hadn’t been in Alvey when he’d left and he couldn’t help but wonder who she was.

      ‘There’s a good amount of blood,’ said Lady Gwendolyn and he grimaced as she poked the tender edges of the wound. The woman had many skills, but sensitivity to his pain didn’t appear to be one of them.

      ‘A spear tip, compliments of the Scots. It’s fine. It wasn’t very deep.’ It burned like fire, but a fever had yet to set in.

      ‘What happened?’ she asked and he gave her an abbreviated version of events.

      ‘A minor skirmish.’ He shrugged when he’d finished. ‘There were less than twenty of them.’ He’d leave it to Vidar to tell her about Durwin’s betrayal.

      As she moved back around him to retake her seat, she followed his gaze to the girl across the hall. Giving him a knowing smile, she said, ‘Go upstairs and I’ll send someone to tend you.’

      He thought about objecting, but the idea of possibly having some time alone with the girl was too pleasing to pass up. Grabbing a bag of loot that would be his portion from the stash on the table, he rose to his feet and sought his chamber.

       Chapter Two

      Elswyth hadn’t thought that she would be attending the warrior named Rolfe in his bath. Yet there he sat in a tub of steaming water. His chest was thick and broad, roped with muscle above the rim of the tub which was too short for his large frame. His knees were bent, sticking up out of the water so that she could see the cords of muscle that shaped his powerful thighs. Water clung to his hair, making it a few shades darker than the blond it had been earlier. It hung free from its constraints, but had been pushed back to better reveal the chiselled planes of his face. His nose was a bit too prominent, his brow line too defined, his lips too hard, but somehow taken altogether those features were almost pretty on him. A masculine pretty that took her aback.

      And that was before he looked at her. His eyes were the purest blue she’d ever seen. Not piercing, but intense and so vivid the colour almost didn’t seem real. There was a kindness lurking in their depths that helped her to step farther into his chamber and draw the door closed behind her. Lady Gwendolyn had made it clear to all when they’d arrived that she and Ellan were not here for the men’s pleasure. But this man was new and she didn’t know if he’d been advised. Wounded or not, he was powerful enough to do what he wanted with her and, though she could fight him, her axe was best thrown from a distance.

      A soft growl from the corner warned her to proceed with caution, as a large mongrel with grey fur rose to his feet. ‘Down, Wyborn.’ The dog responded immediately to the warrior’s command and lay back down, but his ears were standing up as he watched her.

      Casting her wary gaze from the mongrel to his master, she said, ‘I’ve brought herbs for your shoulder, Lord.’

      ‘I’m no lord.’ His voice was somehow smooth and rough all at the same time and pitched so low that the timbre of it was quite pleasing. She was surprised at how easily he spoke her language with barely any accent at all. His gaze dropped to the axe on her hip before he turned back to the task she had interrupted and splashed more water over his head, though he only used his right hand.

      His chamber was larger than she’d thought. Shelves and chests lined one wall and a table and bench occupied the corner. Behind the dog, a bed was set into an alcove that could be curtained off from the rest of the room. It was larger than the one she shared with Ellan and piled high with thick furs. In the middle of those furs a red stone set amid pieces of silver and gold glinted back at her in the candlelight. She carefully averted her eyes from that treasure. It was stolen from a Saxon, no doubt. The thought gave her the surge of anger she needed to rediscover her courage.

      ‘What’s your name, girl?’

      She set the tray holding the poultice, linens and herbs down on a chest a little harder than she’d intended to. So hard that he paused in his administrations and looked over at her. ‘I’m no girl,’ she said, mimicking his words to her. Whenever men wanted to keep her in her place they liked to throw that word around. It made them feel stronger and she found herself disappointed that a warrior such as him would feel the need to use it.

      She expected him to let those unnaturally vivid blue eyes sweep down her body. To take in the curves of her breasts and hips. To make it clear that he understood that she wasn’t a girl after all. Her body could only belong to a woman who could only be here to please him with those very same curves. But he didn’t break eye contact except to take in her expression. Finally, he gave a brief nod and a tiny smile lurked around the corners of his mouth, hinting at a dimple in his cheek.

      ‘Nay, you are no girl. I can see that now.’

      Those words felt like a compliment. In a life that had been short on compliments of late, it was most welcomed. Her cheeks burned and she looked down at the tray to make herself appear busy.

      ‘What are you called?’ he asked.

      ‘Elswyth.’

      ‘I’m Rolfe,’ he said and held out his hand.

      She stared at it, half-expecting it to hold some danger, which was silly. It was simply a hand, calloused and rough looking with a complement of various nicks and cuts. However, men did not generally offer a hand to her, especially in her current capacity as servant. It was suspicious for its eccentricity alone. With a glance at his bare chest and the water lapping at his hips, she gave him her hand in a brief touch before quickly turning to secure a scrap of linen for a bandage. This man had unsettled her from the first. The sooner she could be done with this task the better.

      ‘You weren’t here when I left in the summer. Who are you?’ He, too, seemed content to go back to the task at hand and continued to sluice water on his body.

      ‘My mother was a distant relation of Lady Gwendolyn’s mother. My sister and I have served here for the past few months at the Lady’s invitation.’

      With a gentle hand on his shoulder, she pushed him forward to take a closer look at his wound. His hair nearly covered it, so she was forced to take the thick mass in hand and move it aside. It was wet silk against her palm, smooth, yet strangely rough, too. The heaviness of it sliding against her skin seemed too personal. Everything about this seemed too personal. She should have very little to do with this man who was her enemy, yet here she was tending to him in his bath. He was naked beneath the water and her entire body burned in awareness of that fact.

      Forcing a deep breath, she leaned in closer to examine the puncture. He was lucky that it hadn’t festered yet. The edges were slightly pink, but they weren’t swollen and angry. It was clear that someone had tended it after it had happened. Plunging the linen into the water, she gently ran it over the gouge to clean out the dried blood. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, though he hadn’t flinched.

      The mongrel came forward, curiously sniffing around her as she worked on his master. She tried to ignore him, somewhat confident that the warrior would intervene should the mongrel overstep his bounds. Reassured that she meant his master no harm, the mongrel went back to his spot beside the bed and plopped down. Putting his front two paws out