The Seducer (Viking Warriors) Read online

  ~ Look for these titles from Jianne Carlo ~

  Now Available:

  Viking Warriors

  Book 1: The Bear and the Bride

  Book 2: The Dragon Slayer

  Book 3: The Peacemaker

  Book 4: The Destroyer

  The Seducer

  Jianne Carlo

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Published By:

  Etopia Press

  P.O. Box 66

  Medford, OR 97501

  http://www.etopia-press.net

  The Seducer

  Copyright © 2011 by Jianne Carlo

  ISBN: 978-1-936751-80-8

  Edited by Thalia S. Child

  Cover by Mina Carter

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Etopia Press electronic publication: November 2011

  ~ Dedication ~

  For all my Viking readers and, in particular,

  Cristina Machado, who suggested that I reunite all my Viking Warriors at the end!

  My sincere thanks to everyone.

  Chapter One

  Loki’s toes!

  Jarvik stifled a string of curses and listened, trying to gauge the approaching danger. His weapons and clothes lay on the far bank. The heavy thud of booted feet trampling dried twigs and the low murmurs of male voices grew louder.

  It had been foolish to stop and bathe in the pond. But he had kept a galloping pace for many days in the futile hopes of curbing his boiling temper, and the temptation of a cool swim had proved irresistible.

  Tall pines and boulders surrounded the shallow pool. He swam into a narrow crevice and waited, sitting on the pebbles lining the pond’s bed. The morning sun blazed, and a swift breeze tossed pine needles across the high boulder to his right.

  A maiden appeared on the stone’s ridge. He stopped breathing and drank in the view of her profiled form.

  She began to disrobe, shedding wimple, half boots, and the drab brown cyrtel she wore. She removed a layer of thick padding wrapped from mid-thigh to just above her breasts. ’Twas all he could do to halt the growl erupting from his throat. A wad of similar cloths wrapped around her neck went next, then the thin chemise. In less than a bird’s morning song, she had transformed from a fat, sluggish caterpillar to a sleek, graceful butterfly. He stifled a snicker.

  By Freya, he had never seen such beauty. And she was all his. Or would be within the week.

  Legs of a filly, long, lean, and strong, led to a pert ass begging for sharp nips. His fingers itched to span the narrow waist, mold her to him, and fit his rod in the notch between her thighs. She inhaled and her luscious globes lifted. His cock, the lusty fellow, preened.

  The stiff wind changed direction, whipping tresses the color of mahogany shot with rich burgundy away from her hips. Catching a glimpse of the tiny curls protecting the treasure he craved, Jarvik choked back a groan. Hunger ate at his groin. The rigid arousal bobbing in the chill water urged action. He stood, hands fisted, battling the urge to act the Viking and kidnap her there and then.

  She closed her eyes, lifted her chin, threw her arms wide, and arched, stretching, rising on the tips of her toes as if to capture every ray of heat from the summer solstice. A butterfly newly emerged from its pupa, drying her wings, readying for flight.

  When she lifted her palms together high above her head, he realized her intention and bellowed, “Nay! ’Tis shallow, lass!”

  She half-turned to him. The jerky movement threw her off balance, and one foot slipped.

  Jarvik plunged into the water, kicking and stroking, watching as she landed arse first on the rock.

  “Mary have mercy,” she yelped. Her fingers scrambled for purchase, but found none on the smooth boulder.

  He swam harder, faster, as she tumbled and bounced off the punishing hardness of the stone. His arms and legs drove through the icy water. By Odin, he would not lose her now.

  The force of the next impact sent her into the air. Her hands flailed, and she dropped like a felled pheasant. Treading water ’neath her torso, he opened his arms and reached for her plummeting body.

  She landed hard, her bottom hitting his shoulder, one knee glancing his nose. Her fingers twined in his hair and yanked. Pain burst across his scalp. She curled away from him and nigh slipped into the water. Jarvik adjusted his hold, cradling her back and knees. Her grasp on his locks tightened, and he choked back a curse. His cock cared naught for the sting lancing his head, but reacted to the silk of her skin, and steeled harder than his sword’s blade.

  “Lass, will you strive not to pull all the hair from my head?” He feasted on the sight of his delicious bundle, savoring the high forehead, the arrogant nose, the bee-stung mouth, the stubborn set of her jaw. One dusky breast parted the wet strands of her tresses, and an impudent nipple furled into a taut peak, playing hide and seek with hair and water.

  The temptation proved too enticing, and ’twas naught he could do but surrender. Afore his lips could close over the pouting bud, an arrow slashed the water on his left, followed by a slew more in rapid succession. Each new missile landed closer and closer to their bobbing bodies.

  Paddling furiously, he turned so his back protected her. She struggled to see over his shoulder, and her nipples grazed his chest. His head shot up, as did his cock, twitching and jerking against her arse.

  Her nails dug into his skin. She flinched, and her bottom flexed. “Desist. I want not your attentions, oaf.”

  Oaf? He appeared to her an oaf?

  Unperturbed, for he well knew who lay in his arms and who guarded her on the journey, Jarvik squinted at the far bank. He recognized the three giants who trained their bows on him.

  “Let her go!” The bellow sent swallows and starlings into flight squawking and quarreling in furious protest. “Elaina. Can you swim to shore?”

  Elaina. Village healer, concubine’s daughter, enemy of the new king of Strathclyde.

  “Aye. If the lout will loosen his hold.” She scowled at him. Even pinched together, her brows proved alluring. “Stop playing with my backside, ruffian. And keep your eyes on the shore.”

  Oaf? Lout? Ruffian? He gave her a little shake. Had she not noticed his golden hair? His ice-blue eyes? The breadth of his shoulders?

  “Nay. Mayhap I will release you, but take my eyes from such sweetness? Never.” Jarvik flashed the smile that had won him the sighs of every woman he’d ever met.

  Their eyes locked.

  An arrow sang through the air, and he heard the familiar whizzing. But naught, not the long years spent on battlefield, not the instincts drilled into him day after day since he began his warrior training, not a feather grazing his back could drag his attention from eyes round and wide as marbles, the beguiling color akin to the
dense pine thickets surrounding them. A halo of yellow lit the emerald hue. Desire seared across his groin, and his balls rammed taut against his flesh.

  “Jarvik, you arse. The next arrow hits lower. Loose her now!” The roar sliced into the stupor of lust drugging his mind. He forced his focus to the shore. One of the Ferguson brothers tore off his tunic and perched on a boulder to unlace his boots.

  “Cease,” Jarvik yelled before returning his attention to Elaina. “Can you swim?”

  “Better than you.” She cuffed his arm, winced, and wriggled like a worm escaping a swallow’s prodding beak.

  “Are you dizzy? Did your head hit the boulder?” He shifted, holding her with one arm while gently exploring her scalp with his free hand.

  She stilled and shot him a frown, then touched his wrist. “I am unharmed.”

  “Are you dizzy?”

  Head cocked, she studied him, her eyes trailing from forehead to chin. “’Twas but a few nicks and scrapes. I am unharmed. Do I know you, warrior?”

  That those slanted, green eyes showed no sign of fear did not surprise him. He had witnessed her courage and determination afore. But that she did not writhe and panic in his arms was a boon he had not expected. Mayhap she had not been raped or molested as he had feared.

  “Let me go.” The words, spoken in a calm, quiet tone, belied the sudden shudder that racked her. She punched his chest and shoulders, her movements frantic, jerky.

  He let her go. She did indeed swim like a fish, slicing through the water with a languid, easy grace. Her rump flexed and bunched. By Odin, his blazing cock nigh warmed the pond to steaming.

  Jarvik, engrossed in studying her arse, didn’t realized her predicament until she’d been treading water for some minutes a good distance from the bank. The Ferguson idiots stood between her and her garments. “See you to your camp, Fergusons! Can you not let Elaina retain her modesty?”

  “And what of you, Viking?” The oldest Ferguson, Patrick, folded his arms. “We leave when you do.”

  “Head you to Laufsblað Fjëllóttr?” Jarvik knew well Patrick’s answer, for he had been dogging the brothers’ trail, biding his time, watching his betrothed, and planning his seduction. That the Fergusons and Elaina had managed to get ahead of him and take him by surprise spoke of his exhaustion.

  “And what business of yours is that?” Patrick Ferguson made no secret of his dislike of Jarvik.

  “’Tis my brother’s keep. I have the full run of the land. Bring you the healer for Deidra’s confinement?” Jarvik repressed a grin, for ’twas at his suggestion that his brother’s wife had sent for Elaina, her village healer.

  “What of it? Set not your sights on Elaina, Jarvik. She has our protection.”

  Elaina’s fate had been sealed from the moment she began her journey to Laufsblað Fjëllóttr.

  “I am growing chilled, my lords.” Elaina slashed a palm across the pond’s surface splashing water in a wide arc. “And my temper grows none the sweeter. Lord Patrick, you and your brothers make haste to go back to camp. But first, chase that grinning preening boy to the far bank. And if an arrow pierces his thick hide, ’twould be pleasing indeed.”

  Boy? Boy? He’d swive her so oft and so lustily she’d never refer to him as boy again. He ignored her taunt, and noticed that when she rose from the river to stride the three paces necessary to collect her discarded clothes, she never glanced his way. Witch. She knew he’d not take his eyes off her a-purpose. He waited, treading water, until she had retrieved her garments and padding, and ducked into the line of pines.

  A low rumble bounced off the mountains enclosing the narrow valley. A stiff gust whipped the pond’s smooth surface into rippling arrow points. Dense, smoky clouds galloped across the sky. ’Twould be mere minutes before the storm erupted. Such was the fickle nature of weather along the border ’tween Scotland and Cumbria. The volatile alliances of the many kingdoms occupying the lands mirrored its climate.

  Jarvik had no time to waste if he wanted to arrive before the Fergusons and Elaina. Haste had him casting aside the usual caution he observed with his stallion, Háski. The bad-tempered steed took advantage of an exposed arm to imprint his great teeth on Jarvik’s flesh. Muttering curses under his breath, he mounted the powerful horse, and spurred the obstinate animal into a gallop.

  He knew the area like the back of his hand, and so headed for a treacherously steep shortcut that would take him to the next valley and his brother’s keep before midaft. Making better time than expected, he crested the second set of hills and halted. His steed pranced on the flat peak as he surveyed the wide valley below. Capricious as ever, the weather had once again changed, and the golden globe of the sun in mid-sky coated the ripening barley fields with a blinding brilliance.

  When they reached the valley floor, Jarvik gave the destrier his head. Crouching low, Jarvik’s heels sank deep into the stirrups. He kept his attention on the far-off, whitewashed turrets of the castle, and did not slow his mount until the gates of Laufsblað Fjëllóttr loomed.

  The melodious piping of a flute parried a local breeze carrying the odor of baked dirt and honeysuckle. In the distance, a large contingent of warriors had set up camp outside the castle’s inner walls.

  Jarvik groaned. His brother, Magnus, allowed no warriors save his own within the walls of his keep. But rules did not apply to kings, and Jarvik well-recognized the crests the soldiers sported on their shoulders.

  King Máel Coluim.

  By pure happenchance, this spring Jarvik had discovered Elaina’s whereabouts, and set in motion her journey, and their vow saying. He had planned a wedding, a bedding, and a babe in Elaina’s womb before he confronted Scotland’s king.

  For Máel Coluim intended to sign a treaty with the new King of Strathclyde, Eógan, and that could undo all Jarvik’s schemes. He clenched his jaw, drew the reins tight, and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks.

  * * *

  Elaina clamped her lips together.

  The castle’s walls were full to bursting. Fires spewed smoke in ribbons. Men, women, and children darted between tents, horses, and stacks of gleaming shields. Noise assaulted her ears: wailing babes, shrieking women, and bellowing warriors, all rolled into a deafening din. The scent of burnt fowl feathers and seared meat spurred unexpected bile. She pinched her nostrils against the foul odor and instead took shallow breaths through her mouth. The smell and sounds of a bustling keep, once familiar and welcome, churned nausea from her coiling belly to her throat.

  Dread had Elaina’s fingers trembling, and she had to grip the leather reins till they bit her palms. Sensing her fear, the mare snorted and kicked her hind legs. She should not have come, despite the refuge Deidra had provided. Elaina’s attention was drawn to the cart alongside her mount and she let out a long, relieved sigh. Kateri and Kitti, wrapped in blankets, lay wrapped around each other snuggled into one corner deep in slumber, oblivious to their surroundings.

  Pray the lord she had not brought the babes into danger, but the sense of doom weighting her shoulders and the prickles at the back of her neck said otherwise.

  “Elaina, Deidra has sent this woman to take you and your babes to her. Allow me to help you down.”

  She had not noticed Lord Patrick dismounting nor had she realized they had arrived in the bailey. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Her legs wobbled when her half-boots hit the packed dirt. Elaina locked her knees and turned to greet the cherubic girl standing in front of the steps to the keep.

  “I will be your maid while you are here, my lady. I am called Frieda. May I help you with the babes?”

  “I would be grateful, Frieda.” Weary to the bones, Elaina wanted only to get the girls settled down for the evening, then collapse onto a pallet. “My thanks.”

  Night had settled over the valley before Elaina and Frieda had the girls fed, washed, and tucked under a wool blanket on a straw mattress. It never failed to amaze Elaina how quickly they went from babbling non-stop to tiny snores and eyel
id flutters. She had not fallen asleep easily or slumbered deeply for a long time. And that would not change this eve.

  “We must get you ready, my lady. The evening meal will start soon and you must be in the hall afore the king arrives. I have unpacked your trunk. Your cyrtels are in adjoining chamber on your bed. Pray, let me assist you into the tub.” Frieda gestured at the small alcove to the right.

  Elaina had made every excuse not to attend the evening meal to no avail. For ’twould seem that all, including maids, pages, even kitchen spit-boys, must attend the banquet for King Máel Coluim. Frieda had even insisted that the girls be there as well, but Elaina would not hear of it.

  Praying the meal would soon be dispensed with, Elaina said, “I need no bath, but I will wash. Many thanks for your assistance, Frieda. You are released from further duty this eve.”

  “Nay, my lady. I must escort you to the hall.” Frieda seemed to take no offence and left Elaina alone.

  Minutes later, Elaina followed Frieda through the many passages and stairwells to the hall and to Lord Patrick. The maid bade Elaina good eve and left.

  “My sister would have you at the high table this eve.” Lord Patrick offered Elaina his arm.

  Her stomach sank to the floor. The high table. She took in the massive stone fireplace in the center of the chamber and the dais that ran half the length of the room. Mayhap she would be seated at the end and blocked by large warriors.

  After her escape, Elaina had padded her cyrtel, stuffed her cheeks to bursting, and hid her hair with a long, drab wimple that obscured most of her face. She had thickened her brows with a darkening sooty paste. Ground limestone mixed with lard paled her ruby lips to a dismal walnut. No one, save Deidra, had seen her true features or form in many seasons.

  None save the knave Lord Patrick had called Jarvik.