Alrek

By Samantha Holt

For years the Vikings had raided their lands and killed her people. Now the enemy lay in her bed...

Rescuing a Viking pirate from the ocean after his ship wrecked on the shores of Pictland was bound to bring Ilisa trouble. After all, she knew well of the savagery of the Vikings—she had experienced it first-hand. But her heart would not allow her to abandon someone in need. Unfortunately, nursing him back to health rouses a part of her she didn’t know existed and soon she’s the one in need.

Alrek’s well aware of his own need when he awakens in this beautiful Pict’s home. With his plans to venture to new lands on hold, he resolves to thank Ilisa for her help in any way he can—but not in the way he longs to the most. He must prove not all Vikings are the same. But his own savage past threatens to destroy any progress he makes and her people soon make it clear he will never be accepted.

Can they bridge the gap between two cultures or will their differences—and the dangers they bring—forever keep them apart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fever Press
• Release date: Apr 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311925725

Samantha Holt

USA Today bestselling author Samantha Holt lives in a small village in England with her twin girls and a dachshund called Duke. She has been a full-time author since 2012, having gone through several careers including nurse and secretary. 

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Cover Art by www.lovelustandlipstickstains.com

Edited by Em Petrova

Proofed by Destini Reece

Alrek

Samantha Holt

Copyright 2014 ©Samantha Holt

All rights 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.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Chapter One

875 Cait, Pictland

Skirts bunched in one hand, Ilisa’s feet sank into the sand as she made her way onto the beach. Crisp, salt-ripened air breezed over her. She peered out to sea and observed the rolling waves with their white tips. They surged endlessly around the sharp grey rocks, undaunted by the rugged coastline. Drawing in a deep breath, Ilisa studied the empty horizon once more and shook her head. Anticipation thread through her—a sense of something hung in the fresh gusts of wind.

With the sun glinting on the sea and white clouds dotting the sky, she couldn’t decide what could possibly make her imagine such a thing. The day looked to be truly beautiful. One with no threat of storms or rain—a welcome change from recent weather. She had spent too much time holed up in her leaking cottage, praying for the roof to survive the weather.

But the storms had passed and now she could enjoy a little sunshine and fresh air. Ilisa smiled to herself and began to sing as she walked. Her voice carried in the wind but it didn’t bother her. There was no one else to hear it. Another reason she enjoyed her solitude. There was no one to scold her for singing constantly as her mother always had.

She followed the beach around the headland. Here the sand gave way to more rocks and sharp cliffs loomed over her. She tugged off her slippers and placed them on a boulder before wading through the shallow surf to follow the jagged rocks, icy water pricking her feet. Ahead the rock she had secretly named the Devil’s Doorway curved out of the water. Almost perfectly arched in shape, on gloomy days the opening looked sinister, but today it tempted and beckoned. Under the midday sun, the sea on the other side appeared more blue and the land more fruitful. Ilisa had never been brave enough to walk through it. The sea was deeper there. Waves rolled around the base of the arch like great sea monsters. To go through would surely mean death.

Water sloshed over her feet, dragging her skirts into the sea and reminding her that her position next to the rocks was not so secure either. One heavy wave and she could be thrown against the sharp points. But here was where the best driftwood gathered. With few trees around, she needed it for firewood before the storms hit again—and they always did. Otherwise she would have to visit the village and barter for some. Ilisa shuddered, and not from the cold water, but from the idea of seeing Galan again. A trip to the village would be in store soon but she refused to go any sooner than necessary.

Her grin widened when she spotted some driftwood tangled in a bunch of seaweed ahead. That would do nicely. Hand to the slippery stone, she edged her way over. Grasping the pale wood, she shook her head. Another boat lost by the looks of it. Planks littered the rocks ahead—enough to keep her cottage warm for a long time. Unfortunately she couldn’t carry it all so it would take several trips. First she would deposit what she had on the beach and come back for—

She scowled. In amongst the debris, a swatch of red fabric caught her eye. A sail perhaps. She could make use of that. Ilisa snatched it and gasped. The fabric belonged to a man. She released the garment with a cry and put a hand to her chest to still her hammering heart. Swallowing, she pushed aside the wood and seaweed tangling around him like a sea monster’s tentacles and grabbed his shirt once more.

Facing upward, his skin looked pale. The rocks and weeds had prevented him from sinking or rolling onto his front. He could be alive, she concluded, but his appearance prevented her from doing anything other than foolishly gripping his shirt so he did not wash away. His long hair, strong features and manner of dress led her to believe one thing. This man was a Viking.

A raping, pillaging, murderous Viking.

Bitterness rose in her throat and she uncurled her fingers, releasing him. She should be glad his boat had sunk. No less than he deserved. And now she had firewood to keep her warm for many sennights. That was justice, surely? She turned, her wet skirts dragging heavily in protest, as if begging her to go back to him. Ilisa swallowed the knot of guilt and drew her shoulders straight, wood clutched to her chest. She owed nothing to a Viking.

For too long they had plagued their shores, taking people and belongings. With the Orkney and Shetland islands not far away, the land of Cait suffered the wrath of them with great frequency. The Viking pirates frequented the islands regularly. This Viking didn’t deserve her pity. They had never shown her people any.

A hand brushed her skirts and she whirled around. He remained knocked senseless. The waves had nudged him closer to her.

Curses!

With a shake of her head, she threw the wood down onto the nearby rocks and snatched the man’s tunic. Though not deep, the few feet of water she stood in helped her drag him back to the beach. The wash threatened to tear him out of her grip several times but he was not as heavy as she’d anticipated. That was until she reached where the sand sloped up from the sea. When his body met the bottom of the ocean, she had to grit her teeth and use both hands to tug him fully out of the water.

He’s only going to kill you, Ilisa, she counselled herself as she flopped down next to him.

The fair haired man showed no signs of stirring so she took a moment to study him properly. Tentatively reaching over, she swept aside the wet strands of long hair and gasped as she got a proper view of his features. A more beautiful man she had never seen. She snapped her hands back and traced his profile with her gaze. A long, strong nose and angular jaw gave the impression of great strength yet his relaxed lips and closed lids leant him a softer look. Ilisa laughed aloud. Vikings weren’t soft. He’d probably run a blade through her for saying as much without a second thought.

He didn’t have one did he? She shuffled onto her knees, wincing at the feel of cold, wet wool against her skin. She lifted the folds of his garments but saw no blade. His large hands and wide shoulders should have been enough to scare her anyway. What was she thinking? He didn’t need a blade to harm her. From the look of his arms—which were surely as wide as tree trunks, she mused—he could snap her in two with little effort. His height gave him an advantage too. Vikings were notoriously large but even lying down, this one appeared taller than most.

Drawing on her courage, she plucked at a pendant from around his neck. She turned the disc over in her hands but it gave her no clues as to his identity or where he came from. But what more did she need to know? He was a Viking. She really should just leave him. A touch of red amongst his hair caught her eye and she parted the damp strands and the small braids threaded into it to see a gash on his scalp. It was not large but she knew from experience a lot of blood could be lost from head wounds. He had likely struck his head on the rocks.

Ilisa licked her lips and considered him for a few moments more. Ear to his mouth, she gazed down the long length of him and spied the tiniest movement of his chest. Still alive then. The