Her Viking Slave

By Alana Church

Harald the Beardless was desperate. With his farm failing, he needed coin to feed his mother and sisters. But he was captured on his first raid as a Viking, made the slave of the lovely but cold-hearted Fiona.

But even Fiona can't deny her attraction to the handsome young Viking. Desire rises faster than the heat from Fiona's forge. Will she risk all to win the heart of "Her Viking Slave?"

~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~

Oh.
Gentle Rhiannon protect me. I never thought I would find him beautiful.
He lay on his back on the thin, narrow cot. The blankets she had lent him had been kicked off sometime in the night, and his nude body, caught in the low, slanting sunbeam that streamed through the open shutter in the opposite wall, was gilded in shades of honey and gold. His belly was flat, his chest broad and strong, his lips curved in the faintest of sweet smiles, as if he dreamed of home. Soft hair that made her fingers itch for its touch circled his areolae, then gathered in a downy river past his breastbone and navel, there to pool in a lovely thicket that surrounded his hard, jutting manhood. It rose hard and rampant from his groin, aroused by who knew what signal in his sleeping mind. Long and thick, but somehow innocent at the same time.

A pang struck her. She had been kidnapped, enslaved, and brutalized when she was little more than a child, her budding body used for the pleasure of men who gave no thought for her own. The memories of the shy kisses and furtive caresses she had shared with the young men of her own age in her home village had been all but erased from her mind by a decade where the only thing at stake was her own survival. It had not quite been rape, as she had callously used every tool that came to her hand to make sure she lived, up to and including her own body. But as the sweating, stinking northmen had grunted on top of her, her youthful body little more than a receptacle to slake their own lusts, she had received no pleasure from the act.

Some women were different, she knew. At the Kinvarra village well, in the small market, in the communal bath-house where maidens and crones alike gathered to talk and gossip, there were sly glances and hidden giggles as the married women spoke of how their menfolk served them at night. Some were not bashful at all, but openly bragged about the lusty power of their husbands and lovers, or how many times they could make their staffs rise in one evening.

But not her. Never her. She stared at Harald’s sleeping body, her fists clenched in helpless fury. Even after she had found a home in Kinvarra, she had avoided men. And the men of the village had avoided her as well, knowing she was no maiden, that she had bartered her body in exchange for her own freedom. She had won a place there by her skill in the smithy. But no man chose to woo her.

Well. One did. But she would sooner cut off her own breasts than take Ultan to her bed.

Why not? A whisper in the back of her mind. Why not the northman? You have brought yourself pleasure with your own hands and fingers. Why not use his body? Do not his people owe you that much at least, after all the pain they brought you?

She blinked. Did she dare? Between her legs, a throbbing pressure grew, and drops of sweat beaded her brow. Through all the long years since her capture, she had never chosen. Never been the one who had reached out her hand to a man, bidding him to her bed. Could she do it now? Even with the object of her desire sodden in sleep?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boruma Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Oct 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463948224

Alana Church

Born and raised in Illinois, Alana attended the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, graduating with a degree in Education in 1994. She soon found out that the teaching life was not for her, and after a series of adventures has settled down in the Chicago suburbs, where she works for a telecommunications company.Alana lives alone, surrounded by books, pictures, a pile of story ideas, and a turtle named Pedro.

Book preview

Her Viking Slave

G:\_Data\_Boruma Publishing\Alana Church\Her Viking Slave\images\Her Viking Slave inner.jpg

By Alana Church

Artwork by Moira Nelligar

Copyright 2018 Alana Church

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~~ All characters in this book are over 18. ~~

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The fire burned low.

Harald sat at the long table in the old farmhouse, his face expressionless as his mother counted out the meager pile of coins.

Freydis came to the end, and sat wordless, her eyes dull and blank as she gazed at the small mound of silver.

Well? he asked, and then blushed as his voice broke. Odin curse it, he was a man now, not a boy! He had nineteen years! When would he sound like a man, rather than a stripling?

It’s not enough. Her voice was hopeless. Not even close to enough. The crop was too scanty last autumn. If we are to eat until the spring wheat ripens, we must have more.

He swallowed. I thought as much. A ghost of a smile crossed his lips, though inside, his belly roiled with fear. Einar Blood-Axe is putting a crew together for a raid. Gudbrand told me that if I wanted to join his crew, he’d put in a good word for me. He sailed with Einar last spring, and came away with a pile of silver.

And he left his right eye across the northern sea, due to an Englishman’s dagger, and now he is one arrow away from being blind, his mother replied tartly. To say nothing of being so scarred by his wound that no woman will look at him. No, Harald. There are other ways. She stared at her hands, her knuckles knotted from unceasing labor. Ulf has made an offer for my hand, she said quietly. He will care for me and your sisters.

No!

At his angry bellow, there was a sound of protest from the side of the drafty old longhouse where his sisters slept. He held still until his sister Ingrid fell back to sleep.

No, Mother. He kept his voice low, but he could not hold back his fury. I will not allow you to marry Ulf Half-Staff. The man is a pig. No, worse. A pig does not prey on the weak. He is a worm, living on carrion. Do you think I do not know that he is responsible for Father’s death? That I don’t know why his first two wives died? Wed him, and the skein of your fate will be woven. He will kill you in a drunken rage. He has done it before. He will do it again.

His mother’s eyes pooled with tears. But going for a Viking, my son? My father died across the northern ocean, fighting for riches that disappeared like smoke. As did my brothers Hakon and Canute. Which is why we have no man to protect us.

His back stiffened. I am a man, Mother. Father taught me how to wield a sword.

Would that he had been a better man with a plow, instead. Or not so in love with his own sense of honor that he got caught up in a blood-feud. Then we wouldn’t be discussing such foolishness.

Stung at the implied insult to the man who had sired him, his head came up angrily. She waved him down, too tired to argue.

We have four choices, Mother, he said quietly, willing her to face the cold, brutal facts of the situation. We can sit here and starve while we wait for the crops to ripen. Yes, he said, nodding as she began to protest. "We might catch enough game in the forest to survive. But do you want to take that chance?

Or you can marry Ulf. He looked at her hard, until she shuddered, lowering her head. "Will you bring Ingrid into his home? Eydis? Sigrun? She has fourteen years now. Do you think he will keep his foul paws off her?

"Or we can sell ourselves into slavery. At least then we’ll eat. But that is merely trading a quick death for a slow one.

Or we can trust to luck and to the gods.

And where is Einar the Bloody going this spring? Her voice was low and unutterably bitter. The English proved too tough a nut for him to crack last year. He might have come back with gold and plunder, but one man in four who sailed with him did not return.

There is an isle to the west. Gudbrand told me of it. A green land, peaceful and fat, with rich black earth and good, clean water. Einar means to sail there, a sennight from now.

Seven days? Her head jerked up. Red light from the dying embers of the fire cast ruddy gleams across her golden hair, now streaked with silver, but also made shadowed hollows in her cheeks. So soon?

It’s best this way. We sail, we raid, we come home, and we still have time to bring in the harvest. He reached across the table, gripping her hands in his own. I won’t abandon you, Mother. I will come back. I swear it. I will come back with enough silver to dress you and the girls in silks, and to put money aside for their dowries. They will have good husbands, and not break their backs trying to squeeze a living from this gods-bedamned rock garden we call a farm.

His mother laughed weakly, though her eyes shone with tears. "Enough to keep us fed through next winter will be enough for me, my son.

And come back alive. I want a live son, not a dead hero. And a grandchild or two, before too many more years have passed.

The next day dawned clear and bright, though a chill breeze swept down from the western mountains. Harald set his teeth against it and pulled his wolfskin cloak tighter around his shoulders as he walked the muddy streets of Ulvik. He gave Ulf’s longhouse a wide berth, not wanting to draw the rich man’s attention. The man was a spider, sitting in the middle of his web, using money, whispers, and deceit to lure unwary victims into his net.

Victims like his father.

One day, he swore. One day, Father, I will avenge you.

Ho! Harald!

Gudbrand. He nodded as the older man fell in beside him.

Well? What did your mother say?

He cocked his head, though he did not alter his stride. I do not hide behind my mother’s skirts, Gudbrand. I choose my own path.

Gudbrand laughed. That may be so, young Harald. But it would take a braver man than I am to cross Freydis Svensdottir. I knew her before you were a glint in your father’s eye, and if I had been a luckier man, she would have chosen me for a handfasting, rather than Karl.

Harald snorted. True. He took another dozen strides, then admitted, She does not like the idea. But she can see the need clear enough. I have her permission to go.

Good news! He found his arm taken in a firm grip. Let’s go down to the waterfront. Einar will be there, if I am any judge. By Thor’s Hammer, the man dotes on that ship like a boy with his first love.

As they walked down the hill towards the wind-whipped harbor, Harald looked at his father’s old friend. Gudbrand was still doughty, his shoulders broad and his arms corded with muscle. But there were flecks of gray in his hair that hadn’t been there three years ago. The socket of his missing eye gaped unpleasantly, like an empty cave.

He shuddered. He wasn’t afraid of battle. To tell the truth, part of him looked forward to it. The chance to pit his skill against other men, to emerge victorious.

But he didn’t want to end up maimed either. He had seen some of the pitiable wrecks who scratched out a fragile existence on the edges of the village, begging for charity from the more fortunate. Few of them lived for more than the passing of a winter or two. The brutal weather of the north and the always-hungry wolves who prowled the snowy fields on cold, starlit nights soon put an end to them.

What should I say to him? he asked at last.

"A flapping tongue is a foolish tongue, young Harald. Speak when spoken to, tell the truth, and don’t try to impress him. Einar has