My Lord Viking

  My Lord Viking

  ***

  Jo Ann Ferguson

  E-Book ISBN: 978-1-61026-022-0

  For Debra Dixon

  vice president extraordinaire and good friend

  Enjoy your “retirement!”

  Other Forever Regency Books

  Writing as Jo Ann Ferguson

  Gentleman’s Master

  Marry Me, Millie

  Under Her Spell

  Writing as Jocelyn Kelley

  Sea Wraith

  Other ImaJinn Books

  Writing as J. A. Ferguson

  The Dream Chronicles:

  Dreamsinger

  Dreamshaper

  DreamMaster

  Dream Traveler

  Other Titles

  Call Back Yesterday

  Daughter of the Fox

  Luck of the Irish

  Sworn Upon Fire

  The Wrong Christmas Carol

  Prologue

  So this was death.

  He had not thought it would be like this. Where was the Valkyrja to carry him to Valhalla so he might spend the rest of eternity among brave warriors, trading tales of spectacular deeds and of enemies slain in vengeance and for glory?

  He was so alone.

  That was worse than the pain. The pain would soon be gone when his last breath sifted from his body. But would he spend all of eternity alone?

  He had fought valiantly. He should have earned a warrior’s death. Those enemies who had fallen around him would never again raise their swords against his chieftain.

  Salt flavored the gulps of air he tried to pull into his broken body. Where was death? A seat at the table in Valhalla should be his reward, but how could he aspire to that when his blood-oath remained unfilled?

  “Freya!” he called with what strength he had left. His voice was as raw as the wounds sending his blood to mix with his enemies’ and the sand. “Freya, send your handmaiden to me! Help me complete my quest for my chieftain. Bring me strength to complete my quest, or bring me death.”

  There was no answer but the sound of the waves on the shore and the sea birds.

  He was alone. His prayer had not been heard. Now he would die, his vow incomplete. Maybe that was why he had been denied Valhalla.

  “No!” he cried into the merciless sunshine that seared his skin.

  There was no answer.

  He was alone...with death.

  One

  Sunlight teased the waves, glittering them with jewels before they dashed themselves into oblivion on the sand. Above the water, gulls spun the clouds together like a spinster at her wheel. The last signs of winter had been banished, for gorse flowered on the low hill rising from the shore.

  Linnea Sutherland pushed back her straw bonnet to let it hang by its pink ribbons over her shoulders. Mama would be dismayed to see her youngest child letting the sun paint color on her face, but Linnea did not care. Not today. Loosening her hair, she let it fall in waves along her shoulders. The dark strands blew into her face, but she simply shoved them aside. She wanted to be as free as each droplet within the sea, free to wander from one shore to another to discover what might be waiting there. As free as her cocker spaniel puppy Scamp, who was barking at each wave and snapping at the water.

  She raised her hands to embrace the fresh air and the sunshine. Mayhap they would wash away the consternation inside her that even Scamp’s antics could not dispel. She should be happy. How many times had she told herself that in the past week since Randolph had asked her to marry him? Randolph Denner had asked her nicely, and no one in the shire would be astonished that Lord Sutherland’s youngest was making a match with Randolph Denner who had recently inherited the title of Lord Tuthill along with his father’s holdings farther inland. She should be happy, so filled with joy that she could not walk to the beach. She should be dancing about like her sister Dinah had when she had become betrothed.

  But she was not. She did not understand why not. She had known Randolph for a long time, and she had imagined many times getting married in one of the gardens with a view of the sea. She should be happy.

  “Blast and perdition!” she called to the sea. Then she laughed. Mama would be even more distressed by Linnea using such language than by leaving off her bonnet. Yet the truth was simply that Linnea could not understand why she had not given Randolph an enthusiastic yes when he proposed, or why she was not as elated as she had dreamed she would be.

  Pulling off her slippers and stockings, she curled her toes in the warm sand. The sea would be deadly cold at this time of year, but the sun had heated the strand, luring her from the heavy walls of Sutherland Park to this quiet cove. With the preparations for Dinah’s wedding in two weeks, all the talk was of betrothals and wedding guests. That was too unsettling when she was so torn.

  She balanced her slippers in her hands as she looked across the sea. There were so many places she had read about, so many things she had dreamed of. If she married Randolph, she would see no more than his fusty house and London. The one time she had broached the subject of going to Italy for their honeymoon, he had acted as shocked as if she had suggested they live together without the benefit of the clergy’s blessing. Was that what was bothering her? No, for this uneasiness had begun before they had discussed that.

  “I wish I knew what was wrong,” she said to Scamp as he ran about her feet, threatening to trip her. She smiled as he raced back to the soft rush of the waves. “Everything is going just as I had expected, so mayhap it is time to do something unexpected.”

  She arched a single brow at her own thought. Papa and Mama would not force her to wed Randolph. She could not imagine Papa forcing anyone to do anything, even though he was a capable businessman who, rumor suggested, could wring every shilling out of a deal. Papa had told Mama over and over that he had worked so hard to bring wealth back to the family for the benefit of Mama and the children. He wanted each of his six sons and six daughters to be happy. And he had succeeded...until now when Linnea could not sort out in her mind what she wanted. Even a few days ago, she would have laughed if anyone had spoken of how she would feel once plans for her own wedding were about to get underway as soon as Dinah’s was over.

  What was wrong with her? It must be her, for there was nothing amiss with Randolph. He was the fourth viscount in his line. He was well-favored, if one ignored his chin that jutted out and his ears that turned red each time someone spoke to him. Tall, he carried no spare flesh. He could ride well and oversaw his father’s lands with a cautious wisdom that bordered on parsimony. That was to be respected when his father had left him little coin. Never had she heard of him drinking more or gambling more than a gentleman ought. He was the perfect husband for his nearest neighbor’s youngest daughter.

  Linnea sighed as she continued along the sand. She should be grateful that Randolph had approached her father to ask for her hand. Papa had said yes, if she agreed. While growing up, she had longed for this chance to have a man propose to her as sweetly as her other sisters had been proposed to. Then when Randolph had, she had surprised herself as much as anyone when she had asked for time to think it over.

  She smiled. Randolph had thought her overmastered by his proposal, and she had let him hold onto his misconception. It was simpler than the truth, although she must own to the truth soon. How could she tell him that she seemed to like the idea of marriage more than the idea of marriage to him? It would hurt him, when he had done nothing but try to make her silly dream of being in love come true.

  “Egad! How do you expect him to understand what you want when you do not know yourself?” She chuckled at her own outspokenness, even though no one was near enough to heed her, save for Scamp and the birds turning overhead.

  A frown lowered
her brows as she shaded her eyes with her hand. The birds were acting most peculiarly. They were circling, as if a storm had scoured the sea bottom and the waves were tossing a feast onto the shore. Her nose wrinkled. Dying fish and drying seaweed always created such a noxious scent.

  She almost turned to walk in the other direction, but her curiosity refused to let her resist the temptation of discovering what had the birds so excited. Once she and her brother Alfred had chanced upon a case of smuggled French brandy on the beach. Papa had been furious with them for bringing a single bottle to the house, and he had ordered such froggish drink destroyed. Who could guess what she might find today? Mayhap it would something to help her deal with her dilemma.

  Laughing at her silly thought, she called to Scamp to follow, but did not need to worry, for he was eager to chase every wave. The puppy’s fur, which was usually the shade of honey, had become the dreary color of wet sand. Barking, he sped toward her.

  With her hand on the boulders to keep herself from slipping into the water, she eased around the edge of the cove. She winced when she scratched her toe. Blood dripped from the torn skin, but she paid it no mind save to dip her toe in the icy water. The salt would help heal the small cut.

  Linnea flinched again as she stepped on a sharp shell, but did not slow. This was as close to an adventure as she might find today, so she wanted to enjoy it. She did not doubt that Randolph would not look kindly upon his future wife cavorting upon the shore with her bonnet, shoes, and stockings off. He would surely—

  She froze and stared at a body lying on the beach. The man did not move. Was he asleep? She did not want to disturb anyone who might wish to be alone. The puppy ran, barking, up to the man, but he did not move. Not even when Scamp licked his face.

  “Oh, my dear heavens!” she whispered as she saw blood on the sand. ‘Twas much more blood than from her scraped toe.

  She must get help! She must do something. She must...

  Taking a deep breath, she warned herself to be calm. She could do nothing to help this man—if, indeed, he was in need of help—while acting like a want-witted chucklehead.

  “Sir?” Her voice cracked on the single word. She inched forward and tried again. “Sir, do you need assistance?”

  A groan answered her.

  Linnea rushed to his side. She pressed her hand over the ribbons laced through her bodice as she stared down at him. What sort of man was this?

  Blood was caked on his forehead, in his tawny hair, and through his beard which was a shade darker. By his left side, his arm lay at an angle that was impossible unless it was broken. His clothes were unlike anything she had ever seen. He wore a woolen shirt that was longer than Papa’s nightshirt. Embroidery in colors that once might have been as bright as the flowers in Sutherland Park’s water garden accented the neckline and ran down its front. Around his neck was a gold chain. On it, an odd triangular ornament hung. A belt, holding a pouch and an empty scabbard, at his waist was made of the same cracking leather as the bands lashing his stockings below his knees. He wore only one shoe, and his other foot was covered with dried blood.

  “Sir?” she whispered. She pushed Scamp’s curious nose aside. Until she was sure where the blood was coming from, she did not want the puppy causing the man more injury. “Sir, can you hear me?”

  Only the waves sliding up onto the sand answered her.

  Squatting next to him, she put out her hand to shake him gently, then drew it back. There was so much blood! She should get help. The cry of a gull halted her from jumping to her feet. She could not leave this man here, unprotected from the sun and wounded. If only he could speak...

  She dipped her stocking in a wave and dabbed it against his forehead. He muttered something she could not understand. She hoped his wits had not been rattled from his skull in the blow that had raised a lump.

  Carefully she washed the crimson line from his forehead. She frowned when she saw the wound that was surrounded by a lump nearly the size of one of Scamp’s paws. The bruise was still red. The man had been struck not long ago. Her hand clenched the ruined stocking. Mayhap the man who had landed him this facer was still close by.

  Her heart thudded against her breast as she glanced both ways along the beach. It was empty, but...

  A glint on the sand caught her eye. She nearly cried out her relief when she saw a knife lying beside the man’s left hand. A weapon! A scoundrel would think twice before attacking her if he saw this knife. Horrified, she realized that this broad-shouldered man who was lying on the sand may have wielded it first against the one who had laid him so low.

  Stretching across the unconscious man, she realized those shoulders and his chest were even wider than she had guessed. She balanced herself carefully as she reached for the knife. To tumble atop him might be dangerous for him and would be unquestionably embarrassing for her. She smiled when she grasped the blade’s engraved haft. Holding her breath, she lifted it from the sand and sat back on her heels.

  Linnea squinted to look at the pattern on the knife’s pommel, for the sun shimmered off the metal. It was engraved with a series of circles and figures. Mayhap human figures, and she bent to determine what they might be.

  Fingers closed around her wrist. She gasped and tried to pull away. Her arm was jerked toward the ground. She stared in disbelief into eyes as purple as the first glow of dawn. The man was awake!

  “How are you faring?” She winced as his grip on her wrist tightened. “That hurts! Please let me go.”

  “Feila?” Bafflement threaded his brow, and a flash of pain swept his face. His incredible eyes did not release her, nor did his strong fingers.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered. She tried to tug her arm away. “Let me go!”

  Linnea gasped as he slowly forced the point of the dagger up toward her chin. She released the knife. The blade struck the sand between them. He shoved her back and reached for the knife. She moaned as her bottom landed hard on the sand.

  Scamp rushed, barking, to her side. She pushed the excited puppy off her lap. Rising to her knees, she cried out in horror as the man gripped the ribbons holding her bonnet around her neck.

  “Release me!” she cried.

  He pulled her toward him, the sharp edge of her bonnet cutting into her nape. A smile spread through his shaggy beard, and his eyes narrowed to amethyst slits. He said something, but she could not understand a single word.

  Fury strengthened her. She tugged at the ribbons, and the bow untied. Again she rocked back onto the sand. Jumping to her feet, she ran toward the other cove. Over her shoulder, she called, “Scamp, come!”

  The puppy yelped.

  Linnea looked back. The man was leaning on his right elbow and held Scamp by the scruff. The puppy was wiggling in a futile attempt to flee. Knowing she should go for assistance, but fearing the man would hurt her puppy, she faltered. She could see his smile glimmering even from where she stood as she took a single step, then another back toward him.

  “Let Scamp go. Please,” she whispered when she stood beside the man again. She pointed to the puppy. “Scamp. Let him go.”

  “Scamp?”

  She flinched as he repeated the name back to her. The odd accent his deep voice put on the single word was one she could not place. But what did she know of the ways of low folk who would threaten a woman wanting only to help? “Yes, that is Scamp. My dog.”

  “Rakki,” he said as he held the pup off the ground.

  “Rakki? Dog?” She nodded. “Yes, that is my dog. Please do not hurt Scamp.”

  Satisfaction widened his smile. He released the dog, which darted beyond his reach. “Britannia?”

  “Are you asking if this is England?” She never had met such a peculiar man. Even though the wound was still oozing on his forehead and his left arm had not moved, he acted as if nothing were amiss. “Who are you?”

  Nils Bjornsson continued to smile at the lovely woman. That was one question he did not intend to answer until he discovered what was h
appening here. He could understand this woman, even though he had never heard any of the gutless Anglo-Saxons use some of the words she did.

  Pain scored his skull as he shifted and tried to sit. His left arm hung at his side, useless. It was his misfortune that he preferred to hold his knife in that hand when he drove it into an enemy. His left ankle burned as if it were a torch. If his ribs were not broken, the agony of every breath made them seem so. Blood trickled along his side, and he knew his foe had gotten in one successful strike before Nils saw him dead. Then he had been hit again by his blood-enemy. Where was Kortsson now?

  Fighting to clear his blurred eyesight, he looked up at the woman who was edging away. He grasped the sax, and she halted, an expression of fear on her face as she stared at the blade. Good! She was not as witless as others he had met during his previous journeys to this island.

  Nor was she without other attributes that appealed to him. Although she wore her ebony hair shamelessly uncovered about her shoulders and a white gown that was as gossamer as a fair weather cloud, her face was finely boned. Eyes as dark as her hair did not lower before his steady gaze. She possessed a brave spirit he had not seen here. Yet it was not her spirit that drew his eyes to the intriguing curves which were revealed so delightfully by her damp dress.

  His eyes narrowed as something glistened just above her breasts. He could see well enough to determine the necklace she wore around her neck was of fine gold and gems. He doubted if such a young, wealthy woman would wander far from her home. There might be a treasure waiting there for the daring man who sought it.

  But that man could not be Nils Bjornsson. He had his duty, the sworn oath that had brought him to this desolate place. He could not forsake it to fill his pouch with gold.