Longing For Her Forbidden Viking. Harper George St.
Ellan was not a good Saxon. The unfortunate insight was one she had learned to accept long ago. Good Saxons—loyal Saxons—despised the men from the North. They hated the invaders with a fierce passion that left room for nothing else, not kindness, nor compassion, and especially not happiness. That particular emotion was one that she hadn’t experienced for many years. Not since before her mother had left them. But here in Alvey, surrounded by the enemy Danes, she would occasionally get glimpses of the elusive sentiment. There were moments like this very night that would fill her with a feeling of such well-being that she couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong with her to find such delight while surrounded by these barbarians.
It must mean that she didn’t hate the Danes at all. Her father would disown her if he knew.
Candlelight painted Alvey’s spacious hall with a warm, golden tone. Flickering ribbons of light caressed the high walls of the space, creating shadows in corners, but warming the tables where groups of warriors—most of them Danes—had gathered to toast their friends who had returned home from a long summer away fighting to the south. More of the men filtered inside to seek sanctuary from the cold night as the mead flowed, their deep voices rising in greeting as they approached friends. A tickle of frigid air sneaked inside each time the door opened, only to be quickly warmed by the heat from the rolling fire and the press of bodies.
Ellan should be afraid of these newcomers. To a man they were the hated Norse and they were returning from battles and pillages against honest, hard-working Saxons. Their Jarl had invaded Alvey nearly two years ago without bloodshed under the guise of marriage to the fortress’s Saxon lady. Since then more of them had come every season until they outnumbered the Saxons. With this last group to arrive before winter set in, Alvey was filled to bursting with them.
A quick look at her sister at her side confirmed that Elswyth—a good Saxon—cast furtive glances at each burst of noise as if expecting one of the men to grab them, her fingers clenching the pitcher of mead she held in a white-knuckled grip.
‘’Tis fine,’ Ellan couldn’t help but whisper to her. ‘They’re too excited to be home to cause trouble tonight.’
Elswyth nodded, but the tension in her shoulders failed to ease.
Lady Gwendolyn had invited Ellan and Elswyth to Alvey at the end of summer to serve her. For the past several months, the fortress had become Ellan’s sanctuary. She liked the excitement in the air. The fortress itself was being enlarged. An upper floor had recently been completed with a whole new wing to be added starting in the spring. A barracks had been built for some of the warriors, with a new one in the plans. Things were happening here, unlike dreary Banford, where everything stayed the same.
She adored how the sounds of merriment invigorated all of Alvey. Thanks to Lady Gwendolyn’s marriage to Lord Vidar, the Dane Jarl, peace had come to their small corner of Northumbria. Saxon men and Dane men sat side by side at the tables, laughing and jesting. Friendships and alliances were being formed.
Father would never believe that such a union could be possible. He wouldn’t want to believe. Ever since she could remember he’d despised the invaders; the fact that Mother had run off with one years ago only added to the marinade of bitterness that he stewed himself in daily. Leaving that fog of hatred and despair behind had opened her eyes to an entire new world filled with good things. She was even coming to think of this strange place where Saxons and Danes co-existed as home.
Home. The thought settled down low in her chest, its warmth finding places that had been barren with cold for years. Banford hadn’t felt like home since Mother had left. The idea of returning there filled her with dread.
‘Have you found a man who suits you yet?’ Elswyth teased, dragging her gaze from a group of men who had wandered in from outside.
Ellan grinned. Earlier in the evening she had made the offhand comment that the warriors were a handsome lot. The declaration had been said in jest to rile her ever-serious sister. ‘Nay, not yet.’
Of its own accord, Ellan’s gaze found its way to the table where Lady Gwendolyn sat with her husband, Lord Vidar, and a few of their best warriors. One of the newcomers, a warrior she had heard someone call Aevir, sat with them. His large hands were cupped around a tankard of mead and he leaned back with a long leg stretched out before him, his storm-cloud eyes partially hooded. His lazy-cat repose suggested insolence, but one would be a fool to disregard his astute gaze and the strength that lurked beneath the surface. A leather tunic stretched across wide, strong-looking shoulders. He was a wild, summer storm hidden in the promise of a few grey clouds.
If she had been looking for a man to favour, she had never set eyes on a finer candidate. Nay. Everyone knew that husbands should be dependable and staid. That wildness he carried about him promised everything but that. He was more suited to illicit encounters and things she would be better off not contemplating.
Allowing her gaze one final moment to linger over him, she traced the strong angle of his jaw and the fine shape of his lips, moving upwards to catch one final glimpse of his eyes. Her heart stuttered when she realised that they stared back at her. His cool blue eyes seemed to be assessing her in the same way she was looking him over. If he was pleased with what he saw, she couldn’t tell, but she couldn’t help but like the way he paused on her face. She tried to hold his gaze, but she couldn’t. It was too intense, too probing, as if her every thought was his to draw out and examine as he pleased.
Turning towards Elswyth, she pretended to adjust something on her sister’s sleeve. When she glanced back to the warrior, he was still watching her, this time with the hint of a smile hovering around his lips. Her stomach gave an excited flip.
‘Oh, heavens,’ Elswyth muttered. ‘I suppose you’ve narrowed it down now. Which one of them is it?’ She made to look over Ellan’s shoulder towards the full table.
‘Don’t look!’ Ellan laughed, giving him her back once again. ‘Hand me the pitcher and I’ll take it over.’
Elswyth shook her head in amusement and gladly handed over the mead. Ellan tried to keep herself steady, but by the time she’d refilled the drink of everyone at the lord and lady’s table, she’d spilled a fair amount of it due to