The Viking's Forbidden Love-Slave
“You're terrified I'll force myself upon you. And worse, that you'll enjoy it. ” Aisling Ó Brannon should hate the Vikings who raided her village. . . especially after she’s captured as a gift for King Magnus by warrior Tharand Hardrata. But while her head says one thing, her body says quite another. Her attraction to the fierce and forbidding warrior cannot be ignored. . . even though she’s intended for another man’s bed.Tharand has vowed not to conquer Aisling, saving her for the king instead. But the beautiful Irish noblewoman awakes a powerful desire in him. He can’t stop himself from arousing her, bringing her to the peak of pleasure while trying to honor his promise.As they near Magnus’s domain, Tharand’s restraint is tested beyond endurance. Soon he must choose: please his king. . . or keep his captive love-slave for himself.
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Author Note
Vikings have always been notorious for being fierce warriors, sexy men who fight for what they want. The idea of being stolen away by a handsome Viking was the inspiration in this story, but what if the warrior has a sense of honour? Irish heroine Aisling à Brannon tries to win her freedom, but never expects to find love. This story is linked to the novel Her Warrior Slave, coming soon from Mills & Boon Historical, which tells the tale of Aisling's brother, Kieran. I hope you enjoy this fantasy.
I always love to hear from readers. Visit my website at: www.michellewillingham.com or e-mail me at [email protected].
Michelle Willingham grew up living in places all over the world including Germany, England, and Thailand. When her parents hauled her to antique shows in manor houses and castles, Michelle entertained herself by making up stories and pondering whether she could afford a broadsword with her allowance.
She graduated summa cum laude from the University of Notre Dame with a degree in English and received her master's degree in education from George Mason University. Currently, she teaches American History and English and is working on more medieval books set in Ireland. She lives in southeastern Virginia, USA, with her husband and children. She still doesn't have her broadsword. Visit her website at: www.michellewillingham. com or e-mail her at [email protected].
With thanks to Larissa Ione, a great friend, writer, and margarita buddy. I appreciate all the support!
Chapter One
Ireland, 1102
Darkness enveloped her, thick and suffocating. Her jaw ached, and her lips were cracked from thirst. Aisling à Brannon shifted her wrists, but they were bound tightly with ropes.
Rising panic swelled in her veins, along with the memory of the Norse raider who had stolen her away. She vaguely recalled a wooden longboat and hours spent at sea.
Where had he taken her? Andâ¦what would become of her? She struggled against her bonds, and realized she was lying upon a bed.
No. Not that.
The taste of fear rose up in her throat, quickly replaced by determination. She wasn't going to lie here like a helpless babe. With her fingertips, she struggled to loosen the ropes.
"You're awake." A male voice filled the interior, deep and resonant. Heavily accented by the Norse language, she sensed that his grasp of the Irish tongue was not a strong one. She blinked, trying to see him, and then realized her vision was blocked by a length of cloth.
The loss of her sight made the unknown all the more frightening. Aisling rolled her body to the side, straw crackling beneath the mattress. A hand reached beneath her shoulders and eased her to sit up.
She struggled to move away, but then he pressed a cup to her lips. The instinctive need to quench her thirst overcame all else. She tasted the sweetness of mead, and unable to help herself, she drank deeply.
"Where am I?" she demanded.
"Just outside Vedrarfjord."
She recognized the Lochlannach name for the lands so close to her own. Thank the Blessed Virgin. She remembered little about her kidnapping, and time had blurred.
She moved her face away from the cup, trying once again to see who was holding her captive. "Why am I blindfolded?"
"It wasn't meant to be one."
She felt him touch her head, and she winced at the tender pain upon her scalp. Her jaw felt swollen, as though someone had smashed a fist against her cheek. The Norseman unwrapped a length of cloth until at last, light speared her eyes. Aisling blinked, struggling to see her captor.
He was tall enough that she had to lean back to look at him. Dark golden hair fell upon broad shoulders, while a bronze torque gleamed around his neck. The thick corded muscles of his forearms had black runes deeply tattooed into his skin. Even with her hands bound, Aisling had the urge to cross herself against the sight of the mystical lines.
He wore a gray tunic that hung below his waist and dark trews, colorless clothes that might have been suited to a peasant, were they not so well made. The fine weave of the material suggested he had chosen these shades and paid good coin for them. Only a long cloak, dyed a rich shade of burgundy, revealed any color. A gold brooch shaped like a serpent fastened the garment to his shoulders.
This man was no commoner. She could see it in the way he held his head up, in the way he stared at her, as though she were his possession. Not by half. Not if she could help it.
The way he was watching her made her skin tighten. The air inside the room suddenly grew stifling, and she reminded herself of all the lessons her brothers had taught her about defense.
If he dared to touch her, he would regret it. As soon as she could get a weapon, she would be free of him.
Her hands curled into the rough covering over the mattress. Don't let him see your fear. "Who are you?"
"I am Tharand Hardrata." At his penetrating stare, she offered her own name in exchange.
