Malice Striker
Authors: Jianne Carlo
Tags: #Romance, #historical romance, #Erotic Romance
Contents
Acclaim for Jianne Carlo’s
Viking Warriors
~ Look for these titles from Jianne Carlo ~
More Historical Romance from Etopia Press
Acclaim for Jianne Carlo’s
Viking Warriors
The Bear and the Bride
“…fantastic…great physical and sexual chemistry and great dialogue.” 4.5 Lips.
—Rose, Two Lips Reviews
The Dragon Slayer
“Oh my good Lord above! Did I adore this book? Yes, I did.”
One of the Best—A #1 Top Pick.
—Miz Love, Miz Love and Crew Love Books
The Peacemaker
“…another outstanding job by Jianne Carlo… If you appreciate a historical romance that transports you into the pages, then this is a story you must pick up today.”
4.5 Nymphs
—Amethyst Nymph, Literary Nymphs Reviews
The Destroyer
“I loved every bit of it.”
—LT Blue, Just Erotic Romance Reviews
~ Look for these titles from Jianne Carlo ~
Now Available
The Viking Warriors
Book One: The Bear and the Bride
Book Two: The Dragon Slayer
Book Three: The Peacemaker
Book Four: The Destroyer
Book Five: The Seducer
Now in Print
The Viking Warriors Collection
Coming Soon
The
Viking Vengeance
Series
Death Blow
Vengeance Hammer
Malice Striker
Viking Vengeance Book One
Jianne Carlo
Copyright Warning
EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (
http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/
).
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published By
Etopia Press
1643 Warwick Ave., #124
Warwick, RI 02889
Malice Striker
Copyright © 2012 by Jianne Carlo
ISBN: 978-1-937976-73-6
Edited by Rachel Firasek
Cover by Eithne Ni Anluaine
All Rights Are 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.
First Etopia Press electronic publication: October 2012
Chapter One
Brökk studied the assembled line of five females. “Which of you is the daughter of Kenneth, King of Scots?”
The women’s garments did naught to differentiate ’tween noble and servant, for they all wore the same shapeless, muddy habit. Each bore the wimple headdress, which made every woman’s face as dull as the gray skies and pissing rain that ran one day into another in the land of the Scots.
Brökk studied the silent women. He knew naught of the princess—how many summers she had seen, if her hair was shorn in the nun’s way, if she was small or large.
One woman, older and stouter than her companions, scowled in his direction. “I am the king’s daughter.”
He glanced at her hands. Calloused fingertips, chipped nails, and the scrapes on one knuckle bespoke menial labor. Fine lines creased the corners of her eyes, and her cheeks had the ruddy stain of one exposed to wind and sun. The woman was a servant and definitely
not
the get of King Cináed mac Maíl Coluim, nee King Kenneth of Scotland.
He fixed his stare on the four other females.
Storms had raged during the journey from Sumbarten Abbey to his holding, and neither he nor Konáll had been able to spare the time to question the women they’d taken from the holy place.
“Bring the priest.” Brökk addressed the order to his captain, Raki, who inclined his head and vanished through the open doorway.
Brökk pushed back his hand-carved chair, rose to his full height, slid his dagger from the leather sheath attached to his belt, and bounded off the dais. He landed not an arm’s distance from the older woman.
Four of the five females hastily stepped back. The fifth, the smallest of the group, shuffled into place beside the rest moments later. Brökk took one long stride, hooked the older woman’s neck with his elbow, and laid the tip of his blade to the pulse beating in the hollow of her thick throat.
“I ask the four of you for the last time. Which one of you is the daughter of King Cináed mac Maíl Coluim? Think you carefully on your answer, for I will punish mistruth by slitting your servant’s throat.” The woman smelled of lard, apples, and sour sweat. All the color drained from her plump cheeks.
The tallest female stepped forward, fingers twined, knuckles pale, the skin over them stretched taut. “I am Lady Skatha, daughter of Kenneth of Scotland.”
A muffled squeak drew his attention. The two other women each held a hand of the smallest female, the one who had not reacted immediately when he jumped from the dais.
“Cease.” The petite female shook off the other women’s grasp. “That is the Lady Gráinne, Abbess of Sumbarten Abbey. Forgive her deceit. She seeks only to protect me. I am Lady Skatha.” She lifted her chin, but averted her gaze. “The one you threaten is my nurse, Dagrún. She is but a simple woman whose birth is of no import. Pray, set your dagger to my throat, not hers.”
Brökk blinked. He had not expected such courage and plain speaking from one so small and timid in appearance.
She bowed her head and the hideous wimple fell forward, concealing her features. Clasping her hands loosely at her waist, she asked in a low, soft voice, “What want you of me, my lord?”
A smirk chased his lips, but he flattened them and pulled his brows together, giving her his berserker scowl. He chose words designed to discomfit her composure. “Why lady, you are to be my bride.”
She gasped and her jaw sagged for a moment, but with a toss of her wimple, she titled her head and said, “I am to belong to the church, my lord.”
He glimpsed her profile for a mere breath. She had not the lush beauty of his first wife, Etta, but none could label her unattractive.
“Nay. King Harald has ordered us wed. In the Christian way. I give you a choice, lady. Say the marriage vows, or watch your nurse and your companions die.”
She did not flinch as he expected. Nay, her nostrils flared, and rosy color stained the slash of chin not covered by her drab habit.
A commotion at the entrance to the longhouse drew Brökk’s gaze.
Raki shoved the priest through the doorway.
The corpulent monk tripped over his long, brown robe and bumped into the stone wall. Raki prodded him with the blade of his sword. “To the jarl, priest.”
“Lady, I will have your answer now.”
The nurse, Dagrún, trembled ’neath his grasp. She opened her mouth and Brökk placed his dagger’s blade to the nurse’s lip.
Herfiligr
Bita
, Bitter Bite, known far and wide among the Jomsviking for the knife's ability to pierce the toughest hide as if ’twere the creamiest butter, shifted when the woman’s mouth quivered. Her lashes fluttered like a swallow’s wings. She swallowed, slid a sidelong glance at him, and nigh collapsed. Brökk smothered a curse and clamped an arm around her waist. “Do not act the fool. Lady Skatha will suffer for it.”
Her beady eyes widened, but she straightened and nodded.
Lady Skatha took one step forward. “First, I will have your word that no harm will come to Lady Gráinne, Muíríne, Elspeth, or Dagrún.”
Brökk was hard pressed not to react when the sun’s rays illuminated her face to reveal a square chin, ruby-red lips, a straight nose, skin the hue of rich cream, and twin splashes of color riding her high cheekbones. “You have my word, lady.”
Her features were set in lines of a fine temper—arresting violet eyes narrowed, dark brows pinched, mouth pursed. Mayhap she was indeed the daughter of the
jötunn
goddess,
Skaði
, for she showed nary a trace of fear. Though how a giantess could spawn such a sprite he knew not.
“You will free them once I have said the vows?”
“Nay, lady. ’Tis too late for the return journey to the Highlands. Your companions will spend the
Winter-fylleþ
at
Bita Veðr
and I will escort them back to Sumbarten Abbey in the spring. I give you my word on this. King Harald’s man, Olaf Longface, will also swear on it.”
She shuttered her remarkable violet eyes as her chest rose and fell in quick heaves. No whisper, no low mutter cracked the silent hall. The tension was palpable.
“I will wed you and trust in the Lord you will keep your word. Where or what is Bita Veðr?” Her voice had a musical quality akin to the low notes of a harp. “I understand not your explanation.”
So the Lady Skatha understood no Norse.
He had deliberately spoken to her in Gaelic and used the term the Christians used to describe the season of ice and snow. Then he had switched to Norse.
“Biting Wind. ’Tis the Norse name of this holding.” Brökk’s lips twitched when her eyes widened and the purple irises deepened into a startling shade akin to the deep dusk of a poppy flower. “Wed us, priest.”
Raki prodded the holy man forward. He tottered to a halt in front of Brökk and Lady Skatha. “M-my lord. The church decrees I speak with the lady in private—”
“’Tis not necessary,” she said. “I say the vows freely—”