Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set Read Free Page A

succumbed as well, and even though they’d never said so, he was sure his brothers regretted going on that last long raid with him.
    “Shh, Kimmie, it’s all right now,” the woman murmured in Pictish. It was a language Brandr had learned as a boy from the slaves his father had brought home.
    “You hurt me,” the little girl sobbed.
    “I didn’t mean to hurt you, wee one,” the woman replied. “But I’m very proud of you for running home. You did just the right thing. You were very brave. And you ran very fast.”
    The pain in Brandr’s chest deepened. The woman might speak a different language, but her motherly voice reminded him of his precious Inga.
    The little girl came closer, her voice hitching with spent tears. “Will my…my da…live with us now?”
    “He’s not your da.”
    “He is.”
    “Nay.”
    “Aye.”
    “Nay, he’s not,” the mother replied testily as she began cutting the bonds around his ankles. “Why do you keep saying that?”
    “He is my da. He is ,” the little girl insisted, starting to cry again.
    “Kimmie, I’ve told you a hundred times. Your da is dead.”
    “That’s what you said about him .” Brandr imagined the little girl was sticking out a pouty lip the way Asta always did when she knew she was right.
    The woman, unable to come up with a suitable reply, changed the subject. “Look in the chest beside the bed and see if you can find Finn‘s leash.”
    Leash. Leash? That didn’t bode well. What was she up to?
    He didn’t find out until it was too late. As she started sawing at the kelp bonds around his wrists, she wrenched his broken arm, and the pain was so severe that he blacked out.
     

     
    When Brandr awoke again, he was bound in a leather collar and leashed tightly by his neck through an iron ring attached to the wall. His sealskin cloak was missing, leaving him sitting in his tunic, trousers, and boots. His bound legs stretched nearly to the hearth, his arms were secured to his sides by a rope around his midsection, and his wrists were tied before him.
    Fury surged through his veins. By Thor! He’d come here to conquer, not to be conquered. How could he have wound up a prisoner—the prisoner of a woman?
    While his rage simmered, he perused the room through narrowed eyelids. His cloak had been hung on a peg near the fire. And his captors supped at a table across the chamber, unaware that he’d roused.
    He could see why the little girl thought he was her father. They shared the same blond hair. The girl was younger than his daughter, but in her dust-colored kirtle and bare feet, she reminded him of Asta.
    Though he hated to admit it, the mother was breathtaking. Her hair, an intoxicating color of golden mead and ruby wine combined, hung in thick waves down her back, and her skin was as golden and radiant as flame. Her face was artfully sculpted, with generous lips and finely arched brows, and her snugly-laced, faded blue kirtle revealed pleasing womanly curves.
    But this was the same lovely temptress who’d clubbed him, dragged him home, and tied him up like a dog. He wasn’t about to be fooled by her pretty face.
    He studied the stone cottage, which was well-kept and welcoming. Its curious furnishings appeared to be made mostly of scavenge from the sea. Odd pieces of driftwood were fitted together to form stools, and candles were set in holders made of mussel shells. A bit of fishing net tacked onto one wall held hair combs carved out of abalone, and on a shelf fashioned out of an oar sat an assortment of clamshell bowls and dishes. A fishing pole and a net were propped against the hearth. But it was what was leaned against the corner that interested him most.
    It was a nobleman’s sword, a magnificent blade. Its pommel was set with gems, the grip was wrapped in seasoned leather, and the guard was carved with designs that intersected, weaving complex knots. The sword looked well cared for. The steel was highly polished, the edge keen. He wondered where