Conquests: an Anthology of Smoldering Viking Romance Read online

  Conquests:

  An Anthology of Smoldering Viking Romance

  Edited by Delilah Devlin

  Vikings. Fierce warriors who terrified all in their path as they raided and marauded, enslaved and murdered during Europe’s Dark Ages.

  But these rough men from a rugged land were also sailors, explorers, craftsmen, and highly sought after mercenaries.

  Conquests: An Anthology of Smoldering Viking Romance will transport you to the realm of fantasy where such fearsome and loyal men are relentless potent lovers. Whether the lady of the keep demands a few stolen hours of pleasure with a captured Viking warrior or the handsome Northman is the one seducing his captive, you will find plenty of lusty adventures in settings as far-flung as Ireland, Iceland, Norway, Byzantium, Moorish Spain and the New World.

  Let your fantasies run wild to a time when men wearing bearskin shirts and shining iron helms could capture a fierce maiden’s heart!

  The Captive Copyright © 2015 Lizzie Ashworth

  Ásgeirr and the Tree of Life Copyright © 2015 Mina Murray

  A Varangian Guest Copyright © 2015 Melissa Fuchs

  How to Train Your Skjaldmaer Copyright © 2015 Delilah Devlin

  The Viking’s Prize Copyright © 2015 Emma Jay

  There for the Taking Copyright © 2015 Nym Nix

  Sweet Silk Copyright © 2015 Megan Mitcham

  Little Warrior Copyright © 2015 Evey Brett

  Protecting Her Copyright © 2015 Regina Kammer

  Enslaved Copyright © 2015 Elle James

  The Oak and the Ale Copyright © 2015 Beatrix Ellroy

  New Words Copyright © 2015 Teresa Noelle Roberts

  The Needle and the Strap Copyright © 2015 Bibi Rizer

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  Cover Design by CoverYourDreams.net

  The stories in this book are works of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are of the authors’ imaginations and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by an information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the authors—except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper or on the web.

  This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

  Contents

  Title Page

  About the Anthology

  Copyright Page

  Foreword

  Introduction

  The Captive – Lizzie Ashworth

  Ásgeirr and the Tree of Life – Mina Murray

  A Varangian Guest – Melissa Fuchs

  How to Train Your Skjaldmaer – Delilah Devlin

  The Viking’s Prize – Emma Jay

  There for the Taking – Nym Nix

  Sweet Silk – Megan Mitcham

  Little Warrior – Evey Brett

  Protecting Her – Regina Kammer

  Enslaved – Elle James

  The Oak and the Ale – Beatrix Ellroy

  New Words – Teresa Noelle Roberts

  The Needle and the Strap – Bibi Rizer

  About The Authors

  About The Editor

  Foreword

  Few alpha heroes have fueled our imaginations like the seafaring Viking. The term Viking is thought to have come from the Scandinavian term Vikingr, which literally means, pirate. Those fearless explorers, who conquered and plundered the British Isles, northern France and parts of Russia, spent most of the year tending their farms when they weren’t pillaging monasteries or burning villages. After looting riches, and sometimes stealing brides for their farms in Norway, Denmark, and Sweden, Vikings earned their reputation for cleanliness and masculine beauty by soaking in hot springs and taking baths. What’s not to love about the powerful image of a handsome, blue-eyed, blond haired Norsemen rising naked from the water?

  The Vikings were far ahead of other Europeans of their time with regard to grooming, and used tools like tweezers, combs, and razors to tend to their good looks. Brunet males relied on strong lye soap to bleach their hair and beards to maintain their cultural ideal of attractiveness. One can only assume they groomed for their ladies, who were also more independent than other women of their time. A natural born Norsewoman could inherit property, petition for divorce, and regain her dowry in the instance of an unfortunate marriage. A strong and handsome Viking who could support his wife and family through plunder and farming, however, was a man worth keeping.

  The fierce and enigmatic Vikings have been the subject of legends, folklore, and myths since their first foreign raids in the eighth century, and remain popular figures in history and fiction. My standalone novella Her Immortal Viking is based on Norse mythology and Viking culture, the roots of which are still taught in Scandinavian schools to honor their heritage.

  The talented authors of the anthology Conquests: Viking Romance for Women will ignite your senses with their virile, handsome Viking warriors and the strong women they love. You’ll want to read these sizzling stories again and again.

  Enjoy! Or as the Vikings would say in Old Norse, “Njóta!”

  Adele Downs

  Best-Selling Author of Her Immortal Viking

  “Downs’ clever mash-up of Viking elements and contemporary romance (and oh, the hot, hot Viking!) make this novella an absolute winner.”

  5 Stars! ~Words, Words, Words

  Introduction

  My step-grandfather’s name was Olaf. Now, before you start picturing a cuddly snowman with a carrot nose, picture instead a man of medium height, light brown hair, and pale eyes—pale blind eyes. Grandpa began going blind in his early twenties. By the time I came along, he lived completely in the dark.

  Not that blindness ever stopped him. He rarely walked with a cane. He climbed tall ladders to re-shingle the roof, clean the gutters, or prune trees. But the thing I remember most about him was his keen mind and wicked-sharp sense of humor. His parents migrated from Norway, and he spoke the language and visited cousins back home. He built a workshop in the garage and set up a micro-brewery where he and his friends would gather, and laughter was everywhere.

  When I was a child, I attributed my blonde hair and blue eyes to him, but sadly realized very early on that was impossible. Because of him, I never accepted the stereotypical view of Vikings as base, marauding warriors. They were artists, poets, farmers, traders, adventurers, and yes, fearsome warriors.

  In this volume, I’ve collected stories written by some amazing writers who’ve captured the breadth of the Viking experience—settlers in a brave new world, raiders and traders who travelled from northern Europe to Africa and Byzantium in wooden boats, soldiers whose superior might made them feared and sought after. More, they gave me stories about the men who remained in their cold, rugged land and the strong women who matched their courage and will.

  And I can well imagine my grandfather aboard one of those Viking ships, his face turned to the wind as it caught the sail and carried him to the edge of the known world. D
espite the racy content, I think he’d be tickled about this book. So Grandpa, this one’s for you.

  Delilah Devlin

  Editor

  The Captive

  Lizzie Ashworth

  Near Lichfield, England, 880 AD

  “Dane, do you know why you were brought here?”

  Elspeth, Lady of Hystead, gathered her thick red skirts and sat on the curved stool at the side of the room, opposite the spot where the broad-shouldered man stood. Her hungry gaze drank in the powerful strength of his legs, the ripple of muscle in his chest and arms, the iron line of his jaw. Even wounded, even smeared with the grit and gore of battle, his body glistened with male vigor.

  Candlelight reflected off the lime-washed walls and framed the warrior’s furious stare. He strained against the bonds holding his wrists behind him and stretched the short length of rope between his ankles. Animal skins covered the stone-paved floor under his feet, one of few luxuries in the humble room with its bed, bucket of hot coals, and side table.

  She turned to the two armed men who’d brought him. “Go now and bar the door until I call.”

  An angry string of words followed the men as they departed. Elspeth heard the bar fall into place with a heavy thump.

  Pale blue eyes flashed toward her, defiant.

  “What of our language do you know, Dane? Can you speak?”

  “I know enough,” he snarled, his words heavily accented. “What is your intent, woman?”

  “My name is Elspeth, and it pleases me to see you.” His anger excited her, although she tried not to reveal any hint of her swelling desire. She sipped from her cup of ale. “Will you drink?”

  His tongue slid over the crease of his narrow lips, but he gave no answer.

  “You must be thirsty.” She poured another cup from the ewer and carried it to his mouth, tilting it forward.

  He drank deeply. The line of his jaw slackened slightly, and she remained beside him, more intrigued than ever by his bristling strangeness. The grime of battle still coated his face and arms, but elsewhere, his body had been covered with clothing and armor, now mostly removed, so that he stood in rough pants that hung from his hips. Blood smeared from cuts on his arms and hands did not disguise the inked design scrolling over his tanned arms. A section of his yellow-white hair clumped against his scalp in a dried, darkened mass while the rest fell in tangles around his shoulders.

  “Are all your kind so beautiful?” she asked quietly, trailing her fingertip across his chest. His nipples lay flat on the domed pectoral muscles and more ink patterned a fantastical beast between them. Hardly a hair curled there, although lower on his abdomen a faint line of darker hair collected downward to disappear at the waist of his pants. Her gaze lingered there briefly as her pulse quickened.

  He made no answer, but inhaled as her finger stroked over one of the nipples. His posture shifted slightly.

  “Is this beast meant to say something about you?” she asked, fingering the tattoo.

  “It honors the gods,” he grumbled.

  “Have your gods served you well today?”

  He did not answer.

  She brought a basin and set it beside him before pouring water warmed near the hot coals. With a linen cloth, she bathed him, wiping the sweat-stained whisker stubble on his face to remove blood and dirt. A strong straight nose traveled from his smooth brow and centered between prominent cheekbones. His firm jaw cut sharply to a bold chin, oddly contrasting the cruelly sensual curve of his narrow lips.

  Her breath stuttered as she worked, each freshened part of his body even more stunning than she had first considered. His skin, marred by various scars from previous battles, stretched like warm silk over bronzed muscle. She sponged carefully around a gash on his cheek and another shorter mark on his forehead. Bruising on his jaw had turned purplish-blue, and more bruising colored parts of his chest and back. Nicks and scrapes laced his forearms, and a crusted gash on his bicep caused him to jump when she pushed the wet cloth against it. The scalp wound proved more troublesome. His height forced her to stand on tiptoe to reach it.

  “Bend over,” she demanded, pressing his head forward so that the water could soak the matted hair. He made no sound as she cleaned his injuries. At length, she set aside the basin.

  “Will you take food?” She cut a piece of the cheese and broke a part of the loaf of wheaten bread.

  His gaze had become speculative, watching with an almost bemused expression that softened the strained lines of his face. “Why do you trouble over me, when I am to be killed?”

  “Perhaps that isn’t your fate, Dane.”

  “Do you have the power to determine my fate?”

  “It seems I do, does it not?”

  “Things are not always as they seem,” he replied.

  But he accepted the stool she pushed behind him and sat to eat the food she fed him, and after a time, with the loaf, cheese, an apple, and considerably more ale consumed, she noted a certain relaxation in his frame.

  “You mean to have me,” he observed and raised one eyebrow in question.

  “Yes.” She noted the hint of a smile, which pleased her.

  “My hands…” He shifted his shoulders to struggle with the bonds holding his wrists.

  She laughed lightly, swallowing past the growing tension in her neck. How she would love to release him, let him tear at her, throw her down, and take her to the ends of her reckoning. “Dane, surely you don’t think me foolish enough to release you?”

  He smirked. “My name is Magnus, and I don’t think of you at all,” he replied. “I was not aware the Saxons gave over the task of torture to their women.”

  Anger swept up her cheeks, and she held her skirts to kick out the stool from under him.

  Unsteady, he gained his feet as the stool flew back.

  “Torture?” Her face burned. “You see pleasuring me as torture?”

  She thought them of equal age. But she was no maid, rather the wife of a doddering old man who couldn’t keep from dribbling on himself when he pissed. On her, alone, lay the full array of tasks necessary to run such a large estate. Even the thanes sworn to her husband’s service knew she ruled Hystead. Many had made suit to her, surreptitiously, for standards required decorum in such matters. In these uncertain times, she could not risk loss of respect for herself or her husband.

  Torture. Her nostrils flared as she met his insolent gaze. Her copper-red hair and green eyes received regular comment from the flatterers, and she knew her form remained comely. This man meant to provoke her.

  “To what end do you taunt me, Magnus?” she challenged, standing next to him so the swell of her bosom grazed his chest. “Shall I slap you, cause you pain? Would that please you more?”

  He laughed, revealing white teeth and creases in his cheeks. “Battle pleases me.”

  She ran her hand over his chest, stroking the smooth skin and lingering over the nipples to toy until the flesh thickened. Her own nipples hardened against her bodice as she noted a hitch in his breathing. He may have seemed carved as the finest work of metal, but he was made of mortal flesh. Her hand slid down to the bulge pressing the front of his pants, and a sly smile grew on her mouth.

  “Torture becomes you, Magnus,” she said quietly.

  She stroked his organ through the heavy cloth until he made a noise, until the thick swell rose tightly outward. Then she unlaced the front and pushed the garment to his ankles. Her hands traveled back up the length of his legs, over calves furred with pale hair, over straining thighs nearly as big as her waist. She walked around him, teasing the rigid curve of his buttocks with light strokes of her fingers until his skin shuddered.

  At his front, his rock-hard prick angled toward her, its length corded with veins, and the head of it swollen and dark. Briefly, she grasped it with both hands and pulled, marveling silently at its fearsome size. Moisture wet the thatch of hair between her thighs, her body greedy for this stiff wood to plow her open.

  With a sideways glanc
e at his sullen glare, she refilled the basin with fresh water and scented it with lavender oil then bathed his groin, tending softly to the knotted bag of stones clustered in its dense thicket of hair. The cooling effect of the water softened him slightly, amusing her when she noticed the pulse in his jaw.

  “Down,” she ordered, pushing his shoulders forward. He complied, jumping tensely as she spread his taut buttocks and scrubbed down his thighs where an injury had left bloody residue.

  Then seated at his front with him still standing, she began her play. Her tongue licked at the cockhead, teasing it around the rim and along the front of the shaft. He instantly regained his hardness, blood throbbing through his length until it again darkened. Her lips teased his sac, the line of his leg, around the lower reaches of his abdomen, and then returned to his prick to suck it into her mouth. Savoring his musk, she inhaled and sucked harder, drawing him to her throat, coursing over him with her tongue until she felt his issue begin to gather and burn.

  She thought he trembled when she stood back, leaving him at the brink. Veins rose on his neck and temples, and his lucent gaze glittered.

  “Battle it is, then,” she said then laughed quietly.

  She released the fastening ties of her woolen dress and let it fall, and then pulled her linen shift over her head so she stood before him in only her long stockings. Her breasts rose and fell as his glance seared over her body. She touched herself, rimming her puckered nipples and briefly caressing her mound.

  With the clothing gathered in her arms, she formed a bundle and placed it in front of him.

  “Kneel,” she demanded, pointing downward.

  “Hunhund,” he muttered, dropping to his knees on the bundle.

  Whatever his word meant, she caught his intent. A humiliated flush spread over his cheekbones as she positioned herself in front of him, a foot propped on his stool. He did not move at first, nor did he meet her gaze. She gripped his hair, tugging him forward.