A Viking For The Viscountess Read Online Free

to prepare her, wanting the honeyed wetness against his fingertips. But when he rolled her over, his hands stilled upon her flesh. It wasn’t Svala he’d taken last night. It was a woman he’d never seen before.
    Uneasiness slid through him, and Arik wondered what was happening. Was she a slave girl, sent by Freya to tempt him? Was this a part of the afterlife? With his knuckles, he gently touched her skin. It prickled with gooseflesh, and she murmured something in her sleep. He didn’t understand her words, and from the shape of her face, he guessed she was Anglo-Saxon. Yet the language was still foreign to his ears.
    “Awaken,” he commanded.
    Her gray eyes flew open, and she let out a scream of terror. Gripping the furs to cover her nakedness, she looked horrified.
    She started speaking words in a language he couldn’t grasp, flustered words of panic and embarrassment. Her cheeks turned bright red, as if she’d suddenly remembered her actions from the night before. Arik folded his arms across his chest, waiting for her to speak words that made sense. When she gave none, he demanded, “Who are you?”
    Her eyes narrowed, as if she’d suddenly understood his question. “You’re…not English,” she whispered. Her face furrowed as she spoke.
    He didn’t know what she was talking about, but he reached for his fallen clothing and covered himself. “I am called Arik Thorgrim, a jarl from the Ryger tribe.”
    “A what?”
    “A jarl. I have lands in Rogaland, and my brother has settlements in East Anglia and Dubh Linn.” He reached down and tossed her the discarded garment she’d worn the night before. It was a finely woven gown, one that spoke of her status. This woman was not a slave, but possibly a freewoman or a king’s daughter. And yet, she wore no jewelry, save a small gold ring upon one hand. There were no jeweled torques nor bracelets to show her rank. He frowned, trying to determine more about her.
    “What is your name? And what happened to your ship?” he demanded. If her family was searching for her, he would see to it that she was returned to them.
    “I am Juliana Arthur, the Viscountess Hawthorne,” she answered in his language, her eyes wide. “My father’s ship broke free of its moorings, and the wind carried me out to sea. It was my own fault for climbing inside the boat.”
    “Then the gods did bring you to me.” He studied her. “Clothe yourself and then we will talk further.” Right now, he couldn’t grasp what had happened. Though she wasn’t Svala, her features were similar enough.
    The sun had risen higher, casting light over the land nearby. It resembled the shores of East Anglia, but strange dwellings rested within the hills. He’d never seen anything like them, and more and more, he wondered if this was part of the afterlife.
    There was no sign of Asgard, nor the Hall of Valhalla, as he’d expected. Arik sat upon one of the benches, resting his hands upon the oars. Was this a test? Since he’d been murdered instead of dying in battle, did he have to earn his place among the warriors?
    Perhaps he truly had heard the words not yet. He didn’t understand any of it, and the gods weren’t known to explain themselves to mortals.
    “Take me home,” Juliana pleaded. He turned and saw that her gray gown was still damp, the fabric outlining her slender body and rounded breasts. It reminded him of the night they’d spent together and the way she’d welcomed him into her arms.
    She hadn’t been afraid of him then. He’d touched her, believing she was Svala. And though he didn’t know why this woman had allowed a stranger into her bed, nothing had been done against her will. He remembered the way she’d clenched his head, arching against him as he’d tasted her swollen flesh.
    His body hardened at the memory, but he forced it back. Clearly, there were reasons why the woman had given herself but now held regrets.
    She was shivering hard, the gown doing little to shield her