Read Online Love's Fury (Viking's Fury #1) by Violetta Rand - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Violetta Rand
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entombed in his arms, Silvia raised her head. Konal hadn’t moved from the chair—he didn’t want to. Providing what relief she needed seemed the natural thing to do. Too often, he’d heard the weeping and gnashing of teeth after battle. Viewed the wives and children, mothers and fathers of the slain from a distance, fortifying his heart so their suffering didn’t affect him.
No longer.
His gaze drifted from the window to her face. Her slender fingers were fanned across his chest. For whatever reason she chose to stay, he didn’t fully comprehend. Grief crippled the greatest of warriors. A woman’s heart, no matter how bent on vengeance, couldn’t withstand the same beating as a man’s. And tears sounded the same in any language.
When he’d heard her sobs, his heart bled for her. More than he cared to admit.
Curse his vulnerabilities.
“I am sorry for your loss,” he started. “Believe me, if it was up to me, all the unnecessary bloodletting would have been avoided.”
She wiped away the last of her tears. “Am I supposed to be grateful?”
“No,” he said. “But I speak truthfully. I’m not the sort of man who favors death over negotiation. Norse blood was spilled, too.”
“The incomprehensible cries from those men on the gallows still haunt me.” She straightened, still perched on his thighs. “What nightmares await when I close my eyes?”
The dark wisps of hair framing her face reminded him of silk. So strong was his urge to touch one, he had to fist his hand. Her composure would dissolve like honey on his tongue if he touched her intimately. “Time is your only benefactor.” He nudged her to her feet. “Distance helps, too.”
He found himself constantly struggling to find the right words to say. “When we bid farewell to our loved ones,” he added, “tears do nothing to aid them. Celebrate your sire’s death. He died protecting what he loved most.”
“How do you know what my father loved?”
He stretched his arms wide. “Every space available in this house is packed with papers. As a scholar, he revered wisdom. I cannot think of a more honorable death—surrounded by the things you admire.”
“Does that mean you wish to die in a brothel?”
Without exception, her scornful words battered his heart. “There is only one way for a Norseman to die.” He refused to discuss it. “The hour grows late.” He stood. “Finish your preparations. I expect you to be ready to leave within the hour.”
He walked to the door and then turned back. “Somewhere along the road, we’ll stop and sacrifice in honor of your father.”
“Is blood all you think about?” she asked. “Why not take the severed head you presented me with? Surely your warmongering gods prefer human flesh over some innocent creature’s skin.”
He laughed, fascinated by her strength and resilience. “Whatever man is fortunate enough to take your virtue,” he said. “For his sake and yours, I pray he’s deaf.”
*
Silvia slammed the door shut behind Konal. His biting speeches were wearing her down, and so were his hands. Between her flashes of grief and outrage, she had begun to see the kind of man Konal truly was. Though she hated him for the sake of her people, he was unlike any other man she’d ever met. A conquering enemy with half a heart and great restraint.
But whenever she felt herself softening, she remembered the beloved priests imprisoned in the church. The torched scriptorium. The violent deaths of her people. How Saxons weren’t permitted to meet on the streets. But not by Konal’s hands. He’d revealed his feelings, why he preferred negotiation over bloodshed.
Quietly, she shoved her gowns in the leather bag she often used when she traveled with her father. Then, after checking to make sure Konal wasn’t at the door, she knelt and removed the scrolls from their hiding place underneath her bed. Still wrapped in her cloak, she fitted them between her clothes, adding scraps of material
No longer.
His gaze drifted from the window to her face. Her slender fingers were fanned across his chest. For whatever reason she chose to stay, he didn’t fully comprehend. Grief crippled the greatest of warriors. A woman’s heart, no matter how bent on vengeance, couldn’t withstand the same beating as a man’s. And tears sounded the same in any language.
When he’d heard her sobs, his heart bled for her. More than he cared to admit.
Curse his vulnerabilities.
“I am sorry for your loss,” he started. “Believe me, if it was up to me, all the unnecessary bloodletting would have been avoided.”
She wiped away the last of her tears. “Am I supposed to be grateful?”
“No,” he said. “But I speak truthfully. I’m not the sort of man who favors death over negotiation. Norse blood was spilled, too.”
“The incomprehensible cries from those men on the gallows still haunt me.” She straightened, still perched on his thighs. “What nightmares await when I close my eyes?”
The dark wisps of hair framing her face reminded him of silk. So strong was his urge to touch one, he had to fist his hand. Her composure would dissolve like honey on his tongue if he touched her intimately. “Time is your only benefactor.” He nudged her to her feet. “Distance helps, too.”
He found himself constantly struggling to find the right words to say. “When we bid farewell to our loved ones,” he added, “tears do nothing to aid them. Celebrate your sire’s death. He died protecting what he loved most.”
“How do you know what my father loved?”
He stretched his arms wide. “Every space available in this house is packed with papers. As a scholar, he revered wisdom. I cannot think of a more honorable death—surrounded by the things you admire.”
“Does that mean you wish to die in a brothel?”
Without exception, her scornful words battered his heart. “There is only one way for a Norseman to die.” He refused to discuss it. “The hour grows late.” He stood. “Finish your preparations. I expect you to be ready to leave within the hour.”
He walked to the door and then turned back. “Somewhere along the road, we’ll stop and sacrifice in honor of your father.”
“Is blood all you think about?” she asked. “Why not take the severed head you presented me with? Surely your warmongering gods prefer human flesh over some innocent creature’s skin.”
He laughed, fascinated by her strength and resilience. “Whatever man is fortunate enough to take your virtue,” he said. “For his sake and yours, I pray he’s deaf.”
*
Silvia slammed the door shut behind Konal. His biting speeches were wearing her down, and so were his hands. Between her flashes of grief and outrage, she had begun to see the kind of man Konal truly was. Though she hated him for the sake of her people, he was unlike any other man she’d ever met. A conquering enemy with half a heart and great restraint.
But whenever she felt herself softening, she remembered the beloved priests imprisoned in the church. The torched scriptorium. The violent deaths of her people. How Saxons weren’t permitted to meet on the streets. But not by Konal’s hands. He’d revealed his feelings, why he preferred negotiation over bloodshed.
Quietly, she shoved her gowns in the leather bag she often used when she traveled with her father. Then, after checking to make sure Konal wasn’t at the door, she knelt and removed the scrolls from their hiding place underneath her bed. Still wrapped in her cloak, she fitted them between her clothes, adding scraps of material
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