Sweyn carried her as deeply into the trees as he dared. Too close and they’d be spotted; too far, and he’d waste precious time.
By Fenrir’s teeth, he hated that berserker scum. He should’ve died in the fire, and everything would have worked out differently. Sweyn had kept things running while that ungrateful bastard had lain at death’s door. Who else but him would have become jarl in Eldberg’s stead? Even that miserable bitch Sigrid would have given her blessing.
Now, if he wanted to keep his head on his neck, he’d have to leave. Eldberg had recovered from injuries that would’ve killed an ordinary man, and he remained the strongest among them. No one could stand against him in single combat and expect to win.
But he’d give Eldberg something to remember him by—and he’d be back all right. No one treated Sweyn like this and got away with it.
As for this one!
Sweyn knelt over Elswyth, gripping her face with one hand. She was coming round slowly, not fully conscious yet.
Bringing her to Skálavík had been a mistake.
It was true she’d distracted Eldberg in those first weeks—an unexpected boon, all things considered—but her influence had changed him in ways Sweyn couldn’t have predicted.
Eldberg’s temper had always been savage. Coupled with his warrior strength and skill with the sword, it made him undefeatable. During his marriage to Bretta, a change had been apparent. He’d determined to see Skálavík thrive as a trading port. His legacy, Eldberg had called it—his desire for them to one day rival Hedeby as a place for merchants to gather. Instead of plundering other lands for riches, wealth would flow into Skálavík through commerce.
Bretta’s death, and that of Eldberg’s unborn child, had near broken the jarl, his grief reducing him to the barbarian he’d been all those years ago. Sweyn had rubbed his hands gleefully to see it, for it eased the path to his own ambitions. Eldberg had survived the fire, but he’d bring about his demise—one way or another.
These months past, Elswyth had soothed the savage beast, taming him once more. It had stirred much talk—and not in criticism of the Svolvaen whore. Far from neglecting his duties as jarl, Eldberg had embraced them with greater vigour, expanding the output of the mine and the number of men trained in the forging of weapons. Meanwhile, his harbour guard ensured the smooth running of the market and the safety of all vessels entering Skálavík’s fjord.
Even if Eldberg hadn’t realised it himself, Sweyn could see what was coming. The jarl would free Elswyth as he had Thirka, once she’d delivered her child—perhaps sooner. Then he’d marry the wench and sire his own heir.
Sweyn’s ambitions for himself had been thwarted, but there was one part of Eldberg’s future Sweyn could ruin. With any luck, the discovery would send their jarl hurtling back to the chasm from which he’d climbed.
Elswyth’s lids flickered as Sweyn took hold of her neck. He’d crush her throat quick and easy, and then he’d be gone.
But, looking down at her, he was reminded of why he’d taken her in the first place. The flimsy gown she was wearing had gotten damp from the rain. It clung to her breasts—even more voluptuous in her ripe condition. The cool air had tightened her nipples. He dropped one hand to squeeze her flesh. Between finger and thumb, he pinched the peak, and she whimpered, though did not fully stir.
It was enough to send a jolt of heat to his groin.
By Thor and Odin and all the gods, this one wanted Skálavík cock and, before he broke her pretty neck, he’d give it to her.
Hungrily, he brought up her skirts, shoving her legs apart with his knee.
She was a captured slave, and he’d fuck her like one.
Grasping her hips, he delved his fingers into her sheath. She was ready enough for the piercing. There would be nothing to stop him entering to the hilt.
Her hair fanned loose about her head—golden silk upon the half-rotten leaves and moss. Her lips, full and soft, invited him. Everything that Eldberg had enjoyed would be his.
He bore down upon her, plundering her mouth while his arousal nudged her wetness.
Too late did he realise his folly.
As her teeth clamped down on his tongue, Sweyn’s mouth filled with blood.
* * *
Elswyth
I roused to pain in my forehead, to an inability to breathe, to the heaviness of him upon me. Instinct made me bite the probing thing in my mouth, and his bellow broke through to awaken me.
He sprung up, cursing, and the lifting of his weight enabled me to scrabble away from him.
Sweyn!
Gulping, I screamed, but he was upon me immediately. A hard slap sent me sprawling into the leaves. He leapt upon me then, holding both my arms tight to the ground.
