Odin's Shadow (Sons Of Odin Book 1) (9th Century Viking Romance) Read Online Free PDF
Author: Erin S. Riley
That meant something, at least. And how bad would it be to be married to Buadhach, after all? The old man was affluent. She would live in a large home with numerous servants to help her run the household. When he died, she would be left a wealthy widow with much more freedom and independence than she would ever know as a daughter or a wife. Or a nun. She would finally be able to make her own decisions. She could walk into Dubhlinn without a second thought, her hood down and her head held high.
Selia pushed the uncharitable thought from her mind. What kind of a person looked forward to the day she would be made a widow?
She heard the rustle of footsteps behind her and turned to scowl at Eithne. "I'm going as fast as I can—"
She stopped in mid sentence. It was the Finngall from the hill, not Eithne, coming toward her. The sheer size of the man was startling, and the way the morning sun glinted off his pale hair and the breeze stirred his deep red cloak around his body made him appear not quite human. Almost like one of the heathen gods the Finngalls worshipped. She stared, unable to move or speak. Shallow breaths seemed almost more than she could manage.
The Finngall met her gaze and smiled. He had a beautiful smile—a flash of white teeth and a boyish dimple on his left cheek—but as yesterday, something about it struck her as unusual. What was it?
Then she knew. His smile didn't reach his eyes, and they looked hard.
Selia shook herself back into reality. The Finngall stood between her and the house, so there was no way she could get around him and home quickly enough to bolt the door. And outrunning him was unlikely in any case. She could scream for help to bring Eithne to her aid. But what could their maid do against a man such as this? If the Finngall was bent on violence, she could not bring herself to put Eithne in harm's way.
Making her decision, she dropped the firewood save for one stout stick, which she held at the ready, then glared at the huge man with a fierceness she didn't feel. "What you want?" She demanded in broken Norse.
The Finngall's eyebrows went up in surprise. "So you do speak Norse." He took another step toward her, and she raised the stick threateningly.
He looked amused at this, but remained still, at least. "What's your name, little one?"
How had this stranger found out where she lived? Had he been watching the house so as to approach her when she was alone? And what could he possibly want with her? No man of honorable intentions would approach a woman in this manner. Surely even a Finngall would know that. But if he were bent on rape, would he stand here asking her name?
Frustrated with her own limited grasp of the Norse language, she repeated her original question. "What you want?"
"My ship sails in the morning. I wanted to see you again."
He moved toward her. Selia tried to sidestep to avoid him, but he grabbed her arm. She whacked him hard with the stick. Instead of letting go, he just looked annoyed. He pried the stick from her fingers, then threw it aside.
The man gripped her shoulders and leaned in close. Selia found herself again mesmerized as he locked his gaze with hers. She smelled him, wood smoke and fresh male sweat . . . and something else, like flowers. His hair fell around his face and shoulders, clean and shiny, and a silvery lock of it was inches from her nose. So her father had been right about the Finngalls' peculiar grooming habits, after all. The realization would have been amusing if the situation were different.
"Don't be afraid," he said. "I don't want to hurt you. I want to take you with me."
Selia absorbed the Norse words, translating what she knew and inferring the rest. What kind of a woman did he think she was? Did this Finngall regard himself so highly that he expected her to leave her home and family, and be his whore?
Anger superseded her fear for the moment, and her words spilled out in Irish. "I will be no man's concubine, you Finngall
Selia pushed the uncharitable thought from her mind. What kind of a person looked forward to the day she would be made a widow?
She heard the rustle of footsteps behind her and turned to scowl at Eithne. "I'm going as fast as I can—"
She stopped in mid sentence. It was the Finngall from the hill, not Eithne, coming toward her. The sheer size of the man was startling, and the way the morning sun glinted off his pale hair and the breeze stirred his deep red cloak around his body made him appear not quite human. Almost like one of the heathen gods the Finngalls worshipped. She stared, unable to move or speak. Shallow breaths seemed almost more than she could manage.
The Finngall met her gaze and smiled. He had a beautiful smile—a flash of white teeth and a boyish dimple on his left cheek—but as yesterday, something about it struck her as unusual. What was it?
Then she knew. His smile didn't reach his eyes, and they looked hard.
Selia shook herself back into reality. The Finngall stood between her and the house, so there was no way she could get around him and home quickly enough to bolt the door. And outrunning him was unlikely in any case. She could scream for help to bring Eithne to her aid. But what could their maid do against a man such as this? If the Finngall was bent on violence, she could not bring herself to put Eithne in harm's way.
Making her decision, she dropped the firewood save for one stout stick, which she held at the ready, then glared at the huge man with a fierceness she didn't feel. "What you want?" She demanded in broken Norse.
The Finngall's eyebrows went up in surprise. "So you do speak Norse." He took another step toward her, and she raised the stick threateningly.
He looked amused at this, but remained still, at least. "What's your name, little one?"
How had this stranger found out where she lived? Had he been watching the house so as to approach her when she was alone? And what could he possibly want with her? No man of honorable intentions would approach a woman in this manner. Surely even a Finngall would know that. But if he were bent on rape, would he stand here asking her name?
Frustrated with her own limited grasp of the Norse language, she repeated her original question. "What you want?"
"My ship sails in the morning. I wanted to see you again."
He moved toward her. Selia tried to sidestep to avoid him, but he grabbed her arm. She whacked him hard with the stick. Instead of letting go, he just looked annoyed. He pried the stick from her fingers, then threw it aside.
The man gripped her shoulders and leaned in close. Selia found herself again mesmerized as he locked his gaze with hers. She smelled him, wood smoke and fresh male sweat . . . and something else, like flowers. His hair fell around his face and shoulders, clean and shiny, and a silvery lock of it was inches from her nose. So her father had been right about the Finngalls' peculiar grooming habits, after all. The realization would have been amusing if the situation were different.
"Don't be afraid," he said. "I don't want to hurt you. I want to take you with me."
Selia absorbed the Norse words, translating what she knew and inferring the rest. What kind of a woman did he think she was? Did this Finngall regard himself so highly that he expected her to leave her home and family, and be his whore?
Anger superseded her fear for the moment, and her words spilled out in Irish. "I will be no man's concubine, you Finngall
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