Reviews:

"Viking Warrior, the sequel to Viking Raider, has vibrant characters full of emotion, as Leif and Damarra’s budding romance lifts from the pages. I was amazed how they endured the hard times, and the threat of so much danger, while their strength only increases their bravery... Heide Katros pens a well-written tale sending the reader into a land of Vikings, damsels in distress, and fierce battles in this action tale... engaging the reader and keeping them spellbound in this excellent read." - 5 hearts, Linda L., The Romance Studio

Excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

Somewhere near Rouen, France 846

Leif awoke to a darkening sky and the stench of blood and rotting flesh … human flesh. Squinting against the purple shadows of the night, he tried to familiarize himself with his surroundings. Terror paralyzed him temporarily, when he realized that he lay wedged between the corpses of his Viking warriors. Swallowing against the panic rising in his chest, he quickly took stock of his limbs and heaved a sigh of relief once he felt sure that none of them were missing.

His joy was short-lived, however, because from the corner of his eye he spotted a group of scavengers picking their way through the body-strewn field. Shrill screams of pain pierced the air whenever the ragtag band of men clustered around the body of one of the fallen. The bastards were killing the wounded. Though he could not see he did not doubt that they were stripping them of their valuables. Outraged shock catapulted his heart into his throat. Those men were his comrades, his childhood friends.

The scavengers were coming nearer. By the grace of Odin, he had to get out of here.

The desire to survive lent Leif the strength to drag himself out of the pile of dead warriors, and in a half crouch he raced for the forest beyond the battle zone. He continued to run, not daring to stop in case he was followed, until his lungs burned with exhaustion. Spent, he sank down at the foot of a large oak and gulped in huge breaths of the cooling night air.

Still not convinced that he had made it to safety, he listened to the sounds of the rapidly darkening woodland. Relief swept over him when only the chirping of insects and the rustle of small game echoed back at him.

He leaned against the rough bark of the tree and closed his eyes, willing his heart to slow down. He’d barely taken a deep breath when a stinging pain rocked his hard won calm. A grim smile lifted the corner of his generous mouth. Wasn’t it amazing how the mind could shut out pain, when one’s life depended on it? At what point of the ambush had he sustained the deep gash in his right thigh? It was too dark to determine just how badly he’d been wounded, but not too dark to distinguish the crimson stain on his palm. By Odin, if he didn’t staunch the blood, he would bleed to death.

With trembling hands he removed the wide sword belt from his trim waist. Holding the edges of his wound together, he strapped the belt around the injured thigh. His sword? Ah, yes, it had been knocked from his grasp just before he went down. Now he remembered. Someone had struck him a blow from behind. Gingerly, he sifted through his hair in search of the lump at the back of his head and winced when he found it. Sweating now from unease as much as exertion, he groped for his water flask, glad he had not lost that, and brought it to parched lips. He drank deeply. And then, despite himself his eyes fluttered shut and he dropped off into a fitful sleep.

He awoke with a start when an animal crashed through the brush nearby. He knew he couldn’t tarry. He was after all, a lone Viking in unfamiliar hostile territory. Still, he felt confident that if he followed the signs of nature he would find his way back to the River Seine. But would the Raider still lay at anchor in the hidden cove? Had any of his warriors survived? Dizziness washed over him as he pondered those unanswered questions. A furtive rustle in the underbrush shook him out of his reverie and set his heart racing. He had to move on. His gaze did a quick sweep of the area for a sturdy branch to lean on. It didn’t take him long to find one. Gritting his teeth against the pain shooting through his thigh he limped along at a slow, but steady pace.

Around noon the forest gave way to a field of tall summer grass. He lurched forward, parting the green stalks with unsteady hands and straightening the blades behind him as he went, hoping to conceal his route as much as possible. Panting, weak from the loss of blood and hunger gnawing in his belly, Leif collapsed to the sun-warmed earth. He stared with weary eyes at the cerulean sky, where nary a cloud dotted the wide expanse, and he prayed for night to fall again. He found it hard to believe that only one night had passed since they’d been ambushed.

Rubbing a large hand across his sweat drenched face he expelled a wobbly breath. Golden brows snapped together as he tried to unravel yesterday’s skirmish. He’d never felt more certain than at this moment that they’d walked straight into a well-planned ambush. Who had betrayed him and his crew? By Odin, if he made it out of this insanity alive, he would not rest until he found the traitor, who’d set them up to be slaughtered by the King’s soldiers.

Leif and his crew of twenty had come ashore to forage for food. He had led the warriors into the countryside, never expecting an ambush. The soldiers had been waiting. They’d outnumbered the Vikings two to one. Leif had fought like a dervish with Asgard guarding his back. By Loki and his hounds of hell, it drove him wild that he could not recall the sequence of events. How had he and Asgard become separated? What fate had befallen his boyhood friend? Try as he might all he could recall was the blow to the back of his head … and then nothing.

The throbbing pain in his thigh cut his ponderings short. He loosened the leather belt and groaned in disgust. The wound had started to bleed again, and now in the light of day he saw that it was so deep that it exposed the bone beneath. If he didn’t get help soon, he would either die from loss of blood or poison would set in. He sighed. Why had Norn, the goddess of Fate, not seen fit to let him die on the battlefield?

It was then that he heard voices. He went still, barely breathing as he listened. They were coming nearer. Women. Two of them. Summoning up his waning strength, he crouched on one knee and reached for the knife sheathed in his fur boot.

“Doré, I think that silly goat has gone up this way. Maybe if we circle around, we can catch her.”

“Papa will have our hide if Nana is not in her pen by the time he gets home.”

A tinkling laugh answered. “Oui, but that won’t be until tomorrow, so don’t fret, ma soeur.”

Oh, great, they were sisters and their damn goat had gotten loose. Leif’s grip tightened around the hilt of his knife. He could not risk being discovered. It would be either him or the girls.

His vision blurred. He fought against the sudden weakness, but he still blacked out.

“Over here, Doré. I heard something move in the tall grass. Sssh! We’ll have to sneak up on her or that wily old goat will get away again.”

Damarra pounced forward just as her sister entered the circle of matted grass from the opposite side. She stopped short with a squeak of pure horror, her green eyes huge with disbelief. Her hand reached out to stop her sister from coming closer, but it was already too late. Dore’s eyes widened with horror.

“Mon dieu, a man,” Damarra whispered. “At least I think it’s a man. Why, I’ve never seen anyone that big. And look at that clothing. It’s made from a wolf pelt.” She grimaced and pointed. “Yuck, the unfortunate animal’s dried paws and his head hold the revolting garment together at the shoulder.”

Doré shivered delicately, her hand covering her mouth. “Oui, I can see that.”

“Do you think he is alive?”

“He doesn’t seem to be breathing. There is blood in his hair.”

Still whispering in awe, they inched closer clasping each other’s hand for support.

“We cannot just leave him here. If he is dead we need to bury him or the buzzards will get him. If he is alive, we will …”

Damarra never finished the sentence, because an iron hand clamped around her trim ankle and jerked her to the ground.

Leif had only lost consciousness for a few seconds. Sheer willpower gave him the strength to shake off his momentary wooziness. He pounced on Damarra with lightning speed, trapping her easily with his huge arm. Fierce icy blue eyes bored into hers as he pressed the tip of his wicked knife to her throat. His nostrils flared like those of a predator catching the scent of his prey.

Never easing his hold on Damarra, he twisted to spear Doré with a frosty glare. Poor Doré, who stood rooted to the ground trembling like a leaf in the wind. “Not a sound, demoiselle or your sister dies,” he snarled.

Damarra dared not move, could not move, since his powerful arm held her pinned like a bug. She was acutely aware of his male scent, mingled with sweat and the sickly sweet odor of fresh blood. Mon dieu, he was huge. Trapped beneath his massive body gave her a different perspective of the sheer size of him. Yes, she decided, he was enormous and dangerous to boot. Fear skittered along her spine. She held her breath, expecting him to slit her throat at any moment.

Her heart beat like a drum inside her chest. Could he hear it? Her mouth twitched with self-disgust. A fine fix they had gotten themselves into. She swallowed against her rising panic and found that her throat had gone dry.

Leif shook her, not unkindly. He could read the fear in her eyes, could smell it, and he knew it would work in his favor. “I need help,” he rasped. “I need water and I need binding.” His eyes, rivaling the summer sky above narrowed in distrust. “I will keep you here and your sister can go and get these things, oui?”

Damarra nodded. Though he hadn’t mentioned what he might do if Doré would not return, the threat was implied in the timbre of his deep voice. Finding her own voice, she hissed at Doré, “Don’t just stand there, do as he says and come back as quickly as you can.”

“Don’t alert anyone, demoiselle, not if you value your sister’s life, n’est çe pas?”

Doré didn’t wait to hear any more, but scampered off like a frightened deer.

“Who are you?” Damarra asked boldly, curiosity overcoming her fear for the moment. She had never seen clothes like his before. He resembled her image of a brutish heathen, yet he spoke with a certain refinement. She tried to see past the thick whiskers that hid his chin, tried to appraise just what kind of man held her in his relentless grip, and almost got lost in the deep blue of his eyes. She quickly looked away.

“I am Viking.” He interrupted her musings. He suddenly slurred his words, and his French sketchy at best before, became hard to understand.

“Viking?” Damarra squeaked, afraid to speak normally, since he still held the knife close to her throat, though it no longer pricked her skin. Her mind spun in frantic circles. She had heard of those raiders who came in alarming numbers and regular intervals from the Norse countries to ransack the French countryside. She remembered that it was said that these savages showed no mercy. If that were true, wouldn’t he have killed her and Doré already? She bit her lip. Merde, maybe he intended to kill them later.

His warm breath whispered across her cheek, shaking her out of her musings. “Oui, demoiselle, I am a long way from home. Once I’ve bound my wound, I’ll go.” Where had that comment come from? Until now he’d not considered to simply walk away, much less allowing the sisters to live.

Damarra shifted a little. Mon dieu, the brute was heavy. How could he not know that his whole weight rested on top of her? She opened her mouth to complain, when his hold suddenly slackened and he went totally limp.

Damarra only hesitated for the time it took her to take a deep breath. Panting with exertion she pushed him off her and scrambled away from him as quickly as she could. He was out cold, true, but hadn’t he been out cold before? Her heart beat an unsteady tattoo as she snatched the knife out of his limp hand.

Pursing her mouth in contempt, she sneered, “Amazing how quickly one’s fortune can change, monsieur Viking.” Stepping out of his reach, she muttered, “Don’t you dare move, you Viking scum, or I’ll slit your throat.”

She held the knife with both hands, aware that she trembled, aware that her threat was nothing but an empty warning and ever so glad that he was out cold and couldn’t hear her. She could never kill anything in cold blood, much less a human being. She fervently prayed that Doré would hurry back. For some reason it never entered her mind that this was her chance to make her escape.

Her eyes traveled the length of Leif’s body and despite herself she liked what she saw. Viking or not, he was a magnificent specimen. His chest seemed sculpted from marble and his arms were the size of small tree trunks. Her fingers itched to trace the silver bands encircling his bulging biceps and his wrists. She burned to know why he would wear such ornaments. Her gaze dipped lower and paused at his legs. They were bare, long and muscular and well turned. Her brows came together in a slight frown as she pondered the knee-high fur boots that were crisscrossed with leather straps to hold them in place.

Leif shifted with a pained groan and his short tunic slipped upward to expose the crude tourniquet wrapped around his thigh.

Despite her brave posturing moments earlier, she sucked in a sickened breath when she saw the deep gash held together with a wide leather belt. Unless the Viking had proper care the wound would fester and he would die of blood poisoning. The thought turned her stomach. He was glorious … yet so are stags and bears. All three are dangerous.

She hesitated, unsure if she should examine the wound closer, when the rustle of skirts announced Doré’s return. The younger girl stopped short and stared down at the unconscious Viking.

“La, what did you do, Damarra? Did you hit him over the head?” Patting her sister’s back, she crowed, “Good for you.” Seconds later, she frowned and shook her head in vexation. “So why are you still standing here? Let’s run before he regains his senses.”

Damarra thought it over. She was loath to leave him behind. Everything inside her fought against it. Of course, it was only out of Christian duty that she felt that way. Liar.

“He is a Viking, Doré.”

“So?”

“He’ll track us down. I think it is better if we help him.”

“Are you daft, Damarra? The man is a savage. He would as soon slit our throats than look at us twice. I say we run while we have the chance. Why would he come after us? I’ll just leave the water and the bandages behind.”

“He could have slit my throat when he grabbed my ankle. I don’t believe he’ll harm us. Maybe he’ll even be grateful enough to tell the rest of his Vikings to never come to Champs-aux-Fleuve and bother us.”

Doré stared at her sister. “Now I know that you have lost your senses. I say we run while we can. Then when Papa comes home, we tell him about the Viking and have him hunted down. You have heard the stories about his people. They come to our shores and raid and burn down complete cities without mercy. They … you know what they do to maids like us.” Doré’s brown eyes rolled in imagined horror. “Trust me it’s better to get rid of him before he has a chance to harm us.” She slashed across her throat with the side of her hand indicating how they should go about it.

Leif struggled to regain consciousness. By Odin, a newborn kitten could not feel weaker than he did at that moment. He heard the girls arguing with each other and realized that he was the topic of their disagreement. Loki’s spawn, the younger one was intent on killing him. Pretending to be still unconscious, he stealthily groped for his knife. It was gone. Damn his luck, what now? He cracked an eye open to survey his chances. His male swagger immediately reared its condescending head. If it came down to it he could easily kill them with his bare hands, wounded or not. He struggled to stand and failed miserably. Exhaling a thin breath through clenched teeth, irked by the fact that he was not in control after all, he decided that guile might be his only salvation until he could think of a better way out.

Groaning, he pushed himself up on an elbow. Keeping his voice deliberately low and weak sounding, he urged, “Demoiselles? Please help a dying man. I am all but helpless.”

Doré glared down at him, “Oui, I saw how helpless you were, when you tripped my sister and held your knife to her throat.”

“I acted on instinct, demoiselle. My warriors and I had been ambushed. I had no way of knowing if you were my enemies and had tracked me down.” In part it was a blatant lie, but Leif didn’t care, he somehow had to convince the girls that he meant them no harm.

The sisters eyed him with suspicion and Leif eyed them back with distrust. It was a standoff and something had to give.

Leif pushed himself into a sitting position, not much of an advantage, but better than lying prone on the ground. His eyes bored into Damarra’s and he spoke with quiet authority. “Please, demoiselles, I give you my word of honor that I will not harm you. Just help me bind my wound and afford me a drink of water.”

“It’s the Christian thing to do, Doré,” Damarra pointed out. Then without waiting for her sister’s approval, she rushed on. “There is a creek nearby. If we help you to it, do you think you can bathe? We will bind your wound afterwards, but you will have to make sure you rinse out the dirt that has embedded itself in that gash.”

“I doubt I can walk very far.” Now he wished they had left him water and bandages and had gone on their way. He did not want them to see his weakened state. He was a Viking, used to hardships and would never ask for any quarter.

“We’ll help you,” offered Damarra and moved closer, holding out her hand to help him up, but not before she turned her back and stashed his knife in her garter.

It took more tugging and pulling than any of them had anticipated. But at last Leif stood, shifting his weight to his left leg. Damarra’s eyes grew big when she took in his height. The man was a veritable tree. Tamping down her unease, she wedged herself beneath the crook of his massive arm and Doré reluctantly followed suit.

Trying to keep his weight off their slim shoulders, Leif hobbled the few yards to the creek. Why hadn’t he heard the gurgle of the water and saved himself all this trouble and humiliation?

When they reached the mossy bank, he decided enough was enough. “I think I can manage from here on. My thanks, demoiselles. Au revoir.”

“Hmmph! You think you can manage, Viking? You can barely stand on one leg, much less go anywhere. No, we’ll just stay here and wait until you are done.” Damarra’s chin took on a mulish tilt as she crossed her arms under her breasts, making Leif’s mouth water at the sight of the tempting view. It even let him forgot for a moment that he was in excruciating pain.

“Damarra, the man asked us to leave, let’s go,” Doré urged, pulling on her sleeve.

“You go then. I wouldn’t feel right to abandon him here.”

Doré huffed her displeasure, but she stayed as Damarra had hoped.

Leif heaved a disgruntled sigh. “Suit yourselves, demoiselles,” he grumbled as he fumbled with the ties of his tunic. He shrugged massive shoulders and the garment slipped to the ground all in one swift movement. It left him standing stark, gloriously naked, sun-bronzed from head to toe and hairless except for the thatch of blond curls between hard, muscular thighs.

Damarra and Doré let out a shocked squeak, their hands fluttered to their gaping mouths, but neither averted her gaze.

Leif’s head snapped up and he stared at them in genuine surprise. It took him a moment to understand that they were fascinated by his nudity. Apparently, they had never seen a naked male. The idea fired his ego and a cheeky grin lifted the corners of his finely shaped lips, when his manhood reacted to their blatant scrutiny.

Reveling in their unexpected attention, he rolled his massive shoulders. The sculpted muscles covering his torso and flat abdomen were only in part the result of his birthright. He’d honed those muscles through diligent exercise to be ready for the battlefields and did not mind showing them off.

“I tried to warn you,” he growled, though he wasn’t embarrassed in the least. At home it was custom that the maidens helped the warriors bathe. And naturally they all frolicked naked in the snow after they’d sweated in the sauna. “Well, never mind,” he muttered as he jumped awkwardly into the stream.

It was only waist deep when he stood up, but he waded deeper, at home in the water as much as a duck. The drag of the current against his wounded thigh hurt like the pitchforks from Hades, but it helped to cool his ardor. Taking a deep breath he dove gracefully under the waves.

“Oh, mon dieu, I think the Viking drowned,” Doré exclaimed, her eyes glued to the spot where Leif had disappeared.

Damarra’s heart raced as she too stared only to see the water smooth out and no sign of the Viking. She gripped her sister’s hand. “What are we going to do?”

Before Doré had a chance to answer, Leif popped up like a cork, spewing water and chuckling in delight. He would have liked to relax by swimming on his back, but thought better of it. Instead he sliced through the current in long even strokes, leaving the girls gaping in surprise, wondering how such a feat was possible.

Leif enjoyed putting on a show, but tired quickly. The loss of blood no simple matter to forget.

“Demoiselles, I am ready to exit,” he finally called, not wanting a repeat of their earlier discomfiture.

Damarra and Doré obediently turned their backs, their hearts racing and their mouths dry. Both stared straight ahead, each loath to let on to the other that she imagined how gloriously sleek the Viking would look once he stepped out of the water. It seemed an eternity before he told them that he was dressed.

Both girls gasped and exchanged a quick look of shock. Though the Viking was garbed in the dreadful wolf pelt once again, his appearance had changed drastically. Gone was that wild look. He’d slicked his hair back with the palms of his hands. The heavy mass hung in shiny wet waves to his shoulders. Now that he was clean, his skin glowed and his handsome features were no longer obscured beneath a layer of dirt. Dark golden brows slashed across his wide forehead, while sinfully long lashes ringed his wide-set eyes. Eyes, Damarra had already learned, that had a way of turning frigid like a Nordic Sea or heated like the azure sky of summer, depending on the Viking’s mood. A slim, straight nose dissected dominant high cheekbones and finely sculpted male lips rounded out a rather pleasing face.

Yet, neither girl could forget the perfect symmetry of the superb body hidden beneath the ugly wolf pelt.

Leif knew he’d come under close scrutiny judging by the looks the demoiselles directed his way. He swallowed the sassy grin hovering on his lips and feigned indifference, though it really stoked his badly battered male ego. After all, it was less than fair that he should have to sit at the edge of the stream, his wounded leg stretched out before him. It was downright demeaning that a Viking should have to hold out a large, long fingered hand palm up, and be forced to say, “Now, if you could hand me the bandages, demoiselle, I would be most grateful.”

By Odin, if Asgard or Talon heard him speak in such flowery terms they would make fun of him for the rest of his life. They’d hoot. He would never live it down that he, the son of the great chieftain Sven, was babbling like a milksop child. But what choice did he have? These two women were his only chance of making it back to Hedeby.

“Never mind, Viking. I think I can do a better job of bandaging that wound than you,” Damarra insisted, while Doré’s eyes shot daggers at her.

Leif sucked in a surreptitious breath. God help him, her hands were gentle on his flesh, but they also proved mighty distracting. He was glad for the cover of his wolf pelt tunic for his manhood did a veritable dance underneath it.

Oblivious of the discomfort she caused, Damarra prattled on. “This needs more cleansing than you had from the stream, Viking. I hope the salve I put on your wound will keep it from putrefying.”

Didn’t she realize he was dying by degrees? What did a little putrefaction matter in comparison? It was sheer torture to have a comely wench so near, her hands teasing his flesh. But he owed her so much that it did not sit right with his sense of honor to slake his lust on her. Gritting his teeth, he ground, “I have taken too much of your time and generosity. You can’t chance being seen with me. You have done more than your share. I thank you and I pray that Odin will favor you with good fortune.

He made an attempt to stand, but despite the tight bandage, he couldn’t. His eyes became hard as glass when he noticed the girls looking down at him with sympathy. He couldn’t have that. He was a Viking and he’d already sacrificed more of his pride than he should have been willing to surrender.

“Just go,” he bit out. “I’ll be all right.” His hands made a shooing motion and this time Damarra turned to leave.

She was deeply offended by his arrogant attitude. Well, what had she expected? He had said he wished them good fortune. It was time to go.

But she faltered after several steps. Lifting her skirt, she pulled his knife from her garter and threw it at him. “Here, Viking, at least you have something to defend your arrogant hide,” she hissed.

With a lopsided grin Leif deftly caught the weapon in his hand. He sighed with relief when Damarra turned to go. By the hounds of Loki, the demoiselle could have been his downfall yet. Of course, she could not know that she had taken his breath with the unwitting display of her shapely legs.

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