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  Published by The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,

  Hartwood Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona

  www.hartwoodpublishing.com

  Bold Bounty

  Copyright © 2018 by Adri Amanti

  Digital Release: February 2018

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Bold Bounty by Adri Amanti

  Welsh noblewoman Morwen Angmire awaits the arrival of her betrothed, the Marquis Delmore Le Chevreaux of France. But before the Marquis can arrive to claim her, the Northmen raid her father’s keep and take her and several other women away to the harsh, cold north, where Morwen is claimed by Bjorn Halden, the devilish but handsome son of the village chieftain. As winter comes and sailing is treacherous, Morwen must learn to live as a Viking, while to the south some dark horror has arrived in Wales with the French nobleman. Livestock and peasants are found ravaged by what seems to be a large wolf, and the people live in fear. Forced to play the part of Bjorn’s woman to save her friends, Morwen soon finds life in the village to her liking, and her heart captivated by the Viking who knows so much of the world and its politics and poetry. When Bjorn must leave the village to bring supplies to his people, the Marquis arrives with Morwen’s father and brother to rescue her. Reluctantly, Morwen agrees to leave the Vikings when it becomes apparent the Marquis will kill them all if she refuses him. As they journey back to France, Morwen learns the truth about the beast she has promised to marry. The Marquis Le Chevreaux isn’t just a man. He’s a werewolf. Held prisoner in Le Chevreaux’s home, Morwen can only hope Bjorn finds her before she has to marry the monster and submit to his perverse desires.

  Dedication

  Bold Bounty is dedicated to the one who shares, supports, and inhabits my dreams.

  Chapter One

  The burning orb of the sun sank slowly, swallowed by the depths of the restless Atlantic Ocean. Early stars twinkled uncertainly in the grey of the heavens. Fifty feet below the bank, water plunged and echoed like thunder on the stone face of the cliff.

  He is coming.

  Marquis Delmore Le Chevreaux would have set sail from his home near Bordeaux in southern France almost a week ago. Morwen Angmire turned her face south to search the ocean.

  He was taking her to his magnificent chateau where she would have a lavish wedding. After the wedding… She wasn’t sure what then, but Morwen was certain only good things would come of her marriage. Her father had promised her as much. At the least, she would be able to leave the land of her birth—the cold, dreary moors of western Wales—and live in a warm, lively French court.

  France was a modern country where important things happened. She would have the chance to reach her potential as the wife of a powerful Marquis.

  Morwen turned her gaze to the southeast, the direction her father had gone. She hoped he would return home before the Marquis Le Chevreaux arrived. Morwen anticipated her father, Duke Conlan Angmire of Pellagrin, would have returned home by noon. Conlan, along with Morwen’s brother, Colton, and their knights, had ridden away three weeks past to help old Sir Lloyd.

  The neighbor was fighting a young, arrogant knight who had roused several villages against their lord. Conlan expected the battle to be short and without many casualties on either side. Morwen did not worry yet. The last report, brought by messenger a week ago, was that victory was nearly at hand for Sir Lloyd and his allies.

  Perhaps the men stayed to celebrate the victory and will be back tomorrow. She would be glad to hear her father’s booming laugh again.

  Morwen raised a hand to her forehead and held back a lock of sable hair to scan the distant, watery horizon to the south. There was no sign of approaching ships.

  It’s the wind. For the past two days, the wind had howled from the north. Such a gale would be sure to slow a French ship’s progress to Wales. Rumor told that to delay the Marquis Le Chevreaux was to ask for his wrath. Could the Marquis slay the wind? Morwen smiled and kicked a pebble over the bank into the agitated water below.

  Reluctantly, Morwen turned to climb the hill toward the squatty, drab keep of her father. Something caught her eye as she turned, and she hesitated, studying the shore to the north. There! She saw it again, a bright orange tongue of fire leaping toward the sky. What was happening there? Was one of the peasant’s homes on fire? She shivered, remembering bedside tales about the land’s original inhabitants burning people in great wicker statues as offerings to heathen gods. Such beastly things the people of this place had done before the land was settled. She shook her head and hurried up the hill, pulling her cloak tighter about her shoulders as she went into the teeth of the wind.

  The old guard at the gate bowed as Morwen crossed the scummy moat and approached his post. “Any sign yet, Lady Morwen?”

  “No, none,” she answered, shivering now. She hurried under the raised portcullis and down a long passage lined with murder holes to the courtyard, passing the granary and the chapel without seeing so much as a pecking chicken braving the cold and the wind. Morwen opened the heavy wooden door of the keep’s towering main hall.

  She found her mother, Bronwyn, carding wool with Glynis, Rhonda, and Wynne, daughters of her father’s friends sent to live in the court of Pellagrin. Morwen shook the sea-spray from her hair as the group turned their attention toward her.

  “Well, child, is the Marquis come yet?” Her mother smiled, an act that made her look much younger.

  “No, Mother, not yet,” Morwen answered as she sat on a bench bedside the matriarch.

  “Maybe he has changed his mind and found some French girl to marry instead,” Glynis needled. “They say he has no need to look far. Why come to Wales for a wife?”

  Morwen glared at Glynis. She noticed her mother also giving Glynis a sharp look. The other girls glanced up and then purposefully turned back to their work. Morwen did not pull her gaze away until Glynis dropped her eyes back to her work.

  “He will come,” Bronwyn soothed. “What French girl could sway him away from Morwen? None. He will come because you are more beautiful than anyone in France.”

  “And besides, the marriage is a mark of friendship between Wales and France,” Glynis added without looking up. “France and England have been disputing the area of Aquitaine for a long time. If it comes to war, it may be good for France to have a nobleman who is married to a highborn woman of Wales.”

  Morwen grunted, not liking to be reminded of the political reasons for her marriage. She preferred to believe the Marquis Le Chevreaux had requested her hand in marriage because he was smitten by her that long ago day when he visited the house of Angmire.

  “Remember when he was here last?” Morwen asked of no one in particular.

  “Aye, I remember well,” her mother said. “I remember a dark-haired girl peeking at the visitor from behind a barrel. She didn’t realize the barrel was empty and would fall over when she leaned too heavily on it.” Bronwyn laughed, and t
he maidens added their own giggles.

  “Well.” Morwen huffed but couldn’t repress a smile at the memory. “It was funny, I suppose. But not at the time. I was humiliated. He was so tall and elegant. Like a lord already.”

  “He was but sixteen, and here with his father, child,” Bronwyn reminded her. “You were only eight winters old yourself. No wonder he seemed tall. But he did have pleasant manners, and quite a smile, if I remember.”

  “Yes.” Morwen nodded. “He was trying to grow a mustache like his father’s, a long one he could curl around his finger. It looked funny on him, just like fuzz on a caterpillar’s back. I hope he was never able to grow one. I wouldn’t kiss a man with hair on his face.”

  Wynne, the youngest of the maidens, tittered at the mention of kissing.

  “I think it is still the custom of the French to wear mustaches these days,” Bronwyn said. “Perhaps you should find a caterpillar to kiss, just so you’ll be used to it.” The young women burst into laughter, but Morwen only smiled and shook her head.

  “I wouldn’t mind a mustache so much.” Glynis looked at Morwen. “Besides, if your husband wants a kiss, you have to kiss him.”

  “Glynis, you would do anything to be kissed by anyone,” Wynne teased, her big, doe eyes and curly blonde hair making her look like a cherub. “I declare, I think you’d—” She was cut off by a black look from Glynis.

  “I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed early.” Morwen rose from the bench. She glanced at Glynis, who had put her carding comb down as soon as Morwen stood.

  “It is cold tonight, and will likely frost before morning,” Bronwyn said. “It may be a good night for you four girls to share a bed to keep warm.”

  “Morwen won’t have to share a bed with us much longer,” Rhonda stated. Morwen blushed as she started from the room.

  “If the lady will pardon me, I will go with Morwen now,” Glynis said.

  “Go.” Bronwyn waved her away with a smile. “You may all go if you wish. Leave an old woman to work alone while you go to your bed.”

  Only Morwen and Glynis left the room. Taking a tallow candle, Morwen led them up the wide stone stairs to the third level of the tower, where the unmarried women slept. Morwen put the candle on a table, and they dressed for bed.

  “You’re a lucky one, Morwen,” Glynis said as she pulled a woolen gown over her head. “I would love to go to France and marry a marquis. Or just live at a rich court. Not that your father’s court is bad,” she added hastily.

  Morwen laughed. “Oh, no, it’s not bad if you don’t mind drafts in your bed and the smell of horses always in the air. Not to mention that nothing ever happens here. It might not be so bad if we were men and could ride off to war. Or could at least come and go when we pleased. And our court is barely worthy of the name. It’s a barnyard when compared to the rich palaces in London or Paris, where artists, courtiers, and poets are to be found all the time. The court of a marquis will be a welcome change.”

  “I wish I was going with you,” Glynis said. “I guess that’s why I say such mean things sometimes. You forgive me?” She combed her hair with her fingers as she made the apology, her eyes on the post at the foot of the bed.

  Morwen glanced at the younger woman. Glynis was a pretty girl of fifteen, with high cheekbones and glittering gray eyes. However, her hair was mousy-brown, her lips thin, and she whined nearly as much as she schemed against the other girls. Her family was little better than peasants. Only her father’s ability to breed spectacular horses had elevated the family to a position where he could send his daughter to the court of Pellagrin.

  “You’ll get your chance.” Morwen snuffed the candle and crawled into the cold straw-filled bed beside Glynis.

  They lay quietly for a while, huddled shoulder to shoulder for warmth. Soon Morwen was breathing deeply and smiling slightly, but not quite asleep. She was aware of Glynis raising herself onto an elbow and leaning to look into her face.

  “Maybe he’ll see me and like me better,” Glynis whispered. “I could be the wife of a marquis just as well as you could.” Then she lay down and was soon asleep herself.

  Several minutes later, the other girls joined them in the large bed, and soon all were sleeping, comforted by the shared body heat and security of the stone fortress.

  »»•««

  Of the four women, Morwen was the first to awaken. She sat up in bed and listened to the noise that had roused her. It was the sound of horns. She realized immediately it was an alarm. The bell of the cathedral clanged frantically as she crawled over Wynne and Glynis to escape the confines of the bed.

  “What is it?” Wynne said sleepily as she sat up and looked at Morwen.

  “An alarm.” Morwen threw her heavy cloak about her shoulders and rushed to the window. She unlatched the shutters and flung the panels apart then stuck her head out the opening. Her window faced the sea, and there, in the pale light of the moon, she saw three longships. Each ship had a single mast and the head of some monster carved on the prow. The ships were beached on a patch of barren earth on the otherwise rocky shore.

  “Dear God,” she murmured as the other girls joined her. Morwen remembered the fire she saw earlier. She realized the cause of the blaze.

  “Whose ships are those?” Rhonda asked. The sound of swordplay and shouts of battling men came from the courtyard below the window.

  “The Northmen,” Morwen said. She turned away from the window and hurried to a heavy wooden trunk bound with brass. She opened the lid and drew out a long-bladed dagger. “They’re inside the walls. Hide yourselves and pray they don’t—”

  The sound of heavy blows on their chamber door interrupted Morwen. The door burst inward, and two enormous men charged into the room. One carried a heavy battle-ax. The other had a long, naked sword in his clenched fist. They hesitated when they saw the women then looked around the room.

  “Four of them,” the bigger one said in harsh, accented tones. He had a thick, matted, red beard and long, straggly hair capped by a leather helmet. His face, like his companion’s, was decorated with lines and circles of dark colors. “Let’s bring them along.”

  “Come girls, come,” the smaller one coaxed. “We haven’t got the night to spend in your pleasant room.” He was younger than the first man, with hair and beard that may have been blond after a washing. His face wore a gleeful, devious grin, and his eyes glittered in the darkness.

  “Morwen, help us,” Wynne pleaded from the window.

  “What do you want of us?” Morwen demanded, squaring her shoulders as she faced the intruders.

  “We want you to come home with us,” the bigger man said, laughing and looking at his comrade as if sharing a joke.

  “You will go home, and you will leave now.” Morwen pulled herself to her full height.

  “A fiery lass,” the big man said. “Bjorn will like her. Come on, Dag, I think we’ll have to help them along.” He advanced on the women, the younger man following eagerly.

  Morwen waited until the older man reached one thick hand to grasp her, and then she lashed out with the knife she had concealed in the folds of her cloak. The blade sliced through the hairy pelt the man wore as a shirt, and blood ran from a wound in his arm. She brought the knife back for another assault, but he flicked his sword up and sent the dagger flying from her hand.

  “Bjorn Halden might like fire in his women,” the Viking said between gritted teeth, his face a mask of rage. “But I like mine to act like servants. Until you are given to Bjorn, you will be a slave and act like a slave.” He sheathed his sword and lunged at Morwen.

  She ducked and thought for a moment she evaded his grasp, but then his arms closed about her waist like two steel bands. She struggled and finally managed to squirm around so she could look into his leering face. With a grunt and all the strength she could muster in her awkward position, Morwen smashed her elbow into his mouth. She felt teeth breaking and cutting into her arm. The man staggered back, and Morwen was free. She turned to look fo
r her knife, forgetting the second man.

  He pulled a blanket from the bed and took advantage of her inattention. Morwen turned back to face him just as he charged at her and threw the blanket over her head. He did not slow his momentum, but crashed into her, causing Morwen to stumble and fall. Her head slammed against the stone wall, the heavy bed cover dampening the blow only a little. Morwen slipped into a well of blackness.

  In the time Morwen was unconscious, she had been bound within the dark, confining blanket and slung across the shoulder of the bigger Viking. She could hear the younger one, sometimes near, sometimes farther away. He was chiding the other women as the Northmen led them out of the tower. Morwen’s head throbbed where it had contacted the wall. She could no longer hear the sounds of battle and assumed the Vikings had vanquished the few men left to defend the fortress. Morwen could smell smoke and heard the crackle of a hungry fire.

  What of Mother? Morwen begin struggling again. Blood rushed to her head, and the blackness reclaimed her.

  The next time she awoke, Morwen discovered she was no longer confined to the blanket, nor bound in any way. Every young woman from the keep was crowded together on the wooden deck of a Viking ship. There were other women—daughters of farmers and tradesmen from the land around her father’s stronghold.

  A man at the ship’s prow called a quick but monotonous rhythm. Fourteen men grunted as they pulled on the oars that carried the boat across the dark water. They were going north, back to the home of these barbaric people. The cadence of the stroke-caller seemed synchronized to the pounding of her head. Morwen tenderly touched the swollen bruise. It hurt, but she would be all right. She climbed to her feet, bracing herself against a wall for support as her head swam.

  The women, about a dozen of them, had been herded into the stern of the ship, just behind the last oarsmen. Morwen looked up the aisle made by Viking men sitting on sea chests to where the caller stood shouting the rhythm that set the pace of the rowers. The ship was at least sixty feet long. A red and white sail was furled at the top of the mast. The oak planks of the vessel creaked as it moved across the water. They were traveling swiftly through the still night. Morwen wished for the northerly wind she cursed only a few hours before darkness came. On a slightly higher deck behind the women, another burly manhandled the rudder of the low, sleek vessel.