A vibrant Celtic Slave Woman holds the key to her Viking Master's heart.
Sibling rivalry, deceit, and seduction flourish in Ancient Ireland as Amoda Ni Cormac struggles to free herself from the shadows of her enslavement. Her ordeal is made more difficult by Mykyl Tyrsson, son of her captor and Lord of Woodstown, the man who has captured her heart.
His brother’s wedding brings Norse Prince Mykyl back to Bratthl’id Norway, and face to face with the proud Amoda Ni Cormac, a woman destined to be his oldest brother, Olaf’s concubine. Driven by revenge, Mykyl steals the emerald eyed beauty.
Amoda’s journey will take her to Ireland and a dark past. She will face her toughest battle yet for independence, and the heart of her proud Viking lord. Bound by duty, secrets, and lies, Mykyl and Amoda are caught in a battle for survival that will ultimately set them free.
Excerpt
“A little something to keep you warm at night, Amoda? Mayhap we could settle upon the order of things without the need for violence.” Deep and rich, the voice filled the room around her.
Startled, Amoda whipped around to stare at the man lounging against the doorframe. His arms crossed over his chest, an unreadable look upon his face, he stared back at her.
“You slithering worm! How dare you go about scaring people?” Amoda dropped the sword in her hand at the dark look upon his face. She swallowed as he stalked toward her, his stride purposeful.
“I dare much in my own chamber!” She flinched as Mykyl kicked the trunk closed. “It seems I should be questioning your motives, Amoda. What does a slave need with her master’s weapons?”
Catching the dark look on his face, Amoda tensed, fear coiling within her as she stumbled backwards. She wouldn’t beg him for anything, regardless of what his intent. Her eyes slid down to his waist, settling upon the carved hilt of the dagger that rested on his hip near his sword.
Mykyl’s gaze followed her glance. She swallowed when his right hand came up to settle upon the dagger. Awareness sparked in his eyes. His expression shifted, tightened into an ugly mask of rage.
“Are you certain you wish to try it?” Mykyl asked icily.
“Come closer and see.” She knew she couldn’t win using physical strength, but mayhap with shrewdness, she could be the victor. If she had learned anything being Rognvaldr’s slave, it was to pick her opportunity. Sooner or later, a weakness could be exploited, whether successfully or not.
Mykyl unbuckled his belt, and tossed it at the bed without breaking eye contact. He stopped and waited a few inches from her. A blatant challenge in his eyes, he doubted her will. Amoda swallowed against the tangle of fear and anger. Her gaze darted from his face to his weapon as she weighed the risks. She backed up a couple of steps.
“Well?” He spread his arms as though in surrender. “Do you wish to please me woman?”
“Not particularly.”
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