“No one touches my woman. She bears my mark. I claim her.”

Dangerous warrior Ivar Gunnarson is a man of deeds, not words. With little time for the ideals of love, Ivar seizes what he wants – and Princess Thyre will not become the exception to his rule!

Mysterious and enchanting, Thyre rouses Ivar’s desire the moment he lays eyes on her. With Viking factions engaged in a bloody feud, Thyre is yet another captive this hardened warrior conquers – but to be king of Thyre’s heart will entail a battle he has never engaged in before….

To be published by Harlequin Historical Dec 09.

The RomanticTimes says: Basing her love story on an ancient Viking legend, Styles spins the tale of a Viking warrior and a princess. She maintains the myth while adding sexual tension, nonstop action and spice. FOUR STARS.

Excerpt:

Chapter One

796 On Norway’s Border with Sweden

‘Thor’s Hammer, Uncle Ivar, you were right! They are waiting for us. Sitting there. Bold as you like!’

Ivar Gunnarson, jaarl of Viken, glanced towards where his nephew pointed. In the shadow of a rocky island, Ranriken dragon boats lurked. Ivar tightened his grip on the steering oar, moved the oar fractionally to the right and the Sea Witch responded instantly to his command.

 ‘The Ranrike honour us. Five boats against a single boat. It will make for an interesting race.’

All movement had stopped on the boat and the men had turned towards Ivar, their expressions a mixture of fear mingled with anticipation as their calloused hands lightly rested on the oars. And he knew he would prove worthy of their trust. He would see them safely home. Ivar put his trust in things -- the strength of his sword arm, the tautness of his sail, the trueness of his aim, rather than the mumblings of priests or the wearing of amulets. Deeds, not words.

‘But Uncle Ivar,’ Asger said, ‘why are they waiting for us now? Why didn’t they attack us when we were going out to Birka.’

‘They were no danger to us out to Birka, young Asger. Listen to your uncle,’ Erik the Black shouted from where he sat. ‘The Ranriken king wanted us to do the hard work. He desires the spices and silks we are bringing home to Viken but fears the open sea. Your uncle predicted this for months before the voyage began. Despite all those who proclaimed a supernatural cause for our boats not returning, your uncle has been proved right. Trust him. He knows the sea and its ways.’

Other oarsmen echoed Erik’s words and Asger’s worried frown disappeared.

‘And now the race with the Ranrike begins.’ Ivar adjusted his grip on the handle of the steering oar as he considered the silks, amber and other precious cargo that filled his hold, more than a king’s ransom if he could make it to the markets of Kaupang. ‘Here is where you learn what it is to be a true Viken warrior and a member of the felag, Asger.’

 ‘How can we hope to succeed against the boats and the storm?’ Asger wiped his hand across his mouth, his face becoming pinched as he glanced towards where the clouds skittered across the sky.

 ‘We go forward, outrun them. The Sea Witch is the fastest of the Viken ships under sail. She will do anything I ask her.’

‘Anything? Even with those storm crows, hanging in the air?’ Asger asked pointing the gigantic flock of black winged birds beginning to circle the boat. ‘You know what they say about them and this here passage. The crows are Ran’s messengers, telling her where to cast her net for men’s souls, Uncle Ivar.’

‘Crows are birds. They enjoy the wind. It gives them a chance to spread their wings,’ Ivar said.

‘Oh, I had not thought about them enjoying the wind.’

Ivar concentrated on the white-capped waves hitting the boat. Some day when the time for voyages had ended and he could again think about getting a wife, he would like to have a child like Asger. In time, the lad would make an able warrior.

The wind stirred the sea into a forth of white capped waves and the sound of the crows screamed in his ears. Ivar kept his hand steady on the steering oar. The Sea Witch could hold her own in any contest with the weather. The keel and the rigging were made to his design and if they held through out the voyage to Northumbria two years ago, they would hold now.

‘Erik the Black, did you put new rope on the right rigging?’

The seafarer looked up from where he sat at his oar and scratched the side of his nose. ‘I did. Exactly how you instructed, Ivar.’

 ‘The Ranrike expect us to make for the nearest inlet. Once there, all they have to do is wait and lurk, putting the stopper in the jug and stealing all our hard-won cargo.’ Ivar paused, allowing the men to absorb his words. Then he raised his fist. ‘I refuse to have that happen. We will out run this storm and their boats. We will make it back to Kaupang.’

‘Put the sails to the test!’ the crew cried.

‘You read my mind.’ Ivar leant forward as the wind whipped his dark blonde hair. With impatient fingers, he pushed it back from his mouth. ‘Erik the Black has said he followed my instructions. The rigging will hold. We raise the sail on my command.’

 ‘Viken! Viken!’

The Ranrike began their move, gliding forward. The shouts of the oarsmen echoed across the strait. Within a few breaths, the only avenue of escape would close but the timing had to be precise. The Ranrike could not be allowed a chance to regroup.

‘The mast creaks in the wind, Ivar!’ Erik the Black shouted. ‘We need to do lower the sail soon or risk breaking it.’

 ‘Keep those ropes taunt!’ Ivar regarded the storm clouds in the sky as the Sea Witch strained against his steering oar, ready to fly over the waves to safety. ‘And I want double quick time when the sail comes down.’

‘At your command.’

The entire crew’s eyes were on him, hands poised on oars, trusting him and his judgement. He held up his hand, waiting as the water slapped against the side of the boat, enjoying the heady feeling of pitting his wits against the world. The storm crows wheeled around the ship one more time. ‘Now!’

The chequered red-and-white sail unfurled, hung for a heart beat flapping in the wind as the men struggled with the ropes. The shouts from the other boats drowned out the cawing of the crows. Ivar saw the swords glinting, held aloft, poised to strike.  One Ranriken boat began to lower its boarding plank, anticipating the moment. Ivar reached forward, grabbed the end of the rope, tightened it with a few expert twists.

The sail filled, and strained against the ropes. The Sea Witch picked up speed, sliding between the two lead Ranrike boats close enough for Ivar to see the astonished expression on the men’s faces as their prey escaped. Ivar saluted the chief Ranrike jaarl, Sigmund Sigmundson, a man who bowed and scraped when they had appeared before King Mysing, the Ranriken king on their way to Birka. Men, not curses guarded these straits and men could be defeated.

Ivar turned his face into the wind. All he had to do was to steer the boat towards Kaupang and Viken. The coming storm would test him and the men, but they would succeed because of the strength of the keel, the sturdiness of the sail and above the skill with which he navigated.

‘Ivar,’ Erik the Black shouted, ‘one of the Ranrike boats. It is giving chase.’

A wave washed over the prow of the boat, soaking him and his men to the skin. ‘The fun truly begins!’ Ivar called. ‘May the best boat win!’

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