Free Viking Fire by Andrea R. Cooper

and leave.” She squared her shoulders refusing to budge.
    “Why do I anger you so?” His voice was gentle.
    Her thoughts drifted of her sister’s laments of her husband who lingered into other women’s bedchambers crawled through her mind. How would Bram be any different? His kind raped and pillaged for amusement. “Your affairs,” the word tasted bitter on her tongue, “are no concern of mine. You may love whomever you wish. Only leave me alone and this ridiculous idea of us marrying.”
    “I will have you trust me if we are to marry.”
    “I will not marry you. I told you afore.”
    He ran his fingers through his blond hair. “I have always told you the truth.” His dimple vanished when he frowned. “And I will forever do so.”
    She glanced away, but his fingers lifted her chin until their eyes met.
    “I have no interest in any other woman.” His thumb brushed across her lips. “Since you crossed my path.”
    She rolled her eyes, and jerked her head away from his touch.
    “’Tis true.” His voice sent shivers down her spine. “And you will feel the truth of my words.” He leaned forward, and then caressed her lips with his.
    She did not succumb to the heat spreading through her. Instead she clenched her fists.
    His nibbling on her lips drove her to madness. She thought about punching him.
    He pushed back and winked. “Our marriage night will chase away your lack of belief.”
    “I have told you, we will have no wedding or marriage.” Perhaps she could get Rebecca to play proxy for her. She would have to convince them both that it was not by proxy afterwards.
    She could run away. There were enough jewels in her possession to pay for a journey to Scotland and a small cottage with a few servants at least.
    “Aye.” He chuckled and used the staff to stand. “You will believe come the morning after.” With a slight bow of his head, he turned to leave.
    Her mouth worked but no sound came as he limped out of the kitchens. Aye, Bram was dangerous.

Chapter Ten
    The Lochlann would cause trouble,
Feoras thought as he cut the roasted duck on his trencher. The high table stretched before him, Bearach at his father’s right hand, and he on his father’s left.
    His spy heard rumors in her circles with the Lady Liannon. The Lochlann rushed his men from across the seas to work on Kaireen’s holding. They would arrive after the wedding feast.
    No doubt, Feoras and his men must strike before this. Otherwise a score or more warriors would descend upon the O’Neill clan, swaying the battle in Bram’s favor. The less men, especially Vikings, that the Liannon clan had on their side the better his outcome.
    Battles never succeed exactly as planned. Feoras hoped to renew the bitter resentment of his clan against the Liannon’s. Pity his father wanted peace and had worked so long to grasp its slippery garment.
    Feoras’ marrow boiled to rule both clans. His mother told him that although the younger son, he would accomplish great things.
    Did not Jacob from the bible surpass his elder brother? She had asked when he questioned her. Would not Abel have the inheritance if he had slain his brother first?
    Kaireen. How he hated the chit. This clan rejuvenation of unity was her fault. Women must be taught their place, lower than man and chattel, lower than slugs, which oozed from underneath his boots in the morning. Kaireen dared to fight with the men as though she were equal. She would be shown her place soon enough.
    Resentment festered in his blood at the sight of her waving his father’s sword at the Lochlann enemy. And the memory of her arrows shooting through the air turned his bowels.
    He gulped his wine to quench his dry mouth. When he won the battle, he longed to smell her blood, in its pungent metallic aroma. Her defiant blood.
    If he were given a moment alone with her after the battle days ago, she would have begged for death.
    As though it were Kaireen in his hands, he tore pieces from the turkey leg. He