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“You and I shall marry.”
The Scot’s eyes popped wide. “Yer daft, woman.” He’d be on his way now, thank ye very much. “Besides, I have a bride.” George rose shakily to his feet. Rika rose with him. Sweet Jesus, the woman was nearly as tall as he. “Arranged,” he croaked, “by William the Lyon—my king.”
She flinched at his words. “It matters not.”
Oh, but it did. Women should be small and delicate. Submissive. Her brash demeanor repelled him…yet his body felt strangely stirred.
“Once we are divorced, you can go home and claim her. The dowry is all I want. It’s mine by right, and I will have it.”
What she proposed was unthinkable. Marriage was a sacrament. ’Twas not a pagan ritual to be done and undone on a whim, simply to gain the bride her coin.
“I willna do it.”
“Then I hope you enjoy our island, Scotsman, for you’ll be here a very long time.” She turned her back on him and marched away.
MILLS & BOON
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Dear Reader,
Harlequin Historicals is putting on a fresh face! We hope you enjoyed our special inside front cover art from recent months. We plan to bring this “extra” to you every month! You may also have noticed our new look—a maroon stripe that runs along the right side of the front cover and an “HH” logo in the upper right corner. Hopefully, this will help you find our books more easily in the crowded marketplace. And thanks again to those of you who participated in our reader survey. Your feedback enables us to bring you more of the stories and authors that you like!
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Ice Maiden, by award-winning author Debra Lee Brown, will grab you and not let go. When a Scottish clan laird washes ashore on a remote island, the price of his passage home is temporary marriage to a Viking hellion whose icy facade belies a burning passion…. And don’t miss The Ranger’s Bride, a terrific tale by Laurie Grant. Wounded on the trail of an infamous gang, a Texas Ranger with a past seeks solace in the arms of a beautiful “widow,” who has her own secrets to reveal….
Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.
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Tracy Farrell, Senior Editor
ICE MAIDEN
DEBRA LEE BROWN
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
Available from Harlequin Historicals and DEBRA LEE BROWN
The Virgin Spring #506
Ice Maiden #549
For James with love
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter One
The Shetland Islands, 1206
He was dreaming.
Aye, that explained everything.
Grit and salt stung his eyes. Icy water rushed over his body in a bone-chilling wave. He couldn’t feel his legs anymore. If only he could move or cry out.
“He is perfect,” a feminine voice whispered close to his ear. A soft fingertip grazed his jawline.
“Perfectly dead, I’ll wager.” The rough voice was a man’s, the accent fair strange.
He cracked an eye to the flat, white light of dawn and tried to focus.
“You wager poorly, Lawmaker. Look, he wakes.”
Nay, he wasn’t dreaming at all.
He was dead.
The vision floating above him was enough to convince him. He’d heard of them, of course, in legends told around campfires late at night by seafaring Danes and Norwegians come to trade in Inverness. But he was a Christian and believed not in such tales.
Yet there she was, looming over him, waiting.
“Valkyrie,” he breathed.
The vision frowned, narrowing ice-blue eyes at him.
“You’re right,” the male voice said somewhere at the edge of his consciousness. “He’s not dead, just daft.”
Oh, he was dead, all right. How else could he explain such a creature?
Two thick, flaxen braids secured with rings of hammered bronze grazed his bare chest as she studied him. She wore a helm, as might a warrior, embossed with strange runes—the kind he’d seen on ancient standing stones near the Bay of Firth—and a light hauberk of finely crafted mail.
But she was a woman, of that there was no doubt. The blush of her cheek, the ripeness of her lips, belied her garments and her hard, calculating expression.
His gaze drifted lazily along the curve of her neck and the narrow set of her shoulders. Her arms were bare and sun bronzed, adorned with more of the same hammered metal. With each measured breath, her breasts strained ever so slightly against her hauberk.
“Am I—” he rasped. “Is this—” He coughed up another lungfull of seawater, then met the Valkyrie’s penetrating gaze. “Valhalla?”
Men’s