“Now, one at a time, come forward and put your weapons on the cart,” she demanded.
Amidst more grumbling from his men, Gunnar stepped forward and unbuckled the golden sheath that held his sword, Maid’s Dream, from his waist. The bejeweled sword was his most prized possession—an incredible, unique trophy from his most recent Middle Eastern raids. As he laid it on the rough boards, he never took his eyes from her. “This is a valuable and honored family heirloom,” he lied. “I would have it back.”
She smiled a cold hard smile. “Aye, I’m sure that it is. Perhaps one day, we’ll even be lucky enough to return it to the family you stole it from.”
“I think I’ve been most obliging in this negotiation,” Gunnar said, ignoring her barb. “You could at least tell me your name.”
She looked at him with such utter disdain, it made Gunnar almost smile. Her haughtiness was certainly like no peasant girl he’d ever met before. But then again, he’d never met a peasant so bold who would dare to take up arms to attack Northmen—in feeble attempts to defend themselves perhaps, but never to attack.
“You’ll be havin’ no need of my name,” she said. “You will never see me again.”
He wanted her to say more—to say anything, so he could hear her voice and watch her eyes flash, but she only waved him off with the crossbow. After he and his men were herded back into a group in the center of the road, and the handcart was pulled away, she bent down and removed something from her horse’s left front leg. Tossing it aside, she led the now-sound animal forward a few steps before climbing onto its back and galloping away.
As the armed men surrounding them melted back into the forest, Gunnar went to search for what she had discarded. He found it just off the side of the road in the underbrush. It was a simple device made from two leather straps and a small blunt piece of wood. When attached to the inside of the animal’s leg, it had been unnoticeable, but every time the horse had taken a step, the wood had harmlessly jabbed it, causing it to limp.
Rorick appeared at his side. “Well, I guess that answers the question if the rumors of raiders are true. What now?” he asked.
“Send a small party to retrieve our weapons. Men pulling a loaded handcart in this weather will be easy enough to overtake—if they haven’t abandoned it already. The rest of us will return to The Huntress. Tomorrow we’ll pay a visit to the slave trader to replace the slaves.”
“But we just paid good coin for this lot,” Rorick fumed.
“Who said anything about paying for the next ones?” Gunnar said, his voice grim. “Only one man knew we were moving those slaves tonight. And only one man has much to gain by selling twice their number. I shall have a serious discussion with our Dublin friend and show him what happens to those who double cross us.”
And discover the identity of his beautiful accomplice in the process.
I would like to take this opportunity to thank special people who have made this book and all the ones to follow possible. First I want to thank my mother for instilling in me a passion for reading at a very early age. It opened my mind to the endless possibilities of the world and beyond, and fueled a wild imagination that persists today.
Thanks to my father and stepfather, who provided me with an extraordinarily diverse life. From slicing through pristine snow on top of Independence Pass, to being part of the passionate celebration of freedom at the Brandenburg Tor, from leaping like gazelles in Panama City, to meeting the children of the Eel Clan in Pohnpei, from pulling crab traps and shrimp nets in the deep South, to opera in Hamburg. Looking back, the spectrum of my life experiences is breathtaking. Those experiences not only shaped who I am, they provided me with an immeasurably vast pool of memories to draw from for my characters and settings.
To my husband, I thank you for being a real man in an era where that is so increasingly rare. You are my inspiration, my rock, and my soulmate. It still amazes me every day that two people can be so right for each other. Not that we always agree on everything, (yes, there is a smile in there), but absolutely right for each other.
For my actual writing I thank my fellow Gourmet Writers, Janet and Maryann. I thank you for your candor in telling me when something didn’t work, and I thank you for your truly invaluable expert editing. I thank you for all the good food and good times, even when times weren’t good. Our meetings and lively discussions were always a bright spot, and I miss them. But it was your unwavering enthusiasm for my stories, week after week, year after year, that encouraged me to persist to publication. Without you, I would still be writing, but it would be unfinished stories and scenes that no one else would ever see.
Thank you, thank you, thank you...Or as Nena would say, Gratitude.
For information about the author and other books by Ann Boelter go to her website:
www.annboelter.com
Copyright 2018 by Ann Boelter
Excerpt from Fiona copyright 2018 by Ann Boelter
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.
Published by Trademark Publishing Company, Colorado.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Fiona by Ann Boelter. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: September 2018
ISBN: 978-1-732-6565-1-2
Cover & Interior designed and formatted by:
www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com
