On January 4, 2011, Ravished by a Viking will release. It’s my first book with Berkley and the start of a new series. In the coming weeks, I’ll be looking for help from those of you who enjoy my books to get the word out. I’ll have a contest with some great prizes that will have a widget for you to proliferate. I’ll be giving peeks into the story to whet your appetites. If sales happen for this book, then I’ll get the chance to write more for Berkley. So whether you see more books from this world really does all depend on you.
If you’ve ever dreamed of fierce warriors, worlds filled with strange wonders and horrors, and love that endures terrible trials, I do believe I have the series for you. Here’s a first peek. And if you’d like to read a longer excerpt, you can go here: Chapter One
You can pre-order a copy here: Buy Link for Ravished!
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What a Viking wants, a Viking takes.
When his younger brother goes missing, Dagr, Viking warrior and Lord of the Wolfskin Clan, will do whatever it takes to get him back. But nothing could have prepared him for Honora—a feisty, intelligent woman who is nothing like the women of his world—women who are content to serve their men in all things. Drawn to her despite her recalcitrant nature, Dagr is determined to show her who’s boss both in bed and out.
When the two enemies-turned-lovers join forces to find Dagr’s brother they are thrown into a rousing adventure full of danger, intrigue and erotic abandon. Can their passion truly unite them or will their different worlds lead to destruction for them both?
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The great hall of the Berserkir king’s keep was filled to capacity with the clan’s warriors. Light cast from the iron chandeliers high above the black marble floors gleamed on the muted metal-fiber composite of their armor and the steel nozzles of the laser-spears they held.
Birget stood among the Valkyrja contingent, which formed a half circle around King Sigmund’s throne. As his personal guard, they were the only females allowed inside the hall on this night. True to the traditional nature of the tiny band, they wore hammered metal breastplates over their modern, black uniforms, the gold outer plate embossed with the figure of Freya, their patron goddess, standing in her feline-drawn chariot. Because a truce had been called, their swords remained sheathed, their shields stayed locked inside the armory, and they’d left off their gold, conical helmets.
Word had come that Dagr, clan-lord to the Wolfskins, had been spotted off-shore, his plain, unadorned skiff sailing between the frozen peaks of Hymir’s Sea until he’d skidded onto the rocky beach beneath the fortress walls.
Soldiers had been dispersed to keep watch along the shore to find the rest of his floti, but strangely, none were spotted. He’d come alone.
“Has he gone daft? Or does he believe his own legends?” her sister Ilse asked, clutching her pike.
Dagr, the leader of the Wolfskin clan, struck awe in the hearts of all Berserkirs. His many fierce battles with their army had grown his stature to epic proportions, some even saying that Thor himself had bestowed his blessing on the sword of the great warrior king.
“Quiet, daughters,” Sigmund said. “Whatever brings him here alone cannot bode well for the rest of us.”
“We should capture him,” Birget muttered, unimpressed with the Ulfhednar warrior’s reputation. Dagr was a man like any other—complete with faults. “If he is stupid enough to enter this hall alone,” she groused, “we should enjoy the spectacle.”
Her father shot her a reproving look. “He comes under a flag of truce,” he said for her ears only. “We won’t dishonor our promise to leave him unmolested upon his arrival. We will listen to what he has to say—before we decide whether to detain him.” He gave her a little waggle of his eyebrows.
Birget suppressed a smile and straightened.
The large metal doors at the entrance of the keep creaked open. Bearshirt soldiers marched into the hall, the contingent surrounding the enemy king. When they parted in front of the dais upon which Sigmund’s throne sat, a tall black-haired warrior strode fearlessly from their center.
Birget’s breath caught, her incredulity forgotten. If her future husband was cut from the same cloth, she was doomed.
Dagr, the Black Wolf, stood taller than most of the Beserkir warriors around him. His thickly muscled body radiated strength the way the “pure light” did heat, blaring potent masculinity and power.
His features were harsh and colder than the gray stones cut from Odin’s Mountain peaks to build this fortress. Black brows sheltered deep-set, piercing blue eyes. The sharp-bladed nose, chiseled cheekbones, and square jaw reflected granite will.
Rustling sounded as the warriors inside the hall tensed, and Birget understood their anxiety. Yes, he might stand alone, but who would want to be the first to draw a weapon against such a man? He looked and dressed like a savage, like the legendary warriors from their shared past.
A black wolf’s head sat atop his long dark hair, the eyes of the dead beast seeming to glitter with menace. Bearskin cloaked his massive shoulders. A silver metal breastplate spanned his broad chest. His thick, muscular legs were encased in leather and fur, as were his boots.
His only weapons were the large, double-headed axe that peeked above his head from where it rested between wide shoulders, the famed sword that hung at one side of his hips, and a long, thick-bladed knife sheathed at the other. Primitive weapons, but no one now staring at him doubted he’d be deadly in a fight.
Fury emanated from every inch of his taut frame.
“Lord Dagr,” her father intoned, lowering his chin in a decidedly undeferential manner.
Birget wondered how her father managed to sound so confident when her whole body was strung tighter than a bow.
“My brother,” Dagr ground out in a deep, raspy baritone. “Is he with you?”
In December 4th’s blog, I asked three questions I needed answered by you before I could continue writing my free, serialized story, Bad Moon Rising. Poll #1 is now closed. This is your definition of what The Prowl is:
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