A Viking For The Viscountess by Michelle Willingham Page A

he realized that her sense of honor was holding her back. Unlike Svala, she would not betray the man she was bound to. She had not willingly shared herself that night—she’d believed he wasn’t real.
    And for that reason, he stopped immediately. His body ached with physical desire, but it was a punishment he deserved.
    Any of your kinsmen would simply take her, his mind taunted. They would not ask for her consent.
    Arik had the strength to overpower her, and though his tribe was not known for mercy, he would never take a woman against her will. He preferred a yielding female body clenched around him, as she arched with a rush of release. That was far better than a woman who fought back.
    He didn’t argue when she got off the bed and walked toward the window. Juliana pressed her hand against the flat pane of glass, her mood somber once again. She looked as if she was berating herself for the moment with him.
    He swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked toward her. “Did you love your husband?”
    She held her ground but didn’t look at him. “I thought I did when I married him. But I loved a man who did not exist.”
    “Then you should put aside the marriage and find a man who is more deserving of you.” Even if it could never be him, he did not believe Juliana should grieve for an unworthy man.
    He pressed his palm to the glass, feeling its strange cool texture. It was a marvel to him that anyone could make something as hard as stone that a person could see through. He had seen glass before during his voyages, but never had it been this transparent. It was yet another reminder of how vast the years were between them.
    From this view, the green meadows spread for miles, while evergreen pines dotted the base of the hills. There was a familiarity to this land, a sense that he had seen this place before. And when he glimpsed a lone pillar of rock at the top of the highest hill, a chill slid through his veins.
    “I know this place,” he said to Juliana. “My brother held these lands.”
    Magnus had traveled and settled here, more than a thousand years ago. He remembered the settlement, for his brother had created his dwelling at the top of the highest point while other longhouses encircled it. They had chosen a place where they could easily see their enemies approaching, both on land and by sea.
    A coldness centered within him, with the sense that the gods were reweaving his destiny once again. It could not be a coincidence that he had been brought to this place.
    Juliana frowned as she studied the standing stone in the distance. “Those lands belong to Gregory Fielding, the Duke of Somerford.”
    “Do you know him?”
    She shrugged. “We’ve met a time or two.”
    Abruptly, she frowned, catching his hand. She studied the outline of his face, her gaze sharpening with uncertainty. “ That’s where I know you. You remind me of the duke’s son.” She stared at him as if she believed he was someone else. “His name is Eric, too. His courtesy title is the Marquess of Thorgraham.”
    The names were similar, and it unnerved him as he remembered the dream where he had seen visions that were not his own. Whose memories did you see in your dream? the voice of reason insisted. How can you speak a language that is not yours?
    Juliana had gone deathly pale. “The duke’s son was lost at sea, years ago.” She reached out to touch his face, studying him. “Is that who you truly are? I know that sometimes men who are wounded can suffer from losing their memories.”
    “No,” he answered. “I am the son of Valdr, not Gregory.” Any similarity between them was merely a twist of fate, nothing more.
    It was as if his spirit had crossed paths with another, switching places. He could not deny that he’d remembered visions that were not his. But it could easily have been tricks played by the gods.
    He could not think of that now. It was better to concentrate on the task at hand, on how to win back this woman’s