At the end of the evening, in their own bed, Gabrielle nuzzled up against her husband after a lively bout of lovemaking—the first since they’d become engaged, Michael’s orders—and said, “I never thought I could be so happy.”
And Ivak nuzzled her back before sliding down her body and drawling—he was acquiring a very sexy Southern drawl—“Have I shown you the famous Viking X-spot, dearlin’?”
She laughed. “Just how many Viking spots are there?”
“Hundreds,” he said.
Then she was no longer laughing.
Reader Letter
Dear Readers:
So far, I’ve taken my Viking vampire angels to Transylvania, Pennsylvania (Kiss of Pride), Navy SEAL land in Coronado, California (Kiss of Surrender), and now down on the bayou with that rowdy Cajun LeDeux family (Kiss of Temptation). So, how did you like my blending of the characters from one book into this new one? And the question is: Where will the vangels go next? Any suggestions?
What many people don’t realize is that the first of my Cajun books started with Lucien LeDeux’s story in The Love Potion, a novel that was recently reissued by HarperCollins and continues with seven other Cajun and Jinx novels. It won’t be the last of the Cajun contemporary books, but in the meantime, I thought readers would like to know what that outrageous Tante Lulu is up to these days.
There will be more vangel books coming. After all, there are four more Sigurdsson brothers left with stories to tell. Plus, Zebulan, the good demon, intrigues me with his tragic past. Don’t you think he would make a good hero?
But before I start a fourth vangel book, I’m back to Viking Series I and a straight historical romance, titled The Pirate Bride. In this case, the hero is a Viking (Thork, son of Tykir) and the heroine is the pirate. Medana kidnaps Thork and some of his Norse buddies, but when she sends a ransom note to Thork’s father, the old man tells her, “Keep him!” All the books in Viking Series I have been reissued in both print and e-book format by HarperCollins, including: The Reluctant Viking, The Outlaw Viking, The Tarnished Lady, The Bewitched Viking, The Blue Viking, My Fair Viking, A Tale of Two Vikings, leading up to new releases, Viking in Love, The Viking Takes a Knight, and The Norse King’s Daughter. All of these books are available new.
And don’t forget the reissue coming up soon of Frankly, My Dear, a prizewinning favorite book of mine, to be followed by the reissue of its sequel, Sweeter Savage Love, featuring Etienne Baptiste, my all-time favorite hero. Who can resist a tortured hero (a former prisoner of war) with a sense of humor?
Some fans have asked why I keep changing genres: contemporary, historical, time travel, Vikings, Navy SEALs, Cajuns, and now vampire angels? Well, even as a reader, I like variety once in a while. And the market tastes change from time to time; in other words, I write what will sell. Keep in mind, though, that there is a common theme in all my books, regardless of the genre, and that is humor. Plus a little sizzle on the side (okay, a lot) . . . lagniappe, as Tante Lulu would say.
If you want to know what it’s really like at Angola Prison, read these books, and be prepared, it’s not a pretty picture: Wilbert Rideau’s In the Place of Justice: A Story of Punishment and Deliverance; Daniel Bergner’s God of the Rodeo: The Quest for Redemption in Louisiana’s Angola Prison; or Dennis Shere’s Cain’s Redemption.
Keep a lookout for the novella Xmas in Transylvania that will be out at the end of 2013 and please keep checking my website, www.sandrahill.net, or my Facebook page, SandrHillauthor, for more details on all my books and continually changing news. Signed bookplates are available for any or all books by sending an SASE to Sandra Hill, PO Box 604, State College, PA 16804.
As always, I wish you smiles in your reading.
Sandra Hill
Glossary
Adhan—Call to prayer.
Allée—Walkway or road lined with trees or shrubs, especially noted in Old South plantations.
A-Viking—A Norse practice of sailing away to other countries for the purpose of looting, settlement, or mere adventure; could be for a period of several months or for years at a time.
Beignet—A deep-fried donut sprinkled with sugar, a New Orleans favorite.
Berserker—An ancient Norse warrior who fought in a frenzied rage during battle.
Birka—Viking age market town where Sweden is now located.
Boudin—Type of Cajun sausage.
Braies—Slim pants worn by men.
Brynja—Flexible chain mail shirt.
Ceorl (or churl)—Free peasant, person of the lowest classes.
Cher—Cajun male endearment, comparable to friend.
Chère—Cajun female endearment.
Cossack—Russian military warrior during czarist times.
Drukkinn (various spellings)—Drunk, in Old Norse.
Etoufée—A popular Cajun or Creole dish that usually features shellfish served over rice.
Eunuch—Castrated male.
Fais do do—A Cajun party down on the bayou.
Fjord—A narrow arm of the sea, often between high cliffs.
Frottir—A washboard-type percussion instrument worn over the shoulders.
Guano—Bat feces.
Haakai—High-level demon.
Hedeby—Viking age market town where Germany now stands.
Hordling—Lower-level demon.
Houri—Beautiful woman, often associated with a harem.
Housecarls—Troops assigned to a king’s or lord’s household on a longtime, sometimes permanent, basis.
Imps—Lower-level demons, foot soldiers so to speak.
Jarl—High-ranking Norseman similar to an English earl or wealthy landowner, could also be a chieftain or minor king.
Joie de vivre—Joy of life.
Jorvik—Viking age name for York in Britain.
Karl—High-level Norse nobleman, below a jarl or earl.
Keep—House, usually the manor house or main building for housing the owners of the estate.
Kudzu—A trailing vine native to Japan that has gone wild in the Southeastern U.S., now covering roughly seven million acres, it grows about one foot per day.
Lagniappe—A small gift given by merchants at the time of purchase, like a thirteenth donut when ordering a dozen.
Longships—Narrow, open water-going vessels with oars and square sails, perfected by Viking shipbuilders, noted for their speed and ability to ride in both shallow waters and deep oceans.
Lucifer/Satan—The fallen angel Lucifer became known as the demon Satan.
Lucipires/Lucies—Demon vampires.
Mais oui—But yes.
Mead—Fermented honey and water.
Muezzin—Person at the mosque who leads the call to prayer.
Mungs—Type of demon, below the haakai in status, often very large and oozing slime or mung.
Patois—Nonstandard language, can refer to pidgins, Creoles, dialects, or other forms of native or local speech.
Pirogue (pronounced pee-row)—Type of bayou canoe.
Po’ boy—A New Orleans favorite type of submarine made on a baguette-type loaf, featuring meat or fried fish, often topped with an olive spread.
Praline—A sweet Creole candy.
PT—Physical training.
SEAL—Sea, Air, and Land.
Sennight—One week.
Seraphim—High-ranking angel.
Skald—Poet or storyteller.
Stasis—State of inactivity, rather like being frozen in place.
Taliban—Islamic military and political organization that rules large parts of Afghanistan.
Tangos—Bad guys, terrorists.
Teletransport—Transfer of matter from one point to another without traversing physical space.
Thor—God of war.
Thrall—Slave.
Traiteur—A folk healer, often Cajun or Creole.
Trusty/trusties (various spelling)—Inmates who are given special privileges.
Valhalla—Hall of the slain, Odin’s magnificent hall in Asg
ard.
Vangels—Viking vampire angels.
Varangian—Viking guardsmen who served the Byzantine emperor from the tenth to the fourteenth century.
VIK—The seven brothers who head the vangels.
WEALS—Acronym for Women on Earth, Air, Land, and Sea.
Zydeco—Type of Cajun music.
Keep reading for
an excerpt from
THE PIRATE BRIDE
The newest sexy and hilarious
historical romance from
Sandra Hill
Available Fall 2013
from Avon Books
When he was bad, he was very bad. When he was good, he was still bad . . .
Thork Tykirsson sat in a bustling tavern in the trading town of Hedeby, brooding.
He’d tupped the ale barrel. A mere once.
He’d done another type of tupping. Once.
He’d engaged in an alehouse brawl. Once.
He’d told a ribald joke. Once.
He’d tossed dice for a vast amount of coins. Once.
Ho-hum.
His virtuous behavior—Bloody hell! Who ever heard of a virtuous Viking?—followed on his having quit pirating a year ago when that evil Saxon king Edgar had finally gone to his eternal reward. Everyone knew that Vikings were pirates of a sort. Not him anymore.
He could go a-Viking, he supposed. A respectable occupation that he enjoyed on occasion. He freely admitted to having plundered a monastery or two for gold chalices or silver-chased crucifixes. How many chalices does one church need anyhow? You could say Vikings did the priests a favor, helping them avoid the sin of greed. And the hated Saxons deserved everything a Viking Norsemen sent their way. Same went for those arrogant Scots and the foppish men of Frankland. But, truth to tell, he had more than enough treasure.
The most appalling thing was that Thork was actually considering marriage, something he’d avoided with distaste for years. In fact, he had already made a preliminary offer to Jarl Ingolf Bersson for his daughter Berla. He planned to set sail in the morning for the Norselands and his father’s estate at Dragonstead, where he had not been nigh onto five years now. Barring unforeseen circumstances, he would return before winter, when a final betrothal agreement could be made. That should please his father.
But married? Me? I will become just like every other man I know who succumbs to marital pressure. Wed locked and land locked. No doubt I will soon have baby drool on my best tunic, doing my wife’s bidding like a giant lapdog.
“Bor-ing . . . I’ve become bor-ing,” Thork exclaimed aloud with horror. “I was once deemed the wildest Viking to ride a longship, a wordfame I worked good and well to earn, and now . . .” He shuddered. “ . . . I am becoming a weak-sapped, sorry excuse for a Norseman, and I haven’t even wed yet. What will become of me?”
“Methinks you are being too hard on yourself,” said Bolthor, once a fierce warrior, now an aging skald noted for his big heart and bad poems. “Your father will be proud of you, and that counts for more than a bit of boredom.”
And that was the heart of the problem: his estrangement from his sire, Tykir Thorksson, and his determination to restore himself in the old man’s good favor. At just the thought of his father, Thork instinctively tugged on the silver thunderbolt earring that hung from one of his ears. It had belonged to his father, and his father’s father before him. There had been many a time in the past ten years when his father would have liked to take it back . . . if he could catch him.
Just then, there was a commotion at the door.
“The crew is missing,” Alrek, the clumsiest Viking alive, said breathlessly as he rushed into the alehouse and tripped on some object hidden in the rushes, almost landing in Thork’s lap.
“What crew?” Thork asked.
“Your crew.”
Thork crossed his eyes with impatience. “The crew of which ship?” He’d brought three longships here to the trading town of Hedeby to sell the amber he’d harvested in the Baltics these many months. And wasn’t that respectable occupation yet another sign of dullness growing in him like a blister on a Saxon’s arse?
“Oh.” Alrek blushed. “Swift Serpent.”
Thork’s smallest, but one of his favorite vessels. “Are you saying all of the Serpent’s seamen are missing?” That would mean about sixty rowers.
“Good gods, nay!” Alrek was momentarily distracted by the serving maid who smiled at him as she poured ale into the horn he lifted off the loop on his belt, making sure Alrek got a good look at her mostly exposed bosoms. Alrek blinked several times . . . with amazement, no doubt. It was a voluptuous view, although the maid’s hand shook nervously as she refilled his and Bolthor’s horns, as well. Odd that a tavern maid, dressed to entice, would be so nervous.
But that was neither here nor there.
Alrek shook his head to clear it and turned his attention back to Thork. “Only a half dozen.”
“Only a half dozen,” Thork repeated. “Alrek, the men are no doubt off somewhere wenching, or they are too drukkinn to walk back yet.”
“But you told everyone to be on board by midnight so that we could set sail at dawn,” Alrek persisted.
Bolthor jerked with surprise as the serving maid trailed a fingertip over his shoulders as she walked away. Not many women approached the old man, who had seen more than fifty winters, when there were younger, more comely men about. Not to mention the black eye patch over his one eyeless socket, due to an injury in the Battle of Ripon many years past. But then Bolthor said, “Alrek, Alrek, Alrek. When will you learn? A Viking man does not take well to orders, especially when bedsport is available.”
Thork agreed. “The men will be there in good time, or left behind to find their own way home.”
Alrek shook his head vigorously, causing ale to slosh over the lip of his horn. “Nay. Something is amiss, I tell you. There are strange people about Hedeby this night.”
“There are always strange people in Hedeby,” Bolthor remarked. “Why, I recall the time there was an archer from Ireland who could shoot three arrows at one time. Or the man who could touch his eyebrows with his tongue. And then there was—”
“Not that kind of strange. These men I see skulking about . . . they are small in stature and curved in the wrong places. Like those two over there staring at us.”
Thork and Bolthor both turned to see the two men leaning against the wall, wooden cups in their hands. They were, indeed, shorter than average, and they had hips like a woman, if the tunics that covered them down to their knees over tight braies were any indication.
“By the runes! They must be sodomites,” Bolthor declared.
“Sodomites?” Thork exclaimed.
“Yea. Sodomites are men who prefer men to women.”
“I know what a sodomite is. One of my best friends was . . . never mind!” Thork said, waving a hand dismissively. “Alrek, surely you are not saying there are vast numbers of man-lovers about this night, waiting to prey on innocent seamen. As far as I know, they seek like-minded males.”
“They are not all like those two. Some are taller. Some wider. But they are shifty-eyed and move in a sly manner. And there were a goodly number near Swift Serpent.”
Alrek ever was fanciful, and a worrier, besides. But Thork did not want to offend the man. “Well, best we get back to the ship ourselves. In truth, I am beginning to feel a bit shaky,” Thork confessed, downing the rest of his ale, and attaching the horn to his belt.
Bolthor did likewise, swaying on his feet as he stood. Being the giant he was, no one wanted to be near when he fell, so Thork took him by the elbow and steered him toward the door. He noticed with seeming irrelevance that the two “sodomites” were gone.
Alrek followed behind them, muttering something about the bitter aftertaste in his mouth from the ale.
Most of the stalls were closed for the night as they made their way slowly along the raised board walkways that crisscrossed the well-ordered market town. Thork had erected his own stall ear
lier that day and sold all the amber he’d brought to market, saving one large, pale yellow stone with a tiny bumblebee inside to gift his mother, Lady Alinor.
Ahead he could see the palisaded harbor with the earthen ramparts that rose over Hedeby in a half circle. They approached one of two gates in the wall that regulated traffic in and out of the city. Hedeby was situated at the crossroads of Slien Fjord and the Baltic Sea, from whence they’d come after harvesting the amber. In the daytime, it was a bustling center for commerce because of its strategic position linking trade routes of eastern empires with the west . . . the Norselands, Frankland, and Britain.
As they turned a corner, Bolthor lurched for a hitching post outside a stable, bent over, and began to heave the contents of his stomach over the side into a muddy trench. Thork leaned against the railing for support, his knees suddenly feeling weak as butter. Alrek had both hands on his stomach and was groaning at the pain.
Suddenly, Thork felt a hard blow to the back of his head. Even as he fell, he saw that Bolthor and Alrek were following his path to the ground, Bolthor with a loud thud that broke a few planks.
It was then that Thork gazed up woozily to see that they were surrounded by a hird of little men led by the two from the tavern.
They seemed to be discussing him, Bolthor, and Alrek, as if they were goods.
“How are we ever going to get them back to the ship?”
Ship? What ship?
“I forgot. Pirate Lady is at the far, far end of the wharf.”
Pirate Lady? What kind of name is that for a ship? Ah, she must mean Pirate’s Lady. Still, pirate? I do not like the sound of that.
“Drag them, I suppose.”
Do not dare!
“Where’s a horse when you need one? Ha, ha, ha!”
I’ll give you a horse, you misbegotten dwarf of a man! Pirate or not, pirate’s whore or not, when I get up, you will regret your sorry jests.
“Wrap them in ells of sailcloth and lift them up onto yon wagon. If anyone asks, we can say that they are graybeards who died of old age, and we are carrying them to the funeral pyres.”