Steinar’s Gift (Sons of the Wolf #1)

Prologue

“Iwant Moeir.”

Steinar sighed as he tightened his hold around his younger son. “I know, Rothgar, but Moeir is gone.”

Gone. Yes. His wife had been dead for three days. The boy knew it and yet he kept asking for her with worrying frequency. He had spent the last two nights on his pallet with him, burrowing into his warmth, searching for comfort, comfort only a mother could offer.

Steinar stole a glance at his other son, Ulf, who was lying on his pallet to the right of the fire pit.

Was he still awake, pondering the recent change in their lives, or had he finally fallen asleep?

Being almost thirteen summers and fancying himself a man, he was trying to be braver than his six-year-old brother, but Astrid’s death had hit him hard as well.

As for him, what did he feel? His wife’s death at such a young age had come as a shock, admittedly, but was he devastated? Did he feel his life was over? No, and no. Their life had been too miserable for him to feel crippling grief. Whatever love he’d felt for her had long gone.

Still, there were uncomfortable questions to be asked.

What was he to do on his own with two little boys in need of a female presence?

Would he tell his family the sad truth about his marriage to Astrid?

How would he break the news to her parents?

What would happen now? The next few weeks would be hard, undeniably, and he was not looking forward to it.

Eventually, Rothgar fell asleep in his arms. Relieved, Steinar allowed himself to relax. At least for now he could have some peace. He closed his eyes and let his body sink into oblivion.

Dawn had just broken when there was a knock on the door.

Steinar jumped to his feet, shaken out of an agitated sleep in the most unpleasant manner.

Who the hell thought it appropriate to come disturb him now?

It was not particularly early, considering it was summer, but still, the day was ill chosen.

Who could it be? Not his parents, or his brothers, who were aware of the difficulties he was having and would make sure the boys got the rest they needed, after the difficult three days they’d had.

He took a quick glance at his sons. Thankfully, the knock had been tentative and did not appear to have disturbed them.

Small mercies. Before the foolish visitor grew impatient and started banging on the door in earnest, Steinar opened it as quietly as he could, exited the hut and planted himself in front of the intruder.

It was a woman, one he didn’t know, a Saxon judging by her coloring.

Well, obviously she was. If she had been a Norsewoman, chances were that he would have met her at least once.

But he was certain he had never seen her before.

She looked too distinctive for him to forget.

Her eyes were huge, framed by long lashes, almost too big for her delicate face, and the brown in them so dark it was nearly black.

The outer rim of her irises, however, was a rich amber that gave the jet a fascinating glow.

Her hair, which was falling in thick waves over her shoulders, offered the same contrast. The color was that of a starless night, but the faintest trace of blue dancing through the strands prevented it from absorbing all the surrounding light, reflecting it instead. The effect was most fascinating.

For some reason, her unusual appeal only irritated him further. Someone from the village would have been bad enough, but after another night trying to soothe Rothgar, he was not in the mood to deal with strangers, especially if they happened to be female and beautiful.

“Yes?” he hissed. “What do you want?”

Steinar saw the effort it cost the woman not to flinch at his gruffness. Not that he was responsible for her distress, he didn’t think. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she looked very pale, proving she had cried even before she’d seen him standing in front of her in all his righteous fury.

“Forgive me for disturbing you so early,” she started, her voice barely over a whisper. “Are you Steinar, Astrid’s brother?”

He arched a brow. Brother? Why on earth would this woman think Astrid had been his sister?

Because of his father, Wolf, everyone knew who he was around here.

But then again, as he’d just remarked, it was obvious from her looks that the woman was a Saxon.

Perhaps she had come a long way and had never heard of the Icelander. But then how did she know his wife?

“I am Steinar, but—”

“I’m Cwenthryth. I believe Astrid may have mentioned me?”

No. She had not, which was hardly surprising. The two of them had barely exchanged more than a dozen sentences a day in the last few months. Why would she have mentioned a Saxon woman he had no interest in?

He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling his patience about to snap. “Astrid was my wife, not my sister. And no, she never mentioned you.”

What little color had been left in the woman’s face drained at the words. “Wife?” she whispered, almost to herself. Then her eyes widened, as the meaning of what he’d said hit her. “Wait, what do you mean, was?”

“I mean that she’s dead,” he said harshly.

He didn’t see any reason to impart the news more gently. He doubted she was a friend of Astrid’s, considering she hadn’t even known what her relationship to him was. And if she hadn’t been close to his late wife, then she wouldn’t care about her death.

Either way, she didn’t have any reason to be here and he wanted her gone. He didn’t have time for this, not now, not ever.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go. My sons are waiting for me.”

It was a clear dismissal and the woman understood it. All the light left her eyes, leaving only darkness.

“I understand. I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

She staggered away on legs that looked as if they would fold from under her at any moment. Perhaps the shock of finding out that Astrid was dead had stunned her, or perhaps she wasn’t feeling well. Hadn’t he thought a moment ago that she’d been crying and looked too pale?

Before he could turn around, she fell to the ground in one heap.