ICY BETRAYALS

Chapter One

London

January 1885

“I don’t like this,” Val muttered under his breath. A rat scurried past his ankles headed in the opposite direction. Never a good sign.

The low brick arches of the pub’s basement turned his height into a weakness, forcing him to bend and crouch as they followed a crooked, mazelike path beneath The Three-Eyed Bat in Hatton Garden. Tiny needles of apprehension pricked at his spine. Never one to ignore instinct, he flicked loose the button of his left cuff, folding it back for swift access. The sheathed knife strapped to his forearm was sharp and deadly. It had saved his life more than once.

“If you did, I’d resign effective immediately,” Hildur hissed back.

He heard a familiar soft snick, the sound of her gauntlet’s wrist blade sliding into position. The one she usually reserved for trolls. Not that he expected to run into any in such an urban environment.

Second in command, his partner was even more lethal than he was. Those who appealed to her feminine side for mercy often found the bite of her blade at their throats swiftly disabused them of any illusion presented by the golden twists of braids in her hair, by the swell of hips encased in fitted trousers.

Smuggling, profitable though it might be, was rife with risk. He and his crew had chalked this job up as “done” and had been ready to set sail when the mechanical raven had landed on his ship’s bulwark with an unwelcome message bound to its ankle. Hence their unplanned evening excursion into the bowels of London. Though they’d yet to meet anyone in this maze of tunnels, from time to time, the sensation of being watched skittered down his spine.

They ought to turn back now. Rescuing Katla Dagursdóttir wasn’t worth his life, not after what she’d done. But Val had questions and she would have answers. Not to mention a bottle of absinthe.

Not just any bottle of absinthe, mind, but Tyrian Absinthe.

A highly alcoholic drink flavored by the leaves and flowers of the wormwood plant, Artemisia absinthium, as well as anise and fennel, absinthe was a popular bohemian drink with a reputation for causing hallucinations. Which, naturally, only served to enhance its appeal. Absinthe itself was a clear spirit. If one wanted to add a bit of flair, absinthe verte—green—was traditional, a color achieved by adding macerated herbs before bottling. A process that left the chlorophyll chemically active and added a complexity of taste to the drink.

So what made this particular new brand so very special? Its purple color and its rarity.

The color was the exact shade of a dye secreted by a predatory sea snail in the Mediterranean, a tint that was once so expensive and difficult to produce that it became known as royal purple. Tyrian purple.

A color that denoted royalty, and no one had been able to locate the distillery that produced this particular unlicensed alcoholic spirit. Bottles of the drink had been delivered to the royal courts of the Nordic countries—Finland. Sweden. Denmark. But not Norway, subject as it was to Sweden’s rule. Which made Jarl Haukr all that more desirous of sampling the drink. As the future king of Iceland, the indignity of not being included festered.

All of which inflated the value of this Tyrian Absinthe to absurd levels.

Nobles and minor royalty had minions scouring the black market, to no avail. No more bottles of the drink could be found. Securing one for trade would refill Val’s coffers.

Which made the bottle in Katla’s possession priceless.

He’d offer it first, of course, to the future king of Iceland. His mother would love attending the royal wedding. He’d make it a condition of the sale. Which was why he kept walking, regardless of an uncomfortable and growing sense of foreboding. Risking their lives in tunnels that even rodents found anxiety-provoking, all to keep his airship afloat.

Denmark, home of the jarl’s betrothed, Princess Margrit, had constructed a floating castle, a modern marvel of engineering and architecture, to mark the historic occasion of his marriage and subsequent succession to the throne of Iceland. Currently en route to the North Sea, the palace was as yet empty of important guests. A skeleton staff of engineers oversaw its progress while servants bustled about preparing for the onslaught of high-ranking individuals from Europe and beyond.

Once vows were spoken—and the bride bedded—Iceland would finally be independent, its own country, a nation, separate from Denmark.

Iceland and Denmark had spared no expense in their efforts to mark the event, issuing a finite number of invitations. Such scarcity meant those in possession of an invitation were flocked by flatterers and sycophants, all working to convince the owner to include him or her in their retinue. Even as protests spilled into the streets. Norwegians, subject to Swedish rule since 1814, when Denmark grudgingly ceded their country to another monarch, were offended. After all, theirs was the land from where the original kings of Iceland hailed. They, too, demanded sovereignty.

If negotiations succeeded, Val thought it likely a new king of Norway would also demand his own bottle of Tyrian Absinthe to mark the beginning of a new era.

“Why would anyone,” he muttered under his breath, “want to drink alcohol tinted with snail mucus?”

Behind him, Hildur snorted. “Over-inflated nonsense. A few purple grape skins, some red cabbage…”

“It’s the label,” he repeated for the fiftieth time. “And—”

“The shape of the bottle,” she grumbled. “Easier to track down an empty one and set about refilling it.”

A smirk tugged at Val’s lips. The idea held appeal.

The guide they’d hired led them down a set of crooked stairs, deeper into London clay and gravel. The ground beneath his feet became uneven and the mortar—a generous term—between the flagstones grew damp. An unpleasant, musty smell snaked through the stale air in tendrils, a reminder that many of the city’s former rivers now ran underground in the form of sewers.

“We’d best be close,” Hildur bit out. “Didn’t think to bring a ball of yarn to unwind behind us.”

“Almost there.” The man in front of them called himself Digger. His less than reassuring words echoed around them, losing strength as they bounced off the nooks and crannies along with the glow of his bioluminescent lantern.

A sickly yellow glow illuminated a distant section of the underground maze accompanied by the foul odor of rancid meat with the acidic, vinegary note of fermenting apples. Val pocketed his light, freeing both hands for a fight.

He didn’t want anything going wrong. Not when tomorrow they lifted off and headed home. Many awaited the foreign goods tucked into his hold. Did he look forward to being paid? Of course. But mostly he anticipated a few weeks tethered down where he could work openly upon the airship’s wings. Where his crew could rest, visit family.

One last stop remained. A glassworks factory in Scotland.

They turned a corner and stepped into a vaulted room illuminated by a single oil lamp. An all-but-abandoned storage room lined by wooden casks. Broken chairs were piled at the far end beside a table or two. A pile of rags. A stack of old newspapers. Disarticulated bits of broken machinery. All items salvaged in hope they might one day be useful.

“Katla?” She’d recognize his voice, given how close they’d once been.

No answer.

Hildur swept the light of her lamp across the wreckage, searching the shadows while Val kept his hand wrapped about the hilt of his knife and his eyes trained on the man.

“Empty.” She frowned, shoulders stiff.

That easy? No trap? That didn’t sit right. Not with either of them. He’d not expected to pass through the tunnels unchallenged. The Three-Eyed Bat was known for harboring henchmen, villains and other assorted criminals. Perhaps it was the unholy odor wafting through the dank air?

Hildur grimaced and nearly gagged.

The fetid scent that clogged his nose threatened to choke the life out of them both if they lingered much longer. How close were the sewers? A dozen dead rats rotting in the corner, serving as hosts for a deadly mold, might explain the repulsive miasma.

Might.

Did Digger purposefully toss their corpses here, a crude form of repellant to discourage anyone from investigating the contents of this room? Could be. An effective, if unsanitary, approach.

“Where is she?” Val wanted this over and done.

“Gone.” Unconcerned, Digger lifted a dirty bundle of rags and unwrapped a bottle containing a purple-tinted fluid and presented it for their inspection even as he kept a strangle hold about its neck.

Not the main purpose of their underground visit.

Val raised his eyebrows. “I came for the woman.” Much as he’d like to bargain for the bottle and leave, Katla was the daughter of a dignitary and finding her would resolve a lot of outstanding problems.

“Katla wouldn’t come here.” Hildur shifted her stance. “Not voluntarily.”

The man shrugged. “Lotta people go underground when things fall apart.”

Was that it? Distressed and fearful, the fae woman had sought the closest thing to the tunnels and chambers of the Huldu mountain? These city tunnels were filthy and uninhabited, save by vermin. What could have scared her enough to seek out such a hiding spot?

Five years had passed since she’d run away with Eirik Rømer, disappearing without a trace. Val had set the past aside. Built a new life for himself. And now this. A rope around his neck, yanking him back to a past he’d rather forget.

“I want to speak with her.” The bottle was the bonus, not the goal. “And will pay for the privilege.”

A mercenary light gleamed in Digger’s eyes, then faded. “Can’t help you with that. The bottle is mine now. If you’re not interested…” He started to turn away.

“Fine,” Val conceded. No point in wasting this opportunity to acquire a bottle. They’d stay one more day in London, see if they couldn’t pick up Katla’s trail. “How much?”

“This libation is restricted to the anointed.” Digger puffed his chest as he spouted unfamiliar fancy words. “Procuring it comes at a price. Especially when you’ll be selling it to a jarl who is not yet a king.” The man grinned. “Twenty pounds is not beyond him.”

It might be.

Ever since the Grænndreki tethered down in Wapping, a steady stream of the jarl’s liveried footmen had delivered newly purchased luxury household goods fit for a princess—furniture, carpets, lamps, books, to name a few—to Val’s dirigible for transport home. Enough so that Jarl Haukr might well bankrupt Iceland should he fail to secure the princess’s dowry.

But it was not his place to comment. So long as the jarl paid his bills.

Purple color. Gold-embossed label. “It appears to be the real thing.” Val reached for the bottle, but the man snatched it back.

“Appears?” Digger huffed. “Changed my mind. Fifty pounds.”

Val opened his mouth to barter, then snapped it shut again when Hildur shot him a gimlet-eyed glare. The sooner they left, the happier she’d be. And the price might well go up again. From an inner coat pocket, he pulled out a bundle of five-pound notes and counted. “I’ve only forty-five.” He held them in the air, watched temptation flair in the man’s eyes.

“Fine.”

The merchant’s grimy hands wrapped about the money and the bottle was shoved against Val’s chest. Their guide snatched up his lantern and turned.

“Hold.” With suspicion in her eyes, Hildur moved deeper into the shadows to investigate a cloth-covered lump. “What’s this?”

Val shot out his free hand and fisted his fingers about the man’s collar, stopping his flight. Dread curled in his gut as his gaze followed the beam of light. Boots in that position were usually attached to legs.

She bent and tossed back the sooty sheet. Then let out a string of curses that could curl paint. “We have a problem.”

They did indeed, for they’d found Katla. She wore nothing but a coarse gown, torn stockings and worn boots. If she’d entered the tunnels possessed of a winter cloak, it had been stolen from her. The holes in her stockings revealed pale white skin where green vines had once twisted.

“Is she alive?” A wave of guilt swept over him, one quickly followed by a flush of anger. Once again, he cursed himself for allowing his father to coax him into the social circles of the upper echelon. Working in the laboratories was vastly preferable to council drama, but funding for research projects had to come from somewhere.

As such, he’d dressed appropriately and conversed politely with the other gentlemen of his father’s circle. A promising evening until he’d made the mistake of glancing at a beautiful young woman.

His father had leapt on the opportunity and Val soon found himself engaged. An event that had grown tendrils, growing and spreading like an invasive vine until he was entwined in drama. A tangled mess that he still struggled to escape.

And now this.

Hildur pressed two fingers to a pulse point. “Barely.”

“It wasn’t me who hurt her, I swear.” Digger was visibly sweating. “She was sick when I found her, when I offered her a place to hide. Wild-eyed and keen to guard that bottle, she begged me to send you a note via that strange bird of hers.”

He shoved the man into a corner. “Sit. Stay.” Then knelt beside Katla, uncapping his flask of green absinthe. Lifting her shoulders—she was skin and bone under her dull wool gown—he tipped a measure of the spirit into her mouth.

Katla sputtered. Her eyes flickered open. “Valtýr?”

“It’s me. Who did this to you?”

“Eldskrift,” she whispered. Not a name but an old legend.

A stale guilt roiled in his gut. He bit back a string of curses. “Eirik Rømer?”

“Eirik.” Katla clawed at the neckline of her dress, at the rough cloth, exposing a few inches of pale skin marked by thick, raised scars in the shape of runes. “He found a way. Save her. Save them.”

“Save who?” He tipped more absinthe between her lips, but the green liquid ran down the side of her cheek. Her eyes were fixed. Her chest no longer rose and fell. “Katla?”

Hildur shook her head. “No pulse. She’s gone.”

He turned to Digger with malice in his heart. “You knew she was alive and did nothing to rescue her? Left her here in this dark, dank hole in the ground?”

“Saw an opportunity to profit,” Hildur concluded. “Took it.”

“No!” The man objected, jumping up. “I tried to help her. Fed her and everything.” He gestured at a slanted table where an empty jug and a dry crust of bread sat. “But she just kept getting harder.”

“Harder?” Val frowned. Not rigor, for she’d just died in his arms. But when he flexed her arm there was a strange resistance.

“She’s been like that for days!” A protest that ascended in a crescendo. “She could barely move. Touch her face. It’s unnatural, I tell you!”

Val pressed his fingers against Katla’s cheek. “Helvíti.” Pushed harder. “Her skin feels wrong, as if someone filled her with sand.”

“I told you!” Digger’s aborted attempt to run had him twisting at the end of Hildur’s arm.

“You’ll come with us back to the airship,” he decided. Where no criminal elements skulked about unseen. “We’ll sort this out there.”

“No!”

They ignored him.

Hildur cleared her throat. “Isn’t the ambassador in town?”

Frigg and Hel. Katla’s father.

Val closed his eyes a moment. “He is.” And attending the ball tonight alongside the jarl and his retinue. He gave a sharp nod, his responsibilities clear—clean himself up, draw the ambassador aside. With that duty behind him, he’d find one of the jarl’s men to pass along news of the opportunity to purchase a bottle of Tyrian Absinthe. Because damned if he’d do all the work of tracking one down then hand it over without recompense. “I’ll carry her.”

Katla would go home in a pine coffin, but her family would finally know what had become of her. He scooped the dead woman into his arms. Every sensation defied explanation. It was as if he’d hefted a bag filled with coarse wet sand and broken shells.

Hildur slipped the bottle into the bag slung across her chest, then pointed her knife tip at Digger, releasing him. “If you want to keep the money, you’ll cooperate and lead us out of this rat warren.”

Muttering, Digger stepped out into the tunnels.

The dull glow from the stairwell leading upward into the pub was just visible when Val’s skin prickled. They were being watched.

“Who’s there?” Hildur demanded as the shadows shifted.

Digger yelped and ran for the crowded taproom full of notorious criminals.

“Give me the bag,” a voice growled. “Set the woman down.” A glint of light flashed off the muzzle of a pistol.

A lazy, opportunistic criminal he could understand. Let someone else risk a trip into the tunnels, steal the prize bottle as they returned. But claiming the dead body of his former fiancée? Not happening.

“Run!” Hildur yelled, toppling a pile of rickety chairs to slow their pursuer.

Struggling with Katla’s weight, Val ran up the steps with her hot on his heels.

Bang!

A bullet whizzed past his head. Missed.

Hell-bent on escape, they tore through The Three-Eyed Bat to shouts of annoyance. The door slammed open, rattling on its hinges, releasing them into a narrow alleyway. Ahead lay the main thoroughfare with the clattering wheels of carriages, the rhythmic stomp of iron hooves and the promise of streetlamps, a chance to lose their pursuer in the evening throng of traffic.

They ran.

“Stop!” A cry of desperation, for there was no chance they could be caught now.

Bang!

A dull thud struck the bag Hildur carried.

“I’m fine,” she yelled, not slowing her steps.

But as they whipped around the corner, purple fluid trailed in their wake, cascading to the ground and pooling between the cobblestones. So much for the Tyrian Absinthe.

Frigg and Hel.

Breathless, they threw themselves—and a corpse—into a crank hack and ordered the driver to hurry.

So much for profit. Instead, he’d dragged his past back into the light.

Chapter Two

“How dare he!” Angela hissed. “Treating me like chattel to be bartered away.” She didn’t dare yell. Not when the ball they hosted for the Icelandic delegation was in full swing outside the library doors. Instead, she took out her ire upon the innocent globe squatting atop the low table, spinning it hard upon its axis, watching Iceland fly past over and over. “This is not medieval times when a gentleman might marry off his sister for his own personal financial gain.”

Grim, Olivia nodded. “Not without your consent.”

“He stole my dowry,” she spat. “Sold the land beneath my feet. Now this?” She slapped her hand down on the Atlantic Ocean. If only travel was as easy as climbing aboard a boat. “You have to help me. I need to find an Icelandic husband. Tonight.”

Olivia was her closest friend. The only one she trusted.

Marcus’s lavish indulgences now threatened her work. Her other brother Jack was abroad doing who-knew-what and returning who-knew-when, leaving him unaware how dire the situation had grown. Worse, he couldn’t be contacted.

Her family’s finances skated on thin ice. Creditors knocked at their door. All while Mother continued to cater to her son’s every whim. And their only plan to cover immediate, unavoidable debt was to sell Angela off to the highest bidder?

Ever since Grandmother’s death, her world had turned upside down. Her family no longer needed her to look after a half-mad relative hidden in the countryside, a woman who was only calm inside a greenhouse filled with ferns. Which meant Angela was now a liability instead of an asset. Hence the estate’s sale and her incarceration in London.

With the mandatory period of mourning at an end, she’d been ordered into the ballroom. Spinsterhood was, of course, an option, but if she refused to comply with her brother’s demands, he might well lock her in the attic and throw away the key.

Not that she was completely opposed to marriage. All she required were discretionary funds to continue her studies. A greenhouse. And Icelandic citizenship.

Time to trade one island for another.

With the royal wedding set for late spring, she’d thought to have months to select a husband from among the throngs of ranking Icelandic men in temporary residence as they worked to establish diplomatic relations with Britain.

But Marcus, desperate for funds, had announced an auction.

A growl rattled deep in her chest. Her ears grew hot. Short of murdering her brother while he slept, tonight’s ball might be her last opportunity to make an escape with her reputation intact.

Relatively intact. Either way, she was certain to become the ton’s latest scandal.

“A bold move.” Olivia tipped her head. “Do you propose to force Mr. Black’s hand?”

More than ready to escape her family by serving her country, Angela had met with a mysterious man in the back of a bookstore last week, showcasing her language skills, ones which qualified her to eavesdrop upon members of the future royal court. And Mr. Black had been interested, listing the expectations. A brief marriage to a man the British government suspected of misdeeds, followed by a swift termination of the legal bond, leaving her a free woman with access to significant funds under her sole control.

Until he’d learned her family’s name and abruptly ended their meeting, citing an unfair and ridiculous unwritten rule.

“Exactly that.” She grinned back. “The ‘one spy per family’ rule strikes me as a convenient lie. One that hides an unspoken gentleman’s code, preventing him from offering a fellow agent’s sister as a liaison.” As if she ought not be allowed to determine her own future. “If the deed is done, will Mr. Black swoop in to salvage the wreckage by turning the situation to the Crown’s advantage?”

Olivia laughed. “He will indeed. But must it be Iceland?” She gave a dramatic shudder. “Icy cold winters with no sun? Subsisting on dried fish, yogurt and other unspeakable fermented foods? Why not British Honduras, where the warm, humid climes support an abundance of moss and ferns?”

Iceland. A land of snow and ice, one where volcanoes might erupt at any moment and send rivers of molten lava pouring over the countryside. A land without a university, cutting her off from educated society and scientific dialogue until or unless she braved a rough ocean crossing back to civilization.

A year ago, she would have agreed with her friend. But then Grandmother was murdered.

Which led to her present situation. “I’m afraid it’s non-negotiable. It must be Iceland. Will you work your magic on my behalf, help me trap a husband tonight?”

An impish light flickered in her friend’s eyes. “I know several gentlemen who fit the bill. And tonight is the ideal opportunity.” A catlike smile stretched her lips. “If you snag one, you’ll attend the wedding of the century on his arm.” She exhaled a long sigh of personal regret. “I’ve all but lost my chance to dance in the ballroom of a floating castle. Promise you’ll describe it all to me in a letter?”

A grand event, the approaching wedding of a Danish princess and the Icelandic jarl who would be crowned king that same day. Fights over the invitations had reportedly broken out in the parlors of even the most esteemed. Her own mother was prune-faced about her son’s lack of one.

“I promise.” She’d enjoy that. Cinderella off to the ball while her mother was forced to stay home.

Tonight’s ball was intended to shore up British support for Iceland’s position in the face of Norwegian protests. A population that—rightfully so—resented Sweden’s continued rule over their country when a small frozen island would become a new kingdom by doing little more than celebrating a marriage with ostentatious pomp and circumstance.

“Then paste on your brightest smile.” Olivia grabbed Angela’s hand and dragged her out of the library to the edge of the ballroom. There, hiding behind a stand of giant ostrich ferns, her friend pointed out a number of promising options. “Pick one. Lead him into the garden. I’ll search out a few friends. After ten minutes…”

* * *

The train of her ice-blue gown swept behind her as she permitted Jarl Einar to lead her onto the shallow balcony overlooking the snow-dusted garden. Though lamplight illuminated its winding pathways with a soft inviting glow, tonight’s weather carried a sharp bite with a hint of snow. Guests inclined toward dalliances were conducting them in warmer climes beneath the lemon and lime trees of the conservatory.

A cold breeze ruffled the white fur that edged her low-cut bodice, a feature designed to draw male attention. Shivering, however, was not an option. A bride suited to long, dark winters would find such an English winter’s night mild.

“Beautiful, is it not?” He pressed a glass of champagne into her hand.

“It is.” Angela allowed her escort to stand closer than propriety dictated as she sipped from her glass. Gulping the bubbly drink seemed ill advised, no matter how much she needed the false courage.

Of all the men she’d conversed with, Jarl Einar was the only one to return any interest. Well, save for a particularly forward Norwegian who’d fixed her with an unsettling and possessive stare before hinting that his bid for her hand would win.

A comment that made her that much more determined that he would face bitter disappointment come morning.

The jarl waved a hand toward broad steps. “Would you care to—”

No. But at least this man had straight teeth and no gray hair. That he was friends with the future king would entice Mr. Black’s assistance. She could do worse. “Certainly.” She smiled and slid a gloved hand through his proffered arm.

But before they could turn, a gentleman hastened across the flagstones. “Mr. Einarsson! Jarl Haukr would like a word with you.”

Angela froze, then hissed under her breath at her companion. “All of London is convinced you hold the rank of jarl.”

His answering chuckle made her back teeth grind together. “We all play our games.” He tweaked one of the tiny buttons at her waist. “A shame, Lady Angela. We would have had fun.” With that, he waltzed away, uncaring that he left her standing in the cold with a man to whom she had not been introduced.

“Wonderful,” she muttered. In this scenario, he was the cat and she the mouse. Rife with pitfalls and promise, there was a reason chaperones usually accompanied young ladies as they navigated the marriage mart.

“There’s no excuse for my countryman’s behavior.” The newcomer grimaced. “He’s one of the jarl’s entourage and prone to taking advantage of his position, leaving a trail of disappointed ladies across Europe in his wake.”

Ruined, he meant. And she would have been next. Mortified frustration clogged her throat. How could Olivia have made such a horrible mistake? Such a man was difficult, if not impossible, to force into matrimony. And likely resentful if such was accomplished.

Was this the reason a societal liaison was promised a brief marriage, one that could be forcibly terminated if necessary? Better to hold one’s spouse in mild disdain, thereby erasing the moral conundrum of eavesdropping and reporting their every secret to the Crown?

Her—admittedly impulsive—scheme was not proceeding according to plan. Unless her friend had hastily sent this new gentleman on a mission not only to rescue Angela, but to rectify her error? He did possess the necessary accent.

She glanced over his shoulder at Olivia, who unhelpfully shrugged a single shoulder and gave a small shake of her head. The man before her was an unknown. But the hour was late, and she was out of options.

Why not this man who towered over her like a Viking warrior pulled from the ancient sagas? His face was handsome and rough-hewn, like he’d been sculpted from unforgiving granite. There was raw strength in his broad shoulders, tempered by a quiet calm in his steel-blue eyes that made her pulse quicken. Heat rose in her cheeks as his mouth curved into a half-smile, hinting at a warmth beneath his rugged exterior, at a secret only she might discover.

With raised eyebrows, she addressed the tall, blond newcomer, lacing each word with doubt and suspicion to mask her interest. “And are you a jarl?”

He snorted. “No, Lady Angela. Not even remotely. I’m captain of the loftskip Grænndreki.”

An airship? Even better than a boat. A marriage offering travel abroad. The Crown might prefer high rank, but Olivia held sway and Mr. Black would reconsider his stance when his agent’s sister found herself in hot water.

And this Viking knew her name.

That last part was most promising. Full steam ahead. “Have we met?”

“Not many ladies attended yesterday’s scientific lecture at the Rankine Institute.” One open to the public touting the possibility that, one day, humans might replace the use of coal by harnessing the photosynthetic energy of green algae. A hint of mischief entered his smile. “I made inquiries.”

“Did you?” Her grin was genuine. A handsome man of science in command of an escape vehicle? Yes, please.

“Valtýr Árnason at your service.” He bowed. “I found your question about subnivean photosynthesis thought provoking.”

“You did?” Not a single man had ever praised her scholarship.

A nearby stone urn held an arrangement of dry, brown stems ending in the spiked cones of long-dead flowers. He took the champagne glass from her hand, dumped its contents over the railing and tucked the stemware among its many branches. Safe until someone retrieved the crystal. He crooked an elbow. “Care to discuss the topic further in the solitude of a midnight winter garden?”

Even if her mission failed, why not enjoy the moment? “I would.”

Which was how she found herself perched on an iron bench beneath an arbor of bare twigs, deep in a conversation about Icelandic moss.

“So, while it may well be able to live and grow under snow, Cetraria islandica is not a moss, it’s a lichen,” she insisted, enjoying every moment of their playful academic dispute. “There’s nothing plantlike about it. It’s a symbiotic relationship between algae and fungus.”

He shrugged, slid her a teasing grin. “I only know that my mother forces the horrid tea upon anyone with a sore throat.”

She laughed and one long evening glove lost its grip upon the frozen skin of her upper arm and slid to her elbow, exposing one of her secrets. Before she could yank the satin back into place, he brushed the rough pad of his thumb across the tiny fiddlehead fern tattooed on her inner elbow.

“Pretty.”

A shiver ran down her spine. Mother considered the small embellishment an embarrassment as young ladies of the ton ought not decorate their bodies in such a manner. Angela disagreed in principle but hid her tattoo from inquisitive eyes because she did not wish for anyone to examine them closely, lest they ask about the unusual “ink”.

But he said nothing more.

She slid her companion an appraising glance, shivering as the chill seeped through the thin blue silk of her gown. His kindness and decency had her rethinking her plans. “Should you be out here with me?”

“No.” He shrugged off his coat, unbothered by the chill, and wrapped it about her shoulders. The large woolen garment engulfed her, bringing with it the addictive male scents of peat smoke, leather and pine trees.

A Viking who casually offered comfort to a woman. A point in his favor. Yet his coat was now a weapon that presented her with opportunity. Was she still open to the drastic solution to obtain a husband? Were there any acceptable alternatives when her brother busied himself negotiating her market value?

Ought she offer Valtýr a chance to escape, warn him that Lady Olivia would soon arrive with friends? Friends instructed to overwhelm the scene, to cause a commotion, to spring a parson’s trap in a manner that would ensure there would be no escape.

“Beautiful gowns, dancing and champagne.” Words she spoke on a sigh. “After long days of attempting to extract the phytochemicals of lichens, moss and ferns using electroporation without altering the molecular structure, I ought to welcome such evenings as a respite. But my presence is forced by the need to acquire a husband.”

Her final words were a warning.

“It’s the restrictive clothing, my lady.” He flicked a finger against the coiled steel boning of her corset, then loosened his cravat with a sharp yank. “Accompanied by political maneuvering, where everyone presents a gilded façade to conceal the selfish moral decay that motivates their every decision.”

Guilt crystalized in her stomach like shards of broken glass. “You’re not mistaken,” she agreed. “Were you compelled to attend?”

“You could say that.” He tipped his head back to study the sky, like a caged bird longing for escape. She knew the feeling well. “I need to deliver distressing news, and the garden offered a temporary respite with a beautiful woman.”

He was very, very wrong.

Above the silhouette of London’s skyline, smoke billowed upward from thousands upon thousands of chimneys, all of them burning coal. If only they could install photovoltaic power cells on every roof, the smog might lift.

A lonely snowflake drifted through the air, then another and another. Flurries. She drew the two halves of his coat together and shifted on the cold iron bench. “You must be cold. We should go in.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m warm but watching stray snowflakes catch on the long lashes of a beautiful woman is worth enduring the chill.” He scooted closer, pulling her up against his side. Heat radiated outward, but she was hard put to notice anything beyond the strong muscles of his leg shifting against her own. “Hot springs do, however, much improve the experience.”

Was she really doing this? Yes. With a man like this in her bed, could Iceland be so awful? “In the Land of Fire and Ice?” She tipped up her face, inviting familiarity. “I would imagine so.”

“Back home, we strip naked and slip into the steaming pools, soaking in the heat until we can bear it no longer—then leap from the water and fling ourselves into the snow.”

Was he flirting? A flush rose to her cheeks. Other parts warmed. “For men.” She huffed in annoyance. “No doubt the women are denied such activities.”

“You’d be surprised.” He tweaked her nose. “I could make private arrangements.”

Was that an invitation? “Promise?”

“Promise.”

The sounds of hushed voices met her ear. Olivia and friends, ready to fracture their moment with a sharp snap. Did he not hear them? Why did he not run? “Naked?” She whispered the word, ignoring the panic that clawed at her stomach. No need to summon a blush to her cheeks. Her face was already flaming.

“Of course.” His words sparked fires in places she’d not known could burn. “I’d not have it any other way.” His fingers threaded into the twist of hair at the base of her skull, pulling her face gently toward his. Did he think to kiss her?

Perhaps, but she was out of time.

Feet crunched on garden gravel. She grabbed his cravat and hauled him even closer, smashing her lips into his. A counterfeit moment of passion intended to set tongues wagging.

“Valtýr Árnason!”

“Lady Angela!”

Valtýr yanked himself from her grip and sprang to his feet, standing between her and the intruders.

Angela leaned around his side. A man wearing a diplomatic uniform bearing the gyrfalcon crest of Iceland gaped at his countryman. Accompanying him were the Duchess of Avesbury, Angela’s own prune-faced mother, and Olivia.

Hardly the gaggle of giggling debutants she’d been promised.

Her friend offered her a faint smile of apology.

“How wonderful,” the duchess deadpanned. “How lovely. Our very own international wedding to arrange.”

• Couple on the Run
• Marriage of Convenience
• Slow Burn
• Strangers to Lovers
• Protective Hero
• Found Family
• Living Tattoos
• Steampunk Technology
• Hidden World
• Ancient Secrets
• Icelandic Fae
• Mad Scientist
• Betrayed by Family

Perfect for readers who enjoy steamy Victorian gaslamp fantasy romance with Norse mythology, marriage by convenience, and dangerous secrets rooted in science and folklore. This fast-paced romantasy blends steampunk adventure, living art, and slow-burn, high-spice romance set against the icy legends and politics of nineteenth-century Iceland.

epub ISBN-13: 978-1948359627
ASIN: B0F9JBVP57
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-948359-63-4
Hardcover: 978-1-948359-64-1
Audiobook ISBN: 978-1-948359-65-8
Audiobook Narrators: Mary Jane Wells, Benjamin Crow
Publication date: September 2, 2025
Book 5 of 5: Elemental Web Chronicles
104K words | 488 pages | 12 hrs and 50 mins