Exclusive Excerpt from STEINAR’S GIFT by Virginie Marconato:
Before she could touch the wood, the door opened, and she found herself in front of Steinar, inches away from his strong body. All the breath left her lungs.
“Cwenthryth. I thought it might be you.”
How did he know she’d just arrived? Had he been looking for her through the window?
“Yes. It’s me,” she answered rather stupidly. But how could she think straight with such a man staring at her? He was so tall, so masculine. He was also tantalisingly close to her. Her body inched forward, as if in search of warmth and comfort, the same comfort she had felt when she had woken up this morning with his arms around her.
“Come in,” he murmured. “You must be exhausted.”
Was she exhausted? She didn’t think so. Exhilarated, rather. But her body did feel strangely languid.
Steinar moved to let her through, then closed the door behind her. One hand on the small of her back, he led her to the only chair of the hut, the one placed at the head of the table.
“How did it go?” he asked, ladling fragrant stew into a wooden bowl. It smelled like mutton, the pungent smell softened with the sweeter scent of onions fried in butter. Cwenthryth realized she was hungry when he placed the bowl in front of her. Too busy with Inga and her babe, she had not had anything to eat all day. Her mouth started to water and she reached out for her wooden spoon. “Well, I hope?”
“It went very well, as easily as Helga had predicted.” Unable to wait any longer, she took a spoonful of stew and brought it to her lips. It was as tasty as she had imagined and she barely repressed a groan of pleasure when the thick sauce coated her tongue. “Inga was delivered of a healthy girl,” she said instead.
Steinar laughed. “I’m glad. I know that after four boys she and Arne were hoping for a little girl.”
“Yes. She told me as much.”
Cwenthryth had often wondered in the last few weeks if her baby had been a girl or a boy. She hadn’t had the courage to look, or to ask Eahlswith if she’d seen anything. It had probably been too early to tell anyway.
“I’ve always wanted a little girl,” Steinar surprised her by saying next. He’d helped himself to stew and had sat at the opposite end of the table, on a stool, making it appear as if he, not her, was the guest. “Not that I don’t love my boys, of course…”
“No.” That was not in question. She could tell he loved them more than life itself, but she had seen his reaction when he’d held little Frida.
He paused, spoon poised in mid-air, like a man deep in thought. “After Astrid gave birth to Ulf, I told her I would love to have a girl next. I often wonder if…”
If what? Had he been about to reveal something significant? He shook his head and reached out for the loaf of bread.
“Thank you.” Cwenthryth accepted the piece of bread he was handing her, touched that he had not only cooked for her, but also waited for her to come back from Inga to start eating. He was now asking her questions about her day, surrendering his chair, serving her as if she belonged in his village. In his hut.
In his life.
The difference with the way he’d acted when she’d first arrived was staggering. And as a result, she felt at home, in a way she had not done since her father’s decline.
“This is delicious, by the way,” she told Steinar, pointing at the stew with her spoon. The meat was tender, falling off the bone as if it had simmered for a long while in the sauce, the vegetables were full of flavor, and the herbs added a pleasant depth to the dish. “You’re a better cook than I am.”
He shrugged, as if there was nothing extraordinary in a warrior being skilled in the art of making soups and stews.
“My mother always had me helping her as a child, so I’ve understood how to do the simplest things from a young age. Astrid was never the best with food, and she had to spend a lot of time in bed when she carried both our sons. I quickly started to experiment with ingredients and found that the results were generally pleasing.” His eyes twinkled. “Besides, I might make a good stew, but the boys are adamant you make the best flat cakes.”
She smiled, remembering the way they’d always devoured the ones she’d made for them in town. “Those cakes are more or less all I do, so I do make them quite well. But I’d find it difficult to make something as tasty as this.”
“I’m sure I can show you how to do it some time.”
The air in the hut stilled. For him to make such a promise had to mean he intended her to stay here, at least for a while. He’d already hinted at the fact that she would find it hard to rid herself of him and his sons. But as threats went, this one suited her fine. She wanted nothing more than to spend her life here, with him and the two boys.
His bowl now empty, Steinar stood up, filling the space with his massive body. A shiver rippled down Cwenthryth’s spine. Just like a sword was a weapon that could both kill a villain or defend an innocent, power in a man could frighten or arouse in equal measure, as she was finding out. She felt utterly exposed in front of Steinar’s virility, and the woman in her was trembling in desire.
“I would like that,” she rasped. “Stews and flat cakes go well together.”
“They do. It would seem we make a team, you and I.”
By now all the air had left Cwenthryth’s lungs. Where was the scowling, suspicious man who had opened his door to her when she’d first arrived in the village? The one who’d replaced him could well make her lose her mind as well as her heart.
“Come. You will be tired, and it’s getting late,” he said, his voice low.
She was tired, but loath to put an end to the intimate moment. Being with Steinar had admittedly been hard at first, but it was now a pleasure like no other. Still, she sensed it was better to agree. Otherwise, she wasn’t certain where things might go. With the boys nowhere to be seen, they would be free to indulge their wildest desires. She wasn’t sure it was the wisest thing to do right now.
“Yes. I’d better go to bed.”
Copyright © Virginie Marconato with permission from OHB books.
STEINAR’S GIFT by Virginie Marconato
England, 1070.
The last thing Steinar wants after losing his wife is falling for another woman for the wrong reasons. So when Cwenthryth, a Saxon he’s never seen before, comes knocking at his door asking for help, he refuses to listen to her plight. She’s far too beautiful for him not to fear losing his head over her.
Cwenthryth is a cornered woman. Barely recovering from the loss of her baby, she has no one to turn to. If the formidable Norseman cannot—or rather will not—help her, then all is lost, because her enemy is waiting for her back in town.
What will it take to convince him of the danger she’s in, and make him see she’s not out to trick him?
Romance Historical [ Oliver-Heber Books, On Sale: November 4, 2025, e-Book, / ]
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About Virginie Marconato
Virginie thinks she became a writer the day she decided to write a (very bad, shamefully close to the real story) version of White Fang when aged nine or ten! As for the Middle Ages she fell in love with it at school during a history lesson, then Kevin Costner’s Robin Hood put its final seal on it all. A girl of twelve then, Virginie never recovered!
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