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Lady Eda of Wessex. That was her name in the eyes of God—though she doubted He had anything to do with her at all. The youngest daughter of King Alfred, raised on tales of her father’s miracles and virtue, his unmatched intellect and piety. She was taught to be a lamb of Christ, soft-spoken and obedient. Instead, she grew into something much less holy. Born with a crown of auburn curls and an instinctive scowl, Eda had always felt like an interloper in her mother’s delicate arms—too sharp-tongued, too curious, too disobedient. The curls had grown into a mane, thick and wild down her back, just as she had grown into a woman of unorthodox tastes and sharp appetites.

She wore virtue like a veil—thin, translucent, easy to lift when no one was looking. To the public eye, she was a devout and gracious noble lady. In private, she drank with commoners, snuck into the barracks to spar, and let whichever unfortunate man she found attractive enough warm her bed for the night. She made them swear secrecy on a Bible she barely believed in. Then she’d send them away with a smile and an ache they mistook for love. It was never about affection—men were amusing at best, exhausting at worst. They bored her after they spoke. She liked them better when they didn’t.

"A brocade gown, stiff with gold thread, chafes as much as it dazzles, such is the weight of noble birth." she once scribbled in her diary after yet another lecture from her mother for begging Steapa to teach her how to disarm a man in under ten seconds. Her mother clutched her pearls over modesty. Eda preferred clutching daggers. “You mustn’t dwell too harshly on these matters, my dear,” Ælswith had told her. “God shall protect you—not the blade warriors yield.” Eda rolled her eyes then. Just as she rolled them now. “And when the Danes sack a village, Mother, who walks out of the flames—the priest or the man with the axe?”
Her wit often walked the line between insolence and genius. Her father tolerated it because she was undeniably his daughter in mind, if not in temperament.

She was well-liked by the people, adored by the court—though mostly by the men, who seemed to believe her beauty was an invitation. It wasn’t. But she wasn’t above using that illusion to get what she wanted. Ever since her sister Æthelflæd was betrothed to the Lord of Mercia, the simpering compliments and eager proposals had been redirected toward Eda like a stream of unwanted perfume. She accepted them with a smile and burned the love letters afterward. Maybe her husband would be a tolerable ealdorman. Maybe not. Either way, she’d get what she wanted out of the arrangement—and he’d be lucky if she didn’t poison him by year two.

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Sunlight crept through the wooden lattice of her chamber, casting long strips of gold across her bare legs. Eda blinked herself awake, head heavy with sleep and the faint taste of wine still on her tongue. She had been at the tavern the night before and slept with a son of a blacksmith. Not too bad, could have been better. Her hair was a mess. Her mood was worse.

It was Æthelflæd’s wedding day. The chaos had begun before sunrise. Servants bustling, chambermaids fluttering like anxious hens, her mother barking orders with a Bible in one hand and a prayer in the other. Eda loved her sister. She really did. But the idea of sitting through a feast surrounded by Saxon noblemen trying to seduce her with wine and wealth made her want to scream.

The socializing wasn’t even the fun kind (the tavern kind.) She liked that sort of socializing. Where she could drink, flirt, tease, take some poor fool to bed and then shove him out with his trousers halfway on. It made her feel powerful. In control. And afterward, when they stammered something about love or fate, she’d smile sweetly and say, “Swear on the book you’ll never tell a soul.” Most did. A few cried.

Today, though? Today was tedious nobility, polished shoes, empty pleasantries, and—worst of all—Uhtred of Bebbanburg.

God’s greatest gift to himself, if you asked him. And sadly, all of Wessex’s young ladies would spend the evening staring at him like he were some shirtless saint. Eda thought him insufferable. Beautiful, yes—but infuriatingly aware of it.

“Good morning, my lady,” her maid greeted as she entered, holding a basin of lavender-scented water.

“Morning, Ethel,” Eda murmured, still sprawled on the bed like a cat in the sun. Ethel was one of the few women in the household she didn’t loathe. Sweet, loyal, with just enough mischief to braid into a conversation.

Ethel laid a deep green gown across the bed. “Your mother requested this for today.”

“Of course she did,” Eda said, dragging herself upright. “So modest, no doubt. God forbid anyone see a sliver of clavicle.”

Ethel tried to hide her smile as she laced Eda into the gown. “You’ll outshine the bride, no matter what you wear.”

“She’s lucky I’m not petty,” Eda replied, smirking at her reflection in the bronze mirror. “Or I’d wear nothing at all and steal every pair of eyes in that room.”

“Lady Eda!”

“I’m joking,” she said airily. “Mostly.”

The hall was packed and humid with the stench of men who had already begun drinking. Eda sat beside Ælswith, hands folded like a perfect little lady, every inch of her posture immaculate—and entirely forced. Her friends sat at a nearby table, already giggling and whispering over the male guests.

Eda’s wine remained untouched. She could feel the headache forming just from the noise.

“How much longer must this take?” she whispered.

“Do not be impatient, dear,” Ælswith said, lips barely moving.

Then the doors opened. And there he was. The dreamy heathen himself.

Uhtred of Bebbanburg strode in like he owned the place. Behind him came his strange menagerie—an Irishman with a stupid grin, a rat-faced Dane, and a young monk who looked like he might cry if someone sneezed too hard.

Eda assessed them like livestock.

The Irishman? Too loud. Smelled like mead and poor decisions. The monk? Already sweating. Pathetic. The Dane? Possibly feral.

Her friends, meanwhile, were practically wetting themselves over Uhtred.

“God’s teeth,” she muttered into her goblet.

They approached the high table to pay respects. Her mother stiffened beside her like she’d been pricked with a needle.

“You are late,” Ælswith snapped.

Uhtred smiled. “The road from Coccham was long, Lady Ælswith.”

She hated how calm he was. Like nothing and no one could touch him. Arrogant prick.

Eda let her eyes rake over him, unimpressed. He was hot, yes—but in the way fire was. Beautiful from a distance, but get too close and you’re stupid enough to think it won’t burn you.

He introduced his men.

Finan, the Irish clown. Sihtric, the rat. Osferth, the monk who clearly got bored praying in those stuffy monasteries, so became a mediocre swordsman at best serving a warlord with an even more mediocre personality.

“And what exactly are you collecting these days?” Eda asked Uhtred. “Dregs from every corner of the Isles?”

Uhtred raised a brow. “Not exactly, Lady.”

“Then what is it?” she said, lifting her wine. “I fail to observe anything else but a poorly constructed band of heathens.”

Finan laughed. “God, doesnt this one have a steel tongue?”

“Heaven forbid,” she muttered.

Her brother gave her a warning glance, but she ignored it. She’d play nice for now. Later tonight, she might sneak out and actually enjoy herself—find someone tolerable, tease him with a kiss, maybe more, maybe less. Men were all the same, anyway. Easy to please. Easier to forget.

And this night, like all nights, would end the same: her in her bed, alone, stretching like a spoiled cat, wine in hand, smirking at how many men had thought they had a chance.

She could hardly wait.

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The stars bled gold across the sky as the torches lining the streets of Winchester flickered in the breeze. The wedding feast had dissolved into the predictable scene Eda dreaded: flushed cheeks, slurred speeches, and overly ambitious nobles trying to flirt through bouts of hiccups and bad poetry. She’d smiled through it all, teeth clenched, her goblet raised in polite deflection. But as the hall grew stuffier and the chatter louder, she slipped away like smoke—quiet, graceful, and unnoticed.

She’d changed out of her mother’s conservative gown the moment she was alone, swapping it for something simpler, cinched at the waist, her cloak pulled low enough to hide her face without seeming suspicious. No one would question a shadowed figure moving through the city at night. Not with half the guards drunk from toasting the new Lady of Mercia.

The tavern she chose was low in name and lower in virtue. The Cracked Horn. It smelled like sweat and sawdust, stale ale and sweet pipe smoke—Eda’s kind of place. The patrons were mostly mercenaries, a few traders, a smattering of younger nobles slumming it for thrills. Her kind of crowd. The ones who didn’t know her face or, better yet, didn’t care. She could drink without being addressed as Lady. She could flirt without it being a marriage proposal.

She slipped inside and settled into a booth in the corner, half-shadowed by a thick wooden pillar. The tavern was loud, but not unbearable. A minstrel was playing some stupid song in the corner, and two men were already arm-wrestling on a nearby table while others bet coins and shouted in support. Perfect. She ordered mead and leaned back, her boots kicked up on the edge of the table.

Freedom.

Then she heard it.

That laugh.

That fucking laugh.

Loud, warm, cocky, unmistakable.

Finan.

She stiffened and glanced toward the door. There they were, strolling in like they owned the damn place.

Uhtred, Finan, Sihtric, and Osferth. The heathen, the jester, the rat, and the lamb.

Fucking. Wonderful.

Eda pulled her hood lower, willing herself invisible. She didn’t know what annoyed her more—that they were here, or that part of her had hoped they wouldn’t be.

Uhtred looked at home in places like this, more so than in any royal hall. He belonged to ale and firelight, laughter and danger. His sword was slung across his back, and he wore no cloak. His hair was slightly looser now, a few sections falling into his face, and his face gleamed with sweat from the heat of the tavern.

He scanned the room with the ease of a predator. Please don’t look this way, she thought, even as her pulse betrayed her.

“Oi,” Finan said loudly, elbowing Uhtred. “Isn’t that—”

“No, it’s not,” Eda muttered, turning her face just slightly. Too late.

Uhtred was already smirking.

Fuck.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at her, that insufferable grin pulling at his lips like he’d just spotted a fox in a henhouse. Then he said to Finan, “Go find us a table.”

“And the lady?” Finan asked, still grinning like a devil.

“I’ll handle it,” Uhtred said.

Eda considered leaving. She really did. But then he was already moving toward her, and running would feel like defeat. And she didn’t run.

He stopped in front of her booth. She didn’t look up.

“Interesting place for a lady of Wessex,” he said smoothly.

She lifted her cup to her lips. “Interesting company for a lord of nothing but mud and heathens.”

He chuckled. “Still sharp.”

“And you’re still everywhere I don’t want you to be.”

“You wound me.”

“Good.” She finally glanced up at him. Damn it. He really was good-looking in this light. Infuriatingly so. The kind of man you hate to stare at—but you do anyway. His blue eyes sparkled like mischief incarnate. His lips curled into that wolfish smile that suggested he’d be fun for a night and trouble for a year.

He slid into the booth across from her without asking.

“Of course,” she muttered, annoyed. “Please, make yourself at home.”

“I always do.”

There was a moment of silence. Not quite tension—more like a silent dare between them. Then Eda smirked and said, “So. Are you following me now?”

“You flatter yourself.”

“Don’t I always?”

He tilted his head. “You drink here often?”

“When I want to be left alone by men who think they’re interesting.”

“And yet I’ve joined you.”

“I didn’t say it was a perfect system.”

Finan, Sihtric, and Osferth found a table near the back, already halfway into their second round. Finan caught her eye and winked. She flipped him off subtly beneath the table, earning a howl of laughter.

“You’ve trained them well,” Eda muttered.

“They’re not dogs.”

“No. Dogs are easier to control.”

Uhtred grinned. “I do wonder, Eda. What does a girl like you do in a place like this? Looking like that?”

“That’s a terribly dumb question for a man who thinks he’s clever.”

“Try me.”

“I come here,” she said, slowly, “to drink. And to take my pick.”

“Pick of what?”

“Men.”

His brows lifted. “Just like that?”

She sipped her mead. “Do you think I get through these royal dinners and pious sermons with only prayer?”

“You’re bold.”

“I’m bored.”

He laughed. “You’re quite unholy.”

“I’m amazing.”

His gaze dipped, just for a moment, over the curve of her collarbone. She let him look. Then she tilted her head and added, “But not for you.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“You were *hoping*.”

That silenced him for a beat. Then his grin returned—smaller now. A little impressed. A little wary.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit of a… man-hater?”

“Oh, constantly,” she said, deadpan. “Usually right after I leave their bed.”

He blinked. Then burst out laughing.

She didn’t smile. Just lifted her cup again and said, “Don’t flatter yourself, Lord Uhtred. You may be pretty. But I’ve had prettier.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he said, still laughing. “But I’m starting to think none of them made you laugh like this.”

She set down her cup and met his eyes squarely. “Why does it matter if I laugh?”

“Because,” he said, softer now, “it’d be nice to see what your smile looks like when it’s real.”

For a moment, the noise of the tavern faded. Just for a beat. And she hated that.

So she shattered it.

“I smile for two reasons, Lord Uhtred: Company from a friend i dont detest, or climax. Neither of which you’ll be getting tonight.”

He blinked. Grinned. And leaned back, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Fair enough.”

She dropped a silver coin on the table.

“Enjoy your night with your strays,” she said as she turned to leave.

But before she stood, she glanced back—just once—and saw him watching her, eyes dark, head tilted, like he was trying to figure her out.

Good fucking luck.

Let him try.

Let all of them try.

“Another drink, Lady?”

Hm. Maybe one more cup.