“Wait here,” he told her.
He strode off, waving for Saldana to follow. The tall Mexican was grinning and shaking his head, making tut-tut noises, like an old woman. When they reached their horses, Roy gave his buckskin, Dagur, a reassuring pat on the neck and took down a blanket from his bedroll.
“Don’t draw attention,” Saldana complained.
“All right,” Roy admitted. “It was a stupid mistake.”
And yet he couldn’t regret what he had done. The girl was a puzzle he wanted to solve. And witnessing her misery had tugged at something inside him, some faint remnant of sentimentality and compassion. He knew what it felt like to be ostracized, to be treated like an outcast. Whatever transgressions the girl might have committed, she didn’t deserve such a public humiliation.
“What do you want me to do?” Saldana asked.
Roy hesitated. The sensible thing would be to escort the girl home and ride away before the townspeople had a chance to get a closer look at him, but doing the sensible thing seemed to be eluding him today. “Take the horses to the water trough by the saloon and make sure they drink their fill. I won’t be long. Half an hour at the most. Then we’ll leave, head north toward Prescott.”
Saldana’s narrow face puckered in dismay. “No dancing?”
“No dancing,” Roy replied, and tried to mollify the Mexican by appealing to his vanity. “You’re too handsome. The ladies would remember you.”
Saldana smirked, tapped his eyebrow to indicate the black patch Roy wore over his left eye—a feature far more memorable than a neatly trimmed moustache or a seductive smile.
“My eye patch don’t matter,” Roy told him. “You’ll understand later.”
He left Saldana to deal with the horses and returned to the girl. She was sitting on the ground, arms wrapped around her upraised knees, watching him stride over. Roy spread out the blanket beside her, gestured for the girl to move onto it and settled opposite her, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, the hems of his long duster flaring about him.
“Thank you,” the girl said. She started to unpack the contents of her basket. “It was a gallant thing to do, to rescue me from standing out there like a convict in front of a firing squad.” She kept her face averted, the words spoken barely loud enough for Roy to hear.
Not wasting any time, he got on with solving the puzzle she presented. “Why didn’t anyone else bid? What do the townsfolk have against you?”
The girl didn’t reply. She merely handed him a piece of fried chicken wrapped in a linen napkin and refused to meet his gaze. At her reticence, Roy let his irritation show. “Wipe that red muck from your face,” he told her curtly. “You don’t need it.”
Still she didn’t speak. Not acting insulted or angry, she pulled a handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt, uncapped the bottle of lemonade she had lifted out of the basket and tilted the bottle to dampen the scrap of cotton. With movements that were slow and deliberate, she lifted the handkerchief to her face and rubbed her cheek clean of the rouge, finally turning to face him squarely.
Roy stared. It hadn’t occurred to him that every time he’d seen the girl, she’d presented him with the same side of her face. Now he understood the reason. The other side of her face bore a scar. Not a great blemish by any means, but an unusual one. Two lines of pale, slightly puckered skin that formed a cross, and beneath it an incomplete circle, as if someone had drawn some kind of a symbol on her cheek.
“That’s why they didn’t bid?” Roy frowned at the idea. “But the scar on your face is hardly noticeable. It certainly is not unsightly.”
When the girl showed no reaction, when she merely contemplated him with a pinched, forlorn expression on her pretty features, Roy decided not to press the topic for now. Lowering his attention to the piece of chicken in his hand, he took a bite and spoke around the mouthful.
“This is good, very good.”
After a moment of enjoying the food, he glanced up at the girl. Appearing more in control of herself now, she was studying him—his eye patch, to be more accurate. So that was it. That’s why she had stared at him with such intensity—in him she had identified a fellow sufferer of some physical deformity.
“How did you get the scar?” Roy asked gently.
“I fell against a stove when I was small. The hatch had a decorative pattern. A cross, like a plus sign, and a circle at the end of each spoke. Part of the pattern burned to my skin.”
“It’s very faint. Hardly worth worrying about.”
“I know.” Her voice was low. “When I grew up, the scar faded. The skin is a bit puckered, but the blemish isn’t terribly obvious. Not enough to ruin my appearance. But out here in the West the sun is stronger. The scar doesn’t tan, and I like taking walks in the desert. As my face got browner and browner from the sun, the scar stood out more and more...and then the bishop came...”
The girl fell silent and darted a glance toward the crowd, where a teenage boy was playing “Oh! Susanna” on a violin and the others were singing along.
“The bishop?” Roy prompted. “Is he the tall man dressed in black?”
“That’s the preacher, Reverend Fergus. The bishop is his superior.” Abandoning any pretense of eating, the girl folded her legs to her chest again and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Have you ever heard of a satanic cross?”
Roy met her gaze, unease stirring within him. “Can’t say that I have.”
“It’s a cross with an upside-down question mark at the base.” The girl touched her fingertips to her cheek. “Like the open circle at the end of my scar. The bishop came out to bless the new church a few months ago. He is a fanatic, and he told people that I bear the mark of the Devil on my face.”
Startled, Roy lifted his brows. “And they believe him?”
The girl’s lips twisted into a disparaging smirk. “I don’t think they really do. I think they want the reverend to tell them it is all complete nonsense, but he is a weak, spineless man, and he doesn’t have the courage to contradict his bishop.”
Roy swallowed. The chicken had lost its flavor. Now he could understand those questioning glances the townsfolk had been sending to the preacher while Celia stood holding up her lunch basket, and why the reverend had been pretending not to notice them.
“I wish I could help you,” he told her quietly. “But I can’t.”
“I know. I am grateful for this.” The girl released one arm from around her knees to gesture to the lunch basket. “I’m supposed to collect your five dollars and hand it in, but I won’t do it. I’ll tell them I forgot. I know it’s petty, but it will make me feel better.”
“If you like, you can tell them I refused to pay.”
She let out a bleak gust of laughter. “If I do that, they’ll say it’s because I served you a lousy meal, so it will end up being my fault anyway.”
“Don’t...” Roy shook his head. Don’t beat yourself up so.
“It’s the same everywhere,” the girl went on bitterly, the words flooding out on a wave of anguish. It seemed to Roy that the hurt had festered, and now it was gushing forth like a boil that needed lancing. “Back in Baltimore, no man would marry me, because my mother was sickly. They feared I’d be the same, and they’d be lumbered with a useless wife and a stack of doctor’s bills. Then my mother died...”
Pausing to draw a breath, the girl dashed the back of her hand across her eyes. “My father has a growth in his stomach, a cancer, and he worries about me being left on my own, so he brought me out here, where women are scarce. To start with, everything went well. I had two suitors, Stuart Clifton from one of the ranches, and Horton Tanner, who works for the stage line and comes by twice a week. No knights on a white stallion but good, decent men...and then that blasted bishop comes along and ruins it all...”
Memories of being shunned flooded over Roy, bringing with them a wave of pa
in, even now, after half a lifetime. He swept a glance around the picnic meadow to make sure no one was observing them and turned back to the girl. After tugging the brim of his hat lower for added protection, he reached for the patch that covered his brown eye and said, “You’re not the only one who has suffered because some folks claim you bear the mark of the Devil.”
Copyright © 2018 by Tatiana March
Loyalty to the Brotherhood comes before all. Including women.
Formidable Viking leader Rurik knows the law. His loyalty to the Forgotten Sons is his bond, and he’ll allow no woman—not even the sultry Parisian thrall he finds in his bed—to threaten what he’s built from the ground up...
Keep reading for an excerpt from KEPT BY THE VIKING by Gina Conkle.
Kept by the Viking
by Gina Conkle
AD 930
A Saxon outpost on the northern border of Nor’man land
Smiling grimly at the darkness, Rurik tucked a bone-handled blade in his boot. Norns had spun his life with stingy threads, but his days of hardship were over. Rouen’s overlord, Will Longsword, promised to make him a landsman, a plum prize for a low-born Viking.
If he got to Rouen by the midsummer feast.
Door hinges whined in the quiet, and a shrouded figure crept through the outbuilding. Skin prickling with alertness, Rurik’s hand hovered over the knife. Firelight limned the form slipping past loose-weave curtains into his bed box. A bent knee sank into fur. The bed creaked, and a black cloak parted, revealing enticing curves pressed against a thrall’s grey wool tunic.
A woman to ease his loins. She should’ve come last night.
“Didn’t expect a companion this morning.” He caressed her smooth-skinned arm. “I don’t have time—”
She slapped his hand. “Keep your hands to yourself, Viking. I am not here to be your, your...how do you say comfort woman?”
A lilting accent melted over sharp Norse. It teased his ear, intriguing him the same as her knocking away his hand. Slaves, thralls, the lowest of laborers knew better than to strike a warrior.
He sat back, amused. “Frilla. That is a Viking comfort woman.”
Her chin tipped proudly. “I am not a frilla. I bring you urgent news.”
The folds of her cloak rippled. Did she hide a weapon?
Familiar, battle-ready tension heated his veins. His eyes narrowed on shadows hiding her face. “Who are you?”
She scooted closer. “That doesn’t matter. I—”
He yanked the knife from his boot and sprang at her. It was quick work, wrestling the woman into the pelts. Whatever she’d meant to say was lost in shocked yelps. Her hood fell back. The bed box squeaked in the scuffle, and heavy furs jumbled around his morning visitor. Jamming his forearm high on her chest, he squinted at the woman, but he couldn’t make out her features in scant light.
“I’ll ask again. Who are you?”
Shorn fingernails scratched his arm brace. “Stop!”
The thrall scrabbled beneath him like a doused cat. He jerked his hips back, narrowly missing a knee to his ballocks. Blood thrumming, he swung his leg over thrashing limbs and pinned her with his thigh.
“I am Sothram’s slave. He is your enemy,” she gasped. “Not me.”
He held the blade high. “Did he send you to attack me?”
“No! I detest the man. Put the knife away...if you want to know how the Saxon cheats you.”
“The blade stays,” he said, nose to nose with her. “And you will tell me Sothram’s plans.”
Eyes glimmered through tangled black hair. Anger stiffened her limbs. He would feed off it and stay vigilant. A man could never be too careful with the gentler sex. In his travels, he’d heard of fair-faced women plying a deathly trade by luring the hapless traveler into a private place. The end of that tale was always cruel. Thieves robbed the man and beat him unconscious or worse—killed him.
It had happened to Leif, one of the Forgotten Sons. His loss was a wound that wouldn’t heal.
Glowering up at him, she jammed the heels of her hands against his shoulders. “I know you won’t hurt an unarmed woman, Rurik of Birka. Your reputation says otherwise.”
A slow smile formed. The she-cat had spirit, he’d give her that. She wriggled hard, the cradle of her body bumping him. The outbuilding was quiet save the squeaking bed and her feet battering the pelts. One glance proved no one lurked beyond the coarse curtains.
Why not have a little fun before his long day’s ride?
“Why do you keep fighting? You’re not going to unseat me.”
“Get off me,” she huffed. “I have no weapons.”
“How do I know that? I’ll have to search you.”
“Overgrown brute.” Teeth clenched, she dug her nails into his leather-covered shoulders.
Low laughter rocked his chest. “You came to my bed. If you want me to listen, it will be as I say or not at all.”
She stilled. “You will not...touch me?”
“I want information. Not sex.”
A rooster crowed in the distance. Time passed thick and quiet, marked by the tension melting from her slender legs resting between his. He couldn’t fully see the woman’s eyes, but he could feel them, searching him, wondering. Yielding. He savored moments like these: the dip of a woman’s loins beneath him, a naked knee touching his inner thigh, bed furs tussled and warm from her body, hair spread out for his touch... Sensual tenderness was a Freyja-blessed gift in his harsh life. He was quick to steal softness when he could.
The thrall gave the slightest nod.
“That’s better.” He sheathed his knife. “Now that we’re comfortable.”
“We need to discuss my reward, Viking. For the information.”
“A kiss and a coin. Worthy payment for a thrall.”
“I think not.”
Such haughtiness delivered with an ear-teasing accent. Who was this woman? He pushed back the curtain with his free hand. Fire flickered from a hanging soapstone lamp, slanting light across a cloud of ebon hair and amber eyes. The thrall from last night. She’d stood at the end of Sothram’s feast hall, her furtive stare tracing him from a gloomy corner.
“This isn’t a negotiation, sweeting.”
“It is if you want to save your life and the lives of your men.”
He wasn’t quaking in his boots, but a mere woman could bear helpful tidings.
“Your courage is noteworthy, but you should know when a man has the upper hand.” He let go of the curtain and began to root through the pelts. He was taking no chances.
She swatted his shoulders. “We don’t have time for this, Viking.”
“I have to make sure you’re unarmed.”
Dainty feminine grunts beguiled him. Her fight waned more from exhaustion than will. Palm flat on her ribs, his thumb grazed the side of her breast. The thrall froze. Her heart banged against his forearm bracing her chest. With her cloak open, only a thin layer of wool separated her skin from his hand. Her body heat seeped into him. Women were meant to be savored, their gentleness absorbed.
He took his time, trailing his fingers over each rib before finding the sweet furrow of her waist. Gold eyes flared wide when his hand slid lower, cupping her hip.
“What’s your price for this valuable information?”
Sooty lashes dipped in the manner of a submissive maid, but he wasn’t fooled. Her body was rigid beneath him. She barely tolerated his touch.
“I want you to take me with you. You are bound south, no?”
“To Rouen.”
“Give me safe passage to Paris and your debt to me will be paid.”
“How good of you,” he mocked. “But Paris is inconveniently out of my way.”
Her chin tipped high, but she held silent. This close he scented peppery warmth on her skin, the aroma as inviting as it wa
s foreign. Her manner befitted a spoiled princess of an eastern court, not a slave woman clothed in rags.
Years of living by the sword warned him—listen.
“You require steep payment for a thrall, but go on. How does Sothram plan to cheat us?”
“Your word, Viking.”
He brushed back her hair, the strands as rich as silk threads. The gods had created this woman for a man’s pleasure. More went on here than met the eye. She was too exquisite for Sothram’s outpost, her skin too smooth and hair too lavish to have borne hardships. Most female thralls wore their hair shorn at the shoulders, a sign of their status. When this woman spoke, he glimpsed even white teeth. His morning visitor had been coddled from birth, bred on a life of luxury. A woman of high value. That alone could make the troublesome thrall worthwhile.
Blunt refusal crossed his mind, but his traitorous mouth opened. “I’ll give you safe passage.” He grimaced as soon as the words passed his lips.
A woman meant delays. He needed to be in Rouen in five days, and there was his oath to his men—no women. They never traveled with a woman in tow. But the ebon-haired maid relaxed beneath him, her regal face softening.
“My thanks, Viking. Truly, I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
Her reaction at being in his care reached inside him, a gentle seed seeking fertile soil. Gold-hued eyes, open and beautiful as polished amber, stared back bold and curious. This was a woman to linger over and cosset in a bed of the finest furs, and he wanted to be the one to do it, an urge that did not sit well.
“Your information,” he said gruffly.
Lush lips opened inches from his mouth. “Yesterday you traded for two bundles of ermine, but while you slept, Sothram’s men switched the furs.” Her voice rose with triumph. “Your bundles will be a single layer of ermine on top but worthless rags underneath.”
He rolled off the thrall and helped her upright. Pushing back the curtain, he checked the small outbuilding the Saxon used for storage. His belongings sat on the floor untouched beside broken barrels and buckets in need of repair. Rumors abounded where Sothram was concerned. Sometimes honest, sometimes not. Yet, this was the last southern outpost in the Holy Roman Empire to trade for the highly valued ermine, and it was on the road to Rouen.
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