by Laura Martin
“Of course she is.” Rurik’s voice rang loud. “You can keep her.”
The thrall gaped at him. It was laughable how fast her fair mouth turned shrewish.
“You, you...” she sputtered, and her Norse switched to rapid words he couldn’t understand.
He didn’t know the tongue but guessed the she-cat called him something worse than odious swine. He wasn’t going to leave the woman, but he’d not explain himself. Stifling a grin, he hugged her body flush to his. This was one way to tame her.
“First, we have the matter of my furs.”
“What?” Sothram’s lips curled against his teeth. “My man Hans wrapped the ermine last eve. Protects ’em from dampness, and this is the thanks I get?”
“Just as I told you, Viking.” The muffled words came from his ribs.
“Yer listenin’ to the likes of her?” Sothram barked rude laughter. “I should let ye have her. Not worth the silver I paid. A haughty viper’s tongue, she has.”
“I don’t need a woman. I need my furs. They are what I traded for.”
“Ye got ’em packed all nice and pretty.” Sothram spat at the ground and grappled for his knife. “Time ye leave.”
Sothram’s men advanced, but the Sons were faster. Blood pulsing, Rurik pushed the thrall behind him. He rushed the Saxon, his sword ringing as he unsheathed iron. The merchant’s blade never cleared leather.
Rurik jerked the man by his tunic and stuck Fenrir’s tip between the fat folds on Sothram’s neck. “I leave when I have my furs.”
Metal clashed to Rurik’s left. Men landed in the dirt, grunting in pain. Wood splintered from Bjorn snapping arrows over his thigh, the broken shafts scattering like twigs. The Sons brandished axes over Sothram’s fallen men. Of the eight, five were out cold. The other three were on their knees.
To his right, a rotund woman screamed. Sothram’s wife. She ran shrieking into the yard, belly shaking and hands fluttering wildly. Two gaunt thralls followed her, their arms brimming with wool-wrapped mounds. Rurik smiled coldly. Plush white ermine, the fur of kings, dangled from the open ends. He didn’t need the prideful thrall’s help after all. His furs came to him.
Sothram’s chest heaved with labored, fetid breaths. The merchant’s eyes slanted at his wife. “Tell ’em to load the furs, Hilda, and quit yer screams.”
The hollow-eyed men rushed to cut the bundles. Rags poured underfoot as they scrambled to strap the ermine onto docile packhorses. The yard stayed silent except for defeated men panting on their knees.
Rurik tightened his grip on the merchant’s tunic. “Do you know what I do to men like you?”
The Saxon’s beady eyes rounded. “Wh-what?”
“I make the world a better place.” His voice was low and lethal. “A world free of one less cheat.”
He angled his sword high for the killing thrust, but footfalls pattered the dirt. A small body launched at him.
“No!” A girl’s fists beat his thigh. “Leave Father alone.”
Sothram’s wife screamed, rocking back and forth on bare feet, her apron clutched to her mouth. The round-faced child strained to get between Rurik and Sothram. She couldn’t be more than five or six.
On his left, slender fingers touched his shoulder. The amber-eyed thrall. “Please, Viking. I loathe the man, but let him live.”
Rurik, his arm raised for the death strike, took measure of the slave. “I would’ve thought you the most bloodthirsty of all.”
She paled under apricot skin, and the same hand that had touched his knee in bed touched his sword hand to stay the kill.
“Sheathe your weapon. You have what belongs to you, and your men are unharmed.” A moment passed and her voice gentled for his ears alone. “Even a warrior such as you must know there are times when the force of your hand is not the answer.”
The woman’s refined accent found a hidden place inside him, a whisper, a stirring akin to leaves rustling in a forest. Force and bloodshed was his life, a language he understood. Kill or be killed. Life was simple as that. But there was no denying the odd seed the woman planted. Perhaps she did have an otherworldly gift, because her presence rattled him.
Rurik released Sothram, his gaze locked on the slave. Her face set to his, the woman didn’t flinch. The Saxon tottered back, gulping air. His wife grabbed the little girl, raced back to the feasting hall, and banged the door behind her. Uncanny silence poured over Rurik, bringing with it the slave woman’s unusual peppery scent. Why did she show weakness? Most would cry bloodlust revenge, not beg mercy for another, especially one as mean-spirited as Sothram.
Fenrir glinted in his hand, the hungry metal denied. The blade arced in a wide, unhurried half circle until the tip touched the earth.
“Please,” she murmured. “Let us leave this place.”
Fog cleared from his head. “Yes. We ride.” He pointed at one of the male thralls and spoke louder. “You there. Saddle another horse for the maid. Her mount and her release to me will be gifts from Sothram for his slight against me and my men.” He pointed to the other young thrall. “Clean up those rags. When you’re done, get my belongings and put them by my horse.”
The first young man sprinted to the barn while the other dropped to his knees to gather the fallen rags. Sunshine trickled through morning’s vapor. Ducks waddled into the yard, a pair of them flapping their wings, quacking over a morsel in the dirt.
The ebon-haired woman still faced him. “My thanks, Viking. For a moment, I thought you were going to leave me.”
“And I thought you would go quietly to the trees. For a thrall, you don’t take orders well.”
One brow arched. “I was walking to the barn because you were there.”
“Because you didn’t trust me to keep our bargain?”
“Because being with you was the safest place to be.”
Smart woman. Trust was a thin thread here, and she wasn’t taking any chances. He couldn’t blame her. He was a wandering Viking who sold his unique talents to the highest bidder. The Sons followed the exchange, grins splitting Bjorn’s and Erik’s faces. They knew he was no savior of women.
“I didn’t set out to stir up trouble, but I won’t cower from it. You saw how he grabbed me.” Haughtiness limned her accented Norse. “The Saxon got exactly what he deserved.”
His smile was reluctant. She had spirit. In the right measure, her presence could be entertaining. No one could begrudge her attacking Sothram’s shin. He’d been ready to do worse. But his word was law. She needed to understand this.
He jabbed Fenrir’s tip deeper in the soil. “If you ride with me, you’ll do exactly as I say.”
The thrall fixed her cloak, a picture of well-mannered calm. “Then, I shall go to the trees now.”
She treaded an uneven path through the yard, watching him over her shoulder. Frayed hems skimmed smooth-skinned calves. The way she walked, her steps rhythmic and graceful, he could almost hear fine-soled slippers tapping polished stone floors.
Images of foreign, high-born women floated before him, their silk-covered heads turning to peruse the length of him. Some scorned him, a beast of burden, a hired sword ripe for their disdain. Others whispered perfumed invitations, craving roughness in their beds. How little they knew him. It didn’t matter. He’d slaked his lust on them, quenching their bodies to their last pleasured cry before leaving them exhausted in their fur-strewn beds.
But this amber-eyed woman...
Who was she? A runaway wife? A favored concubine ambushed by a rival and sold in the dark of night?
His grip on Fenrir tightened. He would unlock her riddles, piece by piece, touch by touch, and take what he wanted.
Don’t miss KEPT BY THE VIKING by Gina Conkle, available now wherever Carina Press ebooks are sold.
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Copyright © 2018 by Gina Conkle
ISBN-13: 9781488086694
An Earl to Save Her Reputation
Copyright © 2018 by Laura Martin
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