Lord of the Seas

by Sabrina Jarema

  “About your work. I don’t want you cleaning up after me any longer. I have servants for that. By making things off kilter around here, my men and people have been letting me know their displeasure at not getting enough recompense for my burned ship, but I don’t care.”

  “Did you ever consider they were doing it, not because they thought you didn’t go far enough, but because you went too far? They felt for me. Weaving a sail is one thing, for I love to weave anyhow, but they didn’t like that I was treated like a servant.”

  He laughed. “So that’s what it was. In that case, to keep the village intact, you’re free to do as you want, including weaving the entire day. I still must get something for the ship, but I think this is agreeable to both of us.”

  “Thank you.” Her eyes sparkled with joy. “It will still take a long time, but at least nothing will interfere with my work. I’ll finish the sail that much sooner.” She quieted.

  The unspoken words hung in the air between them. And leave here that much sooner.

  He was never one to step back from battle. “As I told you before, you could always stay here.”

  She gazed across the water as though she saw something far away. “No. I can’t.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Why not? What do you have there besides a bastard of a father?”

  Instead of flaying him alive for the comment, she spoke so quietly, he almost didn’t hear her. “My half brother, Wulf. He’ll be searching for me. He won’t give up unless he knows I’m dead. My mother. She’s ill and needs me. I have to get home for them, if for nothing else.”

  Her mother? “Why didn’t you tell me about your mother before?”

  A slow, sad smile touched her lips. “Would it have mattered to you? Would one Northumbrian woman matter to the great Rorik of Vargfjell?”

  He touched her cheek. “One Northumbrian woman does matter to me. You.”

  “But they matter more.” She nodded to the ships. “And your reputation as unrelenting and merciless. It’s all right. In a way, I understand. And in a way, that makes it even harder. It means you’re not the cold, heartless man I once thought you were. You need all that to protect your people. I know that now, and I respect it. My father is much the same way as you are. I suppose all men of power must be so. But sometimes, in holding on so tightly to that power, you squeeze those who love you until they cannot breathe any longer. They die inside. I’ve seen it happen to my mother because of her love for my father. I will not let it happen to me.”

  She rose and walked back up the path toward the longhouse. He stared after her, his mind ringing as though she’d hit his skull with a war axe. Had she just said what he thought he’d heard? That she loved him? Or she would love him if he weren’t so much like the father who betrayed and hurt her.

  He’d called the earl a bastard, and yet wasn’t he one himself? If she had told him first off about her ill mother, would it have stopped him from taking her? Probably not. Now that he knew, he understood a little better her anger at being here. Her life could not have been good under a father who didn’t care about her. He should know. But it hadn’t been without love. He’d met her half brother when he was bargaining with Edward and he seemed a good man. If someone had sailed in here and taken one of his sisters, he’d never give up trying to find her either. If she didn’t kill the idiot first.

  If Edward didn’t care about Elfwynn, he most likely didn’t care about the mother, either. Was she getting the help she needed? Was her daughter the only one who looked after her? Rorik closed his hands in tight fists as the pain seared through him. He hadn’t been able to save his mother so long ago. The agony of that still tormented him. Did Elfwynn’s inability to be there for her mother haunt her as well?

  He rubbed his hand over his face. This complicated things. He had some decisions to make. After the battle. The men were sharpening their weapons, and Thorir would be here in the morning. This was the very survival of Vargfjell and its people. Elfwynn would understand.

  But afterward, he’d make certain she understood so much more.

  * * *

  The handsal for the marriage between Finna and Turold had gone well with Orri. He’d insisted on the formal agreement to be certain that if anything happened to him in the coming battle, the couple could still wed.

  Rorik set down his empty cup and rose to go to his room for the night. One had to prepare for all eventualities before war and he’d made certain Vargfjell would be in good hands. If Eirik survived, he’d take over as the closest kin until one of his heirs could rule here. Like Ivar had done after his own father’s death until Rorik was old enough to return. He had family in the far north on his father’s side, but he didn’t know them and didn’t want to. They might cause a problem with the claim, but with Eirik’s power, they wouldn’t prevail.

  Elfwynn would be returned to her homeland. Magnus had promised to take her there should it be necessary. That would make her happy. He put his hand on the door’s latch. If only he could hear her laugh one more time, as she had when they’d stood dripping wet in the fjord. She’d never laughed with him before, and now, it might never happen again.

  She was there, waiting for him with her harp. All the lamps were lit and the glow shone in her honey-colored hair. He closed the door and leaned back against it.

  “I said you don’t have to serve me any longer. That includes playing for me each night.”

  “It’s the night before you leave for battle.” She spread her fingers on the strings, but didn’t move them. “Wulf and my father were always tense before they left for war. Sometimes I played for them. They said it soothed them. I thought it might help you as it did them.”

  “It will.” He walked farther into the room and unfastened the belt over his tunic. “I go over and over everything I think will happen, what I hope will happen, and what I fear will happen. It doesn’t make for a restful night.”

  Often, he had buried himself inside a woman the night before, so as not to think. Only feel. But while that had exhausted his body and his mind, it had done nothing for his spirit. This would. Her music awakened a part of him he’d thought dead when his mother had died. Elfwynn touched him on that same level. She was a comfort to him, an easing of his pain, the music that had been too long silenced coming to life. An awakening to a distant dream of the only time in his youth he’d been safe and loved.

  She played a lilting, beautiful song. Instead of lying down, he sat on the edge of the bed and watched her. Strumming the strings with her right hand, she muted the ones she didn’t want to sound with her left. She bent her head to the harp, and her hair fell over her arms, cascading around her in spiraling curls. Closing her beautiful eyes, she swayed to the melody, lost to the song, bringing him with her.

  The last notes faded. She looked at him as though only realizing he wasn’t reclining.

  “Is the music not to your liking?”

  “It is. Very much so. But I’m not tired and I’d rather watch you play. It takes me to a time I thought I’d forgotten.”

  “Is it a time you want to remember?”

  “It is and it isn’t.” He looked at the harp. “That belonged to my mother. She was the only one who could play it. The music brings many memories to me of her. No one else has played it since the day she died.”

  “It’s a fine instrument. So like the one my father had made for me.” She gave him a slight smile as she ran her fingers over the strings. “The music has both good and bad memories for me as well.”

  “For both of us.” Catching her gaze, he held it, willing her to feel the same connection he did. “Please, continue.”

  She did. As the song spun out from the harp, he listened to the passion with which she played and watched the rapture on her face. Her elegant hands moved with grace and strength, like she did. What would it feel like to have her touch him like that?

  If only he could make her feel what the music did to him. If only she could look like that because o
f his touch and his words when he whispered them to her as he made love to her. He had to taste her one more time, take the memory of her scent and the sensation of her skin on his lips into battle with him. Perhaps even into Valhalla.

  He went to her and knelt by her side. She opened her eyes and her fingers hesitated on the strings as she looked at him.

  “Don’t stop. For anything. Not even this.” He kissed the side of her chin. “We don’t want anyone in the hall to hear you cease, do we?”

  She swallowed and shook her head. Her hands trembled as she tried to start another song. He moved his mouth to her jaw, nibbling and kissing her tender skin. Taking her ear lobe between his teeth, he bit gently and let it slide free. She shuddered and missed a chord.

  Her scent was that of flowers and light. He breathed deep of it, carrying her essence into his body. Moving her hair around to her far shoulder, he ran his tongue over the nape of her neck, then blew on it. She bent her head, exposing it, surrendering to him.

  He smoothed his hands over her back and her flat stomach, then upward. Combing his right hand beneath her hair, he held her as he slid his other hand over her breast and up her neck. Taking her jaw, he tilted her head back until she met his gaze. Her fingers stilled.

  “You’ve stopping playing.” He looked into her eyes and found no fear or anger. Only desire.

  “I know.” She set the harp aside.

  He gathered her to him and slanted his mouth over hers. She clung to him, opening to his demand, accepting his mastery of her. It fired him. He had to know the feel of her under him, to bathe himself in her warmth. He needed to wrap himself in her glorious hair and taste her on his mouth.

  She was his, in all ways, and he never had to let her go now. She’d stay with him, and her innocence would be his.

  He held her to him. If he took her tonight and died tomorrow, her future would be ruined. And if there were a child, it would grow up in a foreign land, never knowing of him or its true heritage—Vargfjell. He’d always been careful with his other women, but with Elfwynn, he didn’t want to be.

  He desired a child with her. That had never happened before and it made all the difference.

  He loved her.

  Burying his face in her hair, he gritted his teeth. He’d never denied himself with a willing woman, and she was willing. He drew in her essence for what might be the last time. Then he pulled away to look into her eyes. She gazed back at him with trust and he gave her a gentle kiss.

  “You’d better go, little Christian. Your god is already angry enough with me and I need all the luck I can have in the coming days. I don’t want him arguing with my gods about my fate.”

  “I thought the Norns already decided your fate.” She gave him a shy smile. “Though knowing you, even if the Valkyries came for you, you’d charm your way out of their grasp and return here.”

  “If I had you to come back to, I would.” He kissed her again.

  When he sat back on his heels, she looked down at her hands. “I’m afraid of the coming days, and of what will happen.”

  He took her wrists and kissed her palms. “I’ve made certain you’ll be safe. Galinn is remaining here and will take you and all the women and children to a waiting ship at the first sign of trouble. You’ll be safe out on the seas. And if anything happens to me, Magnus or Eirik will take you home.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I fear for you. That I’ll never see you again.” She broke away from him and ran out of the room before he could stop her.

  He knelt there, looking at the closed door. If he went after her, what would he say? That he loved her? It would be best if she didn’t know it in the event he didn’t return. Then she’d go home, and he’d be nothing more than an unpleasant memory for her.

  But if he did return? They still didn’t have a future. Either she’d finish the sail and he’d have to send her home, or he would send her home anyhow. Because, like Thorir had told him, it was what she wanted and he had to put her happiness over his own.

  Because he loved her.

  Redbank, the keep of Earl Edward

  Kingdom of Northumbria

  “My lord.” A guard ran into the hall, out of breath.

  Wulf and his father stood up from the table where they’d been drinking ale. Their men also rose, their hands going to their swords.

  “I was patrolling and saw Northmen along the shore, very close to us.”

  “Is it an attack force?” Edward walked around the table, his face grim.

  “No. It’s only two or three of them. But they’re not bothering to hide themselves. It’s as though they wanted me to see them. I thought you should know.”

  “I do. Gather more men and go out—”

  “I’ll go.” Wulf put his hand on his father’s arm. “Let me see what the situation is. One man may go more quietly than several.”

  Edward studied him. “Very well. Go.” He sent him a grave smile. “See what news your contact brings to us.”

  Wulf opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again. It wasn’t surprising his father knew he spoke to the Northmen on occasion. When it came to the safety of his keep, he knew everything. Chuckling, he nodded to his father and left, calling for his horse.

  As he waited outside, his heart sped up. Brandr. He had to have information for him, though whether it was about Elfwynn or not, he couldn’t say. In all the weeks since she’d been missing, there had been no sign of her anywhere, anyplace. Maybe, finally, he’d heard something.

  He leaped on his horse and rode out of the keep as though an army of Northmen were after him. Heading west along the shore of the river, he urged his horse on until he saw Brandr’s men. He stopped in the midst of them.

  “Brandr wants to see you.”

  He didn’t wait to reply. Riding hard along the bank, he scanned the water as he had so many times before. He’d searched and searched for any sign of her, any clue as to what had happened to her—a scrap of clothing, a shoe. A body. Nothing. Oddly enough, it gave him hope, though lately that had begun to dwindle. Now it kindled in his chest once again and even when he reached the camp, he didn’t slow down.

  He reined in his horse in front of Brandr’s tent and jumped off. The large raider strode toward him, and they gripped each other’s wrists in greeting.

  “News?”

  Brandr shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. But it’s possible.” He took a pitcher from a waiting man and poured two cups of ale. He handed one to Wulf as they sat. “Rorik of Vargfjell was seen recently in Hedeby. He was trying to ransom a young woman to the church there. A woman who spoke Northumbrian.”

  He leaned forward, his pulse racing. “Did they pay?”

  Brandr held up his hand. “From what I’ve heard, they didn’t. He wanted too much. The price of a longship and the wergeld for two warriors. The church there simply didn’t have it. The woman tried to escape and went to a priest, but before she could get to safety, Rorik found her.” He laughed. “Half the town heard them arguing and the other half heard about it later. He tried to sell her to a slaver there, but she came at him with a knife when she realized it. Seems she has a bit of a temper.”

  “That must be Elfwynn. Rorik lost a ship and two men while he was here the first time. He must want recompense for them, but why didn’t he try to get it from my father? That would make more sense. Did the slaver take her?” He held his breath. If that were so, then there was no hope of ever finding her.

  “No. When she attacked Rorik, he said she wasn’t worthy and that he would bring her back when he had properly tamed her. The Arab wasn’t pleased and Rorik got out of there with her on his shoulder and the Church on his heels. Turns out from what I’ve heard, the priest went to the bishop, who went to the king, who happened to be there. Horik sent the money, but by the time they got to the docks, Rorik was already leaving. They got away.”

  “Oh, God.” He buried his face in his hands. “He could have taken her anywhere, even the Eastern slave markets.”

 
“The word is he had a confrontation later that day with the pirate Alvida. The tale was told over many cups of ale that one of her men tried to rape the Northumbrian woman. She didn’t take well to that and came after him with the same knife. Rorik tossed him overboard. When Alvida found out, she threw the pirate off the other side of the ship. What is important here is that they were in the Kattegat, so he was headed to the North Sea.” He met Wulf’s hopeful gaze. “He was going home to Vargfjell. With her.”

  Wulf closed his eyes. Thank you, Lord. There was still hope. If he could get there in time. If the bastard, Rorik, was trying to ‘tame’ Elfwynn he’d have his hands full. But then, he could harm her, or even kill her if Elfwynn didn’t comply. And she probably wouldn’t.

  He opened his eyes. Brandr was regarding him over the rim of his cup as he took a long drink.

  “How much to take me to Vargfjell?”

  He let out a belch. “Because you’re a friend and ally, I won’t cheat you too much. And I have some goods I can trade while I’m there.” He poured them more ale. “But if Rorik wants the price of a longship and the wergeld in exchange for your sister, you’d better bring plenty of gold and even more silver. You’re going to need it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Vargfjell

  Elfwynn stood in the village, overlooking the shoreline. The ships lined the beach, packed so close together there was barely enough room to walk between them. At the docks, they were tied two and three deep. Thorir’s fleet of ten was anchored in the fjord and he stood on the beach, talking with Rorik.

  She touched her lips where Rorik had kissed her last night. When she had taken the harp into his room and waited for him, she’d known what might happen. She’d gone anyway. Little by little, he was opening to her, like when he’d told her about his mother’s harp. As she’d played it, she’d felt closer to him, as though she could be a part of his life. But it couldn’t be.