by Gina Conkle
“What did she mean?”
Astrid nudged her chin at the open door, and Gyda left the room, taking the polished bronze platter with her. The older woman fussed with the bed furs.
“Ellisif likes to speak in riddles. I suspect she’s warning you to be ready for tonight.”
“What is there to be wary of?”
Astrid straightened, clasping work worn hands at her waist. “You will sit with Rurik at the jarl’s table. A place of honor. People will be curious. You will be judged.”
“I will not embarrass Rurik or the jarl.”
The old woman smiled, tossing back her long braid. “That is not my concern. Rurik was supposed to swear an oath to the jarl tonight, but there have been some troubles.”
“Troubles?”
“Rurik can tell you. For now, you must understand, people will wonder if you bring luck to Rurik or hardship.” Keys jangling, Astrid strode to the door. “I say claim your destiny and be done with it.”
Claim her destiny? Since the last full moon, she had been stolen from home, sold into slavery, and she’d struck a bargain for her freedom with a Viking stranger, a man she’d nearly surrendered her body to in a forest. Her future was a distant glimmer against the present, burning hot and fast like the towering bonfires outside.
Safira sat on the bed, sinking into a goose-down mattress. “Astrid, what is expected of me? Do I wait here for Rurik?”
Deep lines creased the corners of the ambut’s eyes. “What you do, lady, is for you to decide.”
Astrid pattered down the hall. She left the door half-open, an invitation and a warning.
Walk past the carved lintel and see the world beyond.
The room was safe. Rurik’s leather bags slumped on the floor beside his battle-worn shield and a bronze-wrapped bucket. Iron-tipped spears leaned against a corner, the only signs the warrior-leader Lord Ademar had once lived here. She’d always been surrounded by the finest luxuries. Coddled. Loved. At times smothered by her bossy, well-meaning mother, all to strike the most lucrative marriage bargain.
Safira ran her fingers over rich mink. Silken fur teased her palm. Sensual. Inviting. Rurik would expect her to sleep in this bed with him. There would be no more night watches requiring him to stay away until she fell asleep. Beautiful Viking women abounded at the wrestling match. They would welcome his attentions. Like the widow in Abbod village.
Or would he spend his seed into his hand?
Rurik’s seed...
Her hand rested over her womb. A lonely pang settled there. A Viking woman would bear his children and comfort him on cold, winter nights. A tall, blonde woman with an able sword and fierce manner...not a short, curvaceous Hebrew woman whose sharpest weapon was her tongue.
He was hers now. As companion and protector.
What if I give him my maidenhood?
Her heart thumped against her breast bone. It was a wild thought. Her life had been preparation for giving herself to a man—a man others chose for her.
If her maidenhood was gone...
She would be free.
No marriage alliance. No men of authority to claim her.
Power would be hers.
Temptation throbbed in her veins, a rhythm matching the drum beat wafting through the chamber’s closed shutters. Her fingers curled to a fist. The fate of her maidenhood was for her to decide. Not her mother or her father. Not even the rough, quiet Viking whose kisses seared her. Still, she needed to get a message to her mother and father to let them know she was alive. Was it destiny? Survival? She couldn’t say.
She rose from the bed, her steps full of purpose. Exiting the room, she banged into a broad chest clothed in white linen. Big hands grabbed her shoulders.
“Lord Ademar.”
“Safira.” His voice was seductive in the unlit hallway. He smelled of mead and clean soap, his battle-honed body crowding the passage.
Her skin flushed with fight or flight at male interest sparking in his eyes. His hands clamped her shoulders. She was tempted to swat them away, but Rurik’s voice carried from the closed door at the other end of the hall. So did Bjorn’s, Erik’s growl, and Thorvald’s booming voice. Discussions were heated. She was safe, but she couldn’t forget what Astrid had said.
You will be judged.
Rurik’s promised holding. She would not be the cause of him losing the land because of her spate of willfulness with the jarl’s brother. She was bred on moments like these. Of walking a fine line with powerful men. To be friendly but not flirtatious. For there was no doubt Ademar’s good will mattered when it came to Rurik securing the land.
Pasting on a winsome smile, she said, “Why are all of you Vikings so enormous? And tall. A woman must crane her neck to have a conversation with you.”
He laughed, both hands dropping to his sides. The corner of his mouth turned with knowing. “I see why Rurik keeps you.”
“Oh, now there you are wrong. What we have is mutual. It was I who approached him about our arrangement.”
His eyes lit with mild surprise. “An equal enjoyment of each other.”
“Yes.”
Lord Ademar’s gaze flicked to the bed. “And is it satisfactory?”
“I will not bore you with a woman’s whispers.” She tried to sidle past him.
A hulking shoulder blocked the way. “I like a woman’s whispers.”
Spine to the wall, she met his gaze with a brazen one of her own. “Many of them, I’m sure.”
His head tipped with a genuine chuckle. The Viking was a bull of a man barring her. She wasn’t going anywhere, but his intent was unclear, riling her just enough.
“Where did Rurik find you?”
“In his bed. I climbed into it.” Now she was just being tart-tongued.
“Did you?” The warrior’s cheek dimpled on the scarred side above his beard.
Her shrug was dramatic and womanly. “I gave him a bargain he couldn’t refuse.”
“And being a smart man, he took it.” A faint narrowing of his eyes asked What was that bargain?
Torchlight from the feast hall filtered through the leather-weave curtain. Lord Ademar was older than Rurik by a few years, a man half into his third decade if she guessed right. When he smiled, lines creased the corners of his eyes, the skin taking its time smoothing out when his humor faded. He was not as handsome as his gold-skinned, unscarred brother. Barbarism gleamed in his eyes. The same savagery she’d seen in Erik’s, but Ademar’s was tempered by time and wisdom.
His menace struck a perfect note. The right amount of pressure and relief. His voice was even and friendly, yet his eyes measured her. The warrior was no fool. He stored away her every word and mannerism. The jarl’s brother was a dangerous combination of brutality and keen strategy...an enemy to fear, an ally to covet.
She swallowed the peculiar knot in her throat, an unbidden question coming. Would Lord Ademar be gentle or rough with a woman? She didn’t like the question playing in her head. She wanted sex, but she wouldn’t be ruled by it.
Light from the feast hall shined on Ademar’s pink-white scar and serpentine tattoo. “I came to offer my escort, and I can already tell it will be time well-spent.”
Her shoulder blades dug into the wall. “An escort.”
Behind the jarl’s closed door, voices rose in anger. Was Thorvald yelling? Ademar checked the door, a rueful smile ghosting his lips.
“Yes. Show you around our humble settlement. As you can hear, Rurik and his men are closeted with my brother.”
She gawked at the door with its elaborately carved lintel. Shadows and light moved in the thin space where the door met the plank floor. Rurik must have told the men about the holding.
“It will be a while before you see Rurik,” Lord Ademar said, a touch amused. “Since you have not visited Rouen before, it falls on me to show you the
village.”
“It is true. I have not visited these lands.”
“A shame since we’re practically neighbors.”
She tore her attention from the jarl’s door. “I don’t remember telling you where I’m from.”
“Your accent is Frankish...distinctly Paris.”
Her eyes rounded. “Very good.”
Definitely not a fool.
Lord Ademar offered his arm, a raven tattoo peeking out from his sleeve. “Come, let’s take a walk.”
There was iron in his voice. She took his proffered arm, her hand resting on muscle solid as oak. He led her through the feast hall, where tables were laden with wooden platters and carved wood spoons. Two thralls set out crocks of butter. Rye bread baked in open pans on the hearths. Three boys turned the spits while taking turns at a dice game on the earthen floor. The amount of food would rival any feast her mother hosted.
“The thralls look happy,” she said as they exited the longhouse.
Tall torches flanked all roads leading to the feast hall. The jarl’s hall sat on a gentle elevation, looking down on the rest of Rouen. Laughter and goat bone flutes braided with smoke and beating drums in the heart of the settlement. Light bounced off copper-banded buckets hanging from a merchant’s stall. A Persian man unrolled a bolt of shimmering white silk for two women cooing their delight.
“My brother is a good ruler of men.” Lord Ademar guided her to a path away from the crowds.
Passages were narrow between humbler longhouses. They passed two barefoot, giggling girls herding honking geese. A cheerful man called out a greeting to Lord Ademar.
“And you help the jarl,” she said, nursing their conversation.
Lord Ademar faced forward, his gait shortened to match hers. “My place is to do his bidding.”
“Pardon me, Lord Ademar, but when speaking of yourself, the word bidding seems unnatural.”
His chuckle was an honest sound. “As brothers, we have occasional discord. But I do not want the jarl’s seat if that is what you’re thinking. My purpose is to keep Will there.”
“Hmm. You are rare among men. Too many thirst for power. Yet, by the scar on your head, you have fought hard for something. You are a man comfortable in battle, no?”
Above them, the moon was a fat pearl. Rows of torches had ended, and longhouses had given way to fields ripe with mid-season grains. Rouen’s southern forest loomed, a wall of trees too thick to count. Their evening stroll was comfortable. Harmonious with drum beats fading the farther south they walked. She was clean and safe, silk caressing her skin with each step.
“For as long as I can remember, I have lived with a sword in one hand and a spear in the other.” His sigh expanded in the dark. “Once the Breton queen is defeated, I may get what I want.”
“And what is that?”
“To live quietly on my farmstead. Last summer I built a longhouse north of Rouen. I like the peacefulness of it.”
“Forgive me, but your ferocious tattoos do not say peaceful farmer to me.”
He touched the side of his head where rune tattoos coiled like a snake. “There are times I forget what is written on my skin.” His lips parted, a fierce show of teeth he directed at the southern forest. “The scar was a gift from Queen Annick of the Bretons. I survived her flaming arrow.”
“She is your enemy.”
“One of them. The tattoo is my vow to destroy her...when the time comes.” His voice rang with certainty.
They had ventured far outside of Rouen. The forest swallowed the southern road with a single stone building set apart from the town. The abbey.
“Why have you brought me here?” she asked.
Lord Ademar towered over her, a sprinkle of blond chest hair showing at the open V of his tunic. Snow-white linen hugged his chest, the muscles like two plates under the cloth. Under his lashes, blue-green eyes glimmered the shade of copper when put to the flame.
“Astrid said you asked Gyda for parchment and ink. An unusual request for the companion of a warrior who barely knows our runes.”
Feet rooted to the ground, her mind stumbled over certain facts. While Gyda had dressed Safira’s hair, a comb had fallen to the floor. She and the thrall had both crouched to pick it up. That was when she’d whispered a quick request for parchment and ink. Gyda had mouthed At the abbey before springing upright. Astrid had slipped out of the room in search of earrings while Ellisif appeared to nap on the bed.
Had the ice-haired shield maiden spied on her?
A chill scraped her skin, stealing newfound comfort. She was a fool for letting her guard down. Rurik had warned her before they entered the feast hall. Keep. Quiet.
Lord Ademar cocked his head, a fierce and sensual smile spreading. He was reading her and waiting. This tame walk to the outskirts of Rouen, his laughter and conversation...it was all to bait her into trusting him. Rurik had done the same, but this man wasn’t her protector.
She touched her neck where her life vein throbbed against her fingertips. It would not do to underestimate these Vikings again.
“Lord Ademar, are you trying to intimidate me?” Her voice was quiet feminine fortitude. “It didn’t work in your brother’s longhouse, and I can assure you it won’t work here. My wish for parchment and ink is harmless.”
“You’re obviously not a monk.” His gaze dropped to saffron silk peeking from her bodice. “And you don’t look like any scribe I’ve met, which leaves one purpose for your request. A message.” His blue-green stare was cold. “I want to know who you plan to write to and why.”
Chapter Thirteen
Rurik urged his horse to a gentle gallop past Rouen’s southern grain fields. A man and woman tarried on the southern road near the abbey. Twin torches burned in iron holders bolted into the abbey’s wall, illuminating Safira’s silhouette and Ademar’s bulk.
“Safira,” he yelled.
She faced him riding toward her, an arm raised to hail him. “Rurik!”
She fairly sang his name, clutching handfuls of her skirts and trotting up the road to meet him. He reined in his warhorse. Cheeks high with color, Safira set a hand on his boot-covered leg.
“I am glad to see you, Viking.” Her chin tipped high and a lock of jet black hair fell to her collarbone.
The sight stilled him. She stilled him.
The silken wisp graced her skin better than jewelry. Someone had spun her glossy black hair into elegant loops, yet he was ambushed by a wayward tress touching soft skin. In the vivid red tunic, she was Viking.
His Viking maid.
“I did not think we would leave the village.” Cat-like, amber eyes slanted with distaste in Ademar’s direction. “It would seem I prefer your companionship above all others.”
“You are unharmed?”
Her face tilted to Rurik, and she gave his leg a reassuring squeeze. “Lord Ademar has been kindness itself. Aside from asking me strange questions.”
Rurik wanted to growl at Ademar and knock him to the ground for stealing her away. To ply her with questions? Or kisses? Perhaps both. The bastard son stood a respectful distance, a predatory smile curving his lips.
Rurik bent low, his voice for Safira’s ears. “I thought you would wait quietly for me.”
Not pausing for an answer, he hauled her into the saddle in front of him. Safira wrapped an arm around his waist, both legs resting on one side of the horse. His ebon-haired maid sat tall as if she took pride sitting with him. The entrancing lock of hair slipped lower, the tip grazing the plump arc of her breast and a wisp of shiny saffron silk.
“I wanted a harmless walk through the village, but I chose the wrong Viking for it.” Amusement laced her accented voice. “Now I am with the right one.”
“Rurik.” Ademar held his position in the road, his stance wide and voice firm.
“Ademar.” Rurik’s hand r
ested possessively on Safira’s thigh. His steed snorted and a hoof clomped the earth, twice. Even his warhorse was affronted.
One side of the bastard’s mouth curved when he caught the claiming touch. “I suppose you’re wondering what we’re doing out here. Alone.”
“It crossed my mind.”
“Safira asked for parchment and ink. I was merely showing her that it’s here—” Ademar’s arm swept a wide arc “—at the abbey.”
“Now she knows.”
Ademar chuckled, his good humor restored. “She is a woman of great spirit. I can see why you are protective of her.”
“As long as you understand, I do the protecting.”
Light flared in Ademar’s eyes, a man considering a challenge. “I merely thought with so much for you to attend in the coming days, and your men—”
“Are with me.” Rurik’s grip tightened on the reins. “Whether I win the holding or not, the Forgotten Sons and Safira are with me.”
“You solved the rift with your men. Good.” Ademar hooked a thumb in his belt. “You still have the monks to appease. No small feat. As for me, I am here to collect a bladder of cyser for tonight’s feast.” Walking backward, he gave Safira a bold once-over. “I will see you at my brother’s table.”
Holding Safira close, Rurik wheeled his horse around to an easy walk. “Jarl’s brother or not, he is too brazen.”
“He is like you.”
They headed to the feast hall, but he was in no hurry to share Safira with a crowd. She soothed him with her spicy scent and lilting voice. Conversation with Safira was a gift, but night was best, full of opportunities to let his guard down and absorb her softness.
“I feared the worst when you weren’t in our chamber.”
She squeezed his waist. “You are getting used to my presence, Viking.”
“You need to be wary,” he chided.
“Yes. I see that now. I thought since we are among Vikings, there would be no cause to be on alert. I merely asked for parchment and ink to send a message to my mother and father.”
His promise to see her safely home. “Trust me to do that when the time is right.” The half-truth tasted acrid in his mouth.