by Gina Conkle
“When Samson woke up, he was weak as a newborn lamb. He couldn’t fight. His enemies bound him and dragged him away.” Her voice quieted. “They blinded him, beat him, kept him in chains for many, many days.”
“But did he defeat them?” Thorvald called out.
She pivoted to the smash-faced warrior. “Yes. By a great sacrifice. Samson’s enemies brought him out each night to taunt him. This went on for a long time. A season passed and Samson’s hair began to grow. One night as he stumbled from his prison in chains, he asked the guard leading him to the feast hall to bind him between the center posts.” She set her hand on one ash post. “Standing in chains, he prayed for strength and it came to him.”
“He prayed for strength?” Thorvald’s scoffing voice boomed.
“Shhh!” Matrons hushed him.
“Let her finish,” a housekarl called out.
All eyes were on Safira.
“Samson pushed with all his might—” her arm strained against the post “—the columns shook. He pushed again and this time the hall tumbled down on Samson and his enemies.”
The room was silent as she looked to Thorvald.
“Blood shed on behalf of another,” she said in a solemn voice. “A sign of great sacrifice.”
The second law of the Forgotten Sons.
“Sounds like revenge.” Ivar raised his horn high.
“Sounds like a man should be careful about the woman he brings to his bed,” Ademar jested.
Nervous laughter followed. Several men cast furtive glances at female companions before burying their noses in their cups. Most were hooked by the tale. Vikings were bred on revenge and sex. Two passions to feed the crowd. Thralls who had tarried to hear the story rushed to fill drinking horns. A sleeping babe was awakened, his howls rising to the rafters. The mother rocked him in her seat, calming him.
Ademar rose, drinking horn in hand. “My brother asked me to give fair judgment, and I say Safira won.”
Fists thumping the tables mingled with shouts of approval. Ivar and Ellisif lifted their horns, adding to the cries supporting Safira.
The jarl raised a hand to quiet the hall. “It is decided. Safira has won. Her request will be honored. Father and son will fight for the land but not to the death.”
A hush fell over the crowd. Thralls rested earthen pitchers on their hips and mothers shushed their children.
“We are Vikings,” he went on. “Surrounded by enemies and nervous allies. The Franks gave land to my father, a token reward if he would be their watchdog...but we grabbed more.”
The crowd was with him. Farmers and housekarls stood shoulder to shoulder, nodding. Smiles grim, these men savored battles. None were afraid to fight.
Longsword’s smile was feral. “And we’ll take more land by our strength and unity. We are one!”
“Strength and unity!” The roar shook the rafters.
Safira scampered to the jarl’s table through smoke thickening with doors and shutters closed. She rushed to Rurik’s side as he stood to full height. Vlad pushed up from the table, his icy stare marking Safira before meeting Rurik’s eyes. The feast hall rang with calls for strength and unity, but none could be found between father and son.
Chapter Sixteen
Her blood pulsed with victory and fear. She scrambled around the table to Rurik’s side only to have him grab her arm hard enough she had to rise on tip toe against him.
“What was that about?” His scowl burned as hotly as when Sothram had stabbed him in the back.
She would not shrink from him. “Unhand me.”
Rurik shook his head. “We’re leaving.”
Families with sleepy children said their goodbyes. A cluster of warriors gathered before the jarl’s table. Ademar and Longsword were deep in conversation with those men. At the end, Vlad stepped off the raised platform, a chilling smile creasing his face. He strode through the hall with red-haired Sigurd two steps behind.
Rurik shoved aside the leather-weave curtain, dragging her with him. She trotted to keep up with his long strides eating up the long hallway. Once inside their room, he shut and barred the door and stood there, an imposing figure in the dark.
She inched backward and bumped into the bed. “I can hardly see you. Can we light a candle?”
“You don’t need to see me to explain yourself.”
Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness. Rurik didn’t pounce on her...far from it. His back was to the door, both arms folded. Skimming the bed frame, she found the wall and threw open the shutters. A ribbon of light spilled around her from the moon and distant torches. Music started again in the feast hall. Drums and goat bone flutes. Voices and laughter. Nearby, a man and woman tumbled against the longhouse wall outside. Laughter wove between ardent kisses.
Rurik crossed the room and set a hand on the opening. They stood side by side, looking at grain fields stirring in a summer breeze. A housekarl keeping watch on a nearby roof was the only sign of danger.
Safira breathed in the stillness, let it calm the chaos inside her. “This is the thanks I get for ensuring you do not have to fight your father to the death.”
“You’ve made things worse.”
Her chin tipped. “How?”
“A fight to the death is a clean end. Vlad will not be satisfied to walk away with his tail between his legs.”
“You say that as if you are certain you would win. I know you’re good, Viking, but even you can’t be that sure of yourself. Anything can happen in a fight.”
“I know Vlad’s weaknesses, but he doesn’t know mine.”
A gust of disbelief escaped her. She spun sideways to face him. “Do you hear yourself? You speak of...of killing your father.”
Rurik untied his arm brace. His fingers tugged hard on the leather thongs, angry jerks that threatened to snap the ties until the brace was loose enough to drop to the floor. Moonlight shined on the vicious scar that stretched from his hand to his elbow.
“The man who gave me this wouldn’t hesitate to kill me.”
She grasped the truth of Vlad’s violent nature. The piece of Rurik’s ear gone. The stories the Sons told of the older man’s cruelty. Though she’d lived in a household filled with love and every possible comfort, she knew many did not. There were hideous men. Men like Vlad.
But, a man wanting to kill his son?
Rurik smiled coldly as if he read her thoughts. “He did this to me when I was eleven because I swore I would see him dead for his cruelty to my mother.” Fist clenched, his voice grated. “My right hand. Vlad tried to make sure I’d never raise a weapon against him.”
She clapped a hand over her mouth. Shock was an acrid taste. How could a father do that to his son? Yet another piece of the mosaic that was Rurik of Birka fell into place, black pieces that broke her heart. But the Viking would have none of it. His face was a harsh mask. The line of his mouth hard. The planes of his cheeks, so like his father’s, were tight with barely restrained ire.
Darkness revealed Rurik better than light.
What did it say about her? Her worst complaint was an ambitious, strong-willed mother. Her indulgent father knew her skill with spices, but he also knew the value of an excellent marriage alliance. The House of Alzaud would pass on to her younger brother. Never to her.
She folded both hands over his fist. “The enemy you spoke of in the Arelaune Forest...the one who did this to you.”
“My father. Vlad of Birka.”
Rurik’s shoulders were broad and solid, but there was the slightest droop. The wolf of Birka needed...comfort. She set his balled-up hand over her heart because hers was breaking. For him. The fierce, blue-eyed boy she’d glimpsed in the Arelaune Forest, the one who protected all, was bared to her just now.
Carved leather was warm against her palm. Summer’s night air poured around them. What she thought was a goo
d turn for Rurik had made things worse. Enmity burned deep between father and son. So did pride. The loser in tomorrow’s fight would not slink away in peace. Not with this kind of history between them.
There was a score to settle.
“Vlad and I have crossed paths. Once we served the same emir in Cordoba. The emir was wise to send us to opposite ends of his kingdom.” His chilling gaze locked on her. “I should have killed him then.”
Rurik lived daily with life and death decisions. To kill or not kill Vlad was one of them. All this time, she assumed Rurik always lived by the force of his hand.
What was she to do with this rough Viking and his heavy heart?
“If I could take away your pain and anger, I would. But I do not think you would let me,” she whispered. “You hoard your pain. You and your men. And you only have room for the Forgotten Sons. No one else.”
His eyes flared wide. “You think that of me?”
Her nod was jerky. “With you I have as many answers as questions, yet I have come to know certain things about you...things that are solid and true.”
Rurik’s tightly fisted hand opened on her chest. He stared at the connection, looking lost yet full of wonder. His thumb grazed her cleavage. The simple caress stole her breath and sent goosebumps wherever his thumb touched.
Moonbeams glinted on the gold tips of his lashes. “What are these certain things you speak of?”
She gripped handfuls of her skirts. His touch, this quiet...it was akin to slipping under the water’s surface and losing all control. “You are generous beyond measure, but I do not understand what you value.”
“I value you.”
She couldn’t move. His words struck the marrow of her bones. It was her...her he valued, not a hoard of gold and silver. That truth was in his gentleness and the gentler tone of his voice. Rurik, a beast of war, enslaved her.
“What else do you know about me?” he asked.
Words moved sluggishly across her tongue. “You badly want land and wealth, yet you were willing to part with your silver when you thought I’d lose. But...”
“But what?”
“You are frugal with your heart.”
Rurik skimmed four fingers over her collarbone. She shuddered visibly, a captive to his touch. None of this made sense. Her knees were weak but she was strong. Alive.
“You are not frugal with your responses to me.” Rurik hooked a finger in the cloth covering her shoulder. “Do you know what I wonder?”
She bit her lower lip. Waiting for what he would do next was painful. Sensual. The moment stretched, her heart pounding.
Rurik took his time dragging cloth down her arm. “Would you have welcomed my companionship if we’d passed each other in your king’s court?”
One breast was bared to him. Her saffron silk underdress skimmed the lower weight of her breast. Rurik’s hand dropped to his side, and the loss left her...lonely. A tear threatened to spill. She swallowed hard, despising the tempest of emotions inside her. Crying was weakness, and she despised weakness. The single, traitorous tear stung before trailing down her cheek. A well of emotions swirled inside her. Few of them worthy.
“What’s this?” He set a finger under her chin. “Do you cry because you and I know the answer? That you, like many other highborn women, would not look twice at me...unless you wanted my protection or the feel of my cock.”
She winced and jerked her chin away. Rurik wasn’t angry or vengeful. He was resigned. Outside footfalls pattered in the grass. Feminine giggles faded, a sure sign the strangers who had been coupling nearby were slipping away. Summer lent warmth and promise to the world, a time of giving after winter’s take. The jarl’s fields burst with lush grains reaching for the moon—the same light that covered her people and the Vikings.
Rurik drew a lazy circle around her nipple. “I will take what you offered me.”
Her breath caught. Erotic heat flared. “My wanton request before the feast.”
“Your maidenhood. It is mine.”
She gripped the frame of the window opening. Between the moonlight and the smell of Rurik’s skin, languid pleasure dripped inside her. He was masterful, tracing leisured rings around her areola. Her body wasn’t her own. If she wasn’t careful, he would devastate her. She wouldn’t want to leave.
What if I keep you forever? Rurik’s words to her before the feast.
Her lids fluttered low. Tonight was for feeling. For freedom with Rurik. His rough warrior’s hand worked magic on her, touching only that aching nib of flesh and nothing else.
“I could do this all night.” His voice was ragged.
“I think you will, Viking.” She covered his hand with hers, splaying all five fingers on her breast. “You leave your mark when you touch me. It singes me deep inside.”
His grin was her reward. Rurik kneaded her breast and stepping closer, he tunneled his other hand into her unbound hair. Bliss teased her skin...from scalp to neck to shoulders and shoulder blades down her spine. Skin slicked between her legs. Heat bloomed across her inner thighs and shot across her calves to the soles of her feet.
Rurik’s lips brushed hers. Soft. Lingering.
He was sweet with her. A rough, big man yet careful. He deepened the kiss, and she opened her mouth to him, tasting spiced mead on his tongue.
This was what she wanted. Freedom. Life. Him.
Lust crackled like a forest fire burning fast. Emotions careened inside her. For this man. A Viking. A pagan. Her gruff, quiet leader of men. She pushed up on her toes, rubbing against him, lulled by passion’s intoxicating sounds...
Her skirt chafing his wool-clad thigh.
One leather-covered foot stroking the side of his boot.
The carved wolf on his chest scraping her nipple.
She broke the kiss. “Undress for me.”
A thick brow arched. There was a heady second or two when neither moved.
Without a word, Rurik removed his remaining arm brace. It dropped to the floor with a light plop. Storm-blue eyes locked with hers as he untied the lacing at the side of his vest. The warrior let the maid have a measure of control. The headiness of it. Of standing one breast bared to him, telling him what to do, and him doing it.
Rurik tugged his vest over his head. Thunk. Thick leather landed on the floor.
Moonlight showered muscles rippling under golden skin. His arms were darker than his chest, the tan line arcing high on his shoulder. She drank him in. Blond hair on his chest. Brown nipples...pointy, as if asking to be sucked... Oddly few scars save the wide, ugly slash on his right arm.
Or did the dark room hide marks of his past?
Rurik’s hands dropped to the leather tie below his navel. “Now you undress for me.”
Wool sagged at his waist. His trousers parted over his abdomen, and she leaned forward as much for what she saw as didn’t. His flat belly, small hillocks of muscles twitching when he moved. Wide V shaped lines of sinew and paler flesh narrowed into his loosening trousers.
Rurik stopped to ungarter his boots. He toed off one boot. “You’re not listening.”
No, she was slack-jawed.
He balanced on one bare foot while pulling off the other boot. She licked her lips. His feet. She wanted to drop to her knees before him and kiss his feet. Her sister had never said anything about kissing feet.
Was this total surrender to a man? Wanting to lavish attention anywhere on his body?
Black trousers dropped to his ankles, and he stepped free of them. “You’re staring at my feet.”
Rurik’s grin was a crooked slash of white. A hot, sweet pang filled her chest, spreading like spilled wine.
“Every inch of you entrances me.”
He laughed, a low carnal sound. Rurik opened his loin cloth and the plum-red crown of his cock sprang free. She licked her lips. Was tasting a man as wondro
us as smelling him?
“Safira.” His voice was firm. “Take off your clothes.”
That was the moment she knew. A man could own a woman body and soul. Rurik of Birka, the low-born Viking, owned her. But this wasn’t about birth, wealth, or land. Or kingdoms and rulers of men. The ancient weave of man and woman was here, a deep thread that sewed two hearts together. She would give her body to Rurik because he already had her heart.
This was her with him and what she was about to give him.
No price was too great to pay. She severed the past for an unknown future.
She pulled free of the tunic, an awkward, graceless lifting of it over her head. The underdress was cool on hot skin. Rurik devoured the sight of her. His nostrils flared. His jaw was tight. Strange tautness twisted inside her. Made her heart gallop in her chest. She grabbed the hem of her underdress with clumsy hands. In her fumbling, a seam ripped but she tossed it aside, a saffron wraith floating to the floor. Shabby boots slipped off until she too was naked. She reached for the glass beads on her ear lobes.
“No. Keep them on,” he said, low-voiced. “Lay on the fur.”
She climbed onto the bed, and mink feathered her hands and knees. She lay on her back, a pillow under her head. Luxuriant fur teased her backside as she spread her legs for him. Air skimmed her cleft. So did Rurik’s hot stare.
Wasn’t this how a woman waited for a man?
Standing at the end of the bed, he removed his loin cloth and tossed it aside.
“I hardly recognize the woman I’m becoming.” She willed the jumble of lust and emotions to calm.
The bed dipped and Rurik stretched out beside her. He stroked her breasts, a slow back and forth from one to the other, the backs of his fingers and the palm of his hand. Tender and thoughtful. Each stroke bound her to him, a pagan spell of lust and like. She reveled in it.
“Why me?” he asked, nuzzling her shoulder.
Her maidenhood.
His whiskers tickled her. She sighed and turned to him. “It must be you.”
This soothed her. Lying beside him, their noses nearly touching and the bed creaking intimately. Rurik’s lashes were crescents on his cheeks as if he dared not let her see his eyes while he contemplated her answer.