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 rested 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.
“I do.” Safira nestled against him, a soft sigh passing her lips.
The tender sound ripped his stony warrior’s heart wide open. He was raw. Exposed. Though Safira had no clue. She drank in Rouen’s distractions from her perch. Merchants shuttering their stands. Banners flying over colorful tents coming down. A roar of voices and music pouring from the feast hall ahead as throngs of villagers herded inside. Jarl Will Longsword’s Midsumarblot feast promised a flavorful bounty for all.
Safira shifted in the saddle, her face turned to meet his. “I think Ellisif spied on me.”
He stared at the distant road, turmoil and want battling inside him. Safira would surely see it in his eyes.
“She probably did. Strangers make everyone nervous. Last winter the Breton queen attacked Rouen.”
“Not strangers. Foreigners like me. If I were tall and blonde, none would bat an eye.”
He shrugged. “They will be more accepting of you.”
“Because I am with you, no?” Her brows scrunched prettily. “But, why would Ellisif be wary of me? I am hardly a threat.”
“Anyone can be a spy. The less obvious, the better. Word is the Breton queen sent her best. None were caught but the damage they wrought was great. Since then, everyone is wary.” He steered his horse around a rock in the road. “Ademar makes it his business to know who passes through and why.”
“What happened?”
“Breton fighters burned Viking and Christian homes last winter.” He stopped his horse and pointed to an empty field where a few charred posts rose from the ground. “That land is where those homes once stood. Five families died.”
“Oh.”
Torches cast a warm glow on the road. The land beyond would be too dark to see much.
“That’s not all,” he said, nudging the horse onward. “Ademar took most of the jarl’s men and chased the Bretons into the forest south of the abbey. Others stayed to put out the fires. Everyone concentrated on this part of Rouen while someone set fire to the jarl’s root cellars.”
“A diversion. They were after his food supply.”
He smiled, proud of her insight. “They also burned down the jarl’s weaving shed full of cloth meant for trade at this summer fair.”
“That sounds like a strike at Longsword, not Rouen. Not with all these homes that could’ve been attacked.”
“It’s possible. A few families saw their root cellars burned to the ground. Many left Rouen after that.”
Safira’s gaze swept over Rouen from the riverside harbor to humble homes near the north road. “It is one thing to fight on a battlefield, but another to try to starve a people.”
“Now you understand why Ademar and Ellisif make it their business to know who comes and goes in Rouen. It will be that way until Queen Annick is defeated.” He kissed her hairline. “Nor have I been forthcoming about who you are. I think they sense there is more to you.”
“Than simply being your companion.” She smiled like a flirtatious cat. “Which you say because you wish to protect me.”
“Until my oath is given, there are a number of ambitious warriors who will see you as an opportunity. I did.”
Safira traced the hobnail circle on his vest. “You see? We should have told everyone I am your wife. No one would harry me if I were Rurik of Birka’s wife.”
The cracks in his heart deepened. Rurik of Birka’s wife. It was why he was here. To plant his seed and seek his future. He stopped his horse at the cross roads before the jarl’s hall and relished the feel of Safira. Small-boned yet well-fleshed with mouth-watering curves, she fit. They fit.
A din of conversation and music poured from open doors. Housekarls stood guard at the entrance, but others stood vigil in shadows. At last count, seven men lay flat on Rouen’s roofs. Most wouldn’t notice them. Rurik did. Will Longsword would take no chance of an attack with his people ripe for the plucking in one hall. Well-placed flaming arrows, doors and shutters barred, and the people of Rouen would see their last days. With Safira safely in his lap, the urge to ride away and keep her was strong. Years he’d fought for adventure and coin. Yet, he began to see why humble, familied men fought to the death. Safira was a woman he’d protect to his last breath.
Sliding off the saddle, she was oblivious to the quake inside him. She fixed her skirts with an eye to the revelry as if it were a thing to be conquered.
“Thank you for saving me tonight.”
“You saved yourself. I could tell by the angle of your head you were not cowed by him.” He dismounted. “Ademar would not have hurt you, but I will make sure he does not bother you again.”
“The angle of my head?”
“Your chin tilts a certain way when you are angry or when you refuse to back down.” The reins gathered in one hand, he caressed her silken jaw with the other, tipping it just so. “Like this.”
Roars of laughter spilled from the hall, yet this crux on the road was peaceful and their voices quiet.
“I must watch myself with you, Viking.”
Glass beads twinkled against Safira’s neck, a trick of the torchlight. Her breasts rose and fell with determined breaths, the apricot flesh barely contained in scarlet linen. The pink tip of her tongue wet her lips. Twice.
“Does something bother you?”
Brows pinching, she let her gaze dart. Nervousness in Safira. Unusual.
“I have something important I must say to you.”
The pad of his thumb stroked her cheek. “What is the price for this valuable information?”
Light danced in her eyes. They shared a private smile at his echo of their bargain struck in a bed of furs. Mere words had changed their lives. He’d swear the goddesses wanted to change his life again with Safira. She was the true treasure he’d found. If he checked the Seine, he wouldn’t be surprised if Frigga, goddess of clouds and destiny, swirled her mist across the water’s surface.
“We like each other and there is a little lust, no?” Safira’s accented voice was breathy and light.
Every sense flared to life. His skin tingled. He’d ridden hard to get to Rouen, took the jarl’s disappointing news in stride, and faced his angry men with honesty. None had taken his choices well. Erik had raged, and Thorvald had yelled it was a betrayal, yet his men grudgingly set their hands on his arm, vowing they would stay with him. Even the knowledge he would face Vlad in a gritty battle couldn’t steal the mystery of what went on with Safira.
All paled before the gentle seed taking root with her.
He was a beast of war, a man who made as many bad decisions as good, yet everything in his bones told him being with Safira was right. She was his to keep.
“There is liking, and there is lust.” The pitch of his voice was grained and thick.
Desire darkened Safira’s eyes and flushed the tops of her breasts. She inched closer as if to share a secret, the distracting tendril dangling forward.
“For as long as I am with you, I want to be with you. I wish to know your secrets and...to lay with you.”
He grinned. “We already lay together.”
The craving that throbbed in her throbbed in him. He hungered for Safira, but he needed his ebon-haired maid to speak aloud her desire for him. Words were magic. Intimacy with a woman was a new, fragile thread working into his life weave, the bind powerful enough to steal his breath and render him weak yet strong. The Norns must be cackling with glee at the lowborn son of Birka letting a highborn daughter of Paris tether his heart.
“I want your kisses, and your naked skin rubbing mine. I want to know what happens when your fingers are inside me—” her throat bumped with a fragile swallow “—to feel your flesh move with mine.”
His chest swelled and his cock stirred. Those last words of hers were said firmly. Very definite, his Paris maid.
“What about your maidenhood and your fourth prince?” he asked quietly.
“What about your gold?” Her chin tipped and saffron silk glinted on her cleavage. “Taking my maidenhood means you would not get nearly so much.”
They were both giving to get. This was fresh ground they trod, a new bargain with tension framing them both. He played with her tempting lock, running his fingers the length of its silkiness, but guilt was icy on his skin. The day had demanded honesty with his men. He would give no less to Safira.
“What if I don’t give you back? What if I keep you forever?”
She laughed and patted his chest. “Now you are speaking like a man who has lost his mind. To turn down a reward? Even a lesser reward?”
His legs locked. She didn’t believe him.
Safira walked graceful steps backward. Beams of light streamed from the hall, casting his Paris maid in gold. Her hair was an onyx crown, and her smile an invitation as both her hands smoothed scarlet linen over lush hips.
The sight trapped his tongue.
“Tend to your horse, Viking, and come feast with me at your jarl’s table.” Her amber eyes were fire itself. Full of life. Seductive. “Then...tonight, you and I will be together.”
Safira spun around and strolled boldly into the feast hall. Saffron silk peeked below her red hem, shimmering against her calves like a whisper...
Come, take your future.