Chapter Twenty-Six
Rurik lay flat on his back in the ship’s hold. Rain beat a rhythm on the deck, sending water streaming through an egg-sized hole, which Safira stuffed with a rag until the drips dwindled.
“That should work for a while,” she said, crawling back to him on hands and knees.
Thanks to Gyda and Thorfinn, they were amply supplied with blankets, a soapstone lamp, and a bladder of wine. Astrid had offered the Sons beds inside the feast hall, a typical arrangement for lower order guests and unmarried men in need of a place to stay. None had wanted to sleep in the tents they’d pitched along the Seine their first night in Rouen. The Sons happily accepted Astrid’s kindness which she sweetened with linens and pillows.
But, in the jarl’s drakkar, the mood was...uneasy.
Safira was cheerful with Rurik. Too cheerful and brittle. Untying his arm braces and leather vest. Taking off his boots and cleaning mud and sweat from his body. Helping remove his trousers, and holding them up with one hand, the ripped leg in the other.
She wrapped the dirty wool end over end, her forced brightness fading. “I will have to sew these. I hope you have another pair.”
“I do.”
“Now that you’re the third highest man in Rouen, you should get fine clothes befitting your new position.”
Safira knelt at the end of their rough bed and swept her hair to one side. Without a word, she pulled an elk bone comb through the black silk, one stroke after another. This was almost the same as their time in the wilderness, the world’s trappings melting away at night...his sacred hours alone with her.
He folded an arm under his head. “I need a woman to sew these fine clothes.”
“Your wife will do that.”
Wife. Staring at the woodwork overhead, he exhaled long. The land was his. Safira was not. Her bland tone made that clear, but he was at a loss what to do. Ask him to chase an enemy. He would. Ask him to battle a bear. He would. Ask him to be open with a woman, and words were ashes on his tongue. He could listen to her musings, but the downward curve of Safira’s mouth demanded a fair exchange of conversation and shared...feelings.
She expected him to say something—but exactly what?
No wonder he preferred the battlefield. A man could dodge flaming arrows.
“Safira. What ails you?”
Her laugh was dismal. “I am not ill, Rurik. I love you.” The combing stopped, and she kissed the top of his foot.
“Then you will stay with me.” The ache in his voice was undeniable.
Her eyes softened at the corners as if she shored up patience for him. Love was strange. It wrecked a man for the sole purpose of making him whole. But he didn’t feel whole. That truth was the weight on his belly pinning him down and gutting him.
If Safira couldn’t be at his side as wife, she didn’t want to be with him. No half-measures for her. She wanted all of him.
To her people, a fylgikonur was shameful. To his, it was practical.
His fists curled on the fur. How could she not see the two of them together made sense?
“I love you, Safira,” he said fiercely.
Her lips parted. “You do?”
“Yes. You belong with me.”
As declarations of love go, it wasn’t romantic. No maid ever waxed long about him saying pretty words. He’d lived by the force of his hand. Thrived on it. Yet, in this fight for Safira, the words I love you didn’t bring the magic he sought to heal this rift. What else did she need? Wasn’t his heart enough?
The ship creaked in the dying storm. Outside the gods let their tempest run its course because another would take its place—the finer push and pull of Rurik and Safira.
Who would win?
“I’ll never love another woman.” He pushed up, having a care with his leg. “You are the one I want to grow old with.”
Her swallow was a fragile sound. “But the land...”
“What about it?”
“You cannot have the land and me.”
“Why not? Lady Brynhild will live in Fecamp, content with her gold, and you and I will be together. We will build my holding and make a grand longhouse in the Arelaune Forest.”
There was a grasping, arrogant thread in his voice. He didn’t wear desperation well, sitting in his loin cloth, battered in body and spirit.
“Do you hear yourself? You speak of your holding, not ours.”
“A slip of the tongue.”
“No. You meant it,” she said hotly. “These are your possessions. The land. Your coming wealth, and they are richly deserved. I want you to have them, but I will not be a prize you keep.” Fingertips tapped her breast bone. “I am free to choose my own path.”
“Haven’t you been happy with me?”
“Yes.”
“Then choose me,” he huffed.
Safira’s brows pinched and she dipped her head. The woman used to the finest silks and furs was wearing another borrowed plain linen underdress. All had been stripped from her, but this choice to be with him was hers. He wanted to force her to stay. He could. The temptation to hide Safira ate at his insides, balanced against the seeds of goodness she’d planted in him.
He wanted to roar I have chosen you but you have not chosen me.
The land and the woman. Did it have to be one or the other?
Slumping back onto their makeshift bed, he hooked an arm under his head and stared at the ship’s hold. It was clinker built, the oak planks fitting into each other the way a man and a woman fit together. Safira snuffed the soapstone lamp and snapped open a blanket. She settled on the fur with him, making sure they did not touch. His Paris maid was stiff. Prickly. For once, he wished for a gifted tongue. Somehow, I’m keeping you didn’t sound romantic.
He wanted a willing woman.
“Stay with me.” His voice was gruff with yearning.
She rolled onto her side and studied his profile. He could always feel her watching him.
“You keep saying that, Viking, but you know my terms.”
“That’s right. I face a formidable negotiator.” He was tired, his body ached, and her warmth seeped into his skin beneath the blanket.
She stifled a giggle in the pillow. “I will not let you charm me.”
“Charm? Me?” he snorted. Even their disagreements had a pleasant side, like a promise that something better would come of their strife, but this time he wasn’t so sure.
The vessel rocked gently and wood planks groaned. Water trickled from the rag-stuffed hole, the light stream falling into a strategically placed bucket. Safira deserved better than a night on a leaky ship, wearing a thrall’s borrowed clothes. Cloth shushed the fur beside him. Fingertips grazed his ribs with the lightest touch.
“Vlad hit you badly here.”
“But no broken bones.” He closed his eyes and absorbed Safira’s affections...her breath fanning his shoulder...her knees against his hip as her hand skimmed his torso. The intimacy was as perfect as sex.
“You were magnificent today.” She adjusted her pillow nearer to his. “You kept your word to not kill a man who deserved it.”
“I would keep my word with you,” he said quietly. “You know it’s true. I will stay with you. That should be enough.”
“So says the mighty Viking.”
“Marriage vows didn’t keep my father around.”
“That is different.”
It wasn’t. But he’d let that pass for now. The vessel’s soft, creaking sway lulled them. Safira scooted closer, stretching an arm across his chest, a contented sigh passing her lips. Cuddling had its merits.
“There is something I must tell you.” Her voice was chastened and quiet. “Vlad sent one of his men to my home in Paris. He left the day you rode into the southern forest.”
“The eighth man,” he said flatly.
Safira searched his profile. “That means my father will come for me any day now. He will come with many men and he will come with gold to pay you and the Sons for rescuing me.”
Rescuing her. Safira had saved herself and found her will on their journey. She would no more accept half-measures with him than with her family. Not anymore. When her father came for her, he would find the spoiled Paris maid gone. In her place was a strong-willed woman who looked to the needs of others, a woman unafraid to speak her mind to a jarl, or weave a spell for a hall full of Vikings.
She showed cunning by striking a bargain with Vlad, his enemy. A woman like that deserved to walk the corridors of stone-floored palaces, her silken veil floating behind her.
He set a hand on hers resting on his chest. “You rescued yourself, Safira. Never forget that.”
“So you keep telling me. But I am not Ellisif. I wouldn’t know what to do with a sword.”
“You think having courage is about weapons? Killing is simple. There are many ways to do it. Living wisely...that is hard.”
Safira kissed his shoulder. One kiss, then another. Each touch of her mouth to his skin was another seed she planted inside him. Lust. Affection. Friendship. Laughter. Companionship. She’d taken care of him, a low-born Viking of Birka. She, who had lived in the richest homes, had servants attend her every need, waited on his comfort because she wanted to.
His eyes squeezed shut. Her thoughtfulness speared his heart.
“Is there an at skemmta ser for a warrior after a battle?” she whispered, her hand slipping lower. “A way to amuse ourselves despite your wounds?”
The Viking words rolled off her tongue. Her ease with seduction did too.
“If we are very careful.” His voice was scratchy and low. Exhaustion and teasing touches sapped him.
“If I use my hands only.”
Skilled fingers stroked him, teased him. A brush. A caress. Featherlight and easy as he lay on the well-traveled fur. His heart beat faster. He wouldn’t spill his seed inside Safira. There’d be no lusty joining tonight with his wound. Only simple pleasuring.
His hand skimmed the triangle of hair between her legs, but Safira caught his roving hand.
“No, Viking. You will lay on your back and keep both hands at your sides. I will attend you. Did you not tell me ‘there are no rules’?”
His laugh was thick with desire. “You’re a fast learner.”
“Because I’ve had an excellent teacher.”
This was letting go. His hands palm down on his hudfat while Safira sowed soft kisses and even softer touches on his body. But in the dark, the ship’s empty pegs lining the hold taunted him. The jarl’s blue tunic hung in the room where Lady Brynhild slept—the fine Viking woman he would never love, yet was to marry.
Giving in to Safira’s sensual play, his heart swelled. Lust and love expanded there, a place once made of ice and stone. Love grew in impossible places. There had to be a way for them. He would find it.