Chapter Seventeen
Fur and fine linen grazed her skin. She drifted in a half world, comfort surrounding her, footsteps pattering in the room...she was home in her bed. Savta was coming with the old nursemaid, Judith, to attend her with a warm bath and—
Slap! “Wake up.”
Safira pushed up on her elbows, black hair veiling her eyes, an imposing, fully dressed Viking filling her vision. She rubbed her bare bottom and fell back onto the glorious bed. What was it with Rurik and her bottom? The mattress dipped. A gentle hand brushed hair off her face.
She yawned behind her hand. “It’s too early.”
“It’s nearly noon, sweeting.” His voice was rich with mirth.
“I ache everywhere.”
Oh, but the tingling soreness between her legs was unique.
Rurik reclined beside her, propped up on one elbow, one leg crossed over the other. “Your first night in a goose-down bed after days of riding hard and nights sleeping on the ground. Your body is adjusting.”
“I am used to soft beds,” she mumbled into her pillow.
“I know.”
Plush furs and goose-down beds were not what the Viking had been bred on. He wasn’t in possession of the land, and she was much closer to home...to the divide of wealth and privilege that separated them.
“I didn’t mean that to, to...”
“To point out the differences between us.” Blue eyes pinned her. There was gentleness in their depths.
She tucked the bed cloth under her chin. None of this was fair. Rurik was the beast of burden delivering her safely home, but he’d changed her forever. The dull throb between her legs, her sun-burnished skin, the Viking words rolling off her tongue. Outward changes all of them. The inward invigorated her. Thrilled her. Desire and emotion curled soft as silk with Rurik. Being with him was freeing. She’d taken charge of herself and her body, made the choice of which man she’d give herself to. The bed’s aroma proved that.
Last night she’d touched her cleft and sniffed her fingers. Her life was the smells she catalogued. Rurik’s seed had smelled salty to her sweetness. He didn’t laugh when she’d told him she wanted to learn his scent. Instead, her Viking lover had pulled her close.
Her last thought before drifting off to sleep was to drink deeply of the nights she had left with Rurik. Really, they didn’t need much sleep.
Now who is the greedy one?
“We have few days left together, Rurik. Let us not waste them.”
“So you say.” His hand slid under the sheet.
Warm fingers feathered her thigh. Her legs fell open as Rurik traced a barely there touch on her nether curls. Arousal was a ribbon unfurling. It was hard to think with him teasing her. He had much experience in this. She had none. This was natural for him, but the shock—softened by pleasure—was still with her.
Far from the jarl’s longhouse, a hammer struck wood. Sun shined through the open shutters, and a dove landed there, cooing. Their room smelled of sex and summer. She had given herself to Rurik, something that could never be taken back, and she craved more. His hand shifted under the linen, the sight as stirring as what he did beneath it. He parted her seam of flesh ever so carefully, sending ripples of expectation across her body. Her skin beaded. She clutched the cloth tighter with both hands.
How easy it was to trust him.
“Safira.” Rurik’s voice was intimate. “You are mine to keep. I’m claiming you as I will claim the land.”
Rurik strummed damp skin. Gentle and adept. The wet, snicking sounds enticed her. The pleasure he gave was easy and mind-muddling. Her tongue was stuck.
Wait. He was keeping her?
“Wha...” She breathed harder.
Last night before the feast... What if I don’t give you back, Safira? What if I keep you forever?
How could she have not taken him seriously? Rurik said nothing lightly.
She clamped a hand on his linen-covered wrist, her voice pitching louder. “You mean to keep me...like a possession?”
“As a partner,” he corrected.
“My Norse is not as good as yours, but to keep means belonging in your tongue and in mine, as...as property bought and sold.” She sat up fast. To her dismay, her body squirmed at the loss of his touch.
“You will be by my side, the same as when we journeyed here.” Rurik stayed stretched out on the bed, his hand propping up his head. “You can help build up my holding.”
“A holding you do not have.”
Blond brows arched. “Does being with me require land?”
“I...no—” She shook with wrongness of this. How dare he make this about his status.
“Did you not say to me when we slept in the Arelaune Forest that you felt happy and free?” Rurik traced the indent of her waist down to her hip.
She snatched up rumpled sheets and held them to her chest. “Yes.”
“Then what is the problem?”
Images of Ellisif reclining on this bed, a former visitor when the room belonged to Ademar, flashed in her head. Was he suggesting she live like Ellisif? Last night she’d cozied up to Bjorn. The shield maiden could come and go as she pleased. Those were her choices. Not Safira’s. She’d been bred on a steady diet of possible husbands since she first came into womanhood. The freedom to choose the man she was with was one thing, to have a stream of men was another.
“The problem is, Viking, you do not love me. You want me. You like me, but you have not uttered a single word of...of love.”
“I’d wager your Lombard prince never did,” he said, rolling off the bed. “Nor will he.”
Her lips pressed a pained line. He was imposing in black, long hair combed severely back and tied at the nape. The monks were coming. Rurik probably tried to look tame but the effect was savage with every bold angle of his face showing. The missing chunk of his ear did too.
“You do not know my future, Viking. You cannot say who will or will not love me.”
“Love is an idea, but it isn’t what matters to you. Status and wealth does.”
The wooden wall bit her back. Did status and wealth matter most? Or freedom and love? Until she was taken, love was a dreamed-of ideal, a hope she’d pinned on her future husband. Of all things, the gift of love seemed the rarest to grasp.
“What are you suggesting? That I live like Ellisif, spending my time with you until, until we are done with each other?”
Rurik’s gaze roved over her bare leg on jumbled furs before reaching her face. “Who said I was suggesting?”
Her jaw dropped. Take first, ask later. “You...are, are—”
“An odious swine? A Viking beast?”
“You would make me a frilla?”
“A fylgikonur. A mistress,” he said as a matter of fact. “We made a trade, a bargain in Sothram’s outpost. It is not finished.”
“Because you say so?”
His head cocked arrogantly. “Yes.”
She’d struck a bargain with him in one bed of furs. Last night she’d sealed her fate in another—in this very bed when she gave herself to him. Rurik’s tender side was gone. Back was the rough leader of men, the low-born warrior fighting his way for something better. She was his prize. Not a single Viking in Rouen would help her because she was the foreign woman with Rurik, the valued warrior of great renown whose service the jarl coveted. The Christians were doubtful too. Longsword was their overlord. None would defy him.
“You... We have enjoyed each other, but my wayward tongue would soon grow tiresome.”
He chuckled at her attempts to reason with him. “I will be the judge of what I find tiresome.”
“If you thought me outspoken when I told you I was a thrall, think how much worse I will be.” She paused, checking the effect of her words.
Rurik hooked a thumb in his belt, his eyes hooded. It was dangerous when he was quiet.
She hugged linens and fur tighter. “Men do not like when a woman challenges them. She might outshine him.”
“I like the way you shine.”
Her legs went slack. Rurik. He knew how to make the complex...simple.
“I’m proposing a journey of equals,” he explained. “I bask in your glow. You bask in mine. Together, we can build something great.”
His words didn’t make sense. Rurik gained more by returning her to her family than keeping her.
“But the gold?” she blurted out, immediately regretting it. Now who made her a prize?
A knock at the door followed. Rurik opened it, and Gyda’s face appeared. The thrall’s shy voice was too quiet to hear. Rurik opened the door wider and she entered, a ewer of water in hand.
“Good morning, Lady,” she chirped sweetly, and set her burden on the table.
“The monks have arrived. Get dressed,” Rurik ordered. “I want you seated with me.”
With that pronouncement given, he exited the room. Strong footfalls echoed in the high-ceilinged hallway. She heard him push aside the loose-weave leather curtain, and the leather’s decisive slap on wood when it fell back into place. He didn’t seem very happy for a man on his way to getting what he wanted.
Safira didn’t budge. Her mind reeled with this new twist. Gyda scurried around the chamber, picking up last night’s discarded clothes off the floor. Rurik’s things sat in a corner. His well-used shield. The basinet helmet with its dinged nose guard. The sword in its sheath, leaning against the wall. All his worldly possessions. No. The Viking counted her as part and parcel of what he owned. He might say she would stand beside him, but his tone brooked no argument. His word was final. In his eyes, she was his to keep.
Gyda examined a tear in Safira’s silk underdress. “You had a busy night.” The thrall tossed the silk over her shoulder and poured water into the basin. “Come, you must prepare for the day. You are expected.”
Expected.
Had she given up one yoke only to put on another?
Gyda tested the rip, her smile sweet. “I can mend this, Lady, but you will not be able to wear it today because there is much weaving to be done. If you like, I will ask Astrid if there is another in the jarl’s treasured goods.”
Treasured goods. It’s what Safira was. If she went to Astrid, what wise words would the ambut give to a woman who claimed her destiny only to find herself claimed in return?
Safira scrambled awkwardly off the bed. Her bare feet touched cool, wooden planks. “Please ask if there is another.”
The thrall spun to leave, saffron silk floating behind her.
“Gyda.”
The young woman halted at the door. “Yes, Lady?”
“Bring needle and thread to me. I will mend the underdress.”
She couldn’t name the reason why it was important that she do it. She’d stitched tapestries with Savta. Simple mending was a similar skill. It would give her time to think.
Her mind ticked as she dipped Rurik’s soap and a cloth in the basin of water. Another dove landed beside the first where the shutters opened. Two men ambled through the jarl’s far-off grain fields, bending low, plucking what must be weeds and stuffing them in baskets slung over their shoulders.
Did Rurik mean for her to grow old in this pagan land? As his fylgikonur?
He sat with holy men while she washed away remnants of his seed. Last night was her choice. But the future? Dragging the cloth over her skin, she was certain of one thing. She’d matched the Viking in a game of wit and will, and she’d won.
There was no reason why she couldn’t do it again.