Chapter Two
A split-second given to a woman could change a man. That was the problem with the fair sex. They were thieves, stealing a man’s focus. He shouldn’t let the black-haired maid get in his head, but she did. What happened next in the Saxon’s yard came fast as a single breath of air.
A bearish yell erupted.
“Rurik! Behind—” Bjorn’s warning was cut off.
“Arhhh!” Sothram leaped at Rurik, waving a knife.
Battle’s coppery taste spurted in Rurik’s mouth. Another scream rent the air. The thrall. She pointed at him. In the corner of his vision, a wicked blade gleamed. He pivoted—too late.
A sickening chunk sounded, and searing pain shot deep in his shoulder.
Sothram pulled out the knife and raised it to strike again.
Teeth gnashing, Rurik swung Fenrir high. The flat of the sword smashed the Saxon’s temple. Blood and sweat sprayed the dirt. The merchant dropped his knife, a red rivulet gushing from his hair to his cheek. Sothram wobbled a step and, eyes rolling back into his head, his bulky frame crumpled to the ground.
Rurik stood over the Saxon, blood beading Fenrir’s tip. The end of his sword touched the man’s life vein on his neck. Lungs billowing, he craved the kill, the need for it pulsing as natural as his heartbeat.
How easy. One push...
Even a man such as you must know there are times when the force of your hand is not the answer.
The thrall’s words haunted him. The little Saxon girl’s teary eyes needled him too, because the world was not kind to fatherless girls.
Teeth bared, he growled low and wiped his sword clean across the merchant’s tunic. Sothram didn’t deserve another day, but his daughter deserved a father even if he was a cheat. Sheathing his sword, sharpness burned high on Rurik’s back. He slapped a hand over his shoulder. Warm slickness seeped between his fingers. Not keeping his eye on Sothram was an error worthy of a stripling youth.
He scowled at his blood-stained hand.
“Learn this if you want to live. Good warriors react. The best warriors act first.” His father’s words of wisdom before his fist had slammed Rurik to the ground. He was eight then. Stayed flat on his back all morning.
Vlad knew how to make a lesson stick.
Footsteps scampered in the yard. The thrall reached for him. “Your shoulder.”
“Do as you’re told,” he snapped. “Go to the trees.”
Her hands jerked back. Cheeks flushing, she whirled around and ran to the horses. With an eye to his men standing over Sothram’s cowed fighters, Rurik swiped his palm across his chest.
Gruff-voiced Erik yanked a Saxon’s head up by his hair and set an axe to the man’s throat. “Well?”
“Every man lives to see another day.”
Erik’s dark eyes widened, but no one questioned the command. Bjorn stepped forward, the iron rings of his mail neck-cover clinking.
“You heard him, men.” The giant of Vellefold issued rapid orders. “Gunnar. Thorvald. Bind these fools in the barn and burn their bows and arrows. Toss the other weapons down the well.” Bjorn turned to the other two. “Erik. Thorfinn. Take our host to his bed and see if his lady has spare provisions.”
The men bolted to action. Erik and Thorfinn hefted the sprawled Saxon by his arms and legs. The feast hall’s door opened a sliver. Sothram’s wife and daughter peeked through the opening, tears streaming down their cheeks.
“Pay fair coin for the provisions,” Rurik announced, rubbing the last of the blood on his fingers across his chest. “And Erik, let Thorfinn do the asking. Sothram’s lady has had enough of a fright. She isn’t to blame having a fool for a husband.”
Erik’s dark-whiskered jaw worked a semblance of a grin. The mountainous Thorfinn, earnest about every task, nodded as he and Erik hauled Sothram to the hall.
Bjorn walked across the yard, his war hammer tipped over his shoulder. “Odd morning.”
“We’ve been attacked before.”
“True. But you’ve never turned your back on an enemy. Not ’til they were dead or tied up. Nor have you given mercy to one such as Sothram. Were you—” Bjorn nudged his head in the thrall’s direction “—distracted by someone else?”
Feet planted wide, Rurik crossed his arms. His cut stung and he itched not to relive his mistake. “The men are well. I got our furs. What’s the problem?”
“No problem.” Bjorn matched his wide-legged stance. “Never have you let a woman ride with us. Goes against our laws. The men won’t like it.”
“I know our laws. The men will bear it.”
A fledgling fire burst to life by the barn, the work of Thorvald nursing the blaze with broken bows and arrows. One of Sothram’s young male thralls came from the outbuilding where Rurik had slept. He carried Rurik’s red-and-black shield in one hand, a rolled-up sleeping fur and leather saddle bags in the other—all of Rurik’s earthly goods.
“The thrall spoke in a foreign tongue,” Bjorn said. “Is she from a desert kingdom?”
Rurik checked the trees, where the maid stroked a horse’s muzzle. Her gold stare followed Gunnar dragging an unconscious man to the barn. Shiny, straight black hair fell to her waist. She was fair of face with full lips and silken skin, though not a beauty with her strong nose.
Did a cruel, foreign husband tire of her defiance and sell her? He could think of better ways to curb the woman’s haughtiness.
“I only know she’s prideful and didn’t heed me when I bid her wait by the trees.”
And my help means much to her. He’d keep that to himself.
“Where do we take her?”
“She asked to go to Paris.”
“Long time since we’ve been there.”
“I promised her safe passage for her warning.” He faced his second, his voice steely. “Make sure the men know this.”
Bjorn’s brows shot high inside his helmet’s iron eye-rings. The unspoken claim was clear—the woman belonged to Rurik. No one could touch her.
“I will let the men know when I tell them we go to Rouen by way of Paris first.”
“No.” Rurik’s smile thinned. “We go to Rouen as planned. I promised her safe passage. Never said where to. Tell the men if she speaks of journeying to Paris, they are to go along with it.”
Chickens pecked their way into the yard again. Flames hissed as Thorvald poured oil on the inferno. Except for the blood-splattered earth and burning bows and arrows, a casual visitor would think this a sleepy outpost.
“You are...keeping the woman?” Bjorn scanned the yard, his voice quiet.
“For a time. As it suits me.” Rurik stepped on a small stone and ground it into soft soil. “She could bring a nice ransom from whoever lost her, though she claims to be a thrall.”
Bjorn snorted. “If she’s a thrall, I’m the king of Paris.”
“Thrall or not, there is no surety she belongs to a wealthy man, or that he would buy her back.”
“Then uncovering the truth falls on you.” Bjorn’s smile split wide. “And should you sample the goods before returning her, none would gainsay you.”
Uncovering the truth...
Rurik squinted into the distance. Deception ate at him, a worm to his insides. He’d been juggling truth and lies since his private meeting in Hedeby with Will Longsword’s half-brother, Ademar. A powerful jarl seeking Rurik’s allegiance did not surprise him. The jarl’s offer did—a rich holding large enough it’d take two days’ ride to span.
Land came by blood and force...never a gift to men of his ilk.
Ademar had made no mention of holdings for the Forgotten Sons, the name Rurik and his men had called themselves since childhood in Birka. Years Rurik had fought with these men, watching one another’s backs, sharing every reward and every trade. He was their leader, yet he never took a leader’s portion. Not once. He could argue the rightness of becoming a landsman. But the men wouldn’t stay. The Sons sought fame like most Vikings, raiding and wandering from one kingdom to the next. It’s what Vlad had done. He’d left and never came back...worthless excuse for a father that he was.
Vlad preferred the company of warriors to his own children.
Rurik had grown to see life differently.
Fame was found in land. So was family. Viking seed planted in Viking soil. He would be a father who stayed. Taking the holding and swearing an oath to the Jarl of Rouen would tear the Sons apart, but he wouldn’t share. The land or the woman. Not ’til he was done with her.
Erik and Thorfinn emerged from the hall with two leather bags. The provisions. Thorvald and Gunnar, flush with easy victory, chuckled over a jest. Gunnar dumped an armful of weapons down the well in the middle of the yard. The water wouldn’t be harmed and once Sothram’s shifty-eyed men were free, they’d spend much time fishing for valuable axes, knives, and swords instead of chasing down the Sons.
Rurik scrubbed a hand over his smile. Sothram and the amber-eyed woman were half right. He was a brute living by the might of his hand, but he’d learned a thing or two about using his head.
“This thrall,” Bjorn said. “Does she have a name?”
Rurik studied the ebon-haired woman sitting spine straight on a rock. “I didn’t ask.”
The giant of Vellefold laughed loud enough to turn heads. “You have a way with women.” He headed to the barn, chickens squawking as he bellowed, “Men. Change of plans.”
* * *
The one called Rurik took two leather bags from his men. He slung the bags over his shoulder, his long legs ranging toward her. The other men assembled around the fire burning near the barn. All were shades of blond save the black-haired one named Erik. His face bore the stamp of Rome.
The Forgotten Sons defied a single name. Fighters? Adventurers? Traders? She’d heard there were seven, but she counted only six. They wore similar garb—black from head to toe. Iron hobnails shimmered on their sleeveless leather vests, the same vicious wolf carved on the front of each man. But, it would be hare-brained to say clothes made the men.
These warriors were hewn from a harsh world. Powerful muscles molded long limbs. Feral-eyed and bold, they’d take first, ask later.
“Northmen,” she said under her breath.
Why were they all so enormous?
And rough.
She rubbed her hip. The impression of Rurik’s hand lingered there, the feel akin to a brand, his single touch a command. It had worked. She’d yielded. Yet he’d been gentle, as if he fed on the caress. Now those strong hands tied bags on a pack horse with scarred, agile fingers.
Safira stood up, and the Viking’s gaze struck hers a split-second, sending a quiver across her skin. They were mere paces from each other, but he said nothing as he knotted the leather.
Was this a game of will? Who would speak first?
She cleared her throat, but he walked around the pack horse, ignoring her. Dratted man. Sun-blond hair bound by a leather thong hung thick as a fox tail over the sword strapped to his back. Long arms stretched in an easy show of strength as Rurik adjusted a saddle. Big muscles shifted with fluid grace, but the Viking was more than slabs of bulk. Fine-tuned flesh bunched under burnished skin, the play of sinew flexing on bare shoulders that curved out from his vest. High on his back, blood wetted sliced leather.
“You should have someone look at that.”
“At what?” He ducked around the horse, but not before she caught the profile of his fleeting smile.
He knew she’d watched him, and he’d waited.
Eyes rolling at being the first to talk, she walked to his black war horse and peeked over the saddle. “I speak of the cut on your back, Viking.”
“We don’t have time.”
The smooth timbre of his voice lacked the booming quality of Bjorn or Thorvald, yet it was deep and pleasant. He gave orders. Bjorn saw them done. This was a disciplined arrangement for the tight-knit warriors. She’d heard they fought and roamed, never staying in one place for long. Rurik must see her as goods to be hauled to Paris.
Wasn’t that for the best?
Fingers drumming the saddle, she blurted out, “What Sothram said about me isn’t true.”
“Such as?” Eyes the color of storm-tossed lakes met hers. Hard, forceful, intelligent.
Her flesh tingled against her tunic. Rurik, a coarse warrior from the land of ice, seared her. Women in Sothram’s household had whispered of him, the once impoverished Viking boy of Birka now a man widely respected for his fighting skills. He came from the lowest stock yet elevated himself by strength of will.
And she was putting her trust—most of it—in him.
“Out with it, sweeting,” he said. “We don’t have all day.”
“I meant what Sothram said about my having a haughty, viper’s tongue.”
Rurik rested both forearms on the horse between them. “We’ll see.”
“There is nothing to see. I share my thoughts where they are...helpful.”
He chuckled dryly, and the broad planes of his cheeks hinted at Rus blood in his veins. “My short time knowing you and haughty comes to mind. Or proud. Not helpful.”
She pushed up on tiptoe, his dismissive air putting a fire in her belly. “Do not forget how helpful I was to save your furs and warn you of Sothram’s plan to kill you and your men.”
Rurik’s mouth quirked in whiskers a few days old. “You weren’t entirely selfless in coming to me. You’re getting something from this arrangement.”
Heels dropping to the ground, she averted her eyes. It was true. He was her instrument of freedom. Without the warrior’s protection, getting home was nearly impossible.
“At least know, if I am not well-versed on a subject, I keep quiet.”
“That would be a first,” he said, stepping around the horse to stand before her. “A woman who holds her tongue. You’ll have the whole journey to prove it.”
The Viking consumed all the air. Hemmed in by animals and man, she had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Her feet shifted, and she was intensely aware of being a woman with a man.
She petted his horse. “You don’t want conversation?”
“I prefer quiet women.”
“Like the ermine,” she said flatly. “Travels easy. Doesn’t talk.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “We understand each other.”
A breeze played with Rurik’s hair, showing a piece of his left ear was missing. On his chest, blood smeared the snarling wolf carved in his leather vest. The ferocious, round-eyed creature stole her attention the way snake charmers wooed a viper from its basket.
The sign of the wolf.
Before she was stolen, worry had rippled through Paris, talk of wolves joining Will Longsword, the Count of Rouen, as the Franks called him, Jarl and Chieftain to the Vikings. It was said Will Longsword, son of Rollo, thirsted for more land. The people of Paris fretted inside the beautiful citadel, fearing the son would take up his father’s old path, attacking Christians and demanding a Danegeld of gold and silver to leave them in peace.
Was she standing before Longsword’s newly favored wolf? A man who would one day come to burn her home?
Rurik was speaking to her but she didn’t hear a word he said until, “...you could lay with me or any one of my men.”
Her head whipped up. “What did you say?”
She blinked fast. He was talking about sharing his bed. Or laying with one of the other Forgotten Sons. Like the frilla he’d assumed she was this morning. She’d learned the Viking word and the emptiness it meant. Concubine. Comfort woman. A nameless, faceless object of sexual pleasure. She would have none of it. Rurik made the arrangement sound as if this were a practical matter, yet his eyes narrowed, severe, unwavering—a predator’s eyes before he pounces.
A chill pebbled her skin. There was no mistaking his prey.
Male laughter came from the barn. The warriors broke from their discussion and headed their way. An awful churning tore through her stomach. Slaves made fair game for Viking lust.
For the good of many, she needed to return home untouched.
“Pay attention, sweeting.” Rurik hooked a gentle finger under her chin. “I’ll repeat my offer. You can have my protection or one of the others.”
“This is not what I bargained for.”
“It’s the bargain you’ll get.”
She glared at him. “And if I want to sleep alone?”
“Then you sleep alone here. I’m sure Sothram will keep you.”
Her chin jerked free. The choices were stay with the Saxon and his vicious wife, brave the forest alone and try to get home, or trust these Vikings. She didn’t even know how long the journey was to Paris. Her coming to Sothram’s outpost had been a horrifying blur.
Around her, men checked their saddles. Horse hooves stomped the ground. The men called Gunnar and Bjorn secured round red-and-black shields to their backs. Rurik took his shield off the ground and did the same. The Forgotten Sons would leave her and not think twice. This was what happened to a woman who trusted a Northman. She’d not get tender care; she’d get survival.
“We’ll call it thrall’s choice.” Rurik’s eyes flashed a warning—Don’t play me for a fool.
Her mouth went dry, and she’d swear the sun beat hotter though she stood in the shade. The Viking toyed with her. He’d already called out her seeress claim. Nor did he believe she was a thrall. The lie was her last shred of defense. She’d hold fast to it, especially among these men.
The one called Thorvald mounted his horse and scowled at her. More beast than man, his craggy face had seen its share of fights. Restless warriors put on basinet helmets, their harsh stares tracing her from within iron eye rings.
Wolves...all of them.
“I choose you.” Her palm rested on Rurik’s broad chest, a chest she was sure puffed out once her choice was stated. “How long will it take to get to Paris?”
The Viking averted his gaze. “Fifteen days at least.”
“That long—”
Strong hands grabbed her by the waist and lifted her off the ground.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
“Putting you in the saddle. Unless you want to walk.”
Astride the horse, her torn hem rode up to her knees. Her hood fell back in the scramble to cover bare legs with the cloak, but the thin barrier couldn’t stop rough-skinned fingers from encircling her ankle.
Take first. Ask later.
Rurik’s hand disappeared under her cloak, stroking her calf as if he soothed a new pet. “Have you a name?”
Carnal heat crept up her thigh. She grabbed the reins and twined her fingers with the leather, fighting the urge to yell stop! The Viking had charge of her now, in their uneasy alliance.
“I am called Safira.”
“Safira.” He repeated her name as if testing it on his tongue. “You will be safe with me. I will protect you.”
“At the moment, I only need protection from you.”
The corners of his mouth curled up. Under the cloak, his hand rested spread-fingered on her bare knee. Warm. Possessive. A tender show of power. The Viking leader knew his wayward hand flummoxed her. By the humored light in his eyes, he took as much pleasure in the vexing as he did in the touching.
Satisfied male laughter rolled up his chest. He patted her knee and, in one lithe move, let go and mounted his war horse. Rurik put on his helmet, the iron nose guard nicked.
“Men, we’ll avoid Sothram’s archers and go east to the Cailly River. We ride long and hard today.”
A warrior lobbed a crude jest about riding long and hard. The men laughed. Cheeks burning, she raised her hood. Her limits would be tested on this journey. It didn’t matter. She was going home. Rurik galloped past Sothram’s open gate, dirt clods flying under his horse’s bowl-sized hooves. His men trailed in a thunderous wake, the pack horses chasing them on long tethers led by the one called Thorfinn. All went, save Bjorn. The giant circled the grounds atop his massive white steed.
“Thrall,” he yelled across the yard. “Do you ride with us?”
The door of Sothram’s feast hall cracked open. Hilda. The woman’s flat-lipped glare seethed, daring Safira to cast her lot with Vikings.
A surge rushed through Safira. It was the yearning to reclaim her life and the strong desire to see her family again. The one called Bjorn didn’t have to ask twice. She urged her horse to a gallop and followed him to freedom. Wind blew her hair and whipped her cloak, giving her loose-limbed ease, the first since she’d been stolen at the last full moon. Leaving the Saxon’s outpost was easy.
Keeping Rurik from touching her come nightfall? A welcome test of wit and will.