Page 10 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

If Ardith answered, she couldn’t hear for the drumming in her ears.

Morning sun burst around Bjorn’s head and shoulders.

Big in the Viking way, there was a sleekness about him.

Feet spread wide, a war hammer slung over his shoulder, Bjorn owned the dock.

He’d own any ground he stood on. It made him the perfect fighter, a man who’d not give an inch. Was he the same in private?

“You came.” The words tumbled out.

His glower cut to the bone. “You bought me, remember?”

Her feet rooted on uneven planks. A terse line slanted above Bjorn’s nose. A confrontation was building, one of her making. She’d dispel it.

“Forgive me. I spoke unwisely last night.”

“But truthfully.” A breeze struck sun-blond hair around his unsmiling mouth. He was grumpy and beautiful. “Your agreement with Longsword was well played. I can acknowledge that.”

Bjorn’s stance made it clear no woman could claim him as a possession.

He was the only Forgotten Son to have tasted a high born Viking’s life, and the only one who wanted nothing to do with it.

He could’ve been a warlord or seized a minor chieftain’s seat long ago.

Instead, he chose a lowly warrior’s path with his band of brothers.

Fighting. Roaming. Living by his battle skills.

Proof that wealth and position didn’t appeal to him; their brotherhood did.

Strength knit both his arms, evidence Bjorn was rarely idle.

His right arm was slightly larger. The shoulder arced faintly bigger from his vest and his bicep knotted a fraction thicker.

A small detail, but she noticed. Had to be from wielding his iron hammer.

Pink lines streaked across that shoulder and his cheek.

Did Bjorn have pillow marks?

She squinted at them. “Did you just wake up?”

“That’s what happens when you’re told to be on a ship at sunrise.” His morning voice was graveled and intimate, bringing to mind cozy beds and rustling linens. So did his bowed upper lip, plump and pouty in the middle.

“Except it’s well past sunrise.” She smiled to soften her admonishment. “I forgot that about you. You never liked early morning.”

She turned when he did, rolling her eyes. Plump, pouty lip! She was swoony as a maid at her first summer festival.

“Still don’t. I don’t like snow and ice either.” His shield and helmet clanked as they walked together, Bjorn on the dock and her on the deck.

She laughed. “You’re a Viking.”

He crossed the planks and hopped onto the ship with a thud . “A Viking used to sunny, southern kingdoms and the friendly women who live there.”

Her smile thinned. His turned wolfish, a man willing to let her think she took the lead.

For now. Bjorn’s muscled hand, a hand that could crush bone and find her ticklish spots, gripped the war hammer.

She blinked and a memory flashed: the two of them rolling in a meadow and giggling so much she almost peed herself.

Such memories were an unwanted distraction. She knew exactly how to quash them.

“Women of the southern kingdoms. Aren’t most of them dark-haired?” she asked.

“They are.”

Knocks and bumps sounded underfoot, the Sons settling in the hold.

“Then you will be pleased to hear my sister, Frida, has brown hair.”

“Does she?” His voice rumbled with disinterest.

“She will make the perfect wife for you when you take the jarl’s seat,” she said.

The self-inflicted cut didn’t work. He peered at her, and she, a thirsty woman, drank in every detail of him. His blond-brown lashes, the sun-gold whiskers sprinkled with browns and hints of red, a thin scar beside his mouth where a confident smile curved.

“You mean if I take the jarl’s seat.”

She sucked in air, his rejection a mild blow.

Male laughter erupted from below deck. Jaw flexing, Bjorn inched back, and she sidestepped Gunnar climbing out of the hold followed by a brooding Erik who didn’t appear to favor mornings. Bjorn studied her through the stream of people passing between them as if consuming details of a new creature.

Her body flushed warmly and she pinched leather sticking to her navel.

Ardith was the last to exit, conversing with the hulking Thorvald and tucking hair once, twice, thrice behind her ears before taking her place at the rudder. Interesting, those hair tucks and the growing blush on freckled cheeks.

The hardy boat rocked from newfound weight. Chatter rose as her people settled into place, while the rest of the Sons conversed in a circle with Rurik and Safira.

“I’ll put my things in the hold.” Bjorn’s gaze ricocheted around the ship. “No need to tell me where since your vessel is…small.”

Shoulders square, she wouldn’t let his assessment dampen her spirit.

The Viking keel and Ardith’s talent with ship and sea saved them precious days.

The journey home would go faster since more hands would man the oars and tides flowed north.

Grey-haired Kell and his wife, Valgerd, sat side by side on one bench.

Ingolf and his wife, Audr, sat together on another.

Expectation reflected in her people’s eyes.

Hope was there, too. Even the ship’s ravens squawked in willow cages as if ready to depart.

Authority’s cloak settled on her. She’d brought them this far on a harebrained plan; she’d get them home again.

Safira and Rurik walked back to the dock.

The grim-faced Rus-Viking looked at her with unfriendly eyes.

The Sons’ leader didn’t like this. It was plainly writ on his face when he unloosed the mooring and tossed it to her.

She caught the rope and swallowed a cry of pain. She should’ve wrapped her hands.

The ship was a beehive around her. Ardith untied the other mooring and shoved them away from the dock.

Thorvald collected the boarding planks. The clap of wood was loud when he dumped them on deck.

The rest of the Sons drenched their hands with seal oil, speaking in low voices as the ship floated away.

Men called out a final farewell to Rurik and Safira before seating themselves at the oars.

Ardith called a cadence. The oars dipped in water, and Rouen shrank from view.

The Seine was expelling the dragon ship.

The Frankish river didn’t forget past raids.

Land and water never did. Ancient trees watched from the shoreline, forests that bore witness to Viking ships passing in peace and in war.

She watched those trees, taking her time winding the rope.

Solid bootsteps struck the deck, coming closer.

Bjorn. There was no need to check. She was tight and restless, lifting her face to his.

Bjorn stared down his nose at her.

“What?” she asked.

A thick blond brow arched. “Bad night?”

“I’m fine.”

“No. You’re surly.”

His rich, booming voice worked its way inside her, touching places like an echo in the deepest chasm. She’d been on edge since last night, a balance of jumpy and forced calm. She was no inexperienced maid; what went on between them was the familiar knot of man and woman.

With an eye to the water, she continued winding another coil of rope. “Let us make an agreement. I won’t question your moods, and you won’t question mine.”

“You like striking bargains.”

She flinched, his veiled taunt a punch to her belly.

Any other warrior and her hackles would rise.

His wide stance and unrelenting stare were familiar—a man pushing against her authority.

But this was Bjorn, the childhood friend she’d ambushed.

That truth added to the heaviness inside her.

Setting the rope on a hook brought to mind another truth—women strove and men ruled.

Change upset generations of careful order.

She wasn’t the first Norse woman to mess with it, nor would she be the last.

“I’m good at doing what needs to be done,” she said.

“Disturbing a man’s life?”

Sun crowned him, and fast breeze knocked his hair across his jaw.

“It had to be you.” Her breath turned shallow. “I am not sorry for what I’ve done. You have done what you had to do to survive…as have I.”

Bjorn studied her intently as if seeking deeper understanding.

She’d pursued him for his father, Jarl Egil. Yet, what came next was for her.

“You do understand, we’ll have to work together.”

She offered peace. Brows drawn, Bjorn appeared to consider it.

His nod was a start. “You are part of Jarl Egil’s council.”

“I am.”

He acknowledged her position in Vellefold but not her authority, a fact she stored away for later. Bjorn’s face was as unreadable as stone.

“As long as you understand, anything for or about my men comes through me first. I have charge of them.”

“As I have charge of this ship,” she said evenly. “And right now everyone needs to be at the oars if we’re to reach the open sea before sunset.”

He grunted. Slowly, slowly one side his mouth curved upward. Respect flared across his features. A temporary truce, perhaps?

Without a word, Bjorn swung around and took his place on the first bench, but she wasn’t fooled. The battle was far from over. Five ruthless warriors worked the oars, staring at her. Hard-nosed and skeptical, Longsword’s men found her lacking. No doubt they’d learned she’d be giving the orders.

Their opinion didn’t matter. Bjorn’s did. May the god’s help her—it did.

Daylight hit iron hobnails on the giant of Vellefold’s impossibly wide chest. He sat before her, feet planted on the deck, his strong arms rowing with natural grace. Amusement flickered in ice-floe eyes

The only open spot was beside him.

Her pulse tripped. They’d row side by side the first day.

Seeing him at the oar stirred a haunting memory—Bjorn on another ship years ago. The gods had carved that day on her heart. A young boy climbing onto his father’s ship, taking a place at the oars. His boyish face clouded as he searched the bustling harbor…for her.

A pang twisted under her breastbone. Guilt was a rock she would carry for the rest of her life.

A good girl, she’d obeyed her father’s command to stay away from the docks that day.

Hiding near the blacksmith’s forge, she’d peeked past the smithy’s door, watching the sails unfurl.

Under them, her friend fought to keep a brave face.

Bjorn had needed her, and she wasn’t there.

No wonder he set the Forgotten Sons above all others. They’d saved him. Loyalty to the Sons was Bjorn’s lifeblood. They meant more to him than bonds of wealth, power, or place of birth.

The Seine’s breeze whispered in her ear— the man doesn’t need you. The boy did.