Page 15 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Seven

H er heart thumped against her ribs. She leapt like a doe onto the dock and stopped nose-to-back with Thorfinn who was reassuring an elderly woman.

Breathing like a scared rabbit, she stared wide-eyed at the weave of his mantle.

There’d be no quick escape. Giddy children waited to take food from the ship.

A joyful line of apple-filled baskets, buckets of turnips, onions, barley, and rye snaked from the dock to Jarl Egil’s hall.

Fingernails digging into her bag’s leather strap, she braced herself.

Nothing happened.

Big hands didn’t haul her back onto the ship. No angry shouts blistered her ears.

Dryness caked her throat. Even if Bjorn wanted answers, he’d get none.

Her mouth felt as though it was full of sand.

Eyes shutting a second, she ached for understanding from the man she once called friend.

But too much had passed since those days—a dead husband for instance.

When she opened her eyes, Thorfinn was ambling alongside the elderly woman talking his ear off.

With the path clear, she witnessed Turid, a girl of six years, clutching her apron with both hands.

The soles of her feet rooted to the dock. She swallowed hard.

Bjorn couldn’t drag her back onto the ship because he was handing out food.

Little Turid tapped his shoulder. “Please. Have you any food left?”

“I might.” Bjorn went down on one knee before the little girl. “Are you strong enough to carry these?” He dug into a barrel. Purple plums filled his cupped hand like an offering.

Turid’s eyes filled her face. “I can.”

“But can you do it without eating one?” He was very serious.

“I promise. I’ll not take a single bite.”

“You have a stronger will than me. I’d want to gobble them up. Like this one.” Bjorn lifted another plum from the bucket and held it to his hear.

Turid tipped forward, fascinated. “What are you doing?”

“Listening to this fruit.”

She giggled. “Plums cannot talk.”

Bjorn was sober. “This one does. It’s telling me that it journeyed all the way from Rouen just to fill your belly.”

A sweet peal of laughter rang. Ilsa’s eyes stung at the sight of the humble blond giant. She blinked fast, forcing back wetness. The little girl’s cheeks dimpled and her voice dropped like a conspirator’s whisper.

“If you say it is mine, I will eat half and share the rest with my mother.” Turid pushed scrawny shoulders back. “As for the rest, you have my solemn oath that I will deliver them to the jarl’s hall.”

Bjorn’s head dropped slightly and his mouth dipped at the corners at Turid’s promise to share half her treasure with her mother.

“You are a worthy Viking, little one. I accept your oath.”

Turid beamed as if he’d made her queen of the summer festival.

“Remember this plum,” he said, putting it gently into her apron. He followed with a turnip and an onion. “We’ll seal your oath with an onion and a turnip for your stew.”

Her girlish laugh delighted the hard-boned warrior.

Turid could wind the tough Forgotten Son around her finger and have him do her bidding all day.

Warmth covered Ilsa as she watched those two.

Bjorn would be an excellent father —a thought she had no business keeping.

The hum under her breast bone increased, a yearning that would not stop.

At least, the settlement was lively again. They’d gone too long without the music of children’s laughter. Bjorn spoke to Turid, his voice deep, rumbly, and full of kindness like the distant thunder of a welcome summer storm. The little girl scampered off, her braid swaying behind her.

Ilsa shuttered her eyes, her spirit shouting to the gods, Why did you make him tenderhearted?

Silence poked her ears. The gods didn’t care about simpering matters. To expect a reply was foolish. A good woman would wait for an answer; a bold woman made her own way.

When she opened her eyes again, the dock was nearly empty.

But her rattled senses were attuned to Bjorn.

The scrape of his boots, the clink of his helmet’s chainmail neck cover.

Since the day they departed Rouen, her body thrummed like a stringed instrument when he was near.

Every shift of his eyes. Every half smile.

Surely, he wasn’t smiling now. Bjorn would have questions about Halfdan. She’d have to give him answers.

Gooseflesh shot down her back when Bjorn leaped from the rail to the dock. He landed nimble as a cat despite the shield strapped to his back and his war hammer balanced on his shoulder. Her gaze wandered higher.

Ice-floe eyes speared her. Warmth kindled inside them. His mouth twitched as if he’d plumbed her depths and knew intimate, unspoken things about her…and the warrior craved more.

Her wall of protection cracked. She couldn’t bear Bjorn’s soul-deep stare.

Walking toward him, she said, “What you did with Turid—it was kind.”

“I haven’t turned to into a child-eating troll.” He grinned. “Not yet.”

Her steps slowed. She basked in his presence. Commanding, but not overbearing. Mighty, but not arrogant. Bjorn was an easy man to be with. He was a handsome man, too. The fluttering in her stomach told her so.

“I’ll have to warn the jarl his son might’ve learned new habits in the south lands.” She slipped past him lest more silliness slipped out of her mouth.

She sped off the dock, weaving her way through the settlement’s main road. The crunch of steady footfalls followed her. The blond giant caught up with her.

“Leaving so soon? I thought we were having a nice conversation,” he said, matching her strides.

She was a little breathless, walking fast. “There is much to do. Coming home from a journey and such.”

“There is that.” He was agreeable and massive in her side vision. “But I’d like to hear about this killing.”

Fear bolted inside her. Bjorn was calm as if he said things like that often. The Forgotten Sons had served in treacherous courts. It’d be a safe wager that she wasn’t the first wife he’d met who’d killed her husband.

“What is the tale of one dead man to you?” she lamented.

“If it wasn’t important, why tell me?”

Damp soil crunched underfoot. Seagulls squabbled over a fish head, their wings flapping.

They walked steadily, slowing, yet her lungs wanted to burst. Misery long stuffed away wanted out.

Bjorn made a fair point, but logic wasn’t ruling her.

Emotions were. For some confounding reason, she needed Bjorn to hear the news from her.

Because…?

She stared at the toes of her booted feet claiming ground.

Because his opinion matters .

Cheeks puffing, she blew a long exhale. Admitting that was freedom. They walked together as easy companions. Two boys trotted by, laughing while they made a game of rolling Gunnar’s blue and yellow shield uphill.

“I’m not your enemy,” Bjorn said.

His rumbling, bearish voice was a powerful thread, drawing her to him.

“I know you are not my enemy. But are you my friend?” She glanced at him. Unfathomable light danced in his eyes.

“I am whatever you need.”

Oh.

A thrill sprouted inside her, the tendrils shooting everywhere. Her feet refused to move. She was long past needing a man, but there was wanting a man. His companionship. His body…

She swallowed delicately and wiped a wisp of hair off her cheek.

Bjorn ceased his walking and was looking at her from the iron rings of his helmet.

Her gaze wandered lower. She spied golden blond hairs on his forearms and wondered about the feel of them and the flesh and bone from which they sprung.

She squashed those thoughts and looked to another less traveled road away from the settlement.

“I need to get home.”

When she took a step to leave, Bjorn blocked her path.

“I can’t help you if I’m working with half-truths.” He flung a long-boned arm at burnt-out longhouses. “The Forgotten Sons are tasked to rid your people of an enemy. We will do it. But as a woman of high standing, we need your cooperation.”

“You have it.”

For a moment there, she’d believed they were Bjorn and Ilsa, rekindling their friendship.

What a fool! His assurances didn’t come from a long-ago friendship.

Vellefold, like her, was a labor. Bjorn and his men were on an errand for their jarl, and she was one more person to save in the settlement he wanted nothing to do with.

“And what of your dead husband?” he prodded.

Did she imagine a strain in his voice? She stared at her father in the distance. He was there with his retinue of ragged, wounded fighters, all of them mixing with the four Sons, trading greetings and tales of the journey.

“Halfdan’s death was an accident. He was fighting three men of Aseral with the jarl and your half-brother.”

“Was it hlokk ? An accident of war? In the confusion, sometimes warriors strike their own men.” Bjorn was evenhanded, betraying no emotion. “Or did you kill him on purpose?”

Panic welled inside her. The unwelcome past. The chill of it would not leave her alone.

She was saved from answering when the young Steinar trotted to famous Son’s side.

Bjorn, ever gentle with children, turned his attention to him.

Steinar peppered Bjorn with questions, asking if he, too, could roll the famed shield uphill.

Amused, Bjorn slid the shield off his back.

The two of them watched the boy grunting and pushing the wooden disc uphill where the other Sons waited.

“Don’t you want to join your men?” she asked.

His face, half covered in iron, was clear— I know you’re avoiding the truth .

But he said, “Three days at sea and your presence has grown on me.”

Warmth burned in his voice. She met his gaze with what must’ve been a plea to leave her alone.

“Tonight. When we gather in Jarl Egil’s hall.”

The giant warrior was having none of it. And his tactics were breaking her.

He bent close to whisper in her ear, “I had something else in mind.”