Page 16 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Skin on her breasts pebbled. He was breaking her, little by little. A tactician who understood the art of war in all its forms.

When he pulled away, his eyes lit with humor.

“Bjorn…” she scolded.

His mouth curved easy going yet wolfish. Only Bjorn could manage that, friendly to everyone, yet there was no mistaking his intent with her. Fire smoldered in ice-blue eyes.

“It’s simple. I want to be alone with you.”

Bjorn was hungry.

A twinge spread between her legs and, gods help her, she wanted to feed him.

She felt stripped down and off-center…and this was her home.

Shouldn’t she be in command? At least self-assured?

They were carrying on an intimate conversation in the heart of Vellefold.

Stragglers sped past them. The Sons and her family waited a mere thirty paces away, yet this was a private world.

“You wish to lay with me.” She tipped her face to his. “Despite not knowing the manner of Halfdan’s death?”

“I know enough.”

His wolfish grin spread.

She shifted her feet. What was she going to do with this?

“I have slept in the beds of dangerous women.” His gaze swept uphill where her sister, Frida waited, a womanly smile creasing her smooth-skinned cheeks. “And I will sleep in many more.”

Her goodwill shriveled. Bjorn studied Frida was some interest. This was a game to the Forgotten Son. Get information, win the battles, and go home. If a woman shared her body, the task was all the more pleasant.

Though she stood in place, she regrouped. A retreat of the mind was in order.

“You don’t care which sister warms your bed, do you?”

“Ilsa!” Her father called to her, waving. “Come, daughter. We’ve missed you.”

Bjorn’s mouth twitched—a warning or a smile—she couldn’t be sure. He was a tactician, a warrior, who’d fought in foreign courts. Best she not forget that.

Hot poison churned in her belly as he strode uphill toward Frida.

Shame burning hotly in her, she dipped her chin.

She was a mature woman, once wed. Envy for her younger, prettier sister was beneath her.

Viking warriors came and went. Women bedded them, a passing pleasure.

Nothing more. Sometimes love bloomed, and roving warriors stayed.

She lifted her head and forced herself to watch his broad departing back.

Frida catching Bjorn’s eye was best for all. The maid could entice him to stay.

Her father called to her again. “Ilsa.” His voice was gruff and his beard a long thin V landing midchest. “Are you coming?”

Her mother pushed through the crowd. She raced to Ilsa, her jet earrings swinging fast. “Daughter!” She embraced her, stroking Ilsa’s plaited hair. “You look tired.”

Ilsa pulled away with a bittersweet, “I was about to say the same of you.”

Dark circles shaded her mother’s troubled eyes. They hugged again, and Ilsa surrendered to her mother’s familiar rose-hip scent. She was home. The greetings of men and women at the top of the hill mattered not.

“Let’s hope all goes well when Bjorn sees his father.” Her mother’s nervous glance shot to that Forgotten Son.

Frida had stepped forward, granting Bjorn with a flirtatious smile.

No apron adorned her forest-hued tunic, and her hands were alabaster smooth.

Waning daylight glinted on her polished silver kerstan and fresh kohl outlined her spring-green eyes.

Bracelets jangling, Frida twined her arm with Bjorn’s.

Ilsa heard her sister above the fray. “It is my duty to see you and your men settled. Come. You must be hungry and thirsty.”

Frida steered the Sons’ leader toward the jarl’s hall. Ilsa watched them go, more poison pouring into her belly.

“Where is the jarl?” she asked.

“He sleeps.” Brown wisps fell on her mother’s thin cheeks. “His cough worsens.”

Jarl Egil’s wound had weakened him, but his wet coughs would kill him. Blood came often with them. Winter’s cold would not help. His death was only a matter of time. Without a steady hand to lead them, what would Vellefold do?

Villagers clustered around the hall’s entrance.

Paint was gone from the carved lintel. Weathered wood had greyed with time.

Flaming arrows had scorched one side of the hall in the last raid.

Bjorn stood under the lintel, twin axes over the wide door.

More people greeted him and thanked him for the food.

Did he even know the cost of those provisions?

“You did well, Ilsa.” Her mother grabbed handfuls of red skirts. She was every inch a grand lady, her brown apron pinned with bronze brooches and ivory combs in her hair. “Now, Frida must entice him to stay.”

“I’m sure she will.”

Hot, ugly acid churned in her belly. If the radiance of Bjorn’s smile was anything to go by, Frida was already working her magic.

“I’m off. Go home. Clean up, dear,” her mother said before pattering after the jubilant throng.

“Of course.” A hand on Vellefold’s rune stone, Ilsa forced herself to watch to the end.

Like a conquering hero, Bjorn passed under the lintel, his black mantle covering broad shoulders. Frida swept in beside him. Chestnut hair spilled down Frida’s back. A dark-haired Viking woman. Ideal for Bjorn since he favored dark-haired southern women. Awestruck boys sidled up to him.

If he opened his heart just a tiny bit, all of Vellefold would revere him.

Bjorn handed his helmet to one of the boys, his laughter floating from a quip the boy must’ve said. Frida’s laugh chimed in. Well acquainted with the sexual arts, her sister smiled at the warrior as if she’d gladly comfort him—all night.

“Your sister will sweeten him.” Ardith’s voice carried from the road behind her.

Jealousy twisted inside her. Frida was all smiles and warm greetings.

And what had she done? Vexed him. Told him she’d bought him. Then, confessed to killing her husband. None of these were a good start for rebuilding a friendship. Or sorting out matters of war.

But it was an excellent start for a dangerous woman.