Page 18 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Iduna ignored that and dragged a coopered tub across the floor. “He was the same when you were children. ‘Ilsa this… and Ilsa that.’ Or ‘Where’s Ilsa?’ as if the boy couldn’t get enough of you.”

“He’s had enough of me now.” Nose wrinkling, she toed off her other boot. “I stink. Besides, Bjorn didn’t like it when I told him he must take orders from me.”

“Most men wouldn’t.” Iduna dumped a bucket of water into the tub. “But you will listen to him. You’re a smart woman, untried in battle. He has lived and breathed war. Vellefold needs him.” More water was poured. “At least try and accommodate him.”

Ilsa shucked her tunic, the advice grating her. Listening to Bjorn on battle strategy was sound—it was half the reason he was here. And she could admit the warrior shed light on things beyond her understanding…like the lull in fighting since last spring.

Why hadn’t Aseral attacked again? Vellefold could’ve easily been taken.

“If he listens to you about Vellefold’s people, we’ll know his measure.” Iduna plucked an egg-sized jar off a shelf.

“Did you see the way everyone surrounded him and the other Forgotten Sons?” Ilsa was in the act of peeling off trousers stuck to her skin. “They were agog.”

“Of course, they were.” Mild sarcasm building in her voice, Iduna uncorked the jar with a soft pop .

“Legends are walking amongst us. Men, who worked to save our people, to get food for everyone last summer after our food stores were gone, men who healed the sick, men who mourned with those who lost family, and men who stood up to encourage us when the jarl was gravely injured.” Iduna paused her tirade.

“But no—the Forgotten Sons weren’t here. You were.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“Oh? What am I doing?” Iduna’s sarcasm was deftly delivered.

“You’re reminding me what I’ve done so that I don’t let a man brush me aside.” She removed her blue linen smalls and kicked them aside. “Is the water ready?”

Iduna dribbled oil into the bath. “You’re unbothered by Vellefold’s adoration for Bjorn. Is that because you want him to be the next jarl?”

Did she?

No one had asked what she wanted. It was simply understood: everything she did was for Vellefold.

Ilsa hugged herself while Iduna stirred the water. Frankincense—her favorite perfume—filled the air, the aroma piney, spicy, and sweet. Her fostra could be a stubborn thing, but she was a magician with scents and herbs, and she cooked wonderfully and sewed well—all skills Ilsa lacked.

“This bath will be good for your skin after your journey.” Iduna stepped back. “Get in.”

Teeth clenched, she stepped into the tub.

Water needled her skin. Steamy sylphs twirled.

Sweat beaded her skin. Mouth closed, she dropped under the surface and let the world go.

She was expected to sup with the jarl. Work by day, report to him by night.

It had become their ritual since he fell in battle.

With his exiled son here, would that change?

She sat up and rested her head against the oak rim. Was it possible to want Bjorn to stay and want him to go? If Bjorn stayed, life could get difficult.

Skalds wove tales of the Forgotten Sons.

Their bravery and courage, their feats in battle.

But nothing of staying, helping, building.

Men . They claimed and they stole. Few gave in return.

The evidence was in her smoke-stained rafters.

Neat axe lines marked the wood, the work of Kell, Ingolf, her father.

They’d constructed this longhouse. She’d struck beams and rafters, too.

But Halfdan? The man never lifted a single tool to build their home.

Iduna emerged from Ilsa’s chamber, a midnight-hued tunic in hand. The garment boasted two pleats at the waist and no embroidery. Stunning. Severe, yet rich because of the fabric.

“You should wear this,” Iduna said.

Her lashes drooped. “Why does it matter?”

A bench scraped the floor. It was Iduna taking a seat behind her. “Because you should look beautiful while deciding if you want Bjorn to stay or not.”

Laughter bubbled up. “Iduna…” she groaned good-naturedly.

“Wear this and Bjorn and his men will stare at you all night.”

“I’d rather they listen to my words.”

Careful fingers unplaited wind-blown braids. “I know how I will fix your hair tonight.”

“You are relentless,” she chided. “But it won’t matter. The men will have eyes for Frida.”

Iduna chuffed. “Your fairness shines as bright as hers.” Wood creaked and the fostra whispered in her ear, “Why don’t you entice him?”

“Because I am not the prize.”

Iduna’s laughter was rife with suggestion. “You could be.” There was the smallest pause as capable hands cleaned Ilsa’s hair. “Perhaps Bjorn desires a more experienced woman?”

“Frida has experience.”

Iduna snorted. “One summer with that farmer doesn’t count.” Skilled fingers worked another braid. “It should be you drawing close to him. How else can you keep track of his whereabouts?”

Sleepy-eyed, she hugged herself and slunk lower in the bath. “You’re worried about our friends.”

“I am, but I’m worried about you too.”

“Me?”

“If he is a decent man, you should lay with him and enjoy yourself. You worry me, all the burdens you’ve carried.”

She frowned. Ardith had said the same thing.

“What better way to know a man’s mind than to bed him?” Her fostra’s voice was light with feminine knowing.

“There is talking to him.”

“You talked with him enough when you both were children. It’s really very simple, Ilsa. You’re a woman. He’s a man.”

A laugh rose despite her best effort to keep it in. “I don’t think?—”

“ Hush . You think too much. And that is your problem. Keeping a nose to your scrolls. Winter comes and you never don your skis or go ice skating. You lack enjoyment.”

She kept her mouth shut. They both knew she’d not donned her skis or gone ice skating because Halfdan ridiculed those pursuits.

“He is a handsome man. You are a desirable woman. Kingdoms have been built on less.” Water sloshed when Iduna dragged a pitcher through the tub. “Cover your eyes.”

She set cloth-covered hands over her face.

Arguing with Iduna was useless. Once a seed took root in the woman’s mind, there was no pulling it out.

Iduna could be Odin’s disir in the flesh, part of the ancient order of female spirits few Vikings spoke of yet many sensed.

They moved in trees and grass, in water and wind.

Warlike and wrathful, nurturing and protective, the disir changed the brave singular man or woman who listened to their whispers.

But this was her body. She would do as she saw fit. Yet…

Ice-floe eyes tempted her.

Bjorn was the impenetrable mountain. Strength with a little mystery.

Bedding him would break her in ways she couldn’t understand.

She just…knew it. Intimacy could destroy everything.

What went on in Vellefold was deeply personal.

Too important to be toyed with. And sex was a game.

A pleasure. Of course, some women used bed sport to manipulate men. Bjorn would see through it.

Another image of him teased her—his unspoken challenge when they rowed away from Rouen. Control him? She’d have better luck controlling the wind.

Only the bravest woman dared to do that.