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

Bjorn ground the berries in his mouth, their late-season tartness bursting across his tongue.

A step above housekarls, the Forgotten Sons were common warriors separated by uncommon gifts in battle, but they were simple fighters.

Nothing more. He’d not let one woman’s opinion invade their minds.

Their zeal for land was distracting enough.

“Listen to me. Gyda is tenderhearted, full of lofty ideas, but she is a thrall untried in life. Forget what she said.” He looked pointedly at each man. “It’s not wise to let a woman mess with your mind.”

Satisfied with that wisdom, he tore off a hunk of bread and almost missed their stares drifting behind him. His back prickled when a silken voice touched his ears.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve traveled a long way to present you with a lofty idea.”

The woman in white stepped into his vision, lithe of form and fluid as sunshine on water.

Her mouth snared him, the full lower lip indented in the middle as if the gods had pressed a fingertip there when she was born.

Blue and green embroidery dressed a bodice covering small breasts.

He wasn’t complaining. Breasts of any size fascinated him.

“A lofty idea?” Doubt framed his words.

Her smile was sultry and confident. “One that will make you a very powerful man.”

His chest swelled a little at being the center of her attention. The lady’s bearing and low voice flooded him with pleasure until reason overruled. Rich offers from fair-faced women didn’t happen to men like him.

“A powerful man?” he drawled. “Lady, you’re at the wrong end of the hall for that.”

Gunnar’s eyes flashed a warning. He glared back, but the Whelp was right.

He should be careful. This woman had a seat at the jarl’s table, which meant she was an honored guest and should be treated with the best manners.

The lady’s regard swept over nearby tables of warriors.

To a man they were meaty, scarred-up, axe-wielding brutes, the toughest of Longsword’s housekarls. Those men ogled her hungrily.

She met their stares, measure for measure, until her gaze settled on Bjorn. “I am at the right end of the hall.” Sea-green eyes probed him. “It is you I want.”

“Me,” he said, feeling a foolish grin spread.

Across the table, Thorvald choked on his bite. Gunnar thumped his brother’s back, but the lady held court. She was comfortable with her power, chin high, shoulders squared. Nothing docile about this woman.

“What if my offer makes you equal to Longsword?” she asked.

His jaw went slack and Thorfinn’s knife froze midway to his mouth, butter dripping off a spiked turnip. Erik’s eyes turned into dark slits, and Thorvald gave the woman deeper scrutiny.

His skin tingled oddly. “Do I know you?”

Her eyes rounded. “You don’t remember me?”

“No. Should I?”

She laughed, the musical sound sending his unwelcome childhood tumbling forward.

Thudding drummed in his ears, and a grey haze encroached his vision.

All pretense of eating at the table stopped, each man boldly curious.

The jarl’s guest was regal, pleats perfect, her stance unashamed.

Gunnar gave her a slow once-over when she smoothed the back of her skirts and slid onto the bench facing Bjorn.

More striking than beautiful, she was the kind of woman a man could stare at and never get bored. Self-assured women had that advantage.

“I recognized you the moment you walked into the hall.” Her voice was an elegant purr. “Your hair is a darker shade of blond, but your gait hasn’t changed.”

“My gait?”

“You walk like a hunter of bears and men. Balanced. Sure of yourself, ready for anything. That’s what my father used to say about you.” A little shrug and, “Seeing you again, I’d say he’s right.”

Suspicion clubbed him.

“Ilsa.”

Her name was dust in his mouth.

“We were friends once in Vellefold,” she said low-voiced.

Snorting softly, he dropped his bread onto his plate and nudged it aside. “That was a long time ago.”

His vision hazed again. Battle with a dozen Chamavi fighters was preferable to facing this woman.

What is she doing here?

Ilsa. Daughter of Odell, master of North Sea hunts and a great ivory merchant.

As a girl, she’d had a talent for wringing fun out of rainy days and spinning sunshine when there was none, but she was a relic from a life he’d left behind.

A grown woman faced him now, armored with natural-born confidence.

The mention of Vellefold was as good as a knife to his back, and by the angle of her chin, she knew it.

Icy waves washed his skin. The table’s wood grain blurred, unfurling a Hel-black chasm before his eyes. It was the memory of his father’s black mantle whipping sideways on a stormy beach—the day his father abandoned him.

Fear spiked in his veins.

His knee was bouncing under the table.

He grabbed his thigh and gave a brutal squeeze, or else he’d lose his mind to that Hel-black chasm again.

Ilsa. She was the bringer of bad memories.

As if sensing his unease, Ilsa gave her attention to the Sons. “I am here for trade with Longsword. And…” she hesitated. “With Bjorn.”

The Sons exchanged sharp glances.

Thorfinn dropped his knife on his plate. “A trade with Bjorn is a trade with all of us, lady.”

“I have heard that about the Forgotten Sons.” Ilsa’s gaze reached across the table. “But what I have to say is for Bjorn alone.”

Such a tender-voiced message, yet each word cut to the bone.

The raucous hall jarred his ears; despite it he was grateful.

Thorfinn’s shoulder was a steady presence at his side.

Erik’s slight nod gave a message, Your brothers are with you .

They all knew the day his father had abandoned him in Birka.

It was the same day Rurik had found Bjorn, taken him home, and convinced his mother, who’d struggled to feed four mouths, to take in one more.

She did. Oddny’s kindness had saved Bjorn’s life.

“I have news from home,” Ilsa said. “From your family.”

“What home?” Ire sliced Bjorn’s words. “Rouen is my home, and these men are my family.”

His bite missed its mark. Ilsa glowed with wrath-melting gentleness.

“Share some mead with me,” she coaxed. “Listen to my proposition.”

“This news is now a proposition?” He leaned in, menacing. “Lady, you must have ogre-sized balls if you think I want anything to do with Vellefold.”

Mirth danced in her eyes. “That would be a difficult comparison since I’ve never seen an ogre’s balls.”

Thorvald and Erik barked a laugh, and Gunnar chortled into his balled fist.

Graceful. Unflinching. Ilsa wasn’t backing down.

And she’d made the men laugh, which doused his ire.

Sitting across from her, Bjorn’s senses stirred to smoke churning in Longsword’s hall, yet he’d swear he smelled the secret grove she escaped to as a girl.

The pines and birches, the sticky resin on her hands and cheeks after she’d carved runes on trees.

Her favorite grove had been full of those marks.

The woman with him now had traveled a far distance to speak to him.

For her courage alone, she deserved to be heard.

He pushed a cup across the table. “One drink. That’s all the time you have to bend my ear.”

Chafed fingers full of cuts wrapped around the wooden cup.

Her fingernails were clean but roughly shorn, a contrast to ornately embroidered sleeves typical of wealthy, high born women.

Ilsa had strived for something and her hands had paid the price.

Beside him spoons and knives scraped plates and heads bent low, the Sons tucking into their food, trying to go unnoticed.

A feminine brow quirked. “I’ll take my drink with you alone.”

Women of privilege . They believed they should get their way, but to call Ilsa haughty would be unfair.

She was bred on climbing obstacles. Women of Vellefold walked with an air of mystery, unshakable as the high mountains surrounding the settlement.

Did land form a woman? Vikings of the northwest lived where craggy peaks folded into narrow fjords.

Vellefold was magical—rich, black soil tucked between crowning summits as if the gods had smoothed it for farming and pushed it to the sea for trade.

A place coveted by Vikings and foreigners alike.

And Bjorn wanted nothing to do with it.

He eyed the men. “Give us the table.”

Thorvald’s chewing slowed. “We’re supposed to leave?” He poked his spoon at Ilsa. “Because of her?”

Gunnar drained his cup and set it down with a thunk . “Come.” The Whelp unfolded himself from the bench. “Let’s give Bjorn what he wants.”

Grumbling men gathered plates and cups and removed themselves. Thorvald nabbed two more hunks of meat before scrambling to join the others in search of a place to eat.

Ilsa watched them go. “They are loyal to you.”

“As I am to them.”

Her pale green stare drifted back to him. She was peaceful, firelight playing on triangle-shaped gold dangling from her ears. Rich green stones embedded a Byzantine design, but no rings decorated work-raw fingers nor did metalwork encircle slender wrists. Her neck was free of adornment too.

“You keep looking at my hands.” Relaxing on her seat, Ilsa flipped both hands palms up. Coin-sized blisters had recently torn open. “We rowed hard in heavy seas.”

He winced. Two red spots seeped on her hands. “Why? To share a proposition which I’ll refuse?”

“You haven’t heard what I have to say.”

Unfriendly laughter rattled in his chest. “If it has to do with Vellefold, I already know my answer.”

“You hate Vellefold that much?”

She was wide-eyed and open to him, her brightness too much. He had to avert his gaze.

“Sure you want to spend your one drink hearing my answer?”

“You really mean to grant me one drink?” Her wind-chapped hand reached for Gyda’s pitcher. “Very well. I will keep our cups full.”