Page 20 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

“You and your men often treat Gunnar like a youth on the verge of manhood,” she murmured to Bjorn. “Yet, he is a man full grown.”

Arms clasped loosely, he matched her quiet. “He was fourteen when we left Birka. We protected him, set him far from the fight with a bow and arrow.”

At twenty-four, Gunnar was still the Whelp, the boy who left Birka with only the clothes on his back and a hope for a better life. Years they’d traveled, rough-edged young warriors with Gunnar, a stripling youth, in tow.

“It’s your hearts that keep him boyish.”

“You don’t have to worry about our hearts.” His tone was flinty. “Our way suits us.”

Ilsa stared at the jarl’s chair, her jaw set. “Because change is hard. How well I know that.”

Winds of the ages could be in her voice, a woman who came by wisdom the hard way.

She was strength in skirts, a far cry from the girl he’d chased through the shielings.

There was substance to Ilsa. He wanted to look deeper.

Vellefold was no different, a grand woman battered but standing tall, her mantle closed against the storm of recent raids.

Ilsa, like the settlement he’d come to save, hid more than she revealed.

Barely a few hours on land, and mystery crouched in every corner.

The lack of thralls.

Aseral’s disappearance after the second raid.

Broken ships in the harbor, which meant one thing: Aseral’s fighters had struck hard at Odell’s ivory trade—the people’s lifeblood.

Only one ship survived. Ilsa’s.

And the woman had duped Longsword. His quick check of Vellefold proved that. Odell had been forthcoming when he’d hobbled along with Bjorn and the men. The father had no idea his daughter failed to tell Rouen’s chieftain that every ship was wiped out save hers.

Longsword was counting on choice ivory trade with Vellefold. It was part of their arrangement.

With no ships and only the aged and the very young still alive, who would hunt ivory?

Odell had proudly showed his one, half-built ship near the harbor. He gave assurances that once Vellefold found peace, more hunters would come.

Bjorn gritted his teeth. Longsword would not be please to learn he’d bargained for first trade of nothing. It’d take years for Odell to rebuild his fleet. If ever.

The ivory hunter’s daughter was at the heart of this deception.

Standing at Ilsa’s side, he was uneasy. When she’d cast her plight in Rouen, she’d known he and the men would face her deception upon arrival. Ilsa gambled on their better nature. Some men would’ve left and reported the false bargain to their jarl.

He’d have to confront her. Soon.

Getting truth from a woman wasn’t the same as getting truth from a man. He was a brute while women were soft and elusive, yet they could be every bit as dangerous as men.

“I suspect maids young and old appreciate Gunnar’s jawline, shaved or not.” Ilsa turned to him, the picture of gentleness. “I see you found time to trim your beard.”

He scraped a hand across his jaw. He’d found time for a quick clean-up because he wanted to look his best.

“I prefer it short,” he said.

“It suits you.” She touched his rolled-up sleeve, sending a rivulet of goosebumps up his arm. “You decided to wear a tunic under your vest. Are you keeping warm?”

A sensual, yet friendly, thread ran through her voice. She could’ve asked, Would you like me to warm you?

“I am comfortable.”

His brain was muddled, not his balls. The flesh between his legs had no problem separating sex from friendship. Did the two even belong together?

A cord of tension thrummed inside him. Since Ilsa had deceived Longsword, she’d have no problem deceiving him. His mind accepted this but his body knew a tantalizing woman was within reach. And despite Ilsa noting Gunnar’s jaw, she had eyes for him alone.

“Come,” she said in her smoky purr. “I have something to give you.”

Ilsa gathered her skirts in one hand and walked across the room.

Tall, slender, strong. She lured him. Cloth molded to long legs, and wool hugged her ass.

The men were talking. Meal preparation was underway, wooden spoons banging cauldrons, the Lady Gerda speaking to her husband, calling for crocks of butter, yet the swish of Ilsa’s skirts was clearest to his ears.

“I’d follow her,” Thorvald mumbled.

Bjorn swiveled around. All eyes went to their smash-faced brother.

A wily grin split Thorvald’s face. “I’d follow…for scouting purposes only.”

Chortles rounded the table, except for Gunnar. He strode to Bjorn’s side and eyed Ilsa’s backside with keen fascination.

“She’s different. Not the same woman who rowed the North Sea with us.”

“That’s the woman who showed up in Longsword’s hall. I don’t trust her,” Erik growled low, flanking Bjorn. “You’d better see what she’s up to.”

Taking long, fast strides, he followed Ilsa. Her thick flaxen braid swayed at her back with each graceful step she took. As a boy he’d tugged it. Now he wanted to uncoil her tresses and bury his nose in every fragrant lock.

When he caught up with Ilsa near the Jarl’s chair, Gerda, Frida, and the old matselja were snapping white tablecloths over two tables joined end to end.

White table cloths. The sign a jarl hosted honored guests.

A waste, really, since the Forgotten Sons were most comfortable around a campfire outside.

The women chattered about more firewood, the noise a distant buzz.

He locked onto Ilsa’s freshly bandaged hand tracing a line up the chair’s arm to the white fur.

“Do you remember the day you came home with this?”

He lifted the ragged end. The pelt smelled faintly of sea and snow and northern woods. Of Egil.

Bittersweet memories swamped him. How scared he was facing the snarling bear. His father had shouted what to do and where to strike until the great white beast succumbed to his spears. Fists raised high, he’d tipped his head and roared victory.

Father and son had worked together, skinning the bear, cutting the meat, packing the bones. Countless days, the two of them alone in the icy north. Nothing compared to the thrill of being with his father, hunkered down by a fire and listening to his tales.

No silver ingots could buy that joy. Nor could a jarl’s seat heal broken trust.

He sifted his fingers through the coarse white fur. “The pelt from my first bear hunt. I was eleven.”

“Five summers ago, the jarl put it here. He’s longed for your return.”

He withdrew his hand. “Then he shouldn’t have exiled me in the first place.”

Sighing, Ilsa could be the patient tutor with an unwilling learner. “Have you never made a mistake?”

“Not one that big.”

“You don’t have to forgive him.”

He barked a harsh laugh. “I wasn’t planning to.”

Ilsa’s eyes glittered like cool green gemstones. “Can you at least open your heart this much—” her thumb and forefinger pinched a small space of air “—and listen to what the jarl has to say?”

“Egil didn’t buy my heart or my listening ear.” His show of teeth was unfriendly. “Through you, he bought my warrior skills and my men. Nothing more.”

Shadows colored the hollows under her cheekbones. Ilsa’s pretty mouth firmed at her insult tossed back in her face. He checked the Sons. They were already talking strategy, their deep voices carrying through the longhouse.

“…tomorrow, we set up X fences here—” Erik poked twigs in the sand “—that’ll slow down any raids on Vellefold’s eastern side.”

Thorvald ran two fingers inside his tunic’s neckline. “The sooner we attack Aseral, the better,” he grumbled. “Sitting here like this, we’re sheep for the slaughter.”

Thorfinn added his agreement and Gunnar leaned in to explain a weak spot.

Bjorn firmed his stance. They were his first responsibility. He should be making plans with them.

“You will attack Aseral first?” Ilsa asked.

Arms folding, he chewed on how to answer that, if at all, and the delay cost him.

They weren’t going to raid Aseral first, but he hadn’t told the men.

They wouldn’t like his decision, but soon enough they would understand why.

A battle for another day. For now, he had his hands full with one headstrong, inquisitive woman.

“Are you thinking how to answer me?” she asked, incredulous.

“I’m considering not answering at all.”

She gaped at him. “I brought you here to save Vellefold, and you—you don’t trust me?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Because of my dead husband.” Her mouth pinched.

They were careful to keep their disagreement to a low pitch. But there was no mistaking the vexed flush on Ilsa’s cheeks.

“It was as you said on the ship, hlokk .” She averted her eyes. “He was fighting three men of Aseral with the jarl and your half-brother when it happened. A fourth Aseral fighter was coming. I aimed for him,” she said, dull-voiced. “And struck Halfdan instead.”

A chasm wedged between them though they stood inches from each other. Her deception with Longsword deepened the rift; a dead husband widened it. She knew he’d find out about Vellefold’s lack of ships once he and the men arrived. But, Ilsa didn’t have to tell him about one dead Viking.

Was her husband’s death truly an accident of war?

One thing bothered him. Ilsa was not the tormented, grieving widow.

Emotions were a luxury in dire times, best saved for later, but her tale was too neat. How convenient that one witness to Halfdan’s death died in battle. The other, Jarl Egil, was a man she knew he’d want little conversation with, the man who’d elevated the ivory hunter’s daughter to hird .

Another fact was certain: he’d not get many answers tonight.

Tired and edgy, his control was slipping. Measured responses were lost to animal nature. His gaze traveled from Ilsa’s blond crown to her breasts snug in midnight blue cloth.

“You’re different. I prefer the woman I met on the boat.”

“And I prefer the man who journeyed on my boat.” She leaned boldly forward. “He followed my orders.”

“We’re not on your boat now, are we?” he said in soft lethal tones.

Her eyes flickered. “No.”

Ilsa wasn’t cowed by his size or his warrior status.

As children, she’d elbow his ribs if a tussle in the grass overwhelmed her.

He’d freeze, afraid his ever-growing strength had gotten the best of him.

Ilsa would roll away, teasing him before popping up to dust off her skirts. Part of him craved that now.

“Why don’t you act like yourself?” he asked.

Her surprised laugh sprinkled the air. “I am.”

“The Ilsa I remember never wore leather trousers, and she had no interest in ships or power or battles.”

Mirth evaporated from her face. Head tilting, she considered him.

“What bothers you more? My leather trousers? Or my position in Vellefold? Because the Bjorn I remember never cared about what clothes I wore.”

“I still don’t. Go naked if you want.”

A brow arched a warning. He refused to back down.

“You’re angry about my place in Vellefold,” she said, exploring his face, searching to know if she’d found her answer.

He smiled, salacious. Taunting. “Your place? I don’t care about that. Take any position you like.”

Blatant, sexual heat bounced between them.

They locked stares. Heated. Primal. A quiet battle raged.

Ilsa’s life vein ticked a rapid cadence on her neck.

Frustration was an unsated itch, and he wanted Ilsa to do the scratching—a want worsened by fraying trust. And this stew of arousal and irritation made what he said next all the more baffling.

“Just… be .”

Head tipping sideways, she looked at him as if he’d sprouted a second head. “’Just be.’ What does that mean?”

“Be the Ilsa I once knew.”

“Oh Bjorn…” Kindliness softened her features. “I am a woman now. Much has changed.”

“I’ve noticed.” He raked a frustrated hand through his hair.

Women . He loved their skin, their smells, their smiles—the genuine kind, never overly painted and sultry—real women a man could carry on a conversation with, women who got their hands dirty, and were content with a warrior here today and gone tomorrow.

They didn’t need saving. They wanted pleasure, however brief.

Ilsa upended all that. She invited depth and roots—on her terms.

The hall door flung open. Thorfinn, helpful with everyone, was hauling an armload of wood from outside.

He kicked the door shut, stacked the wood, and fed some of it to the fire in the fire pit.

At the second fire pit, Helge sawed a venison haunch roasting on a spit.

Frida and her mother were setting crocks of butter on the table, and Odell was giving his opinion to Erik about the sand map.

This could be a night of northern hospitality, one friendly band of Vikings visiting another.

Except Ilsa wanted to break his resistance, and he wanted to split hers wide open. They were a warrior and a huntress, facing each other. Who would yield first?