Page 26 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Fourteen

S he walked downhill, cold kissing her cheeks.

Air soughed strangely as if gods and giants had gathered around Vellefold.

She scanned the cliffs, a shiver snaking her spine.

They watched and waited, closer this time.

She itched to shake a fist at the gods and demand fairness.

It’d do no good. There was a season for love and war, a season for blood and magic.

In their eyes, life’s cloth deserved judgment and celebration, however harsh and beautiful it might be.

In the fjord, Aegir’s daughters shushed tiny waves, their laughter echoing like women dancing at a feast. Really, it was a breeze skirling through trees. Clutching her mantle, she’d keep telling herself that. One truth was certain.

Change was coming.

The settlement burst with it. Wind whispered it.

The Norns knew it, weaving destinies as they did with nimble fingers while watching over the children of men.

Eternal threads were tricky. Futures were never fully set.

The Norns—Urdr, Verdandi, Skuld—scrawled every newborn’s story on Yggdrasil.

They also allowed unfettered will. A brave woman could choose a new path.

A woman of courage surely would.

She already had, and she’d written her path in blood.

The large birch basket she carried was the beginning of an end—her oath fulfilled.

Taking it to Valgerd’s home unnoticed was another matter.

For days, the Forgotten Sons had been everywhere, setting twilight torches, repairing her people’s homes, clearing jumbled pit houses from the field where the market once thrived. All heartwarming acts.

“How did a rough band of Vikings become so helpful?” she asked under her breath.

Chewing on that, she turned onto Vellefold’s main road to the pounding of hammers.

Thorvald and his twin brother shouted to each other as they repaired a roof.

By the harbor, Erik worked on her father’s ship, putting his back into scraping a spade across a newly felled tree.

As she passed the runestone marker, familiar broad shoulders covered in black came into view.

Bjorn. He stood in the burnt frame of a longhouse that once belonged to Jorund.

The warrior’s profile was strong against charred timber and his voice a soothing rumble, tethering her steps.

“Control your axe. Don’t let it control you.” A big paw nudged Jorund’s hand. “Hold it here.”

The older boy nodded fast. “That feels better.”

“Strike this way—” Bjorn guided Jorund in a downward stroke “—and go for the legs. Keep your shield close. Then, hit your enemy a second time with your axe as you bring it up. When you’re ready, I’ll show you how this —” Bjorn’s knuckles knocked the iron shield boss “—can be a weapon.”

“I’d like that.” Jorund mimicked the downward swipe, his brow wrinkling in dismay. “But I’m hitting with the blunt end when I swing up.”

“It’ll work.” Bjorn inched back. “A blade on one side, a hammer on the other. Both do equal damage.”

Jorund practiced up and down strikes. Laundry fluttered beside Ilsa. She was tempted to duck behind a wide, square cloth and spy on them longer. But, Bjorn’s back tensed. He turned slowly.

Wintry blue eyes met her, mildly amused. She was stuck, pleasantly caught as it turned out.

“I prefer the hammer,” he said, holding her stare. “It’s hard and to the point. Like a man. The axe, however, is more like a woman. Sharp, drawing blood. And when she pulls away, she’s a blunt but uncertain weapon.”

“A woman?” Jorund scrunched his face and examined his weapon. “Never thought of an axe like that.”

“Give it a few years, boy. You’ll cross paths with a dangerous woman.”

Ilsa cocked her head. The day was cool, but her blood ran hot. The hrisungr’s stare smoldered as though he’d char her if they touched. When his brow cocked, she was sure he was waiting patiently for her rebellious mind to yield to her body.

A velvety huff passed her lips. If Bjorn asked again for her to join him in bed—the same as he had his first day in Vellefold—she wouldn’t say no.

Combat on the practice field fueled them.

Day after day, she and Bjorn collided, grappled, and tangled.

As if the vigor of training was a temporary substitute for a battle in bed.

His breath billowed clouds like a dragon of lore. “Ilsa.”

“Bjorn.”

Thumb hooked in his belt, the warrior exuded confidence. His attention enthralled her. She’d never had a man look at her quite like…that.

As if the gods had just told him, She was designed for you. No other woman will fit.

Jorund’s scowl bounced from her to Bjorn. “We’re done for today, aren’t we?”

“We are.” The Forgotten Son grinned, apologetic.

Sighing his disappointment, the boy fastened the axe to his thigh. “I’m off to the jarl’s hall.” He collected his bow and a quiver stuffed with half-made arrows. “I’ll practice tomorrow just as you told me.” Jorund bowed respectfully to Ilsa. “I’ll see you at the feast, lady.”

A gentle nod was her answer. She couldn’t do much more for the butterflies camping in her stomach. Excitement trilled just under her skin. She was alone with Bjorn. Truly alone. Not a pet cat or braying goat or passing folk could be found. After mornings on the practice field, this was a first.

They hadn’t been together like this since childhood.

She dipped past fluttering laundry to watch Jorund jog uphill, his quiver bouncing on his shoulder. An up-and-coming warrior.

“I fear for Vellefold’s trees,” she said. “He will throw his axe at all of them.”

Bjorn gleamed with pride. “The boy will leave his mark.”

“Like you left your mark in my grove.”

He swung around and faced her. Memories flickered. Their history was a living, breathing thing.

“The runes…” he said reverently.

“My carvings and your axe bites are still visible. Even after all these years, they are unchanged.”

“We’re not that old, Ilsa.”

His friendly rumbling voice worked like magic, loosening her limbs, opening her heart. A massive Viking, timeworn and rugged, Bjorn turned female heads. Yet, his attention was for her alone. The basket on her hip weighed heavy. The burden slid lower as though she ought to abandon it.

“One thing has changed.” She ventured closer to him. “Your jests about women.”

“What do you mean?”

“What you said just now with Jorund. About his axe.”

Bjorn’s mouth hooked boyishly.

“And there is our time on the practice field. The day would not be complete without a dozen jibes about women. Maybe it’s to harden me for what will come in battle, for I know our enemies will say much worse.

But…” She stopped an arm’s length, searching his face. “The boy I knew was never like that.”

Bjorn’s chin dipped. “Could be the southern climes have roasted my brain. Women there are treated differently. It was easy to forget the north breeds strong women.” His eyes burned with peculiar light. “Like you.”

Tender brightness spread over her breastbone. Respect and admiration shined in his eyes. If he stayed, they could work together. Bjorn would be jarl, and she, his hird . She longed to say this, but the dragon needed gentling to roost in the home that banished him.

“You know Jorund talks of sailing to Lund to go a viking with the first chieftain who’ll take him. Losing his father hurt him terribly. It is generous of you to spend time with him.”

A gust knocked wisps of hair across her face. Fascinated, Bjorn traced a feather-light line across her cheek. Air snagged in her lungs. Her Viking warrior was tucking the wayward strands behind her ear. Gently, so, so gently.

“I would gladly spend time with you. Tonight,” he said.

“Even though you count me dangerous?”

His gruff laugh was richly male.

“I’ve decided you’re worth the risk.”

His leisured gaze traveled over her messy braid, pausing where it swelled over her breast. His lips parted as though he’d kiss her. Wild, unbidden images ricocheted in her mind.

His attention touched her.

Unhurried.

Smoldering.

As if his hands and mouth were hot on her skin.

She wanted to groan. Iduna reported that Bjorn slept alone every night though it wasn’t for a lack of invitations. Was he waiting for her? Tender places tingled under her wool skirts. The dragon was hungry, and her body wanted to feed him.

But tonight, of all nights? Truly, the gods were testing her.

She hitched her basket higher on her hip. “Well, I can’t. I’m busy.”

“Because you need more sleep?” His mannish smile was undaunted.

Amused, she flicked her braid over her shoulder. She was old enough to know the conversational door they’d opened. Both had entered willingly, though men were especially talented at thinking with the vessel between their legs, and Bjorn was every inch a man.

“I hear plenty of widows have offered you the comfort of their beds.”

As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. Iduna and her gossip . Surprise flared in Bjorn’s eyes and his smile deepened the crease line in his cheeks.

“Only one widow interests me.”

Words to pierce her heart. Her fingernails dug into the basket’s weave. She was fighting hard to hold onto her composure. How was this possible? Her braid was unraveling, she wore her ugliest tunic, and dirt grimed her hands.

Yet Bjorn’s stare set her on fire.

What was she going to do?

He waited, thumbs hooked in the waistband of his trousers and a cool breeze knocking blond hair around his neck. An enticing man. Bjorn could win her, body and soul.

Why couldn’t he have returned years ago?

Because the gods had other plans, and she had hers.

“I’m honored by your attention, Bjorn. Truly, I am.”

Seconds passed. The cries of seagulls wheeling overhead pierced the air.

“But…” he prompted her.

The birds dove after food scraps, then shot skyward to the cliffs high above where she was sure the gods were perched, watching her. Food and shelter were the winged creatures’ concerns. The security of her people was hers.