Page 27 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

“I need a man who stays and helps, not a man to warm me for a season.” Her head cocked sideways. “Are you that man?”

“You know my answer.”

How cool and distant he sounded.

“You are the Viking who can’t forgive the past.” Bitter, she averted her eyes to the harbor. Erik and her father’s men were ending their work. Tools clattered loudly as men dropped them into a barrel. “Yet, you build our future.”

“I serve my jarl as faithfully as you serve yours.”

“You would have me believe that?” She snorted lightly. “Training new fighters is one thing. But this—” she jerked her chin at Thorvald and Thorfinn climbing down a roof they’d repaired “—is not typical of passing warriors.”

Bjorn stiffened. “My men and I are glad to help…for a price.”

She took a deep breath and let it out long and loud. “Everything has its price.”

Perhaps that was Vellefold’s problem? Jarl Egil hadn’t hired the best men.

The Forgotten Sons showered her people with goodwill at the cost of two ivory barrels.

If these worthy men had been found, surely there had to be others?

The settlement swelled with widows. Once peace was assured, boats full of men would glide into the harbor.

Yet the man she wanted to stay would leave and never come back.

And that left her in the same place—without a good man to fill the jarl’s seat.

“No matter the riches, nothing can change your loyalty to your men.” She searched his face and found Bjorn hard as granite. “Does anything tempt you? Anything at all?”

His gaze fell to her mouth a split second, but he said nothing.

“Think of the things we could do, you and I, leading Vellefold,” she said.

The sounds of days end tasks set in. Geese shut away for the night. Torches being lit. A friendly word, one neighbor to another.

“You know my answer,” he said at last. “I’ll do what’s required of me. Then, my men and I will leave by Jul , if not sooner.”

Sadness settled inside her. Seeing Bjorn with Jorund, the helpful work he and his men did…she’d grasped at hope—again—and the prize was still beyond her reach.

“Then, I won’t keep you from your work.”

She set out with bone jarring footsteps. Bjorn’s rejection left a bitter taste in her mouth. Who would lead them when Jarl Egil died? Head down, she gave in to her worries. Without a jarl, they’d be ripe for more raids, more burnt homes, more families clinging to survival.

There had to be a man to lead them…somewhere.

A powerful landsman near Ribe of Daneland came to mind. He wasn’t a great warrior, but men followed him, lured by the coin he offered. Marriage to Frida could seal the arrangement. Ducking between two longhouses, she was considering how to get a message to him when Bjorn fell in step beside her.

She startled. “What are you doing?”

“Watching you think.”

“What?” Her breath puffed chilly clouds.

“You’re walking with your head down. That means you’re solving a problem.” Bjorn flashed a grin. “You did the same when you were a young girl.”

Wool skirts swaying, she adjusted her burden. “The same as you being slow to speak when a decision must be made.”

“A good quality in a leader.”

“Except when a leader needs to speak up and eliminate confusion.”

His strides ate up the ground. He was humored, reminding her, “I recall that you weren’t happy when I spoke my first night in Vellefold.”

She bit hard to keep her mouth shut.

“My authority did not sit well with you then,” he said.

They tromped across hard-packed earth, Bjorn’s gait even with hers. His presence both maddened and delighted her. It was the same when they were children, wandering here and there, talking about whatever came to mind.

“You’re angry with me. I can see it. The vein here…” He almost touched her temple but she dodged him. “It pulses when you’re mad.”

She walked faster.

Arms swinging, Bjorn wasn’t put off. “It was the same when we wrestled in the meadow. I always won.”

Oh, he was smug.

“You didn’t always win.”

She picked up the pace going south on the narrow road, closing her mantle against an icy breeze coming off the harbor. Bjorn stayed with her, his stride easy. He hailed a man herding two geese in for the night.

“Yes, I did.” He was cheerful, his Yes, I did for her ears alone.

She glanced, knife-sharp, at him. “Is that why you’re walking with me? To remind me about childhood wrestling matches?”

Another door opened and a wide-hipped widow waved a fervent greeting. Bjorn waved back.

“I’m here for the joy of your presence. To be helpful,” he said. “Such as carrying your basket.”

Her step faltered. She checked him out of the corner of her eye.

The offer was kindly, but she knew better.

Bjorn was curious about her coming and going.

He’d not questioned her since their first morning on the practice field.

Yet, there were times she found him watching her from a distance, keen-eyed and wary.

Other times, going about her day, hairs on her nape rose…

as if someone watched her from the woods by her home.

“Thank you, but I can manage this.” Her free hand went protectively to the basket’s rim.

“Such a big basket,” he said casually. “And it looks new. Will you deliver mossy poultices with it?”

“It’s a gift for Valgerd.”

“Why bring it to her house when you can bring it to the feast hall?”

Her stomach dropped. Valgerd would sup at the jarl’s table tonight. Bjorn’s logic was sound, and his question innocent enough. Everyone was feasting at Jarl Egil’s table tonight. It was a celebration of their progress, and a time for plans to be announced.

“I promised to deliver it to her,” she said. “Does that satisfy your nosiness?”

Bjorn took in her dirty hands, her slovenly braid, and torn hem. Each night, she’d arrived at the feast hall well-dressed and her hair adorned as befitting a hird . But, she’d scrambled to finish the birch branch basket, a labor done late into last night.

Her footsteps slowed outside Valgerd’s longhouse.

It was near the edge of the old marketplace.

Stripped Linden tree bark fluttered like ribbons on drying racks.

Two short, coiled ropes hung on pegs hammered into her longhouse.

Before the raids, Valgerd had sold her ropes at a stall along the harbor until the second raid burned what she’d toiled over all winter.

Bjorn peered inside her basket. “It’s empty.”

“Yes, it is.”

Truth dawned, scuffing her pride. This was all about him keeping track of her.

Bjorn’s attention, she decided, was one-part lust and two-parts distrust. A man with a motive.

Bjorn would serve his purpose and leave, and dangerous woman or not, if he could have fun in the doing, he would.

Jarl Egil’s hired men had been no different.

Easy coin and a fast tup ruled their minds as they roamed.

It wouldn’t be any different for the famed Forgotten Son.

There was no affection here.

Squeezing the basket’s edge, she silently chided herself. Why did I let my guard down?

She’d have to be more careful. Bjorn had survived all these years because he wasn’t a mindless brute. Ardith’s warning in Rouen rang in her ears. Those men have warrior eyes. Sharp. Ready. They will see things.

What had he seen?