Page 3 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Ilsa poured amber mead to the brim, gold sparkling against her neck where taut skin moved like silk pulled tightly over a frame. The pouring done, she set the pitcher down with a firm thunk . “You know, you weren’t my first choice, but I’m here because I gave an oath to find you.”

Her smoky voice was...different. Testy. Perhaps tired.

He shifted on the bench. “Your choice for what?”

“To save Vellefold.”

“You don’t look like you need saving.”

“I don’t. Vellefold does. We were raided last spring. Twice.”

He whistled softly. Raided twice ? “Things have changed.”

His father’s iron rule must be weakening. No one had dared raid Jarl Egil’s settlement. Ever.

“Now you understand why we need you.”

Forearm planted on the table, he smiled coolly. “We, is it? Then you do need me.”

She bristled at the distinction and sipped her drink. It was a small point. A bigger one was coming because Justice looked kindly on him today. He and Ilsa had been friends once, but they were closer to enemies now. He could live with that. By the impatient twist of her fair mouth, she could too.

Does she really think I’ll run back to Vellefold? After all these years?

He swirled his mead, smoke and noise crowding him. This plea was a gift from the gods—to be asked to save the people who’d spit him out as a boy.

Finally, finally that boy would get his due.

Because Ilsa would get her one drink, then he’d send her away with a firm no .

By her narrowed eyes, she was fighting angry urges.

“You’re big but not the biggest of warriors?—”

He snorted. “If size matters.”

“—and your band of men is small and outnumbered for the fight ahead.”

“Clearly you’re not trying to gain my favor with flattery,” he said dryly and took a long draught of mead.

“And something tells me you don’t take orders well.” Her tone was decidedly iron-pitched.

“Depends on who’s giving the orders.”

Her mouth twitched. “It would be me.”

“You?” he scoffed. “The Ilsa I knew avoided conflict and weapons. Where did you learn to fight? From one of your scrolls?”

Lashes shuttered, she sipped from her cup.

He laughed, truly amused this time. “You did. Or you think you have.”

“One can learn much from the past.” Her jaw set, she wasn’t giving an inch.

He rested both forearms on the table. Someone had gone soft in the head to let a plan for Vellefold’s safety come to this. “No wonder you’re asking for help. Some things can only be learned in the doing. Fighting is one of them.”

Sex is another.

Sea-green eyes speared him. The glint behind them was vibrant and wise, sending a thrum to his core.

He’d swear Ilsa sensed his last thought—and considered answering it.

The connection was akin to water rippling through him, peaceful yet stirring.

It made him open his mouth to nurse their conversation when a smart man would walk away.

“What things have you learned from your dusty scrolls?”

Head at an angle, she considered him.

“There is a great deal of strategy.”

“But nothing about how to fight.”

Pretty lips flattened. “No.”

He acknowledged a seed of respect for the lady.

She strove to use her brain for whatever fight was ahead.

That was more than most. But, no matter how hard Ilsa tried, one truth would never bend: Vellefold’s warriors followed the strongest in battle.

It was the Viking way. None would obey someone untested in war.

Strength, courage, honor, and trickery lit a fire in a warrior’s eyes, made him or her thirst to serve a great leader because great leaders forged a path to wealth and fame.

“The women follow me without trouble,” she murmured.

Who followed his father? The question lingered, but he refused to voice it. Asking meant caring about the answer.

Fingers drumming the table, he’d make sure Ilsa grasped a point or two about war before they parted ways.

“You’re skilled at what weapon? The sword? A Norse hammer? Fighting hand to hand?”

Her eyes narrowed as though she didn’t trust his questions.

“I do well with a bow and arrow.”

“A hunter’s weapon. It works if you’re fighting from a distance, but there’s no dignity in it. A Viking wages war face-to-face. You know this.”

Ilsa stiffened. Good. He was getting to her.

Warrior leaders weren’t born, they were made, tested in battle, rising to their place after tasting blood and dirt and doggedly coming back for more.

To think she could simply put on a leader’s mantle and lead a fight would only get her and others killed.

He leaned in close enough to see the texture of her lips. “You can’t be a leader and stand far from battle. You’re in it. Teeth to teeth with your enemy. Only one gets to walk away.” His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “Sure you’re ready for that?”

Ilsa didn’t back down. “I need to learn how to fight. Many of us do. It’s why I’m here.”

Tense, he measured this last piece of news. Ilsa’s “… learn how to fight …” was dangled bait. His father and every other man of Vellefold were raised with a war axe in one hand, a shield in the other.

He sat back, weary. The past was the past. No need to dredge it up.

“I won’t go back, nor will I take orders from a woman.”

“You have no problem fighting with them.”

“Shoulder to shoulder, yes. But I’ve yet to meet a woman worthy of being a leader of men.”

Certainty danced in her eyes. She took his words as a challenge. Willful woman .

“I think the sun has roasted your brain. Too much time in southern kingdoms has ruined you.”

“My brain is fine,” he said through a curt smile. “You can’t accept that I don’t easily give my var .”

“Yet you and your men have a reputation for selling your vow of service to the highest bidder.” Her words were as light as spring rain.

“Now you think I can be bought.”

Ilsa traced the rim of her cup. “Can someone...buy you?”

A thrill shot fast as a flaming arrow down his midsection.

His clothes were tight and the hall too crowded.

On instinct, he scooted forward, his knees swinging open under the table.

Why her question did things to him wouldn’t be answered because another truth dawned: how long it had been since a woman last roused him in body and mind.

By her faint smile, Ilsa knew her effect, and that was worrisome.

“If my vow of service is for Vellefold, then no,” he said gruffly. “Gold and silver cannot sway me.”

“What about a jarl’s seat? Would you take that?”