Page 37 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Twenty-Two

S trong fingers gripped her chin. Bjorn forced her to face him.

His ferocity made her flinch. It’d be the only weakness she’d show. A protective iron shield was dropping into place. It had taken years to perfect. No doubt it would take years to undo.

“I didn’t get it hunting if that’s your worry.”

“Ilsa,” he chided. “We are done with falsehoods and evasions. Tell me the truth.”

“Because you say we are friends?”

“Because we are friends.”

She grabbed her chain and rattled it, tears threatening to spill.

“What kind of friend does this?”

He blanched and let go. “I am here with you.”

For how long? was on the tip of her tongue. But she dared not ask it any more than admit to loving him. There was a limit to Bjorn’s loyalty. The Forgotten Sons took the lion’s share. She got the crumbs.

Bjorn dropped back. He wore leather arm braces over his sleeves, a warrior’s trick to keep cold from invading his tunic, which made her think he hadn’t sought sleep.

Was he troubled by putting her in chains?

Or was his visit pure lust?

She dipped her head unable to think clearly anymore. Her judgment with men might be terribly broken.

Bjorn’s voice prodded her. “If you want me to leave, have the courage to say so.”

“It’s asking you to stay that saps my strength,” she whispered.

“Because it means staying in Vellefold.”

She looked up and took his measure. For a man who didn’t want the past to steal his future, Bjorn was exasperatingly stuck. The man didn’t appear ready to give even an inch. She sighed, a long blustery noise.

“This—” with bound hands, she gestured to her thigh “—is the work of Halfdan. Are you satisfied?”

“Why would he do that to you?”

She was wide-eyed, her spine against the post. Bjorn’s fury was frightening. He loomed, both hands curling as though he’d crush Halfdan’s skull one agonizing minute at a time.

She swallowed hard. “It’s a good thing he’s already dead.”

“Otherwise, I’d hunt him down and take days to kill him.”

Cold menace trimmed his words. Clear, efficient, brutal.

It must be how he was in battle. Halfdan would be no match for Bjorn.

A legendary ivory hunter, yes. But a warrior?

Never. True courage eluded him. Halfdan was the evil riddle she couldn’t solve.

More handsome than Gunnar and crueler than Valda.

He was friendly one moment, vicious the next.

But always in private. What thralls witnessed never counted.

They were mere chattel to him, to be used as one might sit on a bench or wear a boot.

Any displeasure, and he cast the thing aside.

“He wounded me because I nearly killed him.”

“Did he beat you?”

A dry, husk of sound came from her throat. It might’ve been a laugh, if it weren’t for how rueful it was. “Never. Years he shamed me by bedding women in other settlements, but not once did my husband raise a hand to strike me…until last Mabon season.”

The time of unfinished business.

She hesitated, her past rushing forward. “It happened when I found him with Elswith.”

Bjorn was cautious. “He was laying with another woman.”

“Laying with her?” she replied in a harsh whisper.

“No! He was forcing himself on her. Elswith fought back. She was kicking and yelling, but no one could hear for the distance from my home to the hall.” She curled her lips against her teeth as though she was in the fight all over again.

“I pulled him off her and fought with all my might. I was… enraged . Never have I felt like that. Never.” She shook, anger taking over. “May I never be like that again.”

Bjorn was a calm presence. He let her ire subside.

At last, he said, “Elswith. She is one of the thralls you hide.”

Her nod was heavy. Reliving that day wearied her such that she couldn’t speak for long moments measured by howling winds outside.

“Elswith was born here not long after you left. Her mother was a stolen woman sold to my family.”

She lost herself, staring at the fur covering her legs. Fine furs, rich clothing, these didn’t make a woman. A thrall could easily wear beautiful garments. Bjorn’s mother certainly did…yet she was still owned by Egil.

What trick of the gods elevated one woman and destroyed another?

“Elswith was a thrall,” she said thickly. “Halfdan believed he had every right to take her, willing or not. By our law, he could.”

“That scar?—

“My scar is nothing!” Fetters clanked, slapping the Odin idol post. “Why do you care?”

Wind whistled beyond the door. The hour was very, very late.

“You’ve broken the trust of many people tonight.” He pinned her with a hard stare. “Jarl Egil’s for one.”

“I see the true purpose of your visit.” How bitter she sounded. “It is not my friend but Vellefold’s hersir who sits with me.”

“Ilsa…”

Bjorn said her name, both as a warning and a plea.

She stretched her neck and was nearly nose-to-nose with him. “Do you think I hide the thralls because I am an ambitious woman? Because I covet the jarl’s seat?” She searched his eyes fervently. “It is the last thing I want.”

“You must be ready to answer him tomorrow.”

She slumped back against the post.

“You mean pour out my shame before Vellefold.” She huffed, miserable. “Everyone will be there to witness it.”

“You served the jarl well in the settlement’s darkest season. There is no better time to tell him what you want in return for your service.”

Fingers clasping, she mulled that. Serving others was natural for her. It had never occurred to her to ask for something in return.

There was at least one request…

“I want to see my last oath fulfilled. Then I will be free. Halfdan nearly killed me that night, but I survived. He stood over me while I lay in my own blood and told me he’d always had a taste for unwilling women. Then, he left me to die.”

“But you didn’t die.” Bjorn’s voice pitched tenderly.

Hope shimmered in his eyes. She could almost believe the exiled son wanted Vellefold to be a better place.

Being with him was comforting, like a safe harbor after a long journey.

Courage was a virtue many a warrior had, but comfort?

In the face of difficult questions? During difficult times? That was a rare and precious trait.

Reason told her, if the matter was reversed, if Bjorn were the one in chains, and she, Egil’s hersir , the same hard conversation would be had. It was Bjorn’s gentleness that gave her the courage to finish her ugly tale.

“Elswith found Ardith and Iduna. They saved me. Nursed me to full health. That’s when I vowed to right my husband’s wrongs.”

“Where did he go?”

“Who knows? Some say he went to the Faroes.” She was distant, stillness settling on her. “The night he left, he took my father’s best skeide ship along with many men. He didn’t return until spring, after the first raid.”

Her shoulders were lighter for sharing the tale. Its weight was a burden few knew of…certainly not her mother and father.

“Elswith is but one thrall,” he said. “You hide eighteen. That is a big difference in matters of the law.”

She gave him an irksome glance. “You parse words. The people will thirst for blood. After I broke the law with one, it was easy to break it for many. Ardith found more thralls who longed for freedom. Some who had been abused by Halfdan and others. I couldn’t deny them.”

“Because you have a good heart.”

And there he was again, Gentle Bjorn , the friend she once valued above all others.

“As do you.” She sat up taller, drawn to him. “Be careful. The people of Vellefold might thirst for your blood if they found out you knew about my cave.”

His smile was confident. “I would like to see them do that, lady.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about from me.” She smiled around a sleepy yawn. “I won’t tell the jarl you know where I hide runaway women…if that’s why you’re here.”

“I’m here because I want to be with you.”

His kindness was like honey. His kisses were better, but she was tired and too worn out to test lustful waters. She’d settle for a snuggle in furs. Bjorn seemed to understand. He dragged the pelt off his back and stretched it across the floor.

“Come. Lay with me, and I will keep you warm.”

Her heart thumped against her breast bone. He unpinned his mantle and tossed it over his legs like a blanket. One long-boned arm tented the sturdy wool—an invitation to join him. She scooted awkwardly into the fold of his body, and Bjorn dropped his arm over her.

Nestling close, she exhaled softly. His body heat covered her perfectly.

“I’d cut the ropes tying you to the post, but my knife is missing.”

“Your knife?” She was already dozing.

“Thorvald might have it. We both have a bear design carved into the handle. Sometimes he grabs mine by mistake.”

Bjorn adjusted the pelt and she shivered from cold air wafting in.

“ Shhhhh . Sleep well,” he said, stroking her hair. Bjorn continued his tender ministrations, promising, “Tomorrow, when Egil gives judgment, I will be there. As hersir, I will argue in your favor.”

She bit her lip, tasting a hint of blood.

Judgment was coming.