Page 4 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Two

B jorn stalled, lost on her idle finger drawing a slow circle on the cup’s rim.

Wild, crashing sensations broke inside her.

She offered him power and was selling it with sex.

Not the strategy she had in mind, but his stare was that of a wild beast. She breathed harder, her gaze dipping to the snarling wolf carved in leather on his chest—the sign of the Forgotten Sons.

Her childhood friend was long gone. A warrior in stark relief replaced him, honed by adversity, a better man, not bitter or crude as she feared he might be.

Hints of the once-proud son of a jarl painted Bjorn differently from housekarls at this end of the hall.

Young and old, these Viking warriors proudly wore their brutality.

War was milk and honey to them. Bjorn exuded honor.

He was savagery tethered—exactly what her people needed.

A content man, he’d found his place in life among bloodthirsty fighters.

She would change that. “You haven’t answered me.” She gripped her cup with both hands.

Bjorn’s nostrils flared. “About what?”

“The jarldom.”

Ice-floe eyes pinned her. Distant. Commanding. Seasoned in life. When he spoke, the corners of his mouth curled with disdain.

“I’ve walked through enough palaces to know what you’re doing.”

“Oh? What am I doing?” she asked.

“Giving an offer a man like me can’t refuse. But I’m refusing it.”

Her heart stuttered when Bjorn leaned in, blond hair scraping his jaw. “Only a fool lets the flesh between his legs do his thinking.”

Her cheeks flamed hot. From anger? Embarrassment? Singeing lust? All three crackled between her and the bastard son.

“You flatter yourself. I offer a jarldom. Not me.”

His laugh was rough and his voice mocking, “Once again you remove yourself from this plea for Vellefold, yet you’re the one who’s traveled far to speak to me.” He raised a cocky brow. “A man can only wonder, what’s in it for you?”

A hair’s breadth of time passed. “Nothing.”

Bjorn grunted at her hesitation and took another drink. Thickheaded man. He didn’t believe her.

“I’m here to offer you your father’s seat in Vellefold. Most men would seize such an opportunity. Jarl Egil has even vowed to give you half his wealth in silver ingots. Just for setting foot in Vellefold.”

“He can keep it.”

In her fervor, she’d inched forward. Her knee bumped his, the contact causing her lungs to squeeze within her chest. The hall’s noise, the swirling smoke all faded.

Their faces were inches apart, two headstrong people locked in a match of wills.

She waged a bigger battle, yet her senses stalled on her knee resting against his.

She fed on the subtle bond, craved it, and that bothered her. By the glower on his face, something bothered Bjorn too.

“You know the law,” he said. “No son of a jarl and a slave can inherit the seat.”

The law was born from the subtle influence of Christian monks with Norway’s jarls. No other Viking lands honored such a law.

She glanced away. “Jarl Egil has a plan for that.”

“The old man is a wily fox when he wants something bad enough. Why, after all these years, does Jarl Egil want me now?”

She winced at the barest ache breaking Bjorn’s words. Guilt was a burden on her back. By showing up in Rouen, she’d cracked open his past…and his misery.

Muscles in Bjorn’s jaw ticked.

“What about my loving half-brother?” he asked roughly. “Surely he’s arguing against this plan.”

“Thorstein argues for nothing. He is dead. Killed in a raid on Vellefold last spring.”

Bjorn sat back on the bench. The weighty news was much to absorb.

“The raids are bad tidings. I wish you and others a quick recovery, but don’t expect me to mourn Thorstein’s death. He grew up to become a viper, just like his mother.”

She sat back, too. “Your father said long ago he was not the man to lead Vellefold. He wasn’t half the fighter you are.”

“Then I’m not bad for my size, am I?” he asked quietly.

His mouth hooked high on one side. A grudging nod and she gave him that small victory.

It made no sense, this battle of wills when they were once tender friends.

Her attention wandered upward from his impossibly wide chest. “I’m willing to admit the skalds did not exaggerate your appearance of strength. When we were children, none doubted that you would grow up to be a great warrior. But, will you be strong enough to put aside past ills and help us?”

Though they sat on opposite sides of the table, she couldn’t shake the feeling of circling him—and of being circled. Two wary combatants.

Yet, Bjorn forgot it was she who’d flown across the seas, hunting the rejected son.

“Why do Vellefold’s people seek me after all these years?” His voice thickened. “Is the jarl...dead?”

She startled. “No! Forgive me for not being clear.” She reached out for him. “He is alive but he cannot lead Vellefold’s warriors. The same raid that killed your brother?—”

“Half-brother,” he corrected.

She steeled herself. “Yes, half-brother. That same raid left Jarl Egil bedridden from an axe wound to his spine. He is sickly, and Aseral has grown strong. We were able to drive them back but not without terrible losses.” Her spirit rising, she rushed on.

“The gods have not been with us. A killing fever spread through Vellefold after the second raid, which led to late planting and a poor harvest.” She paused her rapid-fire speech.

“Do you understand? Aseral’s warriors hunger to destroy our people!

I fear, if they attack again, they will succeed. ”

“You speak passionately of our people, but they are not mine.”

“How can you turn your back on us?” she cried.

“Because the people of Vellefold turned their backs on me!” He flung loud words at her and young housekarls gaped from the next table. One glare and the men returned to their food.

Bjorn’s scowl was black. “When my fath—Jarl Egil listened to his wife’s poisonous plan to exile me, none tried to stop him.”

“Because they feared Valda’s wrath.”

“And I bore the brunt of it.” He gulped air and tempered his voice. “Have you forgotten what happened? He left me in Birka with nothing but a sword on my back. I was scared. Alone. No boy should have to live that.”

She averted her eyes. Admitting his fear, even a childhood fear, had to taste like brine in his mouth.

A warrior preferred to walk the earth, believing it trembled in his wake, not taste words of weakness on his tongue.

Jarl Egil’s wife had seeded the bitter harvest that Bjorn and all of Vellefold reaped.

Valda had loved wealth and power. Any threats to her position roused her viper’s nature.

Much of the time, Bjorn and his mother, Arnora, had gone unscathed.

Until the jarl spoke of freeing Arnora and making her an elja . A second wife.

In Viking Norway the law was ironclad: a hrisungr , the bastard son of a slave mother and free father, could not take a chieftain’s seat.

The son of an elja could. By the next full moon, Arnora, a newly freed but still unmarried woman, died in childbirth with her babe, both tended by Valda.

Most thought the woman more evil witch than healer.

Pain followed in Valda’s wake, proof enough.

Jarl Egil’s heart had shriveled from the loss.

He hardly spoke after burning the bodies of Arnora and his tiny daughter.

The jarl was barely present, leaving young Bjorn the target of Valda’s displeasure.

As a boy, Bjorn had buried his grief by excelling at hunting, wrestling, throwing his axe.

Vellefold’s favored warriors cheered him.

She’d seen it often. Their hearty claps to his back would’ve felled a lesser boy, but Bjorn fed on them.

Best of all, those ham-fisted men had murmured their young friend should take the jarl’s chair—murmurs Valda heard.

The bastard son had done the unforgivable. He’d outshined the heir. Valda soon found a way to comfort her grieving husband and in doing it, she’d whispered poisoned words in his ear. Lines would be drawn. Longhouses divided. Vellefold would split in two.

Something had to be done about Bjorn.

“You have every right to despise me, to despise Vellefold.” She heard her voice wavering.

“Everyone knew what he planned to do.”

“And no one stopped him.”

“I know.” Unshed tears stung her eyes.

Bjorn shook his head as if he felt sorry for her. “As horrid as that time was, it branded me with invaluable lessons. Love is for the weak. Men make bad decisions when ruled by it.”

She gasped. “You cannot believe that.”

“Loyalty serves a man better than love, a truth that’s saved me more times than I can count.”

Her heart shriveled the more Bjorn spoke. He was firm in his belief. And why shouldn’t he be? Vellefold had showed no loyalty to him when it mattered most. The same was sadly true for her—the twelve-year-old girl she once was should’ve tried to save her friend. Perhaps she deserved his hostility?

“My last day in Vellefold, I climbed onto his ship because he was my father.” Bjorn stared into his cup, his voice remote. “I didn’t believe he’d do it.”

She touched his arm. “Then come back and take what should’ve been yours in the first place.”

His laugh scraped raw notes. “How easy you make it sound.”

“It is. Defeat Aseral and the jarl’s seat is yours.

So is all your father’s wealth. He’s pledged to give half when you and your men arrive, the other half when he dies.

” Her scabbed fingers rested on his black leather arm brace.

Her throat was tight when she added, “You will have your pick of Vellefold’s maids. ”

“For what?”

“For marriage.”

Bjorn eyed her forehead. No maiden’s kerstan encircled her head.

She sat back, gusting a laugh “You flatter me, Bjorn. I am a widow, long past my maiden’s years. Better to choose from the younger women, though my father hopes you’ll pick my sister, Frida.”

He wouldn’t remember Frida. She’d been newly born when he’d left. Full grown now, Frida was headstrong and eager for her future.

“My sister is every bit as beautiful as her name means,” she said, flatly. “She will make an excellent wife.”

Bjorn dragged a hand through his hair and stared at the wall behind her. Their knees weren’t touching anymore, and the loss left her off balance. Bjorn downed the last of his mead, his ice-blue eyes vaguely haunted.

“I want a woman to lay with for winter, not a lifetime, and definitely not a lifetime in Vellefold.”

“But Jarl Egil?—”

“Has lived years without me. If the gods will it, he will survive this wound and live many more. Without me.” Iron-voiced, he’d given his decree.

Smoke churned behind Bjorn. Flames from soapstone lamps shed kind light on the Forgotten Son. He’d taken hardship and made a name for himself. War was a means to earn his coin; for her, it was life or death. She’d not give up. She couldn’t.

Bjorn flashed an endearing grin. “I wouldn’t mind spending time with you.” His brows arched, a man testing the waters with a woman. “Why don’t you stay awhile in Rouen?”

She huffed in disbelief. Most women would leap at his invitation. Bjorn smelled clean, possessed an easy confident manner, and his mouth was utterly kissable. A woman could pass the night with him and be glad to share his company—and his bed.

“I have other things to do. People are counting on me.”

He nudged his empty cup aside. “As Rouen’s people count on me. Look around you, Ilsa. You have your pick of warriors. Offer them the jarl’s seat.”

The giant of Vellefold rose slowly from the bench.

“You’re leaving?” She was stunned at his adamant refusal.

“This was a pleasant visit, but our drink is done.”

She bolted upright. “You can’t go. I’m not finished.”

“I am. I’ve heard enough.”

She faced him, the shadows of a hundred needy people at her back. For that reason, she bit out a proud, “By my status alone, I can order you to stay.”

Bjorn’s smile faded to a menace. “I’d like to see you do that... Lady .”

An angry vein bounced inside her temple.

She fought hard not to rub the annoying twitch.

Claiming rank might’ve been a mistake. Years of long-stifled emotion flared in Bjorn’s eyes—the past coming to the fore—a rejected boy, now a man, with an angry beast uncoiling inside him.

Everyone knew that of the Forgotten Sons, Bjorn had fallen from an elevated place, and by his sneer, he cared little about claims of high birth.

She opened her mouth, but what she’d say would make this worse.

Bjorn raked her from head to hem. “That’s what I thought.”

He left the feast hall, carrying her anger on his back.