Page 7 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

The jarl’s edict was known to all: his fighting men must marry Viking women. It was a bone of contention that Longsword’s third highest man married Safira, a Hebrew woman who happened to be the daughter of a Frankish spice merchant.

The message today was clear— Obey my order .

Would the Sons pay a consequence if he didn’t?

Longsword overlooked Rurik’s transgression because his coffers swelled from a fledgling spice trade when before there was none. The fact remained, Rurik’s bride choice festered, a wound the jarl carried, one that wouldn’t quickly heal.

Bjorn knew one source of Rurik’s unease—the babe in his wife’s belly.

Jaw muscles working, Rurik backed off. Settling in one place came with a cost and it was paid for in hard decisions.

Erik, Thorvald, Thorfinn, and Gunnar craved a life here.

There was land for all the Sons. For that reason, Bjorn swallowed the bitter taste that came from talking of Vellefold and stepped forward.

“I don’t like it. But the sooner we’re done, the better.”

Longsword’s mouth twitched. Was he surprised at Bjorn being the level-headed one in this matter? The jarl knew about his storied banishment. Everyone did.

“My thoughts exactly.” The jarl stood to full height. “The Forgotten Sons will be richly rewarded.” His gaze flicked to Rurik. “I always see to my own.”

“As do I,” Rurik shot back.

Ilsa swept past Longsword. “Now would be a good time for me to return to my ship. I need to sort through my other purchases.” She headed for the door. “Remember, sunrise tomorrow.”

Bjorn blocked her path. “You’re going to leave and not tell us your plans?”

Face angled to his, her mouth lifted with a feisty smile. “I already tried, but you refused to listen.”

Feminine warmth hit him, a hint of the North Sea and pine trees and long-ago carefree days. The wood floor was solid, yet he’d swear it wavered. A force bounced between him and Ilsa, its elemental nature far from childhood friendship. Life stripped to basic parts.

Power. Anger. Want.

Bold green eyes searched him. Behind them was bravery and…need.

He squinted at her, unsure about that vulnerable light. It was here and gone like a wraith taken by the wind. He wanted to shake his head and clear his thoughts. Must be he was seeing things.

“Perhaps I should’ve crawled into your bed with my proposition,” she taunted in a feather-soft voice. “Maybe then, you would’ve heard me.”

“I heard you.”

“Not well enough.”

Heat erupted at his hairline. His mind conjured images, pillows and furs tussled.

Ilsa on top of him, naked and pliant. One long leg brushing his, sweat sheening her skin, flaxen hair draping his chest. She was kissing an agonizing trail down his body.

Hot, open-mouthed kisses, going lower and lower and?—

“Is that the only place you can talk to a woman?” she asked quietly. “In a bed?”

He had answers. None he’d say. The urge to grab Ilsa seized him. Instead, both hands hung uselessly at his sides.

If they were alone, this moment would be different. The beseeching lady of Vellefold he’d met in the hall was long gone. This woman would give and take with ferocity, and that left him invigorated as if he’d come from a refreshing sea swim.

An unseen scale could be hanging between them, as if Ilsa was weighing and comparing him.

He was on one side and… What—or who—was on the other?

“Not very talkative now, are you? It’s a good thing we have our journey ahead,” she said. “Plenty of time to tell you what you need to know. Now, out of my way.”

Ilsa had the lead. When the time was ripe, he’d steal it back.

He pivoted sideways. “As you wish, lady .”

Her eyes flared hotly. Ilsa won this battle, and she knew it. She had to know more lay ahead. Wealth, position, and the element of surprise were on her side. Strength, experience, and excellent fighting skills were on his.

He welcomed the coming journey and the battle of wills. He’d win.

What came next was as natural as breathing. He reached for the latch and so did she. Their hands bumped. Ilsa’s tiny hiss pebbled the flesh covering his ribs, the light sound like a touch.

But, they were touching. Warm, sea-chafed fingers grazed his battle-honed paw.

The rest of Ilsa is silky soft. He was certain of that, angrily certain. Her scent teased his nose, this time with an exotic aroma he couldn’t name. A woman of the north with hints of something foreign. She stirred him, made him yearn.

Tonight, he’d been claimed by a woman.

An odd, thrilling state for a warrior used to dominating the terrain on which he walked. His body knew something was happening. His mind couldn’t fathom what. Standing close to each other, neither he nor Ilsa looked at each other.

Her hip bumped his.

He shifted his weight.

Through awkward wordless agreement, they released their hold on the latch. Ilsa cleared her throat and jerked the door open. When she walked out, her embroidered sleeve fluttered against his hand.

She stopped in the hallway and faced him. He was achingly aware of her. A woman alone, fiercely independent. Someone he’d once called friend . Her dark lashes rose. Eyes a shade of southern seas locked on him. Potent. Vulnerable. A fair Valkyrie fallen to earth.

Ilsa was slow to shut the door, the latch clicking, cutting their last connecting thread.

Adrift, he flexed his hand grazed by the silken threads of her sleeve.

How could a woman shine with power and need?

He’d have his time in Vellefold to find that answer.

“Bjorn,” the jarl called him.

“What?” He swung around, more bothered than he cared to admit.

“You must prepare for your journey,” the jarl said.

The journey was the least of his problems. Taking a deep breath, he pointed at the door. “You know she offered me the jarldom.”

“I know.” Eyes hooded, Longsword was hard to read. “The lady arrived early today, and I met with her.”

“When Bjorn was out killing your enemies,” Rurik said with malice.

“Which is why both of you have a valued place in Rouen.” The jarl gave them his back and stepped with care to a smaller table. “Vellefold needs a leader. Yet, Bjorn refused Ilsa’s offer when she practically begged him to take it. A fool’s decision if you ask me.”

Bjorn’s jaw dropped. “You would have me take the jarl’s seat?”

“Why not?” Longsword selected a hnefatafl piece off the game board. “Think of the power you could have.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Ah, yes, your history with Vellefold. Understandable,” Longsword mused, rolling the ivory piece across his palm. “The least you could do is hear what Jarl Egil has to say. Play at being his hersir .”

“I don’t play at anything,” he said with distaste.

A hersir . A high-level warrior with many men serving him, typical of larger Viking kingdoms and likely what Longsword had in mind for Rurik, if the jarl decided to put full faith in Rurik in their dance of test and trust. Ademar was Rouen’s current hersir , a position won by birth and earned by his skill.

A flat-lipped smile split Longsword’s gold beard. “Ruling is a game. You should try it.”

Bjorn matched the jarl’s expression, the small pieces of a larger game falling into place.

“With me in control of Vellefold, your trade alliance thrives.” He crossed his arms. “And if I squashed those who squashed me, it’d be no loss to you.”

Longsword’s arms spread wide. “An excellent arrangement, is it not?”

“Is that what you want?” Rurik asked Bjorn.

He looked to his friend. Their bond ran deep. Years ago, Rurik had found him, lost and alone on Birka’s beach, a young boy with nothing but a sword and the clothes on his back.

Vengeance was the fanged animal, stirring in his chest. Explosive need burned in him to crush his father.

As a boy in Birka, he’d hammered anger into a weapon.

To become the best warrior. To fight. To lead with Rurik.

It was how the Forgotten Sons were born.

A rare brotherhood. He’d beaten his bitterness, formed it, molded it, the way a blacksmith strikes orange-hot metal into a blade.

Life had been rough, but wisdom—and the Sons’ kinship—was his reward.

He’d learned, Keep moving and the past stays in your dust.

Except his past roared to life, and the iron snake inside him was unwinding. What would it feed on?

Justice? Or revenge?

His sigh was ragged. Talking of Vellefold wore him to the bone. “I’d rather squash your enemies here.”

The jarl’s mouth was wolfish. “A talent of yours I appreciate, but your leadership in Vellefold, should you stay, would bolster this new alliance.”

His vision narrowed on the jarl. “But that means the Sons…”

“Would return to Rouen,” Longsword finished solemnly.

He muttered a curse and set both hands on the table. Split the Sons apart? Never.

“Their loyalty would be tested. It should be to me first, but the men revere Rurik. For that reason, they’ll follow him back to Rouen,” the jarl said.

Bjorn was quiet when he answered, “Forcing the Sons to choose sides. You play a dangerous game.”

“No. A calculated one. Men make all manner of decisions to get what they want. Like Rurik. He deceived you to become a landsman.” Longsword’s fingers curled around the hnefatafl piece. “Fidelity to me will come in time. A true bond can never be bought.”

“Yet you sold ours,” Rurik said.

“For a short time, I did.” Longsword’s face was granite. He would not be moved.

Rurik glanced at Bjorn before facing the jarl.

“What did the lady promise in return for our sword arms?”

Rurik asked the logical question. Like Longsword, he made brutal decisions as easily as he breathed. Bjorn did too. Usually. He and Rurik had walked into dark places in distant kingdoms and had come out alive and unscathed. Survival demanded being ready for anything.

“She offered first trade of Vellefold’s ivory.” The jarl jutted his chin at the barrels. “Those are tokens of their appreciation.”