Page 10 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

“Rurik is right.” Erik wiped his hands. “The wealthiest merchants never stay long.”

“What are we going to eat?” Thorvald tossed molded bread into the fire.

“We could go to the village,” Gunnar said, pushing off the ground.

“For trading?” Bjorn fingered his polished hammer. “Or raiding?”

Safira scrambled to her feet, a chill scraping her spine. She inched closer to Rurik. How quickly the men shifted from friendly travelers to wolfish warriors. She’d believed she could find common ground with the Forgotten Sons—a fool’s errand when this veneer of savagery lurked under the surface.

There had to be a better solution than pillaging the peaceful people of Abbod village.

“No raids. We’re guests in Longsword’s land,” Rurik said to the men. “I have a few peppercorns I can trade, though half are rotten.”

She touched his elbow. “These red peppercorns. They are not bad.”

“Then keep them for your food.”

Head shaking, she couldn’t believe she was helping him again. She sifted through the pods, dumping only black peppercorns into the pouch. “No. You will take me to the village, Viking. I will do the trading.”

Gunnar coughed into his balled hand, and Erik’s surly visage darkened. Even gentle Thorfinn scowled at her. She closed her hand around the red pieces and took a step back.

“Why do you all look at me so?”

“Rurik gives the orders,” Bjorn said in the manner of a patient teacher. “He doesn’t take them. Least of all from you.”

Five hard-eyed glares could be a wall closing in on her. She shrank back and took a deep breath. She was the interloper here. It would be wise to heed their ways.

“Forgive me.” She turned to Rurik, raising her hood. “For the good of everyone, I ask that you let me trade for food in the village with you.”

“With rotten peppercorns?”

She sighed. “They are not rotten.”

“I warn you,” Rurik said, grabbing his sheathed sword off the ground. “If some merchant’s wife cries foul...”

She held up a staying hand. “I will be the soul of good manners.”

“The same as when you kicked Sothram?” Rurik asked.

The men laughed, and Rurik strapped the sword onto his back. She scanned the circle, all of them on their feet, tall and skeptical at the small-boned foreign woman in their midst. Their expressions ranged from Erik and Thorvald’s grim show of teeth to Gunnar and Thorfinn’s mild friendliness.

“Laugh now, but all of you will sing my praises...even you, Thorvald.”

The giant snorted and lobbed a beet into the trees.

“Whatever you do, do it quickly. A beast growls in my stomach.” He retreated to the camp’s perimeter, a bearded war axe over his shoulder. “I’ve got first watch.”

“I know how to trade.” Voice firm, she eyed Rurik. “Better than you, I’d wager.”

Massive arms folded across his chest. “You think you’re that good.”

“I know I am.” She gave him what had to be her first confident smile since leaving the Saxon outpost. “But it will come at a price.”

“I have heard that before.”

“I have learned hard lessons, Viking.” She took a step closer, speaking to Rurik alone. “We are all bought and sold in one manner or another...a truth ingrained in me the moment I sprouted breasts.”

She winced at the admission. It wasn’t meant to be said aloud, but her tongue got the best of her. To his credit, Rurik held her gaze, not once perusing her substantial breasts draped by an ugly cloak.

“Harsh words from a young woman who, if I’m guessing right, has never toiled a day in her life.” Strong hands fastened the sheath’s buckle. “Tell me, what is your price this time?”

She stood toe to toe with the Northman, enlivened.

Free. The day, fraught with danger and fast riding, thrilled her.

The trees, the sun and wild, open land, and yes, this Viking.

Fierce and complex, Rurik made her blood hum.

Nagging disquiet at being in a camp with six Vikings she’d met the night before faded to nothing.

..especially the leader with his harsh, beautiful mouth that curved into the most endearing smile.

Men strapped on weapons as if going to battle, not to barter...small axes tied to long thighs, knives set in sheathes and boots, vicious swords gleaming. Living by the force of their hands was their domain. Spice trade was hers.

“I propose a challenge.”

Rurik’s hands slowed on the buckle. “Name it.”

“Whoever makes the better trade, wins.”

He slid the leather strap through metal, his stare meeting hers. “And who determines the winner?”

She glanced at his men restless for food. “Why, the Forgotten Sons will.”

Rurik shook his head, his mouth turning in a humored, confident line. No doubt the Viking leader assumed victory was his. The pods were pebble-like in her hand. Tiny gifts. They’d saved her. She pressed her fist against her breastbone, relief making the ground light underfoot.

“And your prize?” he asked.

“If you will allow, I will name mine after I win.”

“Done.” Snapping his fingers, he called out, “Erik. Gunnar. Escort Safira to the village and see to her safety. She will conduct her trade on one side of Abbod while I conduct mine on the other. And men, we walk into Abbod, weapons sheathed.” He glanced at Bjorn.

“You go with me. Thorfinn will stay with Thorvald.”

She nearly twirled with happiness. She would keep the wolf at bay.

Rurik of Birka was sure of victory. So was she.

This battle roused her. That it pitched her against the Viking leader made the match all the better.

With Thorvald watching over the camp from a tree, the men prepared to leave.

Horses snickered from their places tethered to the rope.

Erik tossed another piece of wood on the fire.

Sparks fanned high, bits of gold flaring against indigo skies.

“Now it is for you to name your prize, Viking.”

Rurik donned his helmet, firelight rimming his iron eye rings. His gaze swept to the rock he’d used as a back rest. Coils of cloth sat there, shorn strips she hadn’t seen before. A smile ghosted his mouth. “Like you, I’ll wait.”

She studied him, the folds of her hood grazing her cheek. They shared a private contest, and Rurik fed on it as much as she did. This bold warrior leader demanded obedience, yet he craved her spirit. That truth lit up his face.

“I think you like our game,” she said.

His nod was noble. “You think right.”

Humming, she marched across the clearing, red peppercorns in her fist. Her certain victory emboldened her. On the road, she turned to the camp, where the men stared dumb-founded as if she were some unknown creature.

Laughing, she eyed Rurik and waved at darkening skies. “Come, Viking. Our game is upon us.”