Page 11 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Chapter

Five

“ I don’t care how you got the food,” Thorvald said between gnawing a goose leg. “But you did. Enough to feed us all the way to Rouen.”

Their bounty surrounded the campfire. Loaves of bread, rounds of cheese, a jar of honey, a roast goose, a haunch of venison, salted fish, dried apple slices, fresh plums, and two ampoules of Frankish wine. Barley and cabbage sat in a smaller bag near Erik’s feet.

“You mean enough to feed us all the way to Paris.” Safira tore off a morsel of bread.

It was odd how the men cast furtive glances at one another as Rurik answered with a cool, “Thorvald meant to say we go to Paris by way of Rouen. He must’ve forgotten in his enthusiasm for the food.”

The Viking’s surliness was warranted. Two measly loaves, an ampoule of Rhenish wine, and rabbit stew sat at Rurik’s feet, the portion he’d traded for.

She smiled at him across the camp circle, the aromas of smoked fish and peppered goose appeasing the rest of the Sons. “I won by bringing in the best food for your kvallsvard , no?”

Kvallsvard , the evening meal, was another new Viking word she’d learned.

“Whatever the contest—” Gunnar speared his knife into a wheel of cheese “—you won if we’re measuring victory by the quantity of food.”

Men grunted their agreement around mouthfuls. Rurik’s head tipped in silent acknowledgment. His eyes were hooded as if he’d already guessed the prize she’d claim—no sex.

Would he honor her demand?

She folded and refolded her cloak over her knee.

Yes, she’d won, but victory was not sweet.

With night upon them, the world was pitch black.

The trees. The road. The sky with its spray of stars.

In Paris, candles and torches chased away blackness, but savagery encroached here.

Bigger beasts roamed the woods, their eyes glowing from the forest. Erik, keeper of the campfire, tossed dry kindling onto the blaze.

Flames shot high, the only light in which to read the faces of men she barely knew.

Erik rested against his saddle. He picked up a chunk of ivory from his lap and began to carve.

“You told the tanner’s wife red peppercorns are lighter than black peppercorns and taste like lemons.

” He gouged the ivory, and a chunk fell to the ground.

“That woman has never seen lemons. Probably only heard of them.”

Fine hairs on her neck stood on end. One by one, chewing slowed around the fire. The wolves were listening to their brother.

“I had a lemon once...south of Rome.” Erik’s dark brows slanted up. “Makes a man wonder how a slave knows so much about lemons and rare spices?”

Her palms dampened. Six ruthless men stared at her, their teeth ripping off hunks of meat. The wolves waited for an answer. The thing she thought would help, getting food for their bellies, was the thing that condemned her.

“I know Khitan traders. They deal in spices such as red peppercorns.” She rubbed clammy hands on her skirts, forcing confidence into her voice. “They live near the Four Rivers beyond the Carpathian Mountains, the preferred trade route of far eastern kingdoms.”

“Khitan traders,” Bjorn echoed. “Are these your people?”

“No. I am Hebrew. I met a Khitan trader in Paris.”

“And this trader happened to share red peppercorns with you,” Rurik said, arms spreading wide. “A spice so rare none of us have heard of it, much less tasted it.”

Smoke billowed between them. Through the haze Rurik’s eyes glittered with calculation. The Viking assembled bits of information about her the way artists assembled mosaics...one fragment at a time. The cheerful ease she enjoyed with him before going to the village was gone.

“You were in possession of the spice.” She clutched her cloak over her chest. “It is a matter of having knowledge of it. That is the difference.”

The fire’s glow painted the faces of men casting sly glances to one another. Their bellies full, another appetite sprang to life. Avarice .

Vikings ransomed small kingdoms, demanding a Danegeld. Why not a wealthy woman?

Oh, the damage these men could do if they knew her identity.

Her grandmother had recounted tales of vicious Vikings requiring the people of Paris to fill barrels with gold and silver, or see Paris burned to the ground.

Savta was a young girl forced to walk past the barrels and appease Viking greed.

But, she was crafty, placing palm-sized rocks wrapped in gold leaf as her Danegeld price.

The hammered gold was a lesser sacrifice than whole ingots or gold nuggets, and those Vikings were none the wiser of Savta’s trickery until they were long gone.

These men were sons and grandsons of those ferocious raiders. They would prey on weakness, wolves seeking unwary sheep. Savta had taught her long ago about a woman’s single most powerful weapon—her mind.

“You wonder how a slave woman has such knowledge, no?” She cleared the tickle in her throat. “I have worked in my master’s kitchen. You meet many foreign people. It is that simple.”

“And this is where you learned to speak our Norse tongue? In an eldhus .” Erik’s tone dripped with skepticism.

“ Eldhus ?”

“A heated room. Where women prepare food.” He smirked. “Wealthy, highborn Vikings have them, which you would have learned in your kitchen.”

Bjorn opened his mouth to speak, presumably to add his voice to the chorus of doubts.

She bolted upright, seeking Rurik. “You promised to take me to the river. I would go now...if you please.”

Beneath her feet, the ground shifted. Any more questions from the men would rain trouble on her head.

Bringing the food, she’d won a battle. Yet for all her cunning, she’d gained victory only to lose part of her secret.

Now all the Forgotten Sons sensed she was no thrall.

She could see it in their eyes. These warriors wanted her true identity.

Only one man wanted her sex.

Rurik stood up. “Yes. The river.”

Fraying hems billowed around her legs in her hasty exit from the fire circle.

Heart pounding, she waited for the Viking leader in the darkness.

Rurik gathered his saddle bag off the ground and removed the leather tie banding his hair.

From the rock, he collected the odd white wool strips and crammed them in the bag.

The lengths of cloth were good for one thing—binding a person.

Cold sweat nicked her skin. Night was the worst since she’d been stolen. Sometimes she couldn’t sleep from reliving the moment cruel hands grabbed her and jammed a shroud over her head. Tied and gagged in the back of a cart, she’d lost track of time as unknown men took her far from home.

Gunnar and Thorfinn unrolled their hudfats and stretched out on the sleeping furs, at ease and unafraid.

From the trees, the Cailly River’s hush was faint music.

The water’s babble should’ve calmed her, but Rurik slung his bag over his shoulder, striding toward her with a torch in hand.

Night painted him darkly, save iron hobnails gleaming on his vest.

She hugged herself, hating that she trembled. “I see why you dress in black. None would see you coming at midnight.”

“The clothes have proven useful.”

“And when you attack in the daytime, it is because you want people to see you coming. They would cower in fear...all the quicker to surrender.” Her voice was jittery to her ears.

Rurik cupped her elbow, leading her away from the camp in silence.

They walked into the woods, guided by the flickering flame.

Twigs snapped underfoot. Leaves rustled and small creatures scampered.

Camp noises thinned, a reminder she’d traded sitting with a pack of wolves to be alone with one.

A wolf with very long strides. She quickened her pace to keep up with him.

“Black is good for scaling walls at night. Hiding in shadows.” Words tumbled fast. “Is that when you do most of your pillaging? At?—”

She stumbled on a root and slammed into Rurik. Her palm rested on the wolf carved into his vest. Rurik’s breathing ebbed and flowed against her body.

“No need to throw yourself at me,” he said, amused.

She put some air between them. Her throat thick, she couldn’t fathom why mirth danced in his eyes.

Interest lit his face too. It was in the cant of his head and the arch of one brow.

She was a creature to be toyed with, then devoured.

Through the trees, the distant campfire was her only beacon, but none would help her there.

“What are you going to do to me?” Her voice was a wisp of sound.

“Take you to the river to clean up.”

His hair unbound, Rurik was every inch a pagan.

A wild, frightening warrior. Men in Paris cut their hair at the shoulders, and they didn’t show their bare arms. Rurik’s thick blond hair landed in the middle of his back, and his arms had seen much sun.

In a matter of moments, she’d find out how much of him had seen daylight.

Her heels inched backward in a carpet of leaves. “I wish to tell you my prize for winning?—”

Snorting an impatient noise, Rurik swooped down and tossed her over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” she yelped.

Long legs stretched one after the other. “Getting to the river faster.”

Blood rushed to her head. She grabbed him by the ribcage, her body bobbing in time with his strides. A solid arm banded the back of her thighs. She wasn’t going to fall, but the disgrace of being flung over his shoulder...

“This is uncalled for. Put me down.”

“No.”

He tromped through the underbrush. The forest blurred dark and uninviting. Hair slapping Rurik’s backside, she scrabbled to get off his shoulder. The torch dropped, and the flame weakened on damp soil.

“Stop fighting me,” he groused.

She pushed with all her might. “I demand?—”

Smack. “You will demand nothing.”