Page 14 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Chapter

Seven

“ I ’d wager my best ivory we’ll be attacked on the Fecamp Road.” Erik stroked his horse nibbling a patch of grass.

Gunnar scratched his chest the way men do when they wake up from a long nap, except this had been a midday stop after hours of hard riding since sunrise.

Nothing to these men, a little tiring to Safira and the pack horses.

They’d stopped near a village called Bermon, a bustling place three or four times the size of Abbod.

By the slant of the sun, they had been riding south to southeast. Her ears pricked at talk of the Fecamp Road. Most travelers glided into Paris on the Seine River. Travelers from Wessex who wished to journey to Paris on horseback took the Fecamp Road.

“The outlaws are long gone. Rollo took care of them,” Gunnar said.

Erik plucked a blade of grass and set it to his mouth. “Outlaws and stragglers fester here. Word is Longsword wants Breton lands to the south and all this—” his arms swept over rolling meadows and dense forests “—north of Rouen is neglected.”

Thorfinn had removed the furs from the pack horses when they’d stopped. Now his careful hands ran over the troubled horse, checking here, stroking there. His light touch was a conversation with the four-legged beast in a language only he and the horse knew.

Safira sought a shady tree and cautiously checked her bandaged knees.

The wrappings were tight. She’d ridden comfortably today thanks to the Viking.

Dropping her hem, she settled in the grass and folded her legs beneath her.

If Rurik had ill-intent, would he have bothered to bind her sores?

The Viking was not unkind. None of them were.

Erik and Gunnar ambled over to Bjorn and Thorvald. An axe throwing contest was afoot. Sipping from her water pouch, she tried hard not to dribble water down her chin. Rurik was coming. Helmet dangling from his big, battle-scarred hand. Sword angled across his impossibly broad back.

“Outlaws, beware,” she said under her breath. “Stay away or it will be your last day.”

“You look well.” His voice was pleasant.

“And you look wet.” Rurik was the cleanest of the lot because he’d doused himself in a stream. He’d scraped his jaw too. Mostly. A few blond-brown whiskers defied his blade.

What would it be like to kiss him smooth-faced? Her heart tripped from that thought.

Last night’s kiss...she’d never acted with such abandon.

His mouth’s harsh slant eased. “I took the chance to wash myself since I didn’t get to last night.”

“Because you were being nice, trying not to scare the Frankish woman.” She took another drink. He’d slept beside her fully clothed too.

Rurik was rueful, bracing a hand on the tree. “Let us agree to a truce, shall we?”

“A truce?” She sealed her water pouch and set it aside. “Are we at war?”

His shrug was easy. “We are traveling companions, and I would have some peace.”

“That’s why I’ve been sitting over here, quiet as a mouse.”

“Something tells me that goes against your nature.” His grin turned lopsided and enchanting.

A Viking...enchanting?

Head bent, she rolled her eyes. The abduction had made her soft in the head.

From Bermon’s open gate, a heavy wooden-wheeled ox cart lumbered down the road. Elaborate Viking carving on the side was a sign of the owner’s wealth. The driver waved to Rurik, the distance too great to exchange words. Rurik waved back.

“Now that you have checked on me, Viking. Be assured I am safe and well.”

“That sounds like a dismissal. Yesterday in Sothram’s yard you said being at my side was the safest place. Having a change of heart?”

Storm-blue eyes pinned her. There was mischief in their depths.

Was he daring her to idle a summer afternoon with him? Impossible. Butterflies hovered over dandelions near her feet. She plucked bits of grass and let the blades sift through her fingers. This would be a good time to ask Thorfinn if the pack horses had recovered and if they could move on.

“Your tongue doesn’t seem to work. Must be from ill-use,” he teased.

She blushed. Hotly. Could feel her skin flame. Rurik spoke of conversation and last night’s carnal kiss. At least he wasn’t angry.

Is that because the Viking’s used to women craving his kiss?

She bristled. “I’m trying hard to forget that I was...naked with you.”

“I’m not.”

His husky-voice touched a place inside her. She scrambled upright because sitting at his feet was a disadvantage. She’d never be able to intimidate him, not with her nose level to the wolf on his chest.

“You don’t scare me, Rurik of Birka. This menacing flirtation of yours won’t work. You promised me three days and I’ll hold you to your word.”

He laughed outright and repeated menacing flirtation under his breath. Hair still wet from his dip in the stream and his clothes dusty, he was approachable and disarming.

“I’m not here to menace anyone. Or flirt.” Rurik reached into his helmet and pulled out two short strips of the wool. “I came to offer these to you. For your hair,” he said softly.

Her jaw dropped. “You did?”

Admiration lit his eyes. “I like your hair down but a braid or tying it is better. Otherwise, your first time combing it will hurt.”

She touched the wind-blown mass. She couldn’t be sure what shocked her more: the Viking’s compliment or that he gave a thought to the knots being combed out.

Her hair flared off her face, a full-bodied mess.

There was already so much of it, but road dust thickened the tresses.

Nothing less than a patient attendant combing it with olive oil would save her hair.

Yet, the Viking looked as if her jet-black, tangled waves were magnificent.

Speechless, she accepted Rurik’s gifts. Arms bent to her nape, she wrapped the cloth twice and tied it off.

“We’ll be here a full day, possibly the night,” Rurik said, nodding at Thorfinn rubbing down the snickering pack horse. “If we’re not careful, that horse will go lame.”

“You could buy another horse, couldn’t you?” She pulled her hair over her shoulder and wrapped the second tie farther down her tail of hair.

Rurik’s eyes narrowed on her hands. “We could. I have a few peppercorns left for trade.”

“I thought you traded all of them.”

“No. The widow was...generous.”

Her fingers slowed on the second knot. “Because she thought you’d visit her.”

Rurik reached for her left hand, and his thumb rubbed her fingers. He frowned at the faint, white line a missing ring had left on her finger.

“Christians wear rings on this finger when they wed.” His brows were two slashes over his eyes. “Are you married?”

She tried to yank her hand free, but Rurik’s fingers clamped hers. His nostrils flared and color darkened his skin. Why did it matter?

He grabbed her shoulder with his free hand and gave her a shake. “Answer me.”

“No. I’m not married.”

“Then why the ring? Slaves don’t wear rings.”

“It—it belonged to my grandmother. I used it to barter for my life,” she said, glaring back. “Are you satisfied?”

Rurik let go of her. The butterflies were gone, and the summer day was less sunny. The men kept up their axe contest, oblivious to her and Rurik. She paced in the tree’s shade, aware that her gait was exactly like her mother’s, a revelation that struck at her heart and loosened her tongue.

Pacing, she swiped her palm across her forehead. “The ring was Savta’s.” At his confused look, she explained, “Hebrew for grandmother but everyone calls her Savta.”

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

How deceptively calm, his tone.

Her pacing stopped. “What do you mean?”

“Telling me something about who you really are.”

“Because you don’t believe I’m a thrall?”

“I know you’re not a thrall.”

Her Gallic shrug was her answer. She wouldn’t confirm his suspicion. Trust wasn’t that deep between them. Her knees jellied at what might be a terrible mistake.

Why did opening herself to the Viking—this Viking—feel like a leap off a cliff into the unknown?

She licked her lips, uncertain. From her abduction to now, she’d been thrown to the wolves.

And now, quite literally, she was traveling in their midst. Yet, their leader watched her, more curious and intimate than threatening, and it loosened her tongue.

“Truly, Viking, you are free. I am not.” She peered at the Forgotten Sons cheering Thorvald’s well-aimed throw.

The braided giant roared his victory, both fists pumping the air as Bjorn thumped his back.

“You and your men have a good life. You go where you want when you want. None gainsay you. And when you want to leave, you do.”

Rurik motioned to a shady spot. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Is that an order?”

“It’s a request.”

How gently he said that. Her shoulders sagged. Her defenses were shredding where this man was concerned.

“So you can attack me with your questions?” she asked.

“I don’t attack you.”

Rurik sprawled in the grass, crossing his legs at the ankles.

She planted both hands on her hips. “Really...”

His laugh was rich. “Would you believe I came to converse with you for the sake of it?”

“No.”

Storm blue eyes pinned her. “Or that I have another gift for you?”

“Beyond the hair ties?” Her voice pitched with disbelief.

“Yes.”

He reached for his helmet, and curiosity got the best of her. She took a seat in the grass, facing him, sitting taller to see what was inside his helmet.

Rurik extended his hand to her, a small knife in his palm. “The land between here and Fecamp Road is thick with thieves and outlaws. I want you to have this. For your protection.”

She took the knife, an odd stillness sweeping over her. It was hardly lethal, closer in size to what kitchen maids used to pare fruit or gut small fish. Fraying leather wrapped around the tang. By the nicks and dull edge, the knife was quite old.

Nonetheless, the weapon he gave her was an act of trust.

“You are my protection, Viking.” She handed it back.

“You don’t want it?”

She touched the wool fluttering at her nape.

“You have been most generous today.” A smile wobbled on her mouth.

“Please don’t think me ungrateful. If you ask me to cut thread or pare fruit, I would use the knife.

” She shook her head emphatically. “But not to harm another. I don’t think I could do that. ”

“Even if they were coming after you? Or someone you loved?”

She drew her knees up under her chin. “They already did,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

A quiet moment passed with Rurik’s keen eyes searching her before he tossed the knife into his helmet.

The clank of iron startled birds in branches overhead.

When he faced her again, his focus was brighter than the sun and more beautiful.

Tender. As if he understood the agony of loss and would respect her need to keep that pain to herself.

He shifted their conversation, whiling away the afternoon with her, sharing the wonders of a Byzantine circus. True, he was dressed in black with a snarling wolf on his chest and his hands were strong enough to crush a skull. He was a Viking, and he was a man.

And she knew which of the two sat with her in that meadow.