Page 15 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Chapter

Eight

T hey camped in a graveyard of deserted Viking ships. Moss and ferns crowded splintered dragon prows. A breeze riffled a torn sail. Northmen wrote their stories in blood on this riverbank, counting gold and silver, repairing ships, planning their next attack.

A place of brotherhood and battle.

Rurik breathed in the magic of past warriors.

Skalds sang of the Arelaune Forest, a mystical woods worthy of Yggdrasil’s seeds.

His third time here and the gods still whispered to him.

Winds of change were coming. Less pillaging, more trading.

Vikings and Christians living together. Raids ending in defeat or the Danegeld puny.

He was young enough to crave conquering kingdoms; old enough to yearn for land and want to nurture it.

Rurik dismounted his warhorse. His booted feet landed in tall grass—good soil to carve out his story.

But the pain in his chest... The heel of his hand rubbed his breast bone.

Pain twisted, the coil getting tighter. Three days they had journeyed.

One more day and they would arrive in time for Rouen’s Midsumarblot bonfires.

Safira would know his deception. So too would the Sons.

His men set up camp, working with pride and understanding that came from years of friendship and fighting together.

Gunnar and Thorfinn hefted a fallen mast across two boats in the tree line, creating a fence for the horses.

Erik and Bjorn set their hudfats by a fire ring already in the ground.

None wanted to stop their wandering ways.

Taking the land would be hard on the Sons, but his silence about the jarl’s offer would be harder. His men wouldn’t forgive him.

At least that is what he told himself.

“What is this place?” Safira dismounted, landing agile as a cat.

“An old Viking camp.” Rurik took the reins from her and nodded at a once grand ship split in half in cattails. “Behold the glory of the Northmen.”

She smiled. “Not very frightening.”

Pride was a mantle on his shoulders nonetheless.

If he was quiet, he’d hear men of old sharpening axes, speaking of farms and fishing, of raids and far-flung journeys.

Wind in the towering trees carried their wisdom.

They’d tell him to honor cleverness, courage, luck, and fame—the Viking seeds planted here years ago.

“The Arelaune Forest.” Safira’s head tipped back at the towering trees. “What manner of things have these trees witnessed?”

Without a word, he led their horses to the Seine. Vikings had owned this snake-like river for years, stealing from it and living on it. Peaceful water flowed, lifeblood for kings and highborn men and the humblest farmer and fighter.

Safira trotted to catch up with him. She tromped through tall grass, studying his profile. “Something bothers you.”

The maid saw too much. Her face was open and her amber eyes searched him in his side vision.

Winning her trust had come as a double-edged sword.

She seeped into him, quenching a thirst he didn’t know he had.

Safira had earned his trust—part of it. On their journey, he’d given her pieces of himself, like a hard-won treasure.

Lessons from his past. Words about his home, his family. Little stories of places he’d seen.

The more he gave, the more she dug as if seeking buried treasure.

As if he were the treasure.

He clamped his lips in a hard line.

Silence was his best ally.

Her gentle laugh was intimate. “I can see it in your mouth, Viking. This is not a thing you want to tell me.”

“My mouth?” He dropped the reins and let the horses drink.

Dragonflies danced at the water’s edge. Grass was thicker and longer, the mud rich and black. A deer and her fawn darted from dense cattails, bounding for the woods. Safira watched them go, her face full of delight at the simple beauty.

“Yes. Your mouth—” she turned to him, her finger drawing a line across her lips “—the corners, the way it is set. One side is crooked when you are troubled.” She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “You say much with your mouth when you are quiet, Viking. Sometimes with your eyes.”

Arms folding across his chest, he hummed a neutral sound and gave his attention to the river.

His mother and sister had said as much when he was a boy.

Safira was a keen observer of him and his men.

She soaked up details, little habits like Thorfinn’s skill with horses and their ailments and Erik’s need for precision in everything he did.

But when her amber gaze honed in on him, it went deep and left him naked.

She stood shoulder to shoulder with him, staring at the river. “We do not have to talk about you.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

Her soft laugh was a balm. “I expected you to say that.”

These three days were a dance of sharing and revelation, his past for tidbits of hers. Truthfully, he could listen to her lilting accent all day. And all night.

“Why not tell me about these broken ships?” she suggested. “Your famed Ragnar Lothbrok camped here, no?”

From his side vision, he glimpsed her ebon hair loosely bound, wisps of it falling against her apricot-colored cheeks. If he wasn’t careful, he’d brush those wild strands off her face and kiss her. His stomach clenching, he resisted that urge and kept his attention on the river.

“It was a base camp for his raids, but that was long before I was born.” He paused to follow two dragonflies at the river’s edge. “He led thousands of men, and he fathered great warrior sons.”

“You revere him.” Safira angled her face to his, searching for eye contact he wouldn’t give. “I think you wish to be like him.”

“He was a great warrior.”

“He was a plague. On my people and many others.”

He understood the disdain in her voice. What enriched his people was a blight on hers.

Vikings deserved their reputation. Northmen from one generation to the next had pillaged Paris to the bone.

Now they lived as uneasy neighbors. The maid had sound reasons for thinking ill of his kind.

And he would keep peace with Safira for as long as possible. Trouble would come soon enough.

“Ragnar Lothbrok was the past. As you can see, no one has used the camp for years.”

“No one uses it because Vikings rule this land now.” She slanted a tentative smile at him. “No need for Vikings to steal from each other.”

Her gentle humor was infectious. He could tell her the season of raids was changing, and that Vikings did turn on each other, but the river was calming. So was this moment with Safira. He would savor it.

“I’m surprised you’ve not seen this place before,” he said.

“I’ve never been west of the Epte River.” She spun a slow circle, taking in trees taller than Greek pillars, her dirt-smeared arms stretching wide. “I imagined something different.”

He studied her, captivated. “What did you imagine?”

She stared into the forest, twilight limning her profile in gold. “Death, but what I see is...beauty.”

“An end for one is a beginning to another.”

Wisps of hair blew across her lush mouth. “You sound like a court philosopher.”

Each time she spoke, he gathered more facts about the Paris maid.

Not once did he touch her. Male wisdom told him Safira wanted him.

Her hot glances. Eyes dark with longing.

Wetting her lips when he was near. There was no denying her reaction to his kiss at the Cailly River.

It had rattled him too. Men, young and old, often made the mistake of forcing themselves on the fair sex, when casting a net of desire drew a woman.

A quick tumble sated simple hunger. Deep, sensual connection with the fair sex was a long, perfected art.

It should never be rushed. The feast would be worth the wait.

Sleeping with Safira was the worst. The first night had tested his restraint. The next night he’d taken first watch, lying beside her after she was asleep. He cultivated patience, as fine a weapon as any sword.

Shading her eyes, Safira checked land and sky. “With the sun there and the river winding that way—” She finished her rotation, facing the camp “—Paris would be?—”

“Rurik.” Thorvald crashed through the grass with the pack horses. “Erik says there is a monastery nearby known for its beer. I could ride there and procure some for us.”

Safira slipped off her ankle boots. “The Abbey of Saint Wandrille.”

“You know of it?” Thorvald let the docile horses drink.

“Through trades when the abbot came to Paris. Beer from Wandrille Abbey is called the beer of kings.”

Thorvald hooked a thumb in his belt. “Then we must have some.”

Gathering her hem around her knees, Safira stepped down into the river. She waded out and bent low, splashing water on her knees.

“Ride to the abbey,” Rurik said to Thorvald. “Take the beer. Enough for tonight and no more.”

“Christian holy men.” Thorvald sneered. “Skinny necks and skinny legs, good for nothing but cracking their bones in half.”

Safira dropped her hem, horror writ on her face. “Please. I beg you. Do not harm those men. They are gentle souls.”

Thorvald grunted, folding ham-thick arms across his chest. His bearded war axe gleamed from its place of pride strapped across his back. She rushed to shallow water, looking to Rurik.

“You must order him not to hurt the monks.”

“Our provisions are low. We won’t be able to replenish our supplies until tomorrow.”

In Rouen.

“But tonight, you will fill your bellies with stolen beer,” she said with disdain.

Thorvald chuckled. “Not a bad idea.”

Her glare bounced from the braided twin to Rurik. “I am serious, Viking.”

“So am I.” Rurik fingered the axe tied to his thigh.

“You cannot send Thorvald,” she said, emphatic. “He will steal and—and harm them.”