Page 16 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Since setting foot in Longsword’s land, he had a care with every village.

Safira’s trade for three days’ food spared them from causing trouble.

The Sons’ coin purses were scant. They couldn’t make fair purchases.

What money they had was spent on the ermine.

Hunting for meat was a long and sometimes fruitless labor.

Stealing was easy.

“Thorvald will take only what we need,” he said. “But he will not harm them.”

Thorvald’s chin jutted stubbornly at her. “If they resist, they’ll feel the bite of my blade.”

“What good does it do to spill their blood?” she argued. “They have done nothing to you. Vikings once drove them from the abbey. It was years before they returned.”

Rurik was unmoved. “Now they live under Viking rule.”

Safira was just as stubborn. “The Treaty of Saint-Claire-sur-Epte means Vikings protect them.” She inhaled deeply, her eyes looking heavenward as if seeking patience.

“At least think, what will happen if you harm these monks or even worse—if something happens and they die. Who will be left to brew more beer?”

“A fair point,” Rurik said.

Thorvald’s mouth twisted. “You’re going to listen to her?”

Yes, he was. If it gave him more insight into the Paris maid.

When she mentioned the treaty, she spoke as one who walked the courts of a king.

And there was her passionate plea on behalf of useless monks.

It amused him as much as it intrigued him.

She was Hebrew yet she spoke strongly to save these Christian holy men.

“Your people make no sense,” he taunted. “You build more houses of stone for monks than you do for your kings. It’s too much power in the hands of weak men who have forsaken the sword.”

Rurik grinned at her, pleased with his logic. Wet skirts clinging to her legs, Safira stood her ground. Her mouth opened, and he was ready for a fine retort about living by the force of his hand. Instead...

“But you will not let Thorvald harm them.” Her voice was confident. “At least promise me that.”

“Another promise? For a thrall, you ask overmuch.”

“I do.” Her manner was tender beguilement. “But I know I speak to a true leader of men.”

Brightness shined in her eyes, the same gleam that showed outside Bermon when she said she was safe with him. The gazes lingered on each other as if no one else existed.

At last, he said, “Thorvald will not touch your holy men.”

“What?” The smash-faced giant blustered. “Now she has a say about our raids?”

Glancing at Thorvald, he was wearied of the argument. “It’s beer. Go steal it. We all know, one look at you and they’ll piss where they stand.”

The giant grumbled and collected the pack horses, his eyes shooting daggers at Safira.

“And Thorvald...take Thorfinn and Gunnar with you,” Rurik said. “Let them do the talking.”

Thorvald lumbered up the bank, yelling, “Gunnar, Thorfinn. We ride to the abbey.”

Safira bent over and wrung out her skirt. “I can only wonder why he has not cracked my bones.”

“Because you’re not a skinny-legged monk.”

She dropped her soggy hem, her laugh shaky. “I have proven myself valuable, no?”

He wouldn’t let on how valuable. It’d go to her head. The corner of his mouth twitched against his will. “You’re a fair to middling travel companion.”

She was breath-taking and beautiful. The glow about her, entrancing.

“I think you like me, Viking,” she said prettily.

Legs brown from the sun, feet pale in ankle-deep water, Safira was a wild creature, a woman of the land, free and beautiful.

She was growing on him. That too was against his will, but he didn’t fight it.

Men and women danced an ageless mystery.

An undeniable weave. What went on was as sure as seasons passing.

A farmer never questioned harvest or a hunter his bounty. They feasted.

His time to enjoy his prize was coming. Tonight.

Thorvald, Gunnar, and Thorfinn galloped north to the abbey, their horses pounding a thunderous noise. Safira frowned at their departing backs. “Stealing from these monks is not good.”

“Why?”

“Because you reap what you sow.” Her lilting accent was solemn. “Your pagan gods must have laws about that, no?”

“Laws? No,” he said, extending a hand to her, which she took. “Odin rewards clever thinking and courage. A man must know what he wants—” he hauled Safira onto the bank “—and take it.”

Her bare feet bumped his boots. She stiffened.

Dirt-smeared nose and a sheen on her cheeks, Safira enchanted him and she irked him.

The maid had to feel the same strange teeter of attraction and repulsion to an abrasive Viking.

It was written on her lips, soft and pliant, balanced by the glower in her eyes.

They craved, yet resisted this seed growing between them.

She was testy. “Is there ever a time Vikings don’t use force to get what they want?”

“I have not used force with you.”

“That is different.”

No. It wasn’t. This push-pull between them could test the hardiest of men. Restlessness hummed inside him. So did a finer point that needed sharpening.

“Do we speak of Vikings and Christians?” he asked quietly. “Or of you and me?”

Safira’s pulse ticked fast on the base of her throat. Standing this close, the top curve of her breasts filled his lower vision. The tender fruit flushed, the sight feeding his lust.

“Are you telling me Christians have never used force to get what they want?” he asked.

Her eyes widened. “That is not the point.”

“It is exactly the point.” His thumb stroked a blue-green vein on her wrist. “Tell me, have you ever been hungry? Ever wrapped your feet in rags so that someone you loved could wear scraps of leather for shoes instead of you?”

Safira’s face clouded. He’d revealed too much to this woman with piercing amber eyes. In their depths, emotions warred as a gentling wind blew off the Seine, twining strands of ebon hair across her cheek.

Holding her close, he marveled at the pale underside of her wrist. “I wonder, until you were in Sothram’s outpost, did you ever suffer? Ever go without?”

Pinging taps came from Erik starting a fire. The noise was distant and lulling, like the peaceful river and the horses munching grass. Though they were at odds, he breathed the same air as Safira, needing it as much as he fed on what went on between them.

“Tell me, are the ships left here about hungry people seeking food?” She searched his face, meeting his handhold with a firm grip of her own.

“No. These ships were about one thing. Viking greed. Nothing else. I will not cry for you. You and your people have lived by bloodshed.” Her voice was low and tenacious.

“Take away your sword and what is left?”

“It is my sword that protects you.”

Her face tilted as if she would kiss him. Plush, tempting lips spoke inches from his. “So you have said, but without it, who are you, Rurik of Birka?”

Mouth clamped shut, he let her go.

Her question stung yet he couldn’t say why. He didn’t need to explain himself to a spoiled maid of Paris.

Safira went on. “I have seen many things in your eyes when you look at me. Greed among them.”

He stilled, her point hitting him in the gut. Her gaze searched him as though waiting for and hoping for a denial, which never came. The river’s breeze kicked strands of hair across her face, and one corner of her mouth curled ever so slightly upward.

That curve of her mouth, he’d learned, was a sign of Safira’s hard-won wisdom.

“Be assured, Viking, you will be well-paid for my safe return.” She gathered her shoes, her profile a tumult of emotion. “What goes between us is about silver and gold. Nothing more.”

The reward.

They’d not spoken of it since their first night together.

Head high, Safira walked barefoot through the grass.

Her ebon hair hung down her back, bound in two places by fluttering white wool—the strips she’d thought he’d use to tie her up.

His gut twisted at her proud retreat. He wanted the reward, and he wanted her.

Could he have both?

He opened his mouth to call Safira back and say... what ?