Page 24 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Chapter

Twelve

T he woman reflected in polished metal was a raven-haired Viking. Safira’s hair looped in elegant knots at the nape of her neck in the manner of high-born north women. A scarlet tunic dressed her body, the fine weave plain except for saffron embroidery on her sleeves.

Astrid, the woman who’d been pouring seal oil in lamps when they arrived, snapped her fingers. “Higher, Gyda. All the better for the lady to see herself.”

The shy thrall raised a bronze disc the size of Rurik’s shield. Gyda had patiently dressed Safira, combing windblown locks to a shine before twisting and coiling strands into an elaborate display, whispering often, “The lady has beautiful hair.”

Astrid chewed the corner of her mouth, her head tilting from side to side. Ellisif sat on a wide bed covered in mink, waggling a hand over her breasts.

“The silk underdress. It needs fixing.”

“I thought so too.” Astrid bent low and lifted the scarlet skirt. With a careful eye to the bodice, she tugged the saffron underdress until a finger’s breadth of silk showed. “That is better.”

The effect was stunning. Sensual. Alluring.

“I understand the purpose of this tunic...to show more cleavage.” Safira smoothed linen over her hips, her eyes rueful in polished metal. “My breasts will greet people before I do.”

Gyda giggled and ducked her face behind bronze.

The quip would’ve had Savta clucking her tongue and her mother calling for a swath of silk.

..an attempt at modesty, yet sheer enough to display her daughter’s charms. For the last two years, Safira had existed for one reason: to tempt the highest bidder into the most advantageous marriage.

But with these Vikings, she walked in a half-world, the companion of a highly valued warrior. Not a thrall. Nor a high-born woman.

To them her purpose was simple—Rurik’s pleasure.

The people of Paris painted its folk into distinct places in society, while Vikings embraced shades of importance.

Astrid was an ambut . A thrall born into the jarl’s family, yet of high standing.

She wore the same blue as Gyda, but yellow embroidery lined her square bodice and hem.

Nor had her hair ever been cut. Keys jingled at Astrid’s waist, signs of her authority to run the jarl’s household and access his spices and wealth.

More keys, more wealth. And there was Ellisif relaxing on the bed.

She looked comfortable, as if she had intimate knowledge of the room that had once belonged to the jarl’s bastard brother.

“You are pleased?” Astrid asked.

Safira turned her head this way and that, glass bead earrings tapping her neck. “I look like a Viking woman.”

“You look like a woman prepared to find her destiny.” Ellisif was off the bed in one languid move. “Now I am off to find mine.”

Astrid rubbed her forehead. “Yes, there is still much to do before the feast begins.” She stood beside a bronze basin etched with harts and a matching ewer of water.

The ambut touched an earthen bowl of fresh green leaves on the same table.

“You have mint to clean your teeth. Another tunic for tomorrow on that hook.” Lips pursing, she eyed Safira’s shabby ankle boots.

“I will see about finding better shoes for you.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Safira said to the women. “All of you.”

Ellisif opened the door, her hair an ice-blond waterfall rippling down her back. “Save your thanks until after tonight.” The lithe shield-maiden slipped into the dim hallway.

“What did she mean?” Safira asked.

Astrid nudged her chin at the open door, and Gyda left the room, taking the polished bronze platter with her. The older woman fussed with the bed furs.

“Ellisif likes to speak in riddles. I suspect she’s warning you to be ready for tonight.”

“What is there to be wary of?”

Astrid straightened, clasping work worn hands at her waist. “You will sit with Rurik at the jarl’s table. A place of honor. People will be curious. You will be judged.”

“I will not embarrass Rurik or the jarl.”

The old woman smiled, tossing back her long braid. “That is not my concern. Rurik was supposed to swear an oath to the jarl tonight, but there has been some trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Rurik can tell you. For now, you must understand, people will wonder if you bring luck to Rurik or hardship.” Keys jangling, Astrid strode to the door. “I say claim your destiny and be done with it.”

Claim her destiny? Since the last full moon, she had been stolen from home, sold into slavery, and she’d struck a bargain for her freedom with a Viking stranger, a man she’d nearly surrendered her body to in a forest. Her future was a distant glimmer against the present, burning hot and fast like the towering bonfires outside.

Safira sat on the bed, sinking into a goose-down mattress. “Astrid, what is expected of me? Do I wait here for Rurik?”

Deep lines creased the corners of the ambut’s eyes. “What you do, lady, is for you to decide.”

Astrid pattered down the hall. She left the door half-open, an invitation and a warning.

Walk past the carved lintel and see the world beyond .

The room was safe. Rurik’s leather bags slumped on the floor beside his battle-worn shield and a bronze-wrapped bucket.

Iron-tipped spears leaned against a corner, the only signs the warrior-leader Lord Ademar had once lived here.

She’d always been surrounded by the finest luxuries.

Coddled. Loved. At times smothered by her bossy, well-meaning mother, all to strike the most lucrative marriage bargain.

Safira ran her fingers over rich mink. Silken fur teased her palm.

Sensual. Inviting. Rurik would expect her to sleep in this bed with him.

There would be no more night watches requiring him to stay away until she fell asleep.

She sucked in a pained breath. Beautiful Viking women abounded at the wrestling match.

They would welcome his attentions. Like the widow in Abbod village.

But he was Viking, a warrior destined to spill his seed in this land.

Her hand rested over her womb. A lonely pang settled there. A Viking woman would bear his children and comfort him on cold, winter nights. A tall, blonde woman with an able sword and fierce manner...not a short, curvaceous Hebrew woman whose sharpest weapon was her tongue.

She curled her fingers into her tunic. He was hers now. As companion and protector.

What if I give him my maidenhood?

Her heart thumped against her breast bone. It was a wild thought. Her life had been one long preparation for giving herself to a man—a man others chose for her.

If her maidenhood was gone...

She would be free. No marriage alliance. No men of authority to claim her.

Power would be hers.

Temptation throbbed in her veins, a rhythm pulsing like the drum beat wafting through the chamber’s closed shutters.

The fate of her maidenhood was for her to decide.

Not her mother or her father. Not even the Viking whose kisses seared her.

Still, she needed to get a message to her mother and father to let them know she was alive.

Was it destiny? Survival? She couldn’t say.

She rose from the bed, her steps full of purpose. Exiting the room, she banged into a broad chest clothed in white linen. Big hands grabbed her shoulders.

She looked up. “Lord Ademar.”

“Safira.” His voice was seductive in the unlit hallway.

He smelled of mead and clean soap, his battle-honed body crowding the passage.

Her skin flushed with fight or flight at male interest sparking in his eyes.

His hands still clamped her shoulders. She was tempted to swat them away, but Rurik’s voice carried from the closed door at the other end of the hall.

So did Bjorn’s, Erik’s growl, and Thorvald’s booming voice.

Discussions were heated. She was safe, but she couldn’t forget what Astrid had said.

You will be judged .

Rurik’s promised holding. She would not be the cause of him losing the land because of her spate of willfulness with the jarl’s brother.

She was bred on moments like these. Of walking a fine line with powerful men.

To be friendly but not flirtatious. For there was no doubt Ademar’s good will mattered when it came to Rurik securing the land.

Pasting on a winsome smile, she said, “Why are all of you Vikings so enormous? And tall. A woman must crane her neck to have a conversation with you.”

He laughed, both hands dropping to his sides. The corner of his mouth turned with knowing. “I see why Rurik keeps you.”

“Oh, now there you are wrong. It was I who approached him about our arrangement.”

His eyes lit with mild surprise. “An equal enjoyment of each other.”

“Yes.”

Lord Ademar’s gaze flicked to the bed. “And is it satisfactory?”

“I will not bore you with a woman’s whispers.” She tried to sidle past him.

A hulking shoulder blocked the way. “I like a woman’s whispers.”

Spine to the wall, she met his gaze with a brazen one of her own. “Many of them, I’m sure.”

His head tipped with a genuine grin. The Viking was a bull of a man barring her. She wasn’t going anywhere, but his intent was unclear, riling her just enough.

“Where did Rurik find you?” he asked.

“In his bed. I climbed into it.” Now she was just being tart-tongued.

“Did you?” The warrior’s cheek dimpled on the scarred side above his beard.

Her shrug was dramatic and womanly. “I gave him a bargain he couldn’t refuse.”

“And being a smart man, he took it.” A faint narrowing of his eyes asked What was that bargain?