Page 25 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Torchlight from the feast hall filtered through the leather-weave curtain.

Lord Ademar was older than Rurik by a few years, a man half into his third decade if she guessed right.

When he smiled, lines creased the corners of his eyes, the skin taking its time smoothing out when his humor faded.

He was not as handsome as his gold-skinned, unscarred brother.

Barbarism gleamed in his eyes. The same savagery she’d seen in Erik’s, but Ademar’s was tempered by time and wisdom.

His menace struck a perfect note. The right amount of pressure and relief.

His voice was even and friendly, yet his eyes measured her.

The warrior was no fool. He stored away her every word and mannerism.

The jarl’s brother was a dangerous combination of brutality and keen strategy. ..an enemy to fear, an ally to covet.

She swallowed the peculiar knot in her throat, an unbidden question coming. Would Lord Ademar be gentle or rough with a woman? She didn’t like the question playing in her head. She wanted sex, but she wouldn’t be ruled by it.

Light from the feast hall shined on Ademar’s pink-white scar and serpentine tattoo. “I came to offer my escort, and I can already tell it will be time well-spent.”

Her shoulder blades dug into the wall. “I’m not sure I need an escort.”

Behind the jarl’s closed door, voices rose in anger. Was Thorvald yelling? Ademar checked the door, a rueful smile ghosting his lips.

“It would be ill-mannered of me not to show you around our humble settlement. And…” he paused, his chin jutting at the closed door “…as you can hear, Rurik and his men are closeted with my brother.”

She gawked at the door with its elaborately carved lintel. Shadows and light moved in the thin space where the door met the plank floor. Rurik must have told the men about the holding.

“It will be a while before you see Rurik,” Lord Ademar said, a touch amused. “Since you have not visited Rouen before, it falls on me to show you the village.”

“It is true. I have not visited these lands.”

“A shame since we’re practically neighbors.” She tore her attention from the jarl’s door. “I don’t remember telling you where I’m from.”

“Your accent is Frankish...distinctly Paris.”

Her eyes rounded. “Very good.”

Definitely not a fool .

Lord Ademar offered his arm, a raven tattoo peeking out from his sleeve. “Come, let’s take a walk.” There was iron in his voice.

She took his proffered arm, her hand resting on muscle solid as oak.

He led her through the feast hall, where tables were laden with wooden platters and carved wood spoons.

Two thralls set out crocks of butter. Rye bread baked in open pans on the hearths.

Three boys turned the spits while taking turns at a dice game on the earthen floor.

The amount of food would rival any feast her mother hosted.

“The thralls look happy,” she said as they exited the longhouse.

Tall torches flanked all roads leading to the feast hall.

The jarl’s hall sat on a gentle elevation, looking down on the rest of Rouen.

Laughter and goat bone flutes braided with smoke and beating drums in the heart of the settlement.

Light bounced off copper-banded buckets hanging from a merchant’s stall.

A Persian man unrolled a bolt of shimmering white silk for two women cooing their delight.

“My brother is a good ruler of men.” Lord Ademar guided her to a path away from the crowds.

Passages were narrow between humbler longhouses. They passed two barefoot, giggling girls herding honking geese. A cheerful man called out a greeting to Lord Ademar.

“And you help the jarl,” she said, nursing their conversation.

Lord Ademar faced forward, his gait shortened to match hers. “My place is to do his bidding.”

“Pardon me, Lord Ademar, but when speaking of yourself, the word bidding seems unnatural.”

His gentle laugh was an honest sound. “As brothers, we have occasional discord. But I do not want the jarl’s seat if that is what you’re thinking. My purpose is to keep Will there.”

“You are rare among men. Too many thirst for power. Yet, by the scar on your head, you have fought hard for something. You are a man comfortable in battle, no?”

Above them, the moon was a fat pearl. Rows of torches had ended, and longhouses had given way to fields ripe with mid-season grains.

Rouen’s southern forest loomed, a wall of trees too thick to count.

Their evening stroll was comfortable. Harmonious with drum beats fading the farther south they walked.

She was clean and safe, silk caressing her skin with each step.

“For as long as I can remember, I have lived with a sword in one hand and a spear in the other.” His sigh expanded in the dark. “Once the Breton queen is defeated, I may get what I want.”

“And what is that?”

“To live quietly on my farmstead. Last summer I built a longhouse north of Rouen. I like the peacefulness of it.”

She pulled back. “Forgive me, but your ferocious tattoos do not say peaceful farmer to me.”

He touched the side of his head where rune tattoos coiled like a snake. “There are times I forget what is written on my skin.” His lips parted, a fierce show of teeth he directed at the southern forest. “The scar was a gift from Queen Annick of the Bretons. I survived her flaming arrow.”

“She is your enemy.”

“One of them. The tattoo is my vow to destroy her...when the time comes.”

His voice rang with certainty, chilling her.

They had ventured far outside of Rouen. The forest swallowed the southern road with a single stone building set apart from the town. The abbey.

“Why have you brought me here?” she asked.

Lord Ademar towered over her, a sprinkle of blond chest hair showing at the open V of his tunic. Snow-white linen hugged his chest, the muscles like two plates under the cloth. Under his lashes, blue-green eyes glimmered the shade of copper when put to the flame.

“Astrid said you asked Gyda for parchment and ink. An unusual request for the companion of a warrior who barely knows our runes.”

Feet rooted to the ground, her mind stumbled over certain facts.

While Gyda had dressed Safira’s hair, a comb had fallen to the floor.

She and the thrall had both crouched to pick it up.

That was when she’d whispered a quick request for parchment and ink.

Gyda had mouthed At the abbey before springing upright.

Astrid had slipped out of the room in search of earrings while Ellisif appeared to nap on the bed.

Had the ice-haired shield maiden spied on her?

Coldness scraped her skin. She was a fool for letting her guard down. Rurik had warned her before they entered the feast hall. Keep. Quiet .

Lord Ademar cocked his head, waiting. This tame walk to the outskirts of Rouen, his laughter and conversation.

..it was all to bait her into trusting him.

Rurik had done the same, but this man wasn’t her protector.

She touched her neck where her life vein throbbed against her fingertips.

It would not do to underestimate these Vikings again.

“Lord Ademar, are you trying to intimidate me?” Her voice was quiet feminine fortitude.

“It didn’t work in your brother’s longhouse, and I can assure you it won’t work here. My wish for parchment and ink is harmless.”

“You’re obviously not a monk.” His gaze dropped to saffron silk peeking from her bodice. “And you don’t look like any scribe I’ve met, which leaves one purpose for your request. A message.” His blue-green stare was cold. “I want to know who you plan to write to and why.”