Page 28 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

The Sons. Rurik searched the feast hall.

Erik brooded at the back wall. Gunnar took a seat at a table and dug into his meal.

Bjorn held watch near the entrance, joined by Ellisif standing intimately close.

The shield maiden wore a snow-white tunic, having adorned herself with trefoil brooches and jet earrings.

Safira followed his gaze. “They will stay with you. You are a good leader of men.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. Win the hearts of the monks and the people, and you will have the jarl begging you to join him.” She popped a morsel of food into her mouth.

“And I thought all I had to do was win a sword fight tomorrow.”

Her Gallic shrug was full of expression and attitude. “A minor detail. I have seen you practice swordplay. You will win. I have no doubt. But, you must win the good will of the people.” Her fingers plucked another bite of bread. “In this, I can help.”

“How?”

“You are doubting me, Viking.” She touched fingertips to her chest in dramatic fashion.

“Am I not the same woman who cut her teeth in the courts of Paris? The same woman who convinced the people of Abbod village to trade their dinners to feed the Forgotten Sons?” She patted his chest, her smile from ear to ear.

“The same woman who convinced you to offer her your protection.”

Laughter rumbled in his chest. “And I have not had a moment’s peace since.”

“Quiet women are so boring. You are better off with me.”

Her quip was light and teasing, but the truth hit him square in the chest. Flummoxed, he gave in to the delight that came from being with Safira.

“I am better off with you,” he said. A reluctant smile came. “You are…”

Words failed him. Safira’s breath caught.

She stared at him, wonder shining from her eyes.

In his travels he’d hear a man or two wax on about the joys of being with a woman.

For conversation. Companionship. Friendly competition and partnership.

All without the mention of sex. But such a thing was rare.

At least he’d never seen it. Never experienced it until now.

Her lashes were a wide, black fringe. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Take pieces of my heart.” Her hand gripped his on the table. “You enslave me, Viking. You do it with the gentlest word when I least expect it. I do not want to think of all the women you have tamed with your unexpected manner...or—” her face crumpled “—or the Viking woman who will marry you.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her he was keeping her. He would make it so. Keeping Safira at his side didn’t make sense. Neither did a low-born fighter from hard-scrabble Birka becoming a landsman, yet both were within his grasp.

“We will not talk of who I marry. We have tonight.”

She faced forward in her seat and drank long from a fresh cup of wine Gyda poured for her.

Safira’s profile was proud, if a touch forlorn.

The shy thrall, Gyda, bent close, whispering in Safira’s ear.

With the doors and shutters flung wide, the air was clear.

Fires had burned to orange embers in the center hearths.

A line of thralls dressed in the jarl’s blue brought trays heaping with cheeses and began to set them at the tables.

Longsword picked up his drinking horn from its silver stand and turned to Rurik. “None will go hungry.”

“Have you decided who will get the land?” He took a bite of meat, the juicy pork exploding with unnamed flavors in his mouth.

“You go to the heart of the matter, don’t you?”

A quick swallow and “You didn’t bring me to Rouen for false words. But for my warrior skills.”

“Among other reasons, yes.” Longsword paused, his gaze sliding between Vlad to Rurik. “You sound anxious to fight your father.”

Sigurd stood at the end of the table talking to Vlad, his shifty eyes narrowing on Rurik.

“I am anxious to be done with waiting,” Rurik said before biting down hard on meat.

“Your first hurdle...the monks. Your second is Vlad.” The jarl braced an elbow on the arm of his chair. “My brother favors you, but I think he’d favor you more if you gave him your lovely companion.”

Rurik stabbed his meat. “Safira is a free woman,” he said pleasantly enough. “And she’s chosen me.”

“So I’ve heard. Ademar told me Safira put him in his place.”

“He questioned her because he thought she could be a spy.” Popping the meat into his mouth, he took great pleasure in chewing the flesh.

“My brother sees himself as guardian. He wants Rouen to be safe and he wants your woman.”

Rurik curled his fingers tightly around his knife.

Longsword took a long draught from his drinking horn. “I’d be careful if I were you.”

Such was the Viking way. A man kept what he wanted—the more powerful the man, the stronger his stake.

Astrid passed before the jarl’s table, hefting an earthen pitcher. “Cyser?” Not waiting for an answer, she poured the rich honeyed-apple drink into both their horns. “The feast has gone well, jarl.”

“Yes, excellent. Well done, Astrid.” He shifted in his chair, the horn dangling between his thumb and forefinger. “But, it lacks one thing.”

“What is that?” she asked.

“A skald.” Longsword raised his horn and his voice. “Have we a skald among us?”