Page 39 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Chapter

Twenty-One

M oonlight poured over a naked woman, holding a sheet to her breasts. Ice-blond hair shot with curls spilled thick around her shoulders.

“I am Lady Brynhild of Fecamp. Your future wife.”

His feet rooted to the floor. Lady Brynhild was a prize for any man.

Slender arms hugged upraised knees. Her nose a straight line above a wide, amused mouth.

By night, she was attractive. By day, she would stun.

Lady Brynhild was Viking. A widow of decent wealth and respectable standing with a holding of her own not far from where the Seine met the sea. Perfect for him.

Except she wasn’t Safira.

Her throaty laugh was seduction itself. “By the shocked look on your face, I am not the woman you expected to find in your bed.” A blonde brow arched. “What are we going to do about this?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Nothing.”

She patted the bed beside her. “You could do a lot of nothing right here.”

He raked a hand through wind-blown hair.

Years he’d lived by brain and brawn. Never his heart.

Once he found it with Safira, he didn’t want another woman.

None would cherish the banged-up, stony organ.

None would challenge him like her. There was no denying Lady Brynhild’s appeal.

His body could be convinced to rouse to her charms, but with Safira. ..

He burned to plant his seed in the raven-haired maid. No other woman.

A crux was coming. He knew it.

“It would appear the gods are demanding their due,” he said, low and gruff.

“How so?” Lady Brynhild canted her head as if this conversation was a novelty.

Outside, crickets sawed their night songs. A solid breeze blew through the jarl’s grain field, causing the tips to bow north. Lazy clouds rolled across the sky, the edges blurring the moon.

Rurik searched the ground. How to politely tell a beautiful woman that he didn’t want her?

“It would be an honor to have you as wife, but?—”

“Oh,” she winced, interrupting him. “It’s always bad when a man compliments a woman then says but . It wipes out whatever good he said in the first place.”

“I cannot lay with you,” he said baldly.

Which meant, he didn’t want her at all. Being a smart man, he’d save that rejection for later.

Dim light showed her fair mouth, open and seductive.

Bed sheets shushed. The plush mattress sank as Lady Brynhild shifted on the bed. The linen covering her slipped lower and lower until small breasts greeted him, up-tilted and mouth-wateringly soft, if he judged by the glow of her skin in moonlight. She twirled a lock of silvery hair.

“Are you sure?”

He pushed away from the open shutter and gathered his things. “Very.”

Lady Brynhild gaped and stopped her hair twirling. She knew how to play seduction’s game. The woman could pick and choose her lovers. Rejection was likely a rarity.

He shot a prayer of thanks to Freyja that the woman in bed yanked up the sheet and covered herself.

Sucking in a deep breath, he scrubbed a hand over his face.

Above his head was the gifted tunic—the jarl’s colors.

Standing up, he held his sheathed sword in one hand, his saddle bag and rolled up hudfat in the other.

“The gods have been testing me of late. You are the latest and—” he bowed his head, respectful “—most tempting trial.”

That mollified her.

“But your path is set. So too is your heart, I think.” She linked her fingers over her knees shrouded in linen. “I am a practical woman, Rurik of Birka. A patient one too. Given time, hearts and minds change.”

“You want marriage?”

“With a man strong enough to defend what I own...yes. And you look very strong,” she said, giving him a bold once-over.

“The jarl enticed me with a bargain of more land and a strong arm to protect what is mine if I swear allegiance to him.” She fussed with the sheet.

“He has grand plans for this Nor’man land, as he calls it. ”

He was tired. He’d ridden hours to lay with Safira’s body curled against his. Late night negotiations and the shifting sands of politics were the last thing he wanted.

“That is a discussion for Longsword’s return. Until then, I must get to the Sons’ tents.”

“You won’t find your woman there. It rained earlier.” Lady Brynhild yawned. “Apparently she does not favor tents when it rains.”

“Where is she?”

“Astrid settled the raven-haired woman and your man, Erik, on the jarl’s drakkar ship.” She lay back on the bed. “The one beside the Persian merchant’s vessel.”

He bade Lady Brynhild good-night and took off.

He trotted through Rouen’s roads with an eye to the largest ship in the harbor.

A sleepy housekarl slouched against a closed merchant’s stall.

Rurik marked him with a nod and crossed the jetty.

Wind kicked up. The river splashed against heavy rocks lining the shore.

He stepped onto Longsword’s drakkar ship where Erik sat upright against a barrel, iron glinting in his lap.

The whites of his eyes showed in the shadows. “You’re back.” Erik pushed to full height and pointed at a trap door. “Safira sleeps below deck.”

Fat rain drops sprinkled the deck. Clouds covered the moon, shrouding them in darkness. With Midsumarblot over, few torches burned in Rouen. Rain fell harder. Both men squinted at the heavens.

“Find shelter,” Rurik said. “I will see you in the morning.”

Water pelted Erik’s face. “The men?”

“Are well. They return tomorrow.”

Erik smiled, unbothered by squalling skies. “It will be good to have them back.”

Relief was writ plainly on Erik’s face. It was as close to an admission of wrongdoing as Rurik would get. The surly warrior had erred in drinking too much when he was supposed to have watch the night of the feast. But, he understood and accepted the brief exile forced upon him.

Erik trotted off the boat, his swords rattling across his back. Lightning crackling overhead showed him heading for the jarl’s barn.

Rurik flipped open the trap door, dropped his things below, and crawled into the hold. “Safira.”

“Rurik?” Her groggy voice was music to his ears.

On hands and knees, he crept through the narrow hold to her make-shift bed of pelts. She sat up and a light weave blanket fell away from her body. Safira clambered into his lap and showered his face with kisses.

“You are well, no?” She muttered foreign words against his cheek. “I was so worried about you. You and the men...you are all safe? And unharmed?”

He settled her into his lap. She wore silk, the whispery cloth riding up her thighs.

He cupped her bottom, the soft globes filling his hands.

He was dizzy, breathing her scent. His fingertips slid to her cleft, hunger swamping him.

Feminine heat and curls grazed his fingers.

The dewy petals of skin parting for him.

He exhaled against her neck, a long, shuddering breath.

He was home. “I didn’t expect this welcome.”

She peppered his jaw with fast, hot kisses. “Oh, Rurik...” She buried her face against his neck, shaking. “You have come to me.”

Her fear-trembled voice rocked him.

“Safira. Why are you shaking?”

“Seven days without you. This has been torture.”

Her body was flush to his, straddling him.

He stroked her skein of hair from the crown of her head to the small of her back.

Breath skittered fast in and out of her lungs.

Lush lips gentled him, seeding his neck with small kisses.

Each one healed him. All of it, pure emotion, born of heat and need bound by arousal.

Safira stirred his body and his mind. He wanted to talk with her as much as he wanted to tup her.

What was the pull of this woman?

Why did he yearn for his Paris maid above all others?

Reason should have kept him in the jarl’s feast hall with Lady Brynhild.

Safira’s face was inches from his, a fine-skinned foreign beauty full of strength, the kind a man could feast on for days. Ample, curving breasts spilled over her low neckline. Scarlet silk glimmered on her smooth skin.

Outside, a summer storm battered Rouen. The ship rocked. Their bodies swayed. He could live with the nearness of her alone.

Safira touched her nose to his. “I smell the forest on your skin.”

She scratched his whiskers, so light, the intimacy rushing his spine. He rested his head against the hold. Her down-soft attention wracked him. The length of his beard was proof of how long they’d been apart. How much he missed her.

“Chasing fighters in the forest, there was no time to scrape a blade across my jaw,” he murmured.

Holding her close was the most natural thing in the world. She was worth every minute of his long midnight ride. Another thought occurred to him.

Safira was worth defying the jarl. Isn’t that what he’d done? Ridden hard to Rouen with a single purpose in mind?

To be with her.

Nothing else mattered.

His arms closed around her, male instinct to never let this woman go.

Plush lips brushed his neck. “Whatever happens, know that—” Safira’s voice quivered against his skin “—I love you.”