Page 50 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Chapter

Thirty-One

F rom the shadow of Longsword’s hall, Rurik watched men scurry, rolling barrels and goods in place on the Frankish ship.

Alzaud’s men worked under waning sun and torches tied to posts on the ship.

On the dock two women tarried. Safira, her profile against the Seine was as magnificent as any queen he’d met.

Spine straight. Ebon hair arranged in loops and coils at her nape.

Bronze silk wrapped loosely around her head, a breeze catching and puffing the headdress.

She faced Rouen, her kohl-rimmed eyes vivid from this distance.

A hand touched her collarbone. She searched the quiet village where merchants had shuttered their stalls and families were settling in to eat.

She’s looking for you.

His icy heart squeezed tighter. Safira would not sit at his table and feed his children.

Fists clenched at his sides. He was bone dry inside. And cold. So very, very cold.

No one could take her place. His Paris maid had uncovered hidden tenderness inside him and treated him like a fine treasure. Now that part of him was sealed. Forever.

He tamped down the urge to storm the docks, toss her over his shoulder, and ride off to the Arelaune Forest with his prize.

But Safira was not his. She’d trusted him to bring her home, saving his life and the Sons, and in return he’d done what?

Prodded her for her secrets. Seen her as a thing to be ransomed.

A reward to be claimed. Either one worked—as long as his greed for land was fed.

Now he broke his heart to give back hers. Safira had wanted freedom. He’d be the man to make sure she had it.

But losing her…

He gulped air, the wound inside him raw. There’d be no recovering from this.

Footsteps crunched the dirt behind him.

“It is done.” The giant of Vellefold stood in shadows, his attention on Safira stepping into the boat after her mother. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Rurik shifted his weight, one leg to the other. He almost didn’t trust himself to speak for the dry knot stuck in his throat.

“I took her for my own pleasure and would have kept her,” he said at last. “It’s only fitting that I let her go.”

“But to see her home, all the way to Paris…” Bjorn paused, his grimace twisting dramatically, painfully for Rurik. “It rubs salt in the wound.”

“She saved my life. Twice,” he rasped. “The only thing she asked of me was safe passage to Paris. It’s the least I can do for her.”

“And the jarl?”

Rurik’s stance widened. “He didn’t like it when I said we would ride into Frankish lands, but he will get our var when this is over.”

Night insects buzzed around them. Toeing a pebble, he ran through every detail in his mind. “And the men?”

“The horses and the men are ready.”

“They accepted my decision?”

“We are the Forgotten Sons. When you speak, the men hear the echo,” Bjorn said, finality ringing in his voice.

Men unmoored the Frankish ship. Water rippled out from the dock as the lumbering vessel slid away.

Safira walked across the wide deck, her face set to Rouen.

Rurik stepped away from the shadows. It hurt, the icy ball twisting tighter and tighter in his chest, but he needed to watch her watching him. To see her go.

Wisps of mist rose from the Seine. He was dead inside. This was what the gods wanted, to turn what was left of his heart into a brittle, frosty thing before they ripped it out. Skalds would spread the tale through the ages.

Some warriors should never reach for love.

Safira tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and stood at the rail. Ten oarsmen rowed in the night. They pushed upriver, an arduous task, going against the mighty Seine named for the ancient river goddess, Sequana. The old waters were being difficult.

She was, after all, leaving the pagan Viking she loved.

Each turn of the oars was another stitch sewn in her future. A future without Rurik. Her belly churned at the wrongness. Her body was numb. She couldn’t feel her wound from the arrow which Astrid had seared. The scars were forever hers, marks when she’d been kept by the Viking.

Staring at the river, twilight had darkened to early evening which had slipped into near midnight. Hours she stood on her wordless vigil wrapped in silk, wearing shoes crafted from the finest kid leather. She was safely back to her old life.

Her father paced the deck behind her, telling Bertrand, his most trusted attendant, “I will feel better once we reach Giverny.”

“The men will work all night, my lord. We should get there by dawn,” Bertrand said.

Giverny. The ancient village near the Epte River. Passing it would put them in Frankish lands, far from Viking reach. With each passing moment, this felt more like a death sentence than a reprieve.

So focused was she on her loss that she missed her father’s approach.

“Come. Sit with me.” His kindly arm cloaked her shoulders. When she didn’t budge, he added a wry, “Consoling you would make me feel like a good father.”

She relaxed against him. “You are a good father.”

“Then would you please come sit with me?” His loving tug dislodged her. “The river will look the same from a comfortable seat as it does standing here.”

“Father…” she chided gently. Breathing in his patchouli scent healed her. A little…for these heart-deep wounds throbbed painfully. She was certain nothing could heal them.

Stiff-limbed, she let him guide her to a chest big enough to seat them both. He spoke to her of home, of recent trades, and silly gossip about friends—all conversational morsels she would’ve feasted on in the past. But she was a different woman now. That young maid of Paris was gone.

What flummoxed her was who she would be now, without Rurik?

Sober-faced men rowed wordlessly, firelight glinting off their fish scale armor.

Bertrand tapped one man on the shoulder and another resting against a barrel took his place.

Her eyes were on the passing forest. Trees were thick.

Too dark to see what lurked among them. Her father continued to speak to her of an advantageous trade for cinnamon and anise and a costly vial of saffron hand delivered by a Greek friend.

He regaled her with her little brother’s antics to avoid his tutor, all to the even swish of oars taking them home.

Six torches had been fastened to ship’s posts, their light dancing on inky water.

But the forest...

Safira’s neck prickled. She hugged her linen wrap tighter. They were being watched. Four-legged beasts? Or the two-legged variety? They were sailing through contested lands. Longsword claimed this wild forest. The Breton Queen called it hers as well.

“You should go sleep below deck,” her father said. “Your mother will appreciate you being with her.”

“If she’s asleep, it won’t matter.”

He chuckled. “I should never have let you attend your brother’s logic lessons. You’ve become my least biddable daughter.”

“I have always been your least biddable daughter.”

A father’s love twinkled in his eyes. “And I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

She pinched her silk skirt. Why did he have to be so reasonable? And loving? He was always her ally in her mother’s storms, and her opinion was the first he sought when unsure of a spice. Her ability to ferret a spice’s quality was legendary. But who wanted a wife with a good nose?

Men wanted a woman to bear children and keep a home. Not build kingdoms or barter. None except Rurik. He had wanted her at his side to build up his lands in the Arelaune Forest.

That was the crux. Lands for him and Lady Brynhild.

“You know I am different, Father. Different than I was before I was taken,” she said, her voice thickening.

There was no delicate way to speak of that part of marriage negotiations.

He sighed. “Your mother told me.”

She could guess her mother shared certain details. There were few secrets between Reuben and Rachel Alzaud.

His squeeze to her shoulders was reassuring before he let her go. “Then, if you accept my logic, will you accept my intuition?”

She chewed her lip, distracted. “You know I will always listen to you, Father, but…” A quick check of the forest, another to the river behind them and, “I fear I made a mistake.”

“Your Viking.”

It was funny how resigned his voice was.

“My Viking?” she asked softly.

He smoothed his robes. King Rudolph wore the same gold trim on one of his robes. “You are convinced you love him.”

“I know I love him,” she said, emphatic.

His eyes narrowed to a precise angle. Reuben Alzaud was sparing with emotion, even-keeled and perceptive. She’d grown up reading those angles to better understand his moods and his mind.

“Go on,” she said. “You’ve something to say, though I already know I’m not going to like it.”

He patted her hand. “I’m sorry, daughter, but your Viking doesn’t love you.”

She sucked in a sharp breath. Cold, dry pain blew through her, the kind that chapped skin and cut to the bone. “What makes you say that?” The tremble in her voice irked her.

What was it about a father’s assessment that made a grown woman feel like a little girl?

“Because when a man loves a woman, he moves mountains to be with her.” He reached deep into his pocket and pulled out a balled-up white wool cloth. “If a man knew he had to choose between land and the woman he loved, it would be an easy decision.”

“You speak of Rurik’s decision to take the gold.”

Light flickered in her side vision. It came from the forest. She squinted at the darkness. Was there a campfire in those trees? This was supposed to be an uninhabited stretch of land because no one wanted to live where Vikings and Bretons waged war.

“The strongest evidence he lacked true love was in taking the treasure I offered,” her father said.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. She’d wanted Rurik to refuse the gold, the land, and the requirement for a Viking wife. To marry her instead. But he’d done none of those things.

It was equally maddening wanting him to have everything—the land and the wealth.