Page 8 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Chapter

Four

“ M en,” she snorted to herself. “So predictable.”

Eat. Fight. Sleep. This was all they wanted to do.

She rested against a tree, the forest’s loamy soil seeping into a hole in her boot.

Gathering firewood wasn’t bad. No one bothered her, and walking through tranquil woods was a kind of heaven.

Slipping off her ankle boot, she didn’t have to look over her shoulder.

This was the first moment of peace since she was stolen.

To be in Rurik’s watchful sphere was a comfort.

Shaking out her shoe, she watched the camp. Thorvald’s voice pitched high like a woman’s while his paws cupped his chest, mimicking huge breasts. The smash-faced giant bent forward, and whatever he said, loud guffaws followed.

Of course, there was sex. How could she forget?

Eat. Fight. Sleep. And have sex.

Men worshipped their baser needs, be they Viking or Frankish.

Only one man worried her—the quiet, forceful Viking reclining against a rock with his men.

Rurik relaxed by the campfire, one knee up, his other leg stretched out.

He was handsome when he laughed, handsome when he didn’t.

His manner confused her. Brutish one moment, heart-stoppingly gentle the next.

Slipping on the ankle boot, she acknowledged another truth. The Viking wanted her sex and her secrets.

He’d get neither.

The cool forest couldn’t stop warmth settling in her abdomen when she watched him.

Rurik was untamed. At home in all this open land.

The unforgiving line of his mouth should have made her shudder.

But, no. Her pulse quickened. Even from this safe distance, standing under a canopy of spring-green trees.

What Rurik had said about useful talents for her mouth was base.

She’d grasped his meaning because her married sister had spoken freely of what men and women did in the dark.

She touched her lips. Would the Viking ask her to do that to him? It wouldn’t compromise her maidenhood.

A quiver rippled over her skin. The thought of her mouth on his flesh there...

Her sister had said men loved it, and women did such things for coin. She was no different, bartering for safe passage to Paris. This was survival. And the Viking required payment.

Her hand slid down the front of her tunic. Coarse cloth scratched her palm, but underneath it her body thrummed differently. She was better off quashing this curious hum. For the good of her family’s future, she needed to go home a virgin.

Looking to the camp, her gaze collided with storm-blue eyes.

She stilled. Forest creatures rustled in the underbrush.

The Viking’s head tilted a fine angle. He took in her hand resting below her navel.

Her breasts tingled warm and heavy. Rurik had an odd power about him.

It was easy to see why others followed his lead.

His manner was strong and sure, quiet and constant.

“Safira. Come,” he beckoned, patting the ground beside him. “You have been gone long enough.”

There was no mistaking his tone. He gave a command, not a suggestion.

She gathered scraps of wood at her feet, her collection from the last hour, and wandered through the clearing under his watchful eye.

The rest of the Sons ignored her. She was baggage to these men—except for the Viking leader sharpening his knife.

A quick glance showed an empty road. Long shadows crept across the land.

Night was coming. Rurik would demand his due.

How could she stop him?

She set her load by the fire and threaded through the circle of men, their wet hair combed and Erik and Gunnar with clean-shaven jaws.

All but Rurik had taken turns at the river, and now they settled down for the evening, a loose circle around the campfire.

Thorfinn polished an axe head. Thorvald conversed with Bjorn while shearing a branch for Erik to cook their meat.

To a passerby, the simple gathering could be friendly. She smirked. Imagine...friendly Vikings.

Rurik sprinkled water on a whetstone, not bothering to look up. “We will go to the river later.”

We. Her heart sank.

“You won’t let me go alone?”

“No.”

“Why? I am not a captive.” She picked up her neatly folded cloak off the rock he used as a back rest. Someone had shaken it free of dust. Rurik?

He dragged his bone-handled knife over the whetstone from hilt to curving tip. “You are a thrall in my protection. Wolves roam these woods at night.” His eyes slanted to her. “I won’t explain myself again.”

She sat beside him, folding her legs beneath her. “How could I forget? Your word is law.”

His smile was pure male satisfaction. “Good. We understand each other.”

The Viking lost himself in the cadence of his work.

Veins roped under sun-burnished hands sliding the knife up and down the whetstone.

An ugly, jagged scar marred his right hand, the slash disappearing under his arm brace at the wrist and showing on the other end by his elbow.

The same hands had wielded a sword with ferocious skill.

She’d seen it when he and his men had practiced sword play their first night at Sothram’s outpost. He was artful with his sword, wielding it like a wicked extension of his arm and his will.

She smoothed her nape, pulling free hair she’d tucked into her tunic. What manner of things had Rurik done to get a scar like the one on his arm?

Iron scraped stone beside her, the crackle strange and hypnotic.

Her flesh pebbled. There was intimacy in sitting with him while he labored.

Folding her cloak around her, she tried to hide every inch of exposed skin.

She needed this measure of control. To think.

But the Viking filled her senses. Under her lashes, she traced his long leg stretched casually in the grass, starting from the big boot, going past his knee to a powerful thigh clothed in black.

The same thigh had pinned her to his bed this morning.

Would Rurik drag her off into the woods and pin her to the forest floor? She swallowed dryness in her throat. The Viking didn’t act like a man anxious to ravage her.

Wraiths of smoke drifted between them, the haze floating over palm-sized leather pouches by her hip. “Are these goods for trade?” she asked.

The knife sharpening stopped mid-swipe. “Some. Others are things I’ve carried too long.”

“May I look inside?”

“As you wish.”

Glad for the diversion, she unloosed the first pouch and sniffed. “Yarrow. Good for aches and pains common to the ague.” Her thumb and forefinger dipped inside and pinched dried bits. “I hope you did not pay for this since the plant grows abundantly here.”

Rurik wiped his knife across his trousers. “I paid three deniers.”

“Three deniers? For these weeds?” Her voice pitched high with disbelief. “You were cheated, Viking, and all this time I thought your people were wily traders.”

“Some might argue I wield my sword better than my trading purse.”

“I cannot picture it. The mighty Viking fleeced by a sly merchant.”

He sheathed the knife, a grin breaking his rugged profile. “You’ll be doubly amused to hear the sly merchant was an old beggar woman.”

The Viking faced her and her heart stuttered. Was it his easy smile? Or the gruff warrior laughing at himself because he fell prey to an old woman’s ploy?

Her mouth opened for a retort, but the words crumbled on her tongue.

No. It was neither.

Canny light danced in Rurik’s eyes. There was a challenge in their depths.

Look deeper.

Thick smoke floated sylph-like and mysterious between them. She could almost picture Rurik at her father’s table, but a light breeze cleared the air and the gleaming sword and battle-gouged shield on the ground beside him ruined the image.

Brows furrowing, she knotted the leather bag. “You would have me believe you meant to give the woman your coins? Out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Which one is harder to believe? That there is goodness in my heart? Or that I gave coins to an old woman?” His smile was heart-melting. “Women usually like me.”

“Is that before or after you burn down their house?”

Laughter rolled up his chest. “Depends on the woman. Some, I protect. Some, I steal their gold.” His smile curved higher on one side. “Some, I steal their secrets.”

Ohhhh ... A dangerous spangle warmed her inner thighs.

With his rough good looks and quiet quality, it was easy to believe women sought the Viking leader for safety and for sex.

She set the pouch in the grass and pulled her cloak tighter.

Rurik was toying with her. She should have a care.

He was older than the rest of his men and by sheer fact of survival, likely smarter. It would not do to underestimate him.

“Stopping so soon?” Rurik nodded at the untouched bags. “What about those?”

“I don’t know...”

“Afraid of what you’ll find?” he taunted.

“Nothing about you frightens me, Viking.” She licked her lips, unable to name the turmoil spinning inside her.

What if she uncovered pleasant things? Likable things.

Her mind had neatly placed Rurik on a shelf labeled Pagan .

Violence, cruelty, and death cluttered there.

But the man beside her brought to light new, fascinating words such as orderly, kind, and—heaven help her—sensual.

“They’re small leather pouches,” he said dryly, his smile fading. “And you are afraid.”

Firelight bounced off iron hobnails encircling the wolf on his chest. Specks of dried blood stuck to the creature—Rurik’s blood from this morning. He lived by the sword, yet she squirmed as if she’d committed a grave error. What was the greater wrong in his eyes?

Her dismissing him as a heartless warrior? Or her hesitation to learn of him?

She snatched up another sack. “Fine. If you want me to keep touching your things, so be it.”