Page 8 of To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse #2)
And then he winked.
This tender humor showed a rarely seen nice side of Brandr. She grinned back, the abrasive warrior surprising her yet again. A few more tears fell, and her body lightened from the tiny drops rolling down her cheeks.
“It’s surprising,” she said, wiping away tears with the heel of her hand. “Crying does help.”
A red curl came loose from the braid and fell across her cheek. She tucked the lock behind her ear.
“You have beautiful hair.” His voice thickened.
She studied Brandr through wet lashes. His fingertips touched her knee bumping his, the faint contact reassuring. Often this summer past, he’d comment on her hair, but never with gentle appreciation.
“And you have much to offer—” his gaze dropped to ripe swells beneath her cloak, “—much more than your obvious charms.”
Their quiet connection was fleeting and tender the way skin was sensitive from a newly healed wound, but she welcomed it, smiling brightly. Brandr sat back and dragged the oars through water, eyeing the horizon beyond her. The air was clearing.
And the rough warrior liked red hair. Her red hair.
She tugged her long, thick braid over her shoulder, the tip coiling in her lap.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “My hair is a source of pride. I’d die if it were ever shorn.”
He snorted. “Like most redheads, you’re a bad flirt.”
“I’m not a flirt. I’m friendly.”
“And for a thrall, you’re pretty lazy.”
Her jaw dropped. “I am not. I’m…I’m leisured. There’s no need to rush through my daily tasks.”
“Leisured.” He drew the word out as if he tested a new idea. “That’s what you call it?” One corner of his mouth curled up. “Tell me again how you know about the hoard.”
He already knew the tale; she’d made her explanations at the fire pit last eve.
Lady Henrikkson had sent her on an errand the day after the mid-summer festival.
Much of Uppsala slept, and those who didn’t moved on slothful feet, the cost of late-night revelry.
Her task had taken her to the other side of Uppsala.
Drowsy on her walk home, a shady spot along the shore beckoned her to take a nap.
Only she hadn’t rested long before spying one of Gorm’s ships.
He’d stopped at the island facing her. She watched a man jump out of the boat and sling two leather bags over his shoulders, one large and the other of middling size, both clinking with what had to be wealth and coin.
From the boat, two more men hauled a flat, white stone with runes painted in red.
The Dane made her neck hairs stand on end.
Whatever he did on the island couldn’t be for good.
She’d lain in the tall grass and followed their movements through the trees.
With Gorm’s distinctive orange-red hair, it was easy to trace the men’s movements.
When they disappeared, she grabbed her basket and ran.
Brandr’s low laughter pulled her back from the memory.
“I know how to keep you quiet.” His smile gleamed white within black whiskers. “I’ll remind you how leisured and friendly you are.”
“Don’t forget, my stop that day is why we’re here.” She leaned forward to press her point. “Many lives will be—”
Their boat lurched hard, flinging her against a basket. She grabbed the side rail. Brandr jumped into knee-high water and dragged the vessel. She spun around.
The island.
Big hands braced her ribs, and Brandr whisked her from the boat. She yelped from the shock, grappling his shoulders. Water skimmed the bottom of her boots. Then her feet were on solid ground.
Brandr waded back to the boat. He stood in water up to his knees and strapped Jormungand across his back. Next, he pulled an axe from beneath the baskets and tied the weapon to his thigh. The wicked iron shined against his black trousers. The curved edge had been oiled and newly sharpened.
She pointed at the axe. “Do you really need that?”
“I do. And this, too.” He showed her a long bone-handled blade before he sheathed it. “And this,” he said, hefting a round shield from the boat. Brandr slid his arm through straps on the back of the disc painted with wavy red and white lines, the colors of Lord Hakan.
Brandr was a walking arsenal.
He pushed baskets aside and grabbed a shovel. “But you’ll need this.”
“What for?”
“To dig up the hoard.”
He sloshed his way onto dry land, a breeze ruffling his dark hair. Boyish mischief played on his face, and she squirmed, sand crunching underfoot. These flares of attraction needed to stop.
She eyed the shovel. “You expect me to do the digging?”
“You don’t want to?” He tipped it across his shoulder, a smile playing with the corners of his mouth. “Not even to prove how hardworking you are?”
Lips firm, she looked heavenward. He’d baited her, jabbing at one small stain on her character, and she walked into his trap.
His smile widened. “If you and I were keeping score, I’d say I’m way ahead.”
Because he was all about games.
Brandr pointed at a break in the grass near fledgling pine trees. “Would that be the way they went?”
“That is the path,” she said coolly.
“Please take us as far as you remember.” He bowed low at the waist. “And you can tell me all about your friendly, leisured ways.”
She gathered her skirts, her footfalls digging into sand in her forward march.
She taunted his gambling ways—the man had never won—before she saved her breath for the hike.
Brandr stayed a pace or two behind her with the shovel slanted across his shoulder.
He was alert to their surroundings, checking the area around them as she walked until they reached a split in the trail.
The island, dense with ferns and trees, was cozy. Some farmsteads with flax and barley fields were larger.
She stopped and considered the path on the right and to the left, Brandr’s reassuring presence at her back.
On the left, wind blew harder …the other side of the small island.
A pair of squirrels raced across a tree branch.
A rabbit munched on greens by a hollowed log.
Nothing perilous prowled here, save the goading Viking at her back.
“This is as far as I saw,” she said, the fire in her belly gone. “What do we do now?”
Brandr crouched low, his hand splayed on the soil.
He studied one path and then the other, reading the earth the way old scholars studied scrolls.
Men told tales of Lord Hakan sending Brandr as an outrider into remote lands in years past. They spoke with awe at his uncanny ability to read the land as if it spoke to him.
Some said he could converse in strange, foreign tongues.
How did a lowly house Karl come by such unique skills?
Brandr stood up, facing the left path. “This way.”
He eyed the dirt, same as he did navigating the waterways to get them here. She fell in step behind him. The view invited shameless gawking. Black wool and leather stretched across wide shoulders. The oft mended black trousers hugged his firm, muscled bottom.
No wonder highborn ladies liked him. What woman could find fault with him? They probably ran their fingers through his black-brown hair, the only soft part on the hard man.
A pang settled in her stomach at the image of their hands exploring him. Brandr led the way aware she trailed a few paces back. The warrior didn’t get impatient that her stride failed to match his. He slowed his gait on purpose.
For her.
The warrior was quick with a jibe, but he stayed quietly attentive to her needs. It was the better part of him hidden beneath his curt nature. Brandr showed startling consideration for a thrall of no importance.
Following him, she plucked a broad leaf and twirled it between her fingers. The surprising plans awaiting him on Gotland would yield great success. It was much deserved.
He was a good man.
Walking behind him in the peaceful island forest, a startling truth hit her. In the boat and on the beach, the rough Viking had teased and provoked her on purpose. Brandr challenged her to seek freedom and took her mind off encroaching fears.
She breathed easy…utterly safe and content with him.
And that was most dangerous of all.