The Outlaw and the Runaway

by Tatiana March

  Why not have a little fun before his long day’s ride?

  “Why do you keep fighting? You’re not going to unseat me.”

  “Get off me,” she huffed. “I have no weapons.”

  “How do I know that? I’ll have to search you.”

  “Overgrown brute.” Teeth clenched, she dug her nails into his leather-covered shoulders.

  Low laughter rocked his chest. “You came to my bed. If you want me to listen, it will be as I say or not at all.”

  She stilled. “You will not...touch me?”

  “I want information. Not sex.”

  A rooster crowed in the distance. Time passed thick and quiet, marked by the tension melting from her slender legs resting between his. He couldn’t fully see the woman’s eyes, but he could feel them, searching him, wondering. Yielding. He savored moments like these: the dip of a woman’s loins beneath him, a naked knee touching his inner thigh, bed furs tussled and warm from her body, hair spread out for his touch... Sensual tenderness was a Freyja-blessed gift in his harsh life. He was quick to steal softness when he could.

  The thrall gave the slightest nod.

  “That’s better.” He sheathed his knife. “Now that we’re comfortable.”

  “We need to discuss my reward, Viking. For the information.”

  “A kiss and a coin. Worthy payment for a thrall.”

  “I think not.”

  Such haughtiness delivered with an ear-teasing accent. Who was this woman? He pushed back the curtain with his free hand. Fire flickered from a hanging soapstone lamp, slanting light across a cloud of ebon hair and amber eyes. The thrall from last night. She’d stood at the end of Sothram’s feast hall, her furtive stare tracing him from a gloomy corner.

  “This isn’t a negotiation, sweeting.”

  “It is if you want to save your life and the lives of your men.”

  He wasn’t quaking in his boots, but a mere woman could bear helpful tidings.

  “Your courage is noteworthy, but you should know when a man has the upper hand.” He let go of the curtain and began to root through the pelts. He was taking no chances.

  She swatted his shoulders. “We don’t have time for this, Viking.”

  “I have to make sure you’re unarmed.”

  Dainty feminine grunts beguiled him. Her fight waned more from exhaustion than will. Palm flat on her ribs, his thumb grazed the side of her breast. The thrall froze. Her heart banged against his forearm bracing her chest. With her cloak open, only a thin layer of wool separated her skin from his hand. Her body heat seeped into him. Women were meant to be savored, their gentleness absorbed.

  He took his time, trailing his fingers over each rib before finding the sweet furrow of her waist. Gold eyes flared wide when his hand slid lower, cupping her hip.

  “What’s your price for this valuable information?”

  Sooty lashes dipped in the manner of a submissive maid, but he wasn’t fooled. Her body was rigid beneath him. She barely tolerated his touch.

  “I want you to take me with you. You are bound south, no?”

  “To Rouen.”

  “Give me safe passage to Paris and your debt to me will be paid.”

  “How good of you,” he mocked. “But Paris is inconveniently out of my way.”

  Her chin tipped high, but she held silent. This close he scented peppery warmth on her skin, the aroma as inviting as it was foreign. Her manner befitted a spoiled princess of an eastern court, not a slave woman clothed in rags.

  Years of living by the sword warned him—listen.

  “You require steep payment for a thrall, but go on. How does Sothram plan to cheat us?”

  “Your word, Viking.”

  He brushed back her hair, the strands as rich as silk threads. The gods had created this woman for a man’s pleasure. More went on here than met the eye. She was too exquisite for Sothram’s outpost, her skin too smooth and hair too lavish to have borne hardships. Most female thralls wore their hair shorn at the shoulders, a sign of their status. When this woman spoke, he glimpsed even white teeth. His morning visitor had been coddled from birth, bred on a life of luxury. A woman of high value. That alone could make the troublesome thrall worthwhile.

  Blunt refusal crossed his mind, but his traitorous mouth opened. “I’ll give you safe passage.” He grimaced as soon as the words passed his lips.

  A woman meant delays. He needed to be in Rouen in five days, and there was his oath to his men—no women. They never traveled with a woman in tow. But the ebon-haired maid relaxed beneath him, her regal face softening.

  “My thanks, Viking. Truly, I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  Her reaction at being in his care reached inside him, a gentle seed seeking fertile soil. Gold-hued eyes, open and beautiful as polished amber, stared back bold and curious. This was a woman to linger over and cosset in a bed of the finest furs, and he wanted to be the one to do it, an urge that did not sit well.

  “Your information,” he said gruffly.

  Lush lips opened inches from his mouth. “Yesterday you traded for two bundles of ermine, but while you slept, Sothram’s men switched the furs.” Her voice rose with triumph. “Your bundles will be a single layer of ermine on top but worthless rags underneath.”

  He rolled off the thrall and helped her upright. Pushing back the curtain, he checked the small outbuilding the Saxon used for storage. His belongings sat on the floor untouched beside broken barrels and buckets in need of repair. Rumors abounded where Sothram was concerned. Sometimes honest, sometimes not. Yet, this was the last southern outpost in the Holy Roman Empire to trade for the highly valued ermine, and it was on the road to Rouen.

  The thrall sat on her heels, rubbing her neck. “He thinks you will not inspect the bundles. Sothram’s men wrapped them in wool cloth. He will say he does that as a gesture of goodwill to protect the ermine.”

  “And down the road, I discover his treachery, return for revenge, and take what is mine.” He sheathed Fenrir, his sword named for the monstrous wolf of lore. “Now tell me something useful.”

  “Listen to me. Four archers left before sunrise. Sothram knows you travel the southern road. His men will ambush you from the trees.” She sighed. “He has done this before, Viking.”

  Sothram marked him a witless warrior. He smiled coldly; he’d let that work in his favor. The prized ermine was to be sold at Rouen’s Midsumarblot Fair, the coin split evenly with his men. His portion would pay the first tribute to Will Longsword. But this woman nettled him.

  “Why are you telling me this? Who are you to Sothram?”

  She sat tall. “I am his seeress. Your taking me will be a great slight to him.”

  “I prefer the ermine. Travels easy. Doesn’t talk.”

  Plush lips flattened. The maid was used to men choosing her. Aside from her daring, something else bothered him. A thrall might beg, coax, or negotiate, but never demand. Not with him.

  “You are no seeress.”

  “Just look at the bundles,” she hissed. “What I say is true. Then I will tell you where he hides your furs and you will take me with you.”

  She reached for the curtains to leave, and he grabbed her wrist.

  “Not so fast. Tell me the truth. Who are you?”

  Her hand fisted in his grip. “You already gave your word, Viking.”

  “And I’ll break it if it suits me.”

  He kept her in place, a reminder the balance of power was his. Her body quaked with a mix of desperation and rage, tremors of a caged termagant ready to spring. She protected something.

  Or was it his touch she reviled?

  Black lashes fanned smooth cheeks, shielding her eyes. “It is as you say. I am no seeress. I was wrongly sold to Sothram at the last full moon. I don’t belong here.”

  “Why the deception? You must have known
he would find out.” He let go and the maid rubbed her arm.

  “It’s not important.”

  Her fine accent was feather-soft and intriguing. Light filtered through rips in the bed curtain, and truth dawned with a story as old as time. Men had their wants and women their weapons. He’d traveled the hot sands of the Abbasid Caliphate, a witness to the treacherous ploys of certain women. Lies were a favorite of the fair sex.

  Wasn’t he lying for his own end?

  This woman had admitted she was no seeress, while he withheld the truth from men he’d known since childhood in Birka. Such trust she placed in him. Life had not been kind to her of late. Fresh bruises dotted her neck, the marks of a cruel master. Men could be brutal. He’d seen it often enough.

  “You fed Sothram a tale about your abilities disappearing if a man sates his baser needs on you. A convenient falsehood. You’re not the first to use it.” He picked up his sheathed sword from the furs and slipped it over his back. “What else should I know?”

  “You waste time, Viking.”

  “And you have the manner of a highborn woman. Who are you? A runaway wife?”

  “I cannot explain now.” She pushed aside the curtains to check the door. “Sothram rouses as we speak. He will know something’s afoot if his men see me here.” Her fingertips skimmed his knee. “Please. You must trust me.”

  The simple touch kindled a spark he ought to ignore. The burden one woman made, especially a pretty deceiver, would slow him down. Yet, a wealth of decisions flashed in the split second her hand was on his knee.

  To be in possession of a prized woman could prove...useful.

  “Stay out of sight,” he said, buckling his sword. “When my men assemble, go quietly to the oak trees lining Sothram’s yard.”

  “I will.” Cloak and skirts clutched to her knees, she climbed out of the bed.

  He stuck a finger through a tear in the curtains and watched her go. The thrall padded across the earthen floor, her shredded hems skimming slender calves. She cracked open the weathered door. Peering outside, his mystery woman raised her hood and vanished as quickly as she came.

  She believed he’d take care of her.

  He grabbed his boot and jammed it on. Tugging sharply on leather ties, he gartered the straps. Nothing was getting in his way. Not a cheating merchant or a wily woman.

  He strolled out of his lodgings, morning fog dampening his skin. A lone guard slouched against the root cellar. The man marked him with a nod before slipping from sight.

  Off to warn the rest of Sothram’s men?

  Rurik kept his easy amble to the barn where his second-in-command slept. A glance at two weathered outbuildings told him no one was around. Sothram was careless with the hamlet. Thatched roofs grey with mold. A leaning palisade fence. No warrior standing at the gate. The thieving Saxon didn’t spend his coin here.

  Inside the barn, the son of Vellefold reclined on a mountain of hay, a Norse hammer as long as his thigh tethered to his wrist.

  Rurik toed the sole of Bjorn’s boot. “Bjorn. Trouble.”

  One eye opened. “There’d better be, to wake me this early.” The giant sat up and scrubbed both hands over his face. “What is it?”

  Rurik repeated the thrall’s story while Bjorn rose on nimble feet. Beyond the barn door, chattering boys led the Son’s saddled warhorses from another barn, taking them to a sprawling oak tree. A smaller boy followed, bringing two packhorses burdened with mounds—the wool-wrapped furs.

  Bjorn squinted at Sothram’s men milling in the yard. “You trust this woman?”

  Rurik stood beside him, counting the Saxon’s fighters. Five of them. “I distrust Sothram.”

  “I’ll get the men.”

  Bjorn disappeared through a back door. Rurik leaned against a wood beam, hooking both thumbs in his belt. One of Sothram’s men mumbled behind his hand, and several pairs of eyes shifted to the barn’s open door. Good. He wanted the men focused on him, all the better to miss Bjorn.

  Chickens flocked to a young girl tossing grain in the yard. Florid-faced Sothram exited his feast hall, speaking to a wiry man armed with bow and arrows. The air smelled of wet earth and smoke from torches freshly doused. Rosy-cheeked milkmaids shuffled into the barn, their buckets clanking.

  “Morning,” he drawled.

  The tittering maids passed him to attend braying goats. His side vision caught movement outside. A black-cloaked figure charged toward the barn.

  “Here now.” The merchant reached for the interloper and gave his captive a bone-jarring shake. “What are ye about this morning?”

  The hood slipped and a woman’s head whipped back and forth like a rag doll. The thrall. She pummeled Sothram’s bulk, her fists as ineffective as moths striking stone.

  “Let go of me, you—you—”

  Frowning, Rurik stepped outside the barn. “Sothram.”

  The Saxon glanced at him. “Rurik.”

  The thrall twisted to break free, her face set toward Rurik. Her eyes rounded with silent plea until sausage-thick fingers dug into her arms.

  She yelped in pain. “Stop it!”

  “Are you going to dally with your thrall?” Rurik called out. “Or finish our business?”

  “This one’s been sneakin’ around. Can’t trust the likes of her. Man’s got to keep order in his home.”

  “Your woman troubles are no concern of mine.” Behind Sothram, five warriors dressed in black strode through the mist. “My men and I are ready to leave.”

  The Saxon released the woman. Shoulders squared, she wrapped her frayed cloak about her. Rurik willed her to go quietly to the trees, but she swung her shabby, boot-covered foot back, and with the poor aim of an angry woman, kicked dirt at Sothram.

  “Odious swine,” she said, to the hoots of Sothram’s men.

  The spray of earth on the Saxon’s shin was puny, but the insult grave. The large man roared and lunged for her. Chickens and ducks scurried in all directions. The thrall dashed wide-eyed across the yard and flung herself into Rurik’s arms. A few of Sothram’s mangy men-at-arms slunk around the corner of the barn. Eight of them now in the yard.

  “What’s this?” The Saxon glowered. “Hand her over. She’s mine by rights.”

  Rurik needed her to be obedient. His instructions had been simple: go quietly to the trees. He checked the area, one arm holding the woman close. Three of his men fanned out behind Sothram’s men. Faint morning light gleamed off Bjorn’s iron helmet. His second set a hand on the packhorse, nodding grimly.

  “Of course she is.” Rurik’s voice rang loud. “You can keep her.”

  The thrall gaped at him. It was laughable how fast her fair mouth turned shrewish.

  “You, you...” she sputtered, and her Norse switched to rapid words he couldn’t understand.

  He didn’t know the tongue but guessed the she-cat called him something worse than odious swine. He wasn’t going to leave the woman, but he’d not explain himself. Stifling a grin, he hugged her body flush to his. This was one way to tame her.

  “First, we have the matter of my furs.”

  “What?” Sothram’s lips curled against his teeth. “My man Hans wrapped the ermine last eve. Protects ’em from dampness, and this is the thanks I get?”

  “Just as I told you, Viking.” The muffled words came from his ribs.

  “Yer listenin’ to the likes of her?” Sothram barked rude laughter. “I should let ye have her. Not worth the silver I paid. A haughty viper’s tongue, she has.”

  “I don’t need a woman. I need my furs. They are what I traded for.”

  “Ye got ’em packed all nice and pretty.” Sothram spat at the ground and grappled for his knife. “Time ye leave.”

  Sothram’s men advanced, but the Sons were faster. Blood pulsing, Rurik pushed the thrall behind him. He rushed the Saxon, his sword ringing as he un
sheathed iron. The merchant’s blade never cleared leather.

  Rurik jerked the man by his tunic and stuck Fenrir’s tip between the fat folds on Sothram’s neck. “I leave when I have my furs.”

  Metal clashed to Rurik’s left. Men landed in the dirt, grunting in pain. Wood splintered from Bjorn snapping arrows over his thigh, the broken shafts scattering like twigs. The Sons brandished axes over Sothram’s fallen men. Of the eight, five were out cold. The other three were on their knees.

  To his right, a rotund woman screamed. Sothram’s wife. She ran shrieking into the yard, belly shaking and hands fluttering wildly. Two gaunt thralls followed her, their arms brimming with wool-wrapped mounds. Rurik smiled coldly. Plush white ermine, the fur of kings, dangled from the open ends. He didn’t need the prideful thrall’s help after all. His furs came to him.

  Sothram’s chest heaved with labored, fetid breaths. The merchant’s eyes slanted at his wife. “Tell ’em to load the furs, Hilda, and quit yer screams.”

  The hollow-eyed men rushed to cut the bundles. Rags poured underfoot as they scrambled to strap the ermine onto docile packhorses. The yard stayed silent except for defeated men panting on their knees.

  Rurik tightened his grip on the merchant’s tunic. “Do you know what I do to men like you?”

  The Saxon’s beady eyes rounded. “Wh-what?”

  “I make the world a better place.” His voice was low and lethal. “A world free of one less cheat.”

  He angled his sword high for the killing thrust, but footfalls pattered the dirt. A small body launched at him.

  “No!” A girl’s fists beat his thigh. “Leave Father alone.”

  Sothram’s wife screamed, rocking back and forth on bare feet, her apron clutched to her mouth. The round-faced child strained to get between Rurik and Sothram. She couldn’t be more than five or six.

  On his left, slender fingers touched his shoulder. The amber-eyed thrall. “Please, Viking. I loathe the man, but let him live.”

  Rurik, his arm raised for the death strike, took measure of the slave. “I would’ve thought you the most bloodthirsty of all.”