Kept by the Viking

by Gina Conkle

  Uncovering the truth...

  Rurik squinted into the distance. Deception ate at him, a worm to his insides. He’d been juggling truth and lies since his private meeting in Hedeby with Will Longsword’s half-brother, Ademar. A powerful jarl seeking Rurik’s allegiance did not surprise him. The jarl’s offer did—a rich holding large enough it’d take two days’ ride to span.

  Land came by blood and force...never a gift to men of his ilk.

  Ademar had made no mention of holdings for the Forgotten Sons, the name Rurik and his men had called themselves since childhood in Birka. Years Rurik had fought with these men, watching one another’s backs, sharing every reward and every trade. He was their leader, yet he never took a leader’s portion. Not once. He could argue the rightness of becoming a landsman. But the men wouldn’t stay. The Sons sought fame like most Vikings, raiding and wandering from one kingdom to the next. It’s what Vlad had done. He’d left and never came back...worthless excuse for a father that he was.

  Vlad preferred the company of warriors to his own children.

  Rurik had grown to see life differently.

  Fame was found in land. So was family. Viking seed planted in Viking soil. He would be a father who stayed. Taking the holding and swearing an oath to the Jarl of Rouen would tear the Sons apart, but he wouldn’t share. The land or the woman. Not ’til he was done with her.

  Erik and Thorfinn emerged from the hall with two leather bags. The provisions. Thorvald and Gunnar, flush with easy victory, chuckled over a jest. Gunnar dumped an armful of weapons down the well in the middle of the yard. The water wouldn’t be harmed and once Sothram’s shifty-eyed men were free, they’d spend much time fishing for valuable axes, knives, and swords instead of chasing down the Sons.

  Rurik scrubbed a hand over his smile. Sothram and the amber-eyed woman were half right. He was a brute living by the might of his hand, but he’d learned a thing or two about using his head.

  “This thrall,” Bjorn said. “Does she have a name?”

  Rurik studied the ebon-haired woman sitting spine straight on a rock. “I didn’t ask.”

  The giant of Vellefold laughed loud enough to turn heads. “You have a way with women.” He headed to the barn, chickens squawking as he bellowed, “Men. Change of plans.”

  * * *

  The one called Rurik took two leather bags from his men. He slung the bags over his shoulder, his long legs ranging toward her. The other men assembled around the fire burning near the barn. All were shades of blond save the black-haired one named Erik. His face bore the stamp of Rome.

  The Forgotten Sons defied a single name. Fighters? Adventurers? Traders? She’d heard there were seven, but she counted only six. They wore similar garb—black from head to toe. Iron hobnails shimmered on their sleeveless leather vests, the same vicious wolf carved on the front of each man. But, it would be hare-brained to say clothes made the men.

  These warriors were hewn from a harsh world. Powerful muscles molded long limbs. Feral-eyed and bold, they’d take first, ask later.

  “Northmen,” she said under her breath.

  Why were they all so enormous?

  And rough.

  She rubbed her hip. The impression of Rurik’s hand lingered there, the feel akin to a brand, his single touch a command. It had worked. She’d yielded. Yet he’d been gentle, as if he fed on the caress. Now those strong hands tied bags on a pack horse with scarred, agile fingers.

  Safira stood up, and the Viking’s gaze struck hers a split-second, sending a quiver across her skin. They were mere paces from each other, but he said nothing as he knotted the leather.

  Was this a game of will? Who would speak first?

  She cleared her throat, but he walked around the pack horse, ignoring her. Dratted man. Sun-blond hair bound by a leather thong hung thick as a fox tail over the sword strapped to his back. Long arms stretched in an easy show of strength as Rurik adjusted a saddle. Big muscles shifted with fluid grace, but the Viking was more than slabs of bulk. Fine-tuned flesh bunched under burnished skin, the play of sinew flexing on bare shoulders that curved out from his vest. High on his back, blood wetted sliced leather.

  “You should have someone look at that.”

  “At what?” He ducked around the horse, but not before she caught the profile of his fleeting smile.

  He knew she’d watched him, and he’d waited.

  Eyes rolling at being the first to talk, she walked to his black war horse and peeked over the saddle. “I speak of the cut on your back, Viking.”

  “We don’t have time.”

  The smooth timbre of his voice lacked the booming quality of Bjorn or Thorvald, yet it was deep and pleasant. He gave orders. Bjorn saw them done. This was a disciplined arrangement for the tight-knit warriors. She’d heard they fought and roamed, never staying in one place for long. Rurik must see her as goods to be hauled to Paris.

  Wasn’t that for the best?

  Fingers drumming the saddle, she blurted out, “What Sothram said about me isn’t true.”

  “Such as?” Eyes the color of storm-tossed lakes met hers. Hard, forceful, intelligent.

  Her flesh tingled against her tunic. Rurik, a coarse warrior from the land of ice, seared her. Women in Sothram’s household had whispered of him, the once impoverished Viking boy of Birka now a man widely respected for his fighting skills. He came from the lowest stock yet elevated himself by strength of will.

  And she was putting her trust—most of it—in him.

  “Out with it, sweeting,” he said. “We don’t have all day.”

  “I meant what Sothram said about my having a haughty, viper’s tongue.”

  Rurik rested both forearms on the horse between them. “We’ll see.”

  “There is nothing to see. I share my thoughts where they are...helpful.”

  He chuckled dryly, and the broad planes of his cheeks hinted at Rus blood in his veins. “My short time knowing you and haughty comes to mind. Or proud. Not helpful.”

  She pushed up on tiptoe, his dismissive air putting a fire in her belly. “Do not forget how helpful I was to save your furs and warn you of Sothram’s plan to kill you and your men.”

  Rurik’s mouth quirked in whiskers a few days old. “You weren’t entirely selfless in coming to me. You’re getting something from this arrangement.”

  Heels dropping to the ground, she averted her eyes. It was true. He was her instrument of freedom. Without the warrior’s protection, getting home was nearly impossible.

  “At least know, if I am not well-versed on a subject, I keep quiet.”

  “That would be a first,” he said, stepping around the horse to stand before her. “A woman who holds her tongue. You’ll have the whole journey to prove it.”

  The Viking consumed all the air. Hemmed in by animals and man, she had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Her feet shifted, and she was intensely aware of being a woman with a man.

  She petted his horse. “You don’t want conversation?”

  “I prefer quiet women.”

  “Like the ermine,” she said flatly. “Travels easy. Doesn’t talk.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “We understand each other.”

  A breeze played with Rurik’s hair, showing a piece of his left ear was missing. On his chest, blood smeared the snarling wolf carved in his leather vest. The ferocious, round-eyed creature stole her attention the way snake charmers wooed a viper from its basket.

  The sign of the wolf.

  Before she was stolen, worry had rippled through Paris, talk of wolves joining Will Longsword, the Count of Rouen, as the Franks called him, Jarl and Chieftain to the Vikings. It was said Will Longsword, son of Rollo, thirsted for more land. The people of Paris fretted inside the beautiful citadel, fearing the son would take up his father’s old path, attacking Christians and demanding a Danegeld of
gold and silver to leave them in peace.

  Was she standing before Longsword’s newly favored wolf? A man who would one day come to burn her home?

  Rurik was speaking to her but she didn’t hear a word he said until, “...you could lay with me or any one of my men.”

  Her head whipped up. “What did you say?”

  She blinked fast. He was talking about sharing his bed. Or laying with one of the other Forgotten Sons. Like the frilla he’d assumed she was this morning. She’d learned the Viking word and the emptiness it meant. Concubine. Comfort woman. A nameless, faceless object of sexual pleasure. She would have none of it. Rurik made the arrangement sound as if this were a practical matter, yet his eyes narrowed, severe, unwavering—a predator’s eyes before he pounces.

  A chill pebbled her skin. There was no mistaking his prey.

  Male laughter came from the barn. The warriors broke from their discussion and headed their way. An awful churning tore through her stomach. Slaves made fair game for Viking lust.

  For the good of many, she needed to return home untouched.

  “Pay attention, sweeting.” Rurik hooked a gentle finger under her chin. “I’ll repeat my offer. You can have my protection or one of the others.”

  “This is not what I bargained for.”

  “It’s the bargain you’ll get.”

  She glared at him. “And if I want to sleep alone?”

  “Then you sleep alone here. I’m sure Sothram will keep you.”

  Her chin jerked free. The choices were stay with the Saxon and his vicious wife, brave the forest alone and try to get home, or trust these Vikings. She didn’t even know how long the journey was to Paris. Her coming to Sothram’s outpost had been a horrifying blur.

  Around her, men checked their saddles. Horse hooves stomped the ground. The men called Gunnar and Bjorn secured round red-and-black shields to their backs. Rurik took his shield off the ground and did the same. The Forgotten Sons would leave her and not think twice. This was what happened to a woman who trusted a Northman. She’d not get tender care; she’d get survival.

  “We’ll call it thrall’s choice.” Rurik’s eyes flashed a warning—Don’t play me for a fool.

  Her mouth went dry, and she’d swear the sun beat hotter though she stood in the shade. The Viking toyed with her. He’d already called out her seeress claim. Nor did he believe she was a thrall. The lie was her last shred of defense. She’d hold fast to it, especially among these men.

  The one called Thorvald mounted his horse and scowled at her. More beast than man, his craggy face had seen its share of fights. Restless warriors put on basinet helmets, their harsh stares tracing her from within iron eye rings.

  Wolves...all of them.

  “I choose you.” Her palm rested on Rurik’s broad chest, a chest she was sure puffed out once her choice was stated. “How long will it take to get to Paris?”

  The Viking averted his gaze. “Fifteen days at least.”

  “That long—”

  Strong hands grabbed her by the waist and lifted her off the ground.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  “Putting you in the saddle. Unless you want to walk.”

  Astride the horse, her torn hem rode up to her knees. Her hood fell back in the scramble to cover bare legs with the cloak, but the thin barrier couldn’t stop rough-skinned fingers from encircling her ankle.

  Take first. Ask later.

  Rurik’s hand disappeared under her cloak, stroking her calf as if he soothed a new pet. “Have you a name?”

  Carnal heat crept up her thigh. She grabbed the reins and twined her fingers with the leather, fighting the urge to yell stop! The Viking had charge of her now, in their uneasy alliance.

  “I am called Safira.”

  “Safira.” He repeated her name as if testing it on his tongue. “You will be safe with me. I will protect you.”

  “At the moment, I only need protection from you.”

  The corners of his mouth curled up. Under the cloak, his hand rested spread-fingered on her bare knee. Warm. Possessive. A tender show of power. The Viking leader knew his wayward hand flummoxed her. By the humored light in his eyes, he took as much pleasure in the vexing as he did in the touching.

  Satisfied male laughter rolled up his chest. He patted her knee and, in one lithe move, let go and mounted his war horse. Rurik put on his helmet, the iron nose guard nicked.

  “Men, we’ll avoid Sothram’s archers and go east to the Cailly River. We ride long and hard today.”

  A warrior lobbed a crude jest about riding long and hard. The men laughed. Cheeks burning, she raised her hood. Her limits would be tested on this journey. It didn’t matter. She was going home. Rurik galloped past Sothram’s open gate, dirt clods flying under his horse’s bowl-sized hooves. His men trailed in a thunderous wake, the pack horses chasing them on long tethers led by the one called Thorfinn. All went, save Bjorn. The giant circled the grounds atop his massive white steed.

  “Thrall,” he yelled across the yard. “Do you ride with us?”

  The door of Sothram’s feast hall cracked open. Hilda. The woman’s flat-lipped glare seethed, daring Safira to cast her lot with Vikings.

  A surge rushed through Safira. It was the yearning to reclaim her life and the strong desire to see her family again. The one called Bjorn didn’t have to ask twice. She urged her horse to a gallop and followed him to freedom. Wind blew her hair and whipped her cloak, giving her loose-limbed ease, the first since she’d been stolen at the last full moon. Leaving the Saxon’s outpost was easy.

  Keeping Rurik from touching her come nightfall? A welcome test of wit and will.

  Chapter Three

  Rurik removed his helmet, sweat sticky on his forehead. A smithy’s hammer pinged behind palisades spearing brilliant blue skies. Abbod village lay ahead. They’d crossed the north border into Will Longsword’s land, but he’d wager only Christians inhabited Abbod. Thatch roofs peeked above the spiked fence, square structures the Christians favored, not round homes pagan tribes preferred or Viking longhouses.

  The Cailly River’s musical rush drifted through trees lining the road. The water invited dirty travelers to take a drink and rest, but he itched to keep going. He had five days to reach Rouen in time for Jarl Will Longsword’s Midsumarblot feast.

  “Rurik.” Thorvald jerked a thumb at the thrall. “What’s she doing riding with us?”

  “She rides with you because your leader says so,” the maid cut in. “And she has a name. Safira.”

  Safira sipped from a pouch, bright-eyed and wind-blown in the shade with the others atop their horses in a broad patch of grass. The lone rider on the road, Rurik swigged water. The battle was coming.

  “A woman.” Thorvald chewed the last word. “What about our law?”

  “Bad idea having a woman along. Slows a man down.” Erik stated his opinion as fact.

  “And they’re weak.” Thorvald grimaced. “Especially the foreign ones.”

  Rurik curbed a smile when Safira nudged her horse forward and bumped the giant’s chestnut. She’d long ago given up covering herself. Black wool hung from her neck, the ragged cloak a dusty, twisted coil trailing her spine to her horse’s haunch. Safira’s sorry excuse of a tunic clung knee-high to dirt-smeared legs. She was a sight, sitting tall in the saddle, holding her own with Thorvald. The smash-faced warrior was the roughest of the lot.

  “I saved your hides, no?” She smiled at the men. “If I did it once, I may do so again.”

  Thorvald howled. “A woman? Save me?” Fist jammed on his thigh, he leaned over in his saddle, the two braids framing his face swinging forward. “You look like trouble.”

  “Enough.” Bjorn’s voice boomed. “Rurik says she rides with us. Then she rides.”

  Thorfinn inched his steed closer. Intent, hazel eyes sought Ruri
k before giving Safira a quick assessment. Three silver clips banded his beard’s small braid from chin to chest. His nose hadn’t met with near as many fists as his twin brother, Thorvald.

  “The Sons have never harbored a woman before.” Thorfinn’s voice rumbled with calm. “I trust our laws, but I trust Rurik more.”

  Rurik averted his eyes, the simple words—I trust Rurik more—scalding him.

  “And our law says, No women,” Thorvald grumbled.

  “Thorvald.” Rurik’s voice rose abruptly. He gave the smallest shake of his head and the giant fell silent.

  Gunnar removed his helmet and swiped his arm brace across his forehead. Born with a face that made women weak-kneed, the flaxen-haired warrior always drew feminine sighs. Rurik waited for tell-tale mooning from the thrall, but Safira was more intent on quenching her thirst than staring at Gunnar while he spoke to her.

  “Forgive Thorvald his surliness. He gets like that when he’s hungry.”

  Bjorn chuckled. “He’s like that when he’s fed too.”

  Laughter rippled through the men. Erik poured water onto his head and scrubbed a hand over his face.

  “Rurik,” Thorfinn called out. “The horses need water and rest.” He pointed at the pack horses’ foam-flecked muzzles. “These two are not accustomed to a full day’s riding.”

  Bjorn steered his horse to the road. “I can tell you want to keep going, but there is the matter of thirsty horses and hungry men.”

  “I know.” Rurik flexed his sore shoulder, an eye to the village. “Thorvald will eat his boot if we don’t give him food.”

  Bjorn rested both hands on his pommel. “Do we go to the village for the woman’s sake? Or camp here at the side of the road?”

  Raids had dwindled since Rollo’s rule. Norse wolves now guarded lands they’d once invaded. Still, Frankish folk barred their doors like skittish virgins when Vikings came around. Six Viking warriors on horseback breaching Abbod’s gate could stir up unnecessary trouble.

  “We’ll camp here,” Rurik announced.

  Bjorn got off his horse. “You heard him, men. All of you. To your tasks.”