by Gina Conkle
“Forgive me.” She turned to Rurik, raising her hood. “For the good of everyone, I ask that you let me trade for food in the village with you.”
“With rotten peppercorns?”
She sighed. “They are not rotten.”
“I warn you,” Rurik said, grabbing his sheathed sword off the ground. “If some merchant’s wife cries foul...”
She held up a staying hand. “I will be the soul of good manners.”
“The same as when you kicked Sothram?”
The men laughed, and Rurik strapped the sword onto his back. She scanned the circle, all of them on their feet, tall and skeptical at the small-boned foreign woman in their midst. Their smiles ranged from Erik and Thorvald’s grim show of teeth to Gunnar and Thorfinn’s mild friendliness.
“Laugh now, but all of you will sing my praises...even you, Thorvald.”
The giant snorted and lobbed a beet into the trees. “Whatever you do, do it quickly. A beast growls in my stomach.” He retreated to the camp’s perimeter, a bearded war axe over his shoulder. “I’ve got first watch.”
“I know how to trade.” Voice firm, she eyed Rurik. “Better than you, I’d wager.”
Massive arms folded across his chest. “You think you’re that good.”
“I know I am.” She gave him what had to be her first confident smile since leaving the Saxon outpost. “But it will come at a price.”
“I have heard that before.”
“I have learned hard lessons, Viking.” She took a step closer, speaking to Rurik alone. “We are all bought and sold in one manner or another...a truth ingrained in me the moment I sprouted breasts.”
She winced at the admission. It wasn’t meant to be said aloud, but her tongue got the best of her. To his credit, Rurik held her gaze, not once perusing her substantial breasts draped by an ugly cloak.
“Harsh words from a young woman who, if I’m guessing right, has never toiled a day in her life.” Strong hands, the nails clean and trimmed, fastened the sheath’s buckle. “Tell me, what is your price this time?”
She stood toe to toe with the Northman, enlivened. Free. The day, fraught with danger and fast riding, thrilled her. The trees, the sun and wild, open land, and yes, this Viking. Fierce and complex, Rurik made her blood hum. Nagging disquiet at being in a camp with six Vikings she’d met the night before faded to nothing...especially the leader with his harsh, beautiful mouth that curved into the most endearing smile.
Men strapped on weapons as if going to battle, not to barter...small axes tied to long thighs, knives set in sheathes and boots, vicious swords gleaming. Living by the force of their hands was their domain. Spice trade was hers.
“I propose a challenge.”
Rurik’s hands slowed on the buckle. “Name it.”
“Whoever makes the better trade, wins.”
He slid the leather strap through metal, his stare meeting hers. “And who determines the winner?”
She glanced at his men restless for food. “Why, the Forgotten Sons will.”
Rurik shook his head, his mouth turning in a humored, confident line. No doubt the Viking leader assumed victory was his. The pods were pebble-like in her hand. Tiny gifts. They’d saved her. She pressed her fist against her breastbone, relief making the ground light underfoot.
“And your prize?” he asked.
“If you will allow, I will name mine after I win.”
“Done.” Snapping his fingers, he called out, “Erik. Gunnar. Escort Safira to the village and see to her safety. She will conduct her trade on one side of Abbod while I conduct mine on the other. And men, we walk into Abbod, weapons sheathed.” He glanced at Bjorn. “You go with me. Thorfinn will stay with Thorvald.”
She nearly twirled with happiness. She would keep the wolf at bay.
Rurik of Birka was sure of victory. So was she. This battle roused her. That it pitched her against the Viking leader made the match all the better. With Thorvald watching over the camp from a tree, the men prepared to leave. Horses snickered from their places tethered to the rope. Erik tossed another piece of wood on the fire. Sparks fanned high, bits of gold flaring against indigo skies.
“Now it is for you to name your prize, Viking.”
Rurik donned his helmet, firelight rimming his iron eye rings. His gaze swept to the rock he’d used as a back rest. Coils of cloth sat there, shorn strips she hadn’t seen before.
A smile ghosted his mouth. “Like you, I’ll wait.”
She studied him, the folds of her hood grazing her cheek. They shared a private contest, and Rurik fed on it as much as she did. This fierce warrior leader demanded obedience, yet he craved her spirit. That truth lit up his face.
“I think you like our game,” she said.
His nod was noble. “You think right.”
Humming, she marched across the clearing, red peppercorns in her fist. Her certain victory emboldened her. On the road, she turned to the camp, where the men stared dumb-founded as if she were some unknown creature.
Laughing, she eyed Rurik and waved at darkening skies. “Come, Viking. Our game is upon us.”
Chapter Five
“I don’t care how you got the food,” Thorvald said between gnawing a goose leg. “But you did. Enough to feed us all the way to Rouen.”
Their bounty surrounded the campfire. Loaves of bread, rounds of cheese, a jar of honey, a roast goose, a haunch of venison, salted fish, dried apple slices, fresh plums, and two ampoules of Frankish wine. Barley and cabbage sat in a smaller bag near Erik’s feet.
“You mean enough to feed us all the way to Paris.” Safira tore off a morsel of bread.
It was odd how the men cast furtive glances at one another as Rurik answered with a cool, “Thorvald meant to say we go to Paris by way of Rouen. He must’ve forgotten in his enthusiasm for the food.”
The Viking’s surliness was warranted. Two measly loaves, an ampoule of Rhenish wine, and rabbit stew sat at Rurik’s feet, the portion he’d traded for.
She smiled at him across the camp circle, the aromas of smoked fish and peppered goose appeasing the rest of the Sons. “I won by bringing in the best food for your kvallsvard, no?”
Kvallsvard, the evening meal, was another new Viking word she’d learned.
“Whatever the contest—” Gunnar speared his knife into a wheel of cheese “—you won if we’re measuring victory by the quantity of food.”
Men grunted their agreement around mouthfuls. Rurik’s head tipped in silent acknowledgment. His eyes were hooded as if he’d already guessed the prize she’d claim—No. Sex.
Would he honor her demand?
She folded and refolded her cloak over her knee. Yes, she’d won, but victory was not sweet.
With night upon them, the world was pitch black. The trees. The road. The sky with its spray of stars. In Paris, candles and torches chased away blackness, but savagery encroached here. Bigger beasts roamed the woods, their eyes glowing from the forest. Erik, keeper of the campfire, tossed dry kindling onto the blaze. Flames shot high, the only light in which to read the faces of men she barely knew.
Erik rested against his saddle. He picked up a chunk of ivory from his lap and began to carve.
“You told the tanner’s wife red peppercorns are lighter than black peppercorns and taste like lemons.” He gouged the ivory, and a chunk fell to the ground. “That woman has never seen lemons.”
Fine hairs on her neck stood on end. One by one, chewing slowed around the fire. The wolves were listening to their brother.
“I had a lemon once...south of Rome.” Erik’s dark eyes slanted up. “Makes a man wonder how a slave knows so much about lemons and rare spices?”
Her palms dampened. Six ruthless men stared at her, their teeth ripping off hunks of meat. The wolves waited for an answer. The thing she thought would help, getting food
for their bellies, was the thing that condemned her.
“I know Khitan traders. They deal in spices such as red peppercorns.” She rubbed clammy hands on her skirts, forcing confidence into her voice. “They live near the Four Rivers beyond the Carpathian Mountains, the preferred trade route of far eastern kingdoms.”
“Khitan traders,” Bjorn echoed. “Are these your people?”
“No. I am Hebrew. I met a Khitan trader in Paris.”
“And this trader happened to share red peppercorns with you,” Rurik said, arms spreading wide. “A spice so rare none of us have heard of it, much less tasted it.”
Smoke billowed between them. Through the haze Rurik’s eyes glittered with calculation. The Viking assembled bits of information about her the way artists assembled mosaics...one fragment at a time. The cheerful ease she enjoyed with him before going to the village was gone.
“You were in possession of the spice.” She clutched her cloak over her chest. “It is a matter of having knowledge of it. That is the difference.”
The fire’s glow painted the faces of men casting sly glances to one another. Their bellies full, another appetite sprang to life. Avarice.
Vikings ransomed small kingdoms, demanding a Danegeld. Why not a wealthy woman?
Oh, the damage these men could do if they knew her identity.
Her grandmother had recounted tales of vicious Vikings requiring the people of Paris to fill barrels with gold and silver, or see Paris burned to the ground. Savta was a young girl forced to walk past the barrels and appease Viking greed. But, she was crafty, placing palm-sized rocks wrapped in gold leaf as her Danegeld price. The hammered gold was a lesser sacrifice than whole ingots or gold nuggets, and those Vikings were none the wiser of Savta’s trickery until they were long gone.
These men were sons and grandsons of those ferocious raiders. They would prey on weakness, wolves seeking unwary sheep. Savta had taught her long ago about a woman’s single most powerful weapon—her mind.
“You wonder how a slave woman has such knowledge, no?” She cleared the tickle in her throat. “I have worked in my master’s kitchen. You meet many foreign people. It is that simple.”
“And this is where you learned to speak our Norse tongue? In an eldhus.” Erik’s tone dripped with skepticism.
“Eldhus?”
“A heated room. Where women prepare food.” He smirked. “Wealthy, highborn Vikings have them, which you would have learned in your kitchen.”
Bjorn opened his mouth to speak.
She bolted upright, seeking Rurik. “You promised to take me to the river. I would go now...if you please.”
Beneath her feet, the ground shifted. Any more questions from the men would rain trouble on her head. Bringing the food, she’d won a battle. Yet for all her cunning, she’d gained victory only to lose part of her secret. Now all the Forgotten Sons sensed she was no thrall. She could see it in their eyes. These warriors wanted her true identity.
Only one man wanted her sex.
Rurik stood up. “Yes. The river.”
Fraying hems billowed around her legs in her hasty exit from the fire circle. Heart pounding, she waited for the Viking leader in the darkness. Rurik gathered his saddle bag off the ground and removed the leather tie banding his hair. From the rock, he collected the odd white wool strips and crammed them in the bag.
The lengths of cloth were good for one thing—binding a person.
Cold sweat nicked her skin. Night was the worst since she’d been stolen. Sometimes she couldn’t sleep from reliving the moment cruel hands grabbed her and jammed a shroud over her head. Tied and gagged in the back of a cart, she’d lost track of time as unknown men took her far from home.
Gunnar and Thorfinn unrolled their hudfats and stretched out on the sleeping furs, at ease and unafraid. From the trees, the Cailly River’s hush was faint music. The water’s babble should’ve calmed her, but Rurik slung his bag over his shoulder, striding toward her with a torch in hand. Night painted him darkly, save iron hobnails gleaming on his vest.
She hugged herself, hating that she trembled. “I see why you dress in black. None would see you coming at midnight.”
“The clothes have proven useful.”
“And when you attack in the daytime, it is because you want people to see you coming. They would cower in fear...all the quicker to surrender.” Her voice was jittery to her ears.
Rurik cupped her elbow, leading her away from the camp in silence. They walked into the woods, guided by the flickering flame. Twigs snapped underfoot. Leaves rustled and small creatures scampered. Camp noises thinned, a reminder she’d traded sitting with a pack of wolves to be alone with one. A wolf with very long strides. She quickened her pace to keep up with him.
“Black is good for scaling walls at night. Hiding in shadows.” Words tumbled fast. “Is that when you do most of your pillaging? At—” She stumbled on a root and slammed into Rurik.
Her palm rested on the wolf carved into his vest. Rurik’s breathing ebbed and flowed against her body.
“No need to throw yourself at me,” he chuckled.
She put some air between them. Her throat thick, she couldn’t fathom why mirth danced in his eyes. Interest lit his face too. It was in the cant of his head and the arch of one brow. She was a creature to be toyed with...and then devoured. Through the trees, the distant campfire was her only beacon, but none would help her there.
“What are you going to do to me?” Her voice was a wisp of sound.
“Take you to the river to clean up.”
His hair unbound, Rurik was every inch a pagan. A wild, frightening warrior. Men in Paris cut their hair at the shoulders, and they didn’t show their bare arms. Rurik’s thick blond hair landed in the middle of his back, and his arms had seen much sun. In a matter of moments, she’d find out how much of him had seen daylight.
Her heels inched backward in a carpet of leaves. “I wish to tell you my prize for winning—”
Snorting an impatient noise, Rurik swooped down and tossed her over his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” she yelped.
Long legs stretched one after the other. “Getting to the river faster.”
Blood rushed to her head. She grabbed him by the ribcage, her body bobbing in time with his strides. A solid arm banded the back of her thighs. She wasn’t going to fall, but the disgrace of being flung over his shoulder...
“This is uncalled for. Put me down.”
“No.”
He tromped through the underbrush. The forest blurred dark and uninviting. Hair slapping Rurik’s backside, she scrabbled to get off his shoulder. The torch dropped, and the flame weakened on damp soil.
“Stop fighting me,” he groused.
She pushed with all her might. “I demand—”
Smack. “You will demand nothing.”
Her mouth flopped open. Rurik had spanked her. A single slap. It hardly stung, but the indignity! The Viking’s fingers splayed across her bottom cheek full of ownership, as if he had every right to touch her. According to their bargain under the Saxon’s oak tree, he did.
Rurik stroked her offended flesh. “I will put you down, and you will stand quietly in place.”
She gaped at the ground. Her body was in the throes of rebellion. Rurik massaged aching flesh, and she didn’t want to move. The same thing had happened when he’d squeezed her hip after she’d crawled into his bed. Rurik had quelled her then and he quelled her now.
“Safira.”
She blinked. “Yes?”
“You’ve nothing to fear.” His humored voice vibrated against her hip. “I know what prize you want for bringing the food to my men.”
Her head popped up. “You do?”
“It wasn’t much of a riddle to figure out.”
“I don’t have to lay with you.”
&
nbsp; Rurik’s laugh was low and pleasant, but his hand on her was more pleasant. “You will lay with me.”
“But I don’t have to give myself to you.”
“You are free of that requirement for as long as the food lasts.” Rurik’s soothing hand went up and down, his callouses making snicking noises on cloth. “The way Thorvald eats, I’d say you have three days.”
Three days free of his base demands. His edict was given. She set both hands on his ribs, blood pounding in her head. She couldn’t guess what boon Rurik would’ve asked for because his tender caresses sapped sound reason right out of her.
“You’re not angry?”
“My men are well-fed. I have you to thank for that.”
“You didn’t look thankful at the campfire. Not you or your men.”
“Like me, they suspect there’s more to your tale than a simple Paris thrall finding her way home.” He palmed her bottom and waited. “What? You’ve nothing else to say? I’m learning you usually do.”
Rurik spoke to her with half his face pressed against her hip. It was intimate. And awkward. To her shame, she wanted more.
“You truly want to know what I am thinking?” she mumbled. The heel of his hand applied perfect pressure on a sore spot. She clamped her lips shut to keep from moaning.
“Yes.”
His voice was honest against the music of croaking frogs and the running river. Rurik of Birka wanted to know what went on in her head. He wasn’t belittling her. Nor did he fish for her secrets. She smiled at his boots. A man like that deserved the truth.
“I marvel at your skill in conversing with a woman you flung over your shoulder while rubbing away the ache in my backside.”
His chuckle was friendly. “It’s time I set you down.”
Rurik tipped her backward. Her body dragged over his in a slow, downward slide. A fine torture. The Viking was solid. Bigger than any man of Paris. And he was being nice. Hair veiled her eyes, strands of it fluttering from her breaths. Damp air wafted over tender skin between her legs.
She gasped. Her hem snagged on the Viking’s belt. She was naked from the waist down under her cloak. Rurik peered at the cloth rumpled between them, a grin growing in his sun-kissed whiskers. At least the travel-stained cloak covered her.
