Kept by the Viking

by Gina Conkle

  “Did you think they would say otherwise?”

  Longsword acknowledged that truth with the barest nod. “In time, their actions will bear them out. I came to tell you I’m letting them go in the morning.”

  “To leave?”

  “To serve me.”

  Safira set one knee on the bench and bent low to knot the bandage.

  “What about Vlad?” he asked quietly.

  “He will also serve me.”

  Safira bolted upright. “How could you let that man serve you?”

  “Vlad honored my word,” Longsword bit out. “Sigurd did not, and he paid the price with his life.” His glower could split wood. The jarl honed it on Safira, his bearing sending a message of, Have you lost your mind, questioning me?

  The table creaked under Rurik. It hurt to move, and it hurt to stay still. This battle of wills was what happened to the man who cast his lot with two proud, highborn people. He’d let the jarl have his say as long as the chieftain respected Safira’s right to hers.

  “Today’s fight was about a show of skill and the ability to take orders, no matter the circumstances,” the jarl explained. “Both men have lived by their word as law. Now they must live under mine.”

  “The holmgang was never about stolen beer,” she said with disgust.

  Longsword’s shrug was unrepentant. “Don’t forget, Rurik was ready to fight to the death.”

  “You play with people’s lives.”

  “A man in my position must be sure of the warriors who serve him. The enmity between Vlad and Rurik is unfortunate, but their renown speaks for itself. And I want the best.” Longsword’s voice was steely before his gaze sought Rurik. “You were in the southern forest. You know I need good fighting men.”

  “But Vlad?” He winced at pain lancing his ribs.

  “You both come with well-deserved reputations and equally skilled warriors following you. You both served an overlord in a similar arrangement once. There is no reason to believe it can’t be done again.”

  “In a vaster kingdom than this.” Rurik slid off the table and loosened the ties at the side of his vest. “What about the land?”

  “It’s yours.”

  “Because he won,” Safira said fiercely. “And because you know he is the better man. You’ve known it all along.”

  Rurik basked in her passionate defense. She was quite the lovely, black-haired Viking maid.

  “I have no regrets,” Longsword said. “Rurik showed his mettle and will be richly rewarded.”

  Astrid gave a disapproving snort and plunked a bucket of sand on the table. The jarl frowned at his matselja who stood tall before her chieftain.

  “It would seem you have a great many supporting you,” he said to Rurik. “Among them, Abbott Ebbo. Ademar explained your history with Vlad. The abbott was impressed with your restraint in not killing your father.” A wry smile cracked Longsword’s grimness. “Because of your conduct today, you’ve won a new and powerful ally.”

  “I walk away from revenge in a Viking kingdom, and I’m rewarded.”

  “One of the strange truths I live with every day,” the jarl said.

  Land comes by blood and force.

  Did it...truly?

  Rurik shook his head. That was wisdom to contemplate another day. Safira’s footsteps shushed on the earthen floor beside him. She tossed a handful of sand across the table and kept her counsel. Very unlike her, this unbidden cleaning and her sudden quiet.

  Longsword watched her, displeasure writ plainly on his face until he addressed Rurik. “You are a revered warrior and now second only to Ademar. The lodgings I offered on your arrival are still yours.”

  “I found another woman in my bed.”

  The jarl laughed. “And that is a problem?”

  Cloth in hand, Safira’s vigorous swipes sent sand flying across the table. She polished the wood, her spine stiff. When the time was right he’d tell her Longsword wasn’t an odious swine. He was callous. Used to making alliances and maneuvering people for his own ends. No woman had touched his heart, and by the calculated moves he took with those around him, none would.

  Rurik grabbed Safira’s hand and linked his fingers with hers. “I will sleep on your drakkar ship with Safira.”

  “Sleep wherever you want,” the jarl groused. “As long as my orders are obeyed.”

  Astrid banged wooden platters and gave them her back. Skirts swishing. Clanking jars set right. She burst with opinion that she dared not voice, not with others in the room.

  Longsword’s stare traced the woman who had cared for him in childhood. “Will I have no peace in my own home? Women thwart me at every turn. The Breton Queen. A Paris maid. And a cranky Lady Brynhild—” the jarl’s gaze shot to Rurik “—who came to Rouen expecting to meet her future husband and now refuses to pay her tribute because I failed to deliver one as promised.”

  “A leader’s troubles,” Rurik said. “Someday may you find a worthy woman to stand at your side.”

  “Better yet, may you be worthy to stand at hers.” Safira’s Norse had never been so true.

  The grim-faced jarl opened the door to mist blowing past the lintel like wisps of wool. He stepped outside and turned to face the warmth within.

  “The holding is yours, Rurik. You won Abbot Ebbo’s respect and the confidence of Rouen’s people. But these lands will bear Viking seed. Make no mistake—you must marry a Viking woman.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Rurik lay flat on his back in the ship’s hold. Rain beat a rhythm on the deck, sending water streaming through an egg-sized hole, which Safira stuffed with a rag until the drips dwindled.

  “That should work for a while,” she said, crawling back to him on hands and knees.

  Thanks to Gyda and Thorfinn, they were amply supplied with blankets, a soapstone lamp, and a bladder of wine. Astrid had offered the Sons beds inside the feast hall, a typical arrangement for lower order guests and unmarried men in need of a place to stay. None had wanted to sleep in the tents they’d pitched along the Seine their first night in Rouen. The Sons happily accepted Astrid’s kindness which she sweetened with linens and pillows.

  But, in the jarl’s drakkar, the mood was...uneasy.

  Safira was cheerful with Rurik. Too cheerful and brittle. Untying his arm braces and leather vest. Taking off his boots and cleaning mud and sweat from his body. Helping remove his trousers, and holding them up with one hand, the ripped leg in the other.

  She wrapped the dirty wool end over end, her forced brightness fading. “I will have to sew these. I hope you have another pair.”

  “I do.”

  “Now that you’re the third highest man in Rouen, you should get fine clothes befitting your new position.”

  Safira knelt at the end of their rough bed and swept her hair to one side. Without a word, she pulled an elk bone comb through the black silk, one stroke after another. This was almost the same as their time in the wilderness, the world’s trappings melting away at night...his sacred hours alone with her.

  He folded an arm under his head. “I need a woman to sew these fine clothes.”

  “Your wife will do that.”

  Wife. Staring at the woodwork overhead, he exhaled long. The land was his. Safira was not. Her bland tone made that clear, but he was at a loss what to do. Ask him to chase an enemy. He would. Ask him to battle a bear. He would. Ask him to be open with a woman, and words were ashes on his tongue. He could listen to her musings, but the downward curve of Safira’s mouth demanded a fair exchange of conversation and shared...feelings.

  She expected him to say something—but exactly what?

  No wonder he preferred the battlefield. A man could dodge flaming arrows.

  “Safira. What ails you?”

  Her laugh was dismal. “I am not ill, Rurik. I love you.” The combing stopp
ed, and she kissed the top of his foot.

  “Then you will stay with me.” The ache in his voice was undeniable.

  Her eyes softened at the corners as if she shored up patience for him. Love was strange. It wrecked a man for the sole purpose of making him whole. But he didn’t feel whole. That truth was the weight on his belly pinning him down and gutting him.

  If Safira couldn’t be at his side as wife, she didn’t want to be with him. No half-measures for her. She wanted all of him.

  To her people, a fylgikonur was shameful. To his, it was practical.

  His fists curled on the fur. How could she not see the two of them together made sense?

  “I love you, Safira,” he said fiercely.

  Her lips parted. “You do?”

  “Yes. You belong with me.”

  As declarations of love go, it wasn’t romantic. No maid ever waxed long about him saying pretty words. He’d lived by the force of his hand. Thrived on it. Yet, in this fight for Safira, the words I love you didn’t bring the magic he sought to heal this rift. What else did she need? Wasn’t his heart enough?

  The ship creaked in the dying storm. Outside the gods let their tempest run its course because another would take its place—the finer push and pull of Rurik and Safira.

  Who would win?

  “I’ll never love another woman.” He pushed up, having a care with his leg. “You are the one I want to grow old with.”

  Her swallow was a fragile sound. “But the land...”

  “What about it?”

  “You cannot have the land and me.”

  “Why not? Lady Brynhild will live in Fecamp, content with her gold, and you and I will be together. We will build my holding and make a grand longhouse in the Arelaune Forest.”

  There was a grasping, arrogant thread in his voice. He didn’t wear desperation well, sitting in his loin cloth, battered in body and spirit.

  “Do you hear yourself? You speak of your holding, not ours.”

  “A slip of the tongue.”

  “No. You meant it,” she said hotly. “These are your possessions. The land. Your coming wealth, and they are richly deserved. I want you to have them, but I will not be a prize you keep.” Fingertips tapped her breast bone. “I am free to choose my own path.”

  “Haven’t you been happy with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then choose me,” he huffed.

  Safira’s brows pinched and she dipped her head. The woman used to the finest silks and furs was wearing another borrowed plain linen underdress. All had been stripped from her, but this choice to be with him was hers. He wanted to force her to stay. He could. The temptation to hide Safira ate at his insides, balanced against the seeds of goodness she’d planted in him.

  He wanted to roar I have chosen you but you have not chosen me.

  The land and the woman. Did it have to be one or the other?

  Slumping back onto their makeshift bed, he hooked an arm under his head and stared at the ship’s hold. It was clinker built, the oak planks fitting into each other the way a man and a woman fit together. Safira snuffed the soapstone lamp and snapped open a blanket. She settled on the fur with him, making sure they did not touch. His Paris maid was stiff. Prickly. For once, he wished for a gifted tongue. Somehow, I’m keeping you didn’t sound romantic.

  He wanted a willing woman.

  “Stay with me.” His voice was gruff with yearning.

  She rolled onto her side and studied his profile. He could always feel her watching him.

  “You keep saying that, Viking, but you know my terms.”

  “That’s right. I face a formidable negotiator.” He was tired, his body ached, and her warmth seeped into his skin beneath the blanket.

  She stifled a giggle in the pillow. “I will not let you charm me.”

  “Charm? Me?” he snorted. Even their disagreements had a pleasant side, like a promise that something better would come of their strife, but this time he wasn’t so sure.

  The vessel rocked gently and wood planks groaned. Water trickled from the rag-stuffed hole, the light stream falling into a strategically placed bucket. Safira deserved better than a night on a leaky ship, wearing a thrall’s borrowed clothes. Cloth shushed the fur beside him. Fingertips grazed his ribs with the lightest touch.

  “Vlad hit you badly here.”

  “But no broken bones.” He closed his eyes and absorbed Safira’s affections...her breath fanning his shoulder...her knees against his hip as her hand skimmed his torso. The intimacy was as perfect as sex.

  “You were magnificent today.” She adjusted her pillow nearer to his. “You kept your word to not kill a man who deserved it.”

  “I would keep my word with you,” he said quietly. “You know it’s true. I will stay with you. That should be enough.”

  “So says the mighty Viking.”

  “Marriage vows didn’t keep my father around.”

  “That is different.”

  It wasn’t. But he’d let that pass for now. The vessel’s soft, creaking sway lulled them. Safira scooted closer, stretching an arm across his chest, a contented sigh passing her lips. Cuddling had its merits.

  “There is something I must tell you.” Her voice was chastened and quiet. “Vlad sent one of his men to my home in Paris. He left the day you rode into the southern forest.”

  “The eighth man,” he said flatly.

  Safira searched his profile. “That means my father will come for me any day now. He will come with many men and he will come with gold to pay you and the Sons for rescuing me.”

  Rescuing her. Safira had saved herself and found her will on their journey. She would no more accept half-measures with him than with her family. Not anymore. When her father came for her, he would find the spoiled Paris maid gone. In her place was a strong-willed woman who looked to the needs of others, a woman unafraid to speak her mind to a jarl, or weave a spell for a hall full of Vikings.

  She showed cunning by striking a bargain with Vlad, his enemy. A woman like that deserved to walk the corridors of stone-floored palaces, her silken veil floating behind her.

  He set a hand on hers resting on his chest. “You rescued yourself, Safira. Never forget that.”

  “So you keep telling me. But I am not Ellisif. I wouldn’t know what to do with a sword.”

  “You think having courage is about weapons? Killing is simple. There are many ways to do it. Living wisely...that is hard.”

  Safira kissed his shoulder. One kiss, then another. Each touch of her mouth to his skin was another seed she planted inside him. Lust. Affection. Friendship. Laughter. Companionship. She’d taken care of him, a low-born Viking of Birka. She, who had lived in the richest homes, had servants attend her every need, waited on his comfort because she wanted to.

  His eyes squeezed shut. Her thoughtfulness speared his heart.

  “Is there an at skemmta ser for a warrior after a battle?” she whispered, her hand slipping lower. “A way to amuse ourselves despite your wounds?”

  The Viking words rolled off her tongue. Her ease with seduction did too.

  “If we are very careful.” His voice was scratchy and low. Exhaustion and teasing touches sapped him.

  “If I use my hands only.”

  Skilled fingers stroked him, teased him. A brush. A caress. Featherlight and easy as he lay on the well-traveled fur. His heart beat faster. He wouldn’t spill his seed inside Safira. There’d be no lusty joining tonight with his wound. Only simple pleasuring.

  His hand skimmed the triangle of hair between her legs, but Safira caught his roving hand.

  “No, Viking. You will lay on your back and keep both hands at your sides. I will attend you. Did you not tell me ‘there are no rules’?”

  His laugh was thick with desire. “You’re a fast learner.”

 
“Because I’ve had an excellent teacher.”

  This was letting go. His hands palm down on his hudfat while Safira sowed soft kisses and even softer touches on his body. But in the dark, the ship’s empty pegs lining the hold taunted him. The jarl’s blue tunic hung in the room where Lady Brynhild slept—the fine Viking woman he would never love, yet was to marry.

  Giving in to Safira’s sensual play, his heart swelled. Lust and love expanded there, a place once made of ice and stone. Love grew in impossible places. There had to be a way for them. He would find it.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Safira climbed out of the hold, the two parts of his trousers in hand. “I am sure I can mend this today.”

  Rurik jumped from the ship’s rail to the dock, his thigh throbbing. Safira tucked his ripped clothes under her arm and walked down the wide plank he’d set for her. Thick, rainless clouds buffeted by wind conspired to block the sun. Merchants opened up their stalls. A new ship, Frisian by design, docked nearby. In the distance, a Frankish ship manned by twenty oarsmen sliced through choppy water.

  On land, Gunnar and Erik waited near the blacksmith’s open doors. A woman idled with those two, holding a basket against her hip. Three maids passed, giggling behind their hands at the warriors.

  “Look at that.” Safira nudged him. “News has spread. The Sons are here to stay, and Rouen’s fair maids approve.”

  “They’d better soak up the attention now. There won’t be much time for women in the coming months.”

  Wind blew strands of hair across her face. She’d bound it loosely at her nape with a white wool strip. In the hold, she’d asked Rurik to tie another farther down her back. Fixing her hair had been intimate and sweet.

  The fluttering bow taunted him. You’ll miss this.

  Setting his hand at the small of her back, he said, “Let’s go to the hall and eat.”

  Despite their hunger, they ambled along the deck, taking quick checks of each other, one hesitant smile drawing out another.