THE VIKING AND THE COURTESAN

by Shehanne Moore

  “And I’d be sending up offering to the gods if you weren’t. But you are. Ballast is expendable. Especially in stormy weather.”

  “Well, you’ll be getting rid of Ari then.”

  Right. Enough was enough. He was going to throw her over the side before Ari did. The noise coming from his friend’s throat said he was prepared to toss the woman. Sin didn’t want the Raven capsized in the process, the entire crew picking themselves out the water. Already they’d lingered here far too long. The Reindeer’s pale sail billowed in the soft breeze blowing up the inlet. It was time the Raven’s black one did the same. He stepped forward.

  What if that was exactly what the troll-toothed harpy wanted though? To escape? Eyes didn’t glint like hers did as he reached towards her. Not for nothing anyway. The recollection flashed of that second when she’d fumbled with the bag of gold at his hip. For an ugly witch she’d a strangely heated touch.

  He should throw her over than risk a recurrence of what had unexpectedly flared in that second. What was he afraid of? He’d carried her aboard, hadn’t he and not felt a thing. Apart from dents to his balls. And that odd second where the world retreated. He wasn’t afraid of anything. A troll in pink ribbons least of all. And he wasn’t going to suffer Ari’s pouting for the rest of the day. Yet he hesitated. Why did he hesitate? Because there was something fascinating about the way she tossed her head at him?

  He grasped his knife. He wasn’t giving in here and he wasn’t having her thinking it either. “You go get the sail hoisted.” He gritted at Ari. “I’ll deal with her. Go on.”

  Anyway, in some ways she was brave to face him down when she looked so hellish. Shivering and cold, the fine drizzle plastering her hair to her face. Raven black. Unusual for a Saxon woman.

  “As for you.” He deliberately waited till Ari stopped making the Ari charge noise and thudded away then he grabbed the rope cutting into her wrists. “I’d stop squawking, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Good for me? Oh, like that woman of yours no doubt. The one you stole us—”

  “—stole? Who said anything about stealing?” Odin’s ears, the woman was tiresome. “I paid good gold for you.”

  “Stole us, to cheat upon. How disgusting is that?”

  “So long as it’s not with you, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

  She hadn’t. When it came to choosing a woman, the blond would probably be the most efficient, although he couldn’t say for certain till he’d seen them all cleaned up. It might even be the small redhead was the prettiest.

  What he could say was, that when it came to choices, he wasn’t even Snotra’s first. That honour had gone to Godfrig, the bald old bastard she’d chosen over him four years ago. Why? Because he didn’t just not have enough money. He hadn’t had any money at all.

  His breathing deepened as he remembered that when it came to suitors, never mind those who’d kissed her beneath the pale moonlight—none of whom were worth a damn, himself included—some things were a matter of hope.

  He’d thought his were being rewarded when Godfrig had done the decent thing and dropped dead—his pockets empty as Sin’s—an hour before the wedding. But his hopes had been dashed, like a broken ship on the rocks, when Egil stepped forward to take the groom’s walking sticks.

  Egil, as in who her damnable old goat of a father had pronounced the best yet. Obviously, when the sickly damned toad had land titles fluttering about him like confetti. Had it mattered he was nine years old and they were not going to live together? That he was stone dead a year later? To the damnable old goat probably. Especially when the piece of toad shit had left her less than he himself could now amass in an hour. Was it any wonder he hated being second best? Third neither? Him? Now the owner of the Raven and the Reindeer?

  That she’d never married either of these specimens wasn’t the point. That she’d never married wouldn’t stop him making his. So the woman he chose to keep Snotra on her toes would be pretty. Not an ugly, black haired harridan who was capable of picking a fight with a fish, a fossilized dead one, on dry land.

  Of course he could be more gracious about the wedding. He could keep no woman at all. Why the hell should he though?

  She ducked her head, lowering her eye-lashes. “Sir . . .”

  He took a deep breath, a fog filled, drizzle laden one. While he wouldn’t say this was honey laced, it was almost placatory. “Drottin to you, sweeting.” Placatory or not he wasn’t having it. Drottin was certainly what he was. War-Lord.

  “Sir . . .”

  He flung the rope to the deck. “What?”

  “I know I have made something of a fuss. That to you I must seem unreasonable”

  The understatement of the year so far.

  “Me? That would be telling. It’s Ulric and Ari you need to take that up with.”

  “So be it. But the thing is, there is a valuable jewel back there. I swear there is a jewel there.”

  “Really.”

  “Indeed. If you’d just take me to the convent you can have it.”

  Take her back? So she could bite the rest of his men? Give him the slip in the mist? Not a chance of it. “I’m swearing too.”

  She raised her chin a fraction of an inch so he had an even better view of those unholy lips and her eyes, the colour of which it was actually impossible to determine.

  “That is very ungentlemanly, unless of course it is beneath your breath. Although I understand it may be better than swearing at me. I did drop that jewel. I dropped it on the grass. Please, please just let me back there. And not only will I give it to you, not only will it make up for any disappointment about this consignment, I will give you no more trouble. I swear it.”

  He’d never heard the likes. Was she accustomed to dealing with men that she bargained with him like this, all flounces? While he could understand the stupid wench passing herself off as a boy he’d never known any woman do that either. He certainly hadn’t applauded her ingenuity. Not in this world. It was the fastest way to have the clothes ripped off her and find herself passed around for men’s delight. Drottin of these men, or not, he’d have been hard pressed to stop them. Especially Gunnar’s mob from the Reindeer.

  As to how he had known she was a woman, as if she wasn’t proving it with this behaviour . . .

  He narrowed his eyes. “Let you back there?”

  “Yes.”

  “How large is this jewel exactly?”

  “Oh . . . it’s huge. Quite the largest I have ever seen. A beautiful, shining emerald. It will fetch quite a price should you choose to sell it. And if you do not, if you chose to give it to your lady, then . . .”

  “Well I am choosing.” He managed a smile—just. Perhaps his thoughts showed in his eyes because she raised her chin higher.

  “Really? Oh, then I can’t tell you how glad I am. His majesty himself entrusted that jewel to me. I am sure he will reward you.”

  Perhaps. But the effect of her pale wildness on him was something he would smother. He could and would take his eyes off her.

  When it came to bed slaves she wasn’t even on the list. As for this ludicrous story about the jewel, he felt his forehead crinkle with the effort to stop his brows from rising. He wasn’t a fool and he wasn’t in love with her. Only one, or the other, would believe this sorry tale. He was not falling for this and even if such a thing did exist, Snotra had quite enough jewels.

  “Not a chance of it, sweeting. I’m not letting you anywhere except where you are.” A footstep sounded behind him. Obviously he’d work to do, getting the Raven underway. “Gilli . . .” He didn’t need to explain to the young man she needed guarding. His cousin always understood him perfectly.

  As to how he’d known she was a woman? Simple. Never mind the soft, rounded curves that stupid damned garment she was wearing clung to, wh
en she’d stepped up to take the bag from his waist, that scorching yet somehow soft touch, couldn’t have belonged to any man.

  Not her? It wasn’t going to be her? Well, she’d news for him, news she didn’t care if she broadcast from the crow’s nest. Crocodiles? Crocodiles? She wouldn’t just swallow crocodiles, a Mississippi of them, its tributaries too—whole—she’d swallow an emporium. Of elephants, of giraffes. Before she’d be his. Bringing her on here, a stinking, leaky tub, to be his bed slave. She wasn’t anyone’s slave. Their bed slave least of all. How the blazes had he known she was a woman though when she’d taken such pains to disguise it?

  “Jesus’s sake, what did you have to go saying all that for? Can’t you just hold your big, fat tongue ‘stead of rousin’ his temper?”

  “No, Gentle, I’m afraid I couldn’t.” Big? Fat? The cheek of some of those without the benefit of a mirror seldom failed to amaze her. “I don’t think you understand. The situation I’m in here. This is not where I belong.”

  “I hope you think the rest of us do, Milady Poshlugs—”

  “Poshlugs? This? From fat ones?” Unfortunately she was too busy fighting back a tear of frustration to bite her tongue. He hadn’t believed her. What was she going to do now? “How typical when there’s a man involved for you to try to demean me by referring to my ears as being upper-class.” At least she hoped that was what Gentle meant by Poshlugs and not anything even more insulting in Saxon times. “Still, if you just keep your equally big mouth shut about me getting over the side here, I can escape and you can have him all to yourself.”

  Gentle eyed her thoughtfully. Oh, she wanted that, didn’t she? Thank God. A shining jewel back there on the grass, her pink-ribboned pantaloons. At all costs she needed to escape. Not just to get back to running Strictly, to ruining Cyril, either. How was she meant to live in the wrong world? A shoeless world? Look at what Gentle wore on her feet. Tied sacks. That other pair, that pair Madam Faro had promised to keep for her, would be sold by now and she would never get them. She would never get anything. It wasn’t just that these men were raiders, the lowest of the low, dealing in every kind of human misery, she could not let them take her away from this spot. She would never know how to get back here.

  The prow, the water, were her only chance of escape. Enough mist lingered to cloak her. Although her legs felt like custard, she managed onto one knee.

  “You really think you’re competition?”

  What?

  “But let’s just suppose for the sake of argument, you are.”

  Suppose? There was no suppose about it. She was. Look at this grossly larded backside with short cropped hair. A grossly larded backside with short cropped hair that had the absolute nerve to curl her lip at her too?

  “Do you really think he’d want someone who can’t shut their big gub? Men don’t like that. Unless it’s on them.”

  Dear God, at all costs she must swallow a Noah’s ark of animals, rather than show how deeply ingrained with shock she was by the sheer crudity of the words. Especially in regard to him. She ran Strictly Business, didn’t she? Even if the level of her own experience was strictly zero and she had to pretend to the courtesans she was one of them, she could not allow this behemoth to speak to her as if she knew nothing at all. “Oh? And you know what men like do you?”

  As if she could. Why, she’d be lucky to get a man to look at her, never mind anything else. Although the size of her, she’d be hard to miss.

  “I know enough.”

  “I see. The convent whore, were you?”

  Well?

  “Oh, you’d be surprised what I was.” The soft chuckle was unexpected. “That’s how I know—look around you—this could be a very good life. So I’d sit back down if I were you.”

  “What? Are you crazy?” Malice tore a breath and glanced around. “I’m not staying here.”

  But she was, wasn’t she? What was she thinking about getting into a tussle with this gargantuan goat, when a black sail suddenly billowed above her and she hadn’t convinced him, the tall, stunning figure ducking beneath it, the wind ruffling his gilt hair and these damned icy-blue eyes, visible even through the coiling mist, to put her ashore? Short of ripping her drawers off and offering herself, anyway. She hadn’t managed to escape over the side either. No wonder her heart hammered so hard she thought the beats might kill her.

  She was stuck here. Stranded. The shore line retreating into a misty shroud, unless she dived headfirst into the water. Fine if she could swim. But she couldn’t. Not a stroke. Even in six inches of water. And she’d rather swallow an ocean of crocodiles than drown.

  Unless . . . she swallowed what felt, not just like that ocean but every ocean on the planet . . . he wanted a bed slave.

  She made that her price.

  The redhead, the one Ragmoose had snatched from the farm, was something, wasn’t she? Now, dawn edged the sky with amber fingertips and the water lapped softly against the prow of the boat. The bench beneath him barely rocked, Sin’s thoughts returned to those under the tent in the stern. His gaze too.

  Despite that squall there during the night, when there hadn’t been a star to steer by for what seemed like hours and the ship had been tossed around like a cork, the redhead hadn’t uttered a single wail. She not only had manners, she’d washed her face with some of the water Gilli had given her. Thanked him too, instead of throwing it on the deck, like . . . well, he wasn’t going to think of her.

  This wench had the finest silk hair. Just look at it, lifting like a veil in the breeze. Yes. Given the right clothes she might be just the one to make Snotra jealous, let her know, that while she was queen of his home, his heart was private. Parts of it anyway.

  Of course she was queen, had always been, ruler of that kingdom. Probably since the day he first arrived at Uncle Gustruff’s farm, a boy of ten, and there she was chasing butterflies through the meadow, Ari lumbering along in her wake, blond plaits bouncing, big as an elephant even then.

  There was no point pretending about Snotra. But she’d burned him. Her and her goat-faced goat of a father between them because it was another time he just wasn’t good enough. The redhead would be his line in the sand.

  The troll was also awake. At least she stirred. He didn’t know if that meant she was awake, or just flailing her arm groggily about in the sleeping blankets he’d flung at her last night. Her face had been as green as pea gruel and she’d had trouble keeping the contents of her stomach from spattering her tunic front. Not the most edifying sight he’d seen in his twenty five years on earth, he must admit.

  His gaze strayed back to the redhead twining her fine silk tresses round her soft white fingers. Now that . . . that was something worth looking at. The right clothes and a little jewellery and she’d be enough to make any woman jealous. Of course bed slaves were the lowest of the low. It didn’t mean they should be treated badly.

  Of course he absolutely intended being faithful to Snotra.

  Even with a woman as pretty as the redhead, why would it be a problem? He’d been faithful to her before hadn’t he, when he’d courted her? Of course there had been women. But only after her father had made it clear his courtship wasn’t welcome. Only when she’d been betrothed to Godfrig and Egil. He was a man, wasn’t he? And it would be an odd sort of man who hadn’t had a woman.

  The witch’s eyes lit on him, then they lit on the redhead and then, there she was, kicking her legs in these damnable pink ribboned things, free of the blankets.

  “I think she sees herself as the chosen one. But you’d be out of your helmet to take her.” Ari tore two hunks of bread. “Here. It’s damp but edible.”

  The chosen one? Dragons would breathe fire around the Raven first. Accompanied by trolls. He chewed a mouthful of bread. He wasn’t going to be drawn into this. “She can think what she likes.”

 
Was that why she now dabbed her face? To be in competition with the redhead? Make him notice her? He wouldn’t if he were her. He’d sit the hell down, stay the hell still and shut the hell up. It was obvious she was no sailor and any minute . . . any second now . . . especially given the way the ship bobbed up and down. Nothing if your face wasn’t pea green. Nothing, if you didn’t suddenly cover your mouth. Nothing, if you didn’t career across the stern, into the side and hang your face over it. Well. That would teach her.

  At least she didn’t go over it. No. That was down to—what was her name, Gentle—shooting her hand out and seizing her ankle?

  He stuffed the remains of his bread in his mouth.

  “Potlicker.” Ari handed him an apple. He sank his teeth in. The crunch was very satisfying. “I told you she’d be better over the side.”

  True. But he couldn’t let the damned stupid ass be where she was better, could he, the devil take her to hell and back again? He tossed the apple aside. Smothering a series of curses he squeezed down the center aisle. Any moment now she was going to pitch right over the side. Then, whatever he chose to do with her, keep her in his household, or sell her or, give her to his younger brothers even, think of all he’d lose.

  He shot out a hand and grabbed the sodden back of her tunic, welded so firmly to her body, he fisted it to get a grip. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Oh . . . I . . . I . . . Oh, please forgive me, Drottin to you . . .”

  “What?”

  “W-what you t-told me to call you.”

  Was she deliberately mocking him? And what in Odin’s name was this greeting him in the new day hanging over the water like a promise? A smile? When even her sea-sprayed face seemed to tremble, although that was probably an illusion caused by the shimmering water that had just lashed it. Not to mention the damned way her parted lips shook. Was Ari right? And this was the reason for the sudden amenability?