Her Viking Warrior Page 2

  Such a tender-voiced message, yet each word cut to the bone. The raucous hall jarred his ears; despite it he was grateful. Thorfinn’s shoulder was a steady presence at his side. A lifeline. Erik’s slight nod gave a message, Your brothers are with you. They all knew the day his father had abandoned him in Birka. It was the same day Rurik had found Bjorn, taken him home, and convinced his mother, who’d struggled to feed four mouths, to take in one more. She did. Oddny’s kindness had saved Bjorn’s life.

  “I have news from home,” Ilsa said. “From your family.”

  “What home?” Ire sliced Bjorn’s words. “Rouen is my home, and these men are my family.”

  His bite missed its mark. Ilsa glowed with wrath-melting gentleness. Her features softened, but he couldn’t say if the lady across the table displayed womanly wiles meant to bend a man to her will, or if she reflected genuine childhood friendship.

  “Share some mead with me,” she coaxed. “Listen to my proposition.”

  “This news is now a proposition?”

  A fixed smile was her answer. Ilsa had ogre-sized balls to seek him on behalf of Vellefold. Sitting across from her, his senses stirred to smoke churning in Longsword’s hall, yet he’d swear he smelled the secret grove she escaped to as a girl. The pines and birches, the sticky resin on her hands and cheeks after she’d carved runes on trees. Her favorite grove had been full of those marks.

  The woman with him now had traveled a far distance to speak to him. For her courage alone, she deserved to be heard.

  He pushed a cup across the table. “One drink. That’s all the time you have to bend my ear.”

  Chafed fingers full of cuts wrapped around the wooden cup. Her fingernails were clean but roughly shorn, a contrast to ornately embroidered sleeves typical of wealthy, high-born women. Ilsa had strived for something and her hands had paid the price. Beside him spoons and knives scraped plates and heads bent low, the Sons tucking into their food, trying to go unnoticed.

  A feminine brow quirked. “I’ll take my drink with you alone.”

  Women of privilege. They believed they should get their way, but to call Ilsa haughty would be unfair. She was bred on climbing obstacles. All women of Vellefold walked with an air of mystery, unshakable as the high mountains surrounding the settlement. Did land form a woman? Vikings of the northwest lived where craggy peaks folded into narrow fjords. Vellefold was magical—rich, black soil tucked between crowning summits as if the gods had smoothed it for farming and pushed it to the sea for trade.

  A place coveted by Vikings and foreigners alike, and Bjorn wanted nothing to do with it.

  He eyed the men. “Give us the table.”

  Thorvald’s chewing slowed. “We’re supposed to leave?” He poked his spoon at Ilsa. “Because of her?”

  Gunnar drained his cup and set it down with a thunk. “Come.” The Whelp unfolded himself from the bench. “Let’s give Bjorn what he wants.” Grumbling men gathered plates and cups and removed themselves. Thorvald nabbed two more hunks of meat before scrambling to join the others in search of a place to eat.

  Ilsa watched them go. “They are loyal to you.”

  “As I am to each of them.”

  Her pale green stare drifted back to him. She was peaceful, firelight playing on triangle-shaped gold dangling from her ears. Rich green stones embedded a Byzantine design, but no rings decorated work-raw fingers nor did metalwork encircle slender wrists. Her neck was free of adornment too.

  Relaxing on her seat, Ilsa flipped both hands palms up to feed his wondering. Coin-sized blisters had recently torn open. “We rowed hard in heavy seas.”

  He winced. Two spots seeped on her hands. “Why? To share a proposition which I’m sure I’ll refuse?”

  “You haven’t heard what I have to say.”

  Unfriendly laughter rattled his chest. “If it has to do with Vellefold, I already know my answer.”

  “You hate Vellefold that much?”

  She was wide-eyed and open to him, her brightness too much. He had to avert his gaze. “Sure you want to spend your one drink hearing my answer?”

  “You really mean to grant me one drink?” she asked, a wind-chapped hand reaching for Gyda’s pitcher. “Very well. I will keep our cups full.”

  Ilsa poured amber mead to the brim, gold sparkling against her neck where taut skin covered symmetrical bones like silk pulled tightly over a frame. Her chore done, she set down the pitcher with a firm clunk.

  “You know, you weren’t my first choice, but I’m here because I gave an oath to find you.”

  Her smoky voice was...different. Testy. Perhaps tired.

  He shifted on the bench. “Your choice for what?”

  “To save Vellefold.”

  “You need saving?”

  “I don’t. Vellefold does. We were raided last spring. Twice.”

  He whistled softly. Definitely testy. “Things have changed.”

  His father’s iron rule must be weakening. No one had dared raid Jarl Egil’s settlement. Ever.

  “Now you understand why we need you.”

  Forearm planted on the table, he smiled coolly. “We, is it? Then you do need me.”

  She bristled at the distinction and sipped her drink. It was a small point to make. A bigger one was coming because Justice looked kindly on him today. Yes, he and Ilsa had been friends once, but they were closer to enemies now. He could live with that. By the impatient twist of her fair mouth, she could too.

  Does she really think I’ll run back to Vellefold? After all these years?

  He swirled his mead, smoke and noise cloaking him. This plea was a gift from the gods—to be asked to save the people who’d spit him out as a boy. Finally, finally that boy would get his due. Because Ilsa would get her one drink, then he’d send her away with a firm no.

  By her narrowed eyes, she was just as determined to win his yes. “You’re big but not the biggest of warriors—”

  “If size matters.”

  “—and your band of men is small and outnumbered for the fight ahead.”

  “Clearly you’re not trying to gain my favor with flattery,” he said dryly and took a long draught of mead.

  “And something tells me you don’t take orders well.” Her tone was decidedly iron-pitched.

  “Depends on who’s giving the orders.”

  Her mouth twitched. “It would be me.”

  “You?” he scoffed. “The Ilsa I knew avoided conflict and weapons. Where did you learn to fight? From one of your scrolls?”

  Lashes shuttered, she sipped from her cup.

  He laughed, truly amused this time. “You did. Or you think you have.”

  “One can learn much from the past.” Her jaw set, she wasn’t giving an inch.

  He rested both forearms on the table. Someone had gone soft in the head to let a plan for Vellefold’s safety come to this. “No wonder you’re asking for help. Some things can only be learned in the doing. Fighting is one of them.” Sex is another.

  Beautiful sea-green eyes speared him. The glint behind them was vibrant and wise, sending a thrum to his core. He’d swear Ilsa sensed his last thought—and considered answering it. The connection was akin to water rippling through him, peaceful yet stirring. It made him open his mouth to nurse their conversation when a smart man would walk away.

  “What things have you learned from your dusty scrolls?”

  “There is a great deal of strategy.”

  “But nothing about how to fight.”

  Pretty lips flattened. “No.”

  He acknowledged a seed of respect for the lady. She strove to use her brain for whatever fight was ahead. That was more than most. But, no matter how hard Ilsa tried, one truth would never bend: Vellefold’s warriors followed the strongest in battle. It was the Viking way. None would obey someone untested in war. Strength, courage, honor, and trickery lit a fire in a warrior’s eyes, made him or her thirst to serve a great leader because great leaders forged a path to wealth and fame.

  “The women follow me without trouble,” she murmured.

  Who followed his father? The question lingered, but he refused to voice it. Asking meant caring about the answer. Fingers drumming the table, he’d at least make sure Ilsa grasped one or two points of war before they parted ways.

  “You’re skilled at what weapon? The sword? A Norse hammer? Fighting hand to hand?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I do well with a bow and arrow.”

  “A hunter’s weapon. It works if you’re fighting from a distance, but there’s no dignity in it. A Viking wages war face-to-face. You know this.”

  Ilsa stiffened at him stating the obvious. Good. He was getting to her. Warrior leaders weren’t born, they were made, tested in battle, rising to their place after tasting blood and dirt and doggedly coming back for more. To think she could simply put on a leader’s mantle and fight would only get her and others killed.

  He leaned in close enough to see the texture of her lips. “You can’t be a leader and stand far from battle. You’re in it. Teeth to teeth with your enemy. Only one gets to walk away.” His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “Sure you’re ready for that?”

  Ilsa didn’t back down. “I need to learn how to fight. Many of us do. It’s why I’m here.”

  Have Vellefold’s people gone lazy? “It’s a crazed plan, and I already have plenty of reasons to say no. I won’t go back, nor will I take orders from a woman.”

  “You have no problem fighting with them.”

  “Shoulder to shoulder, yes. But I’ve yet to meet a woman worthy of being a leader of men.”

&
nbsp; Certainty danced in her eyes. She took his words as a challenge. Willful woman.

  “I think the sun has roasted your brain. Too much time in southern kingdoms has ruined you.”

  “My brain is fine,” he said through a curt smile. “You can’t accept that I don’t easily give my var.”

  “Yet you and your men have a reputation for selling your vow of service to the highest bidder.” Her words were as light as spring rain. She was proud and unrelenting, with color high on sun-kissed cheeks.

  “Now you think I can be bought.”

  Ilsa traced the rim of her cup. “Can someone...buy you?”

  A thrill shot fast as a flaming arrow down his midsection. His clothes were tight and the hall too crowded, though they sat alone. On instinct, he scooted forward, his knees swinging open under the table. Why her question did things to him wouldn’t be answered because another truth dawned: how long it had been since a woman last roused him in body and mind. By her faint smile, Ilsa knew her effect, and that was worrisome.

  “If my vow of service is for Vellefold, then no,” he said gruffly. “Gold and silver cannot sway me.”

  “What about a jarl’s seat?”

  Chapter Two

  Bjorn stalled, lost on her idle finger drawing a slow circle on the cup. Wild, crashing sensations broke inside her. She offered him power and was selling it with sex. Not the strategy she had in mind, but his stare was that of a wild beast.

  It gleamed.

  She breathed harder, her gaze dipping to the snarling wolf carved in leather on his chest—the sign of the Forgotten Sons. Her childhood friend was long gone. A warrior in stark relief replaced him, honed by adversity, a better man, not bitter or crude as she feared he might be. Hints of the once-proud son of a jarl painted Bjorn differently from housekarls at this end of the hall. Young and old, these Viking warriors proudly wore their brutality. War was milk and honey to them. Bjorn exuded honor. He was savagery tethered—exactly what her people needed.

  A content man, he’d found his place in life among bloodthirsty fighters.

  She would change that.

  “You haven’t answered me.” She gripped her cup with both hands.

  Bjorn’s nostrils flared. “About what?”

  “The jarldom.”

  Ice-floe eyes pinned her. Distant. Commanding. Seasoned in life. When he spoke, the corners of his mouth curled with faint disdain. “I’ve walked through enough palaces to know what you’re doing.”

  “Oh? What am I doing?”

  “Giving an offer a man like me can’t refuse. But I’m refusing it.” Her heart stuttered when Bjorn leaned in, blond hair scraping his jaw. “Only a fool lets the flesh between his legs do his thinking.”

  Her cheeks flamed hot. From anger? Embarrassment? Singeing lust? All three crackled between her and the bastard son.

  “You flatter yourself. I offer a jarldom. Not me.”

  His chuckle was rough and his voice mocking, “Once again you remove yourself from this plea for Vellefold, yet you’re the one who’s traveled far to speak to me.” He raised a cocky brow. “A man can only wonder, what’s in it for you?”

  A hair’s breadth of time passed. “Nothing.”

  Bjorn grunted at her hesitation and took another drink.

  Thickheaded man. “You know I speak of your father’s seat in Vellefold. Most men would seize such an opportunity. Jarl Egil has even vowed to give you half his wealth in silver ingots. Just for setting foot in Vellefold.”

  “He can keep it.”

  In her fervor, she’d inched forward. Her knee bumped his, the contact a shock, causing her lungs to squeeze within her chest. The hall’s noise, the swirling smoke all faded. Their faces were inches apart, two headstrong people locked in a match of wills. She waged a bigger battle, yet her senses stalled on the bones of her joint against his. Neither moved. She fed on the subtle bond, craved it, and that bothered her. By the glower on his face, something bothered Bjorn too.

  “You know the law,” he said. “No son of a jarl and a slave can inherit the seat.”

  The law was born from the subtle influence of Christian monks with Norway’s jarls. No other Viking lands honored such a law.

  She glanced away. “Jarl Egil has a plan for that.”

  “The old man is a wily fox when he wants something bad enough. Why does Jarl Egil want me now?”

  She winced at the barest ache breaking Bjorn’s words. Guilt was a burden that climbed easily onto her back. By showing up in Rouen, she was a partner to his misery, cracking open the past.

  Muscles in Bjorn’s jaw ticked. She wanted to smooth his discomfort to—

  “What about my loving half-brother?” he asked roughly. “Surely he’s arguing against this plan.”

  Rubbing the side of her cup, she was raw inside. “Thorstein argues for nothing. He is dead. Killed in a raid on Vellefold last spring.”

  Bjorn sat back on the bench. The weighty news was much to absorb. “The raids are bad tidings. I wish you and others a quick recovery, but don’t expect me to mourn Thorstein’s death. He was a viper, spewing poison like his mother.”

  “I know,” she sighed, and sat back. “Your father said long ago he was not the man to lead Vellefold. He wasn’t half the fighter you are.”

  “Then I’m not bad for my size, am I?” Fleeting emotions crossed his face, too fast to be measured. Time hadn’t lessened Bjorn’s distaste for Vellefold. The years had only strengthened it.

  Her notice wandered upward from his impossibly wide chest. “I’m willing to admit the skalds did not exaggerate your appearance of strength. When we were children, none doubted that you would grow up to be a great warrior. But, will you be strong enough to put aside past ills and help us?”

  Though they sat on opposite sides of the table, she couldn’t shake the feeling of circling him—and being circled. The wariness in his eyes, studying her, waiting for a weakness to show when it was she who’d flown across the seas, hunting down the rejected son.

  “Why do Vellefold’s people seek me after all these years?” His voice thickened. “Is the jarl...dead?”

  She startled. “No! Forgive me for not being clear.” She reached out for him. “He is alive but he cannot lead Vellefold’s warriors. The same raid that killed your brother—”

  “Half-brother,” he corrected.

  She steeled herself. “Yes, half-brother. That same raid left Jarl Egil bedridden from an axe wound to his spine. He is sickly, and Aseral has grown strong. We were able to drive them back but not without terrible losses.” Her spirit rising, she rushed on. “The gods have not been with us. A killing fever spread through Vellefold after the second raid, which led to late planting and a poor harvest.” She paused her rapid-fire speech. “Do you understand? Aseral’s warriors hunger to destroy our people! I fear, if they attack again, they will succeed.”

  “You speak passionately of our people, but they are not mine.”

  “How can you turn your back on us?” she cried.

  “Because the people of Vellefold turned their backs on me!” He flung loud words at her and young housekarls gaped from the next table. One glare and the men returned to their food.

  Bjorn’s teeth clenched and his scowl was black. “When my fath—Jarl Egil listened to his wife’s poisonous plan to exile me, none tried to stop him.”

  “Because they feared Valda’s wrath.”

  “And I bore the brunt of it.” He gulped air and tempered his voice. “Have you forgotten what happened? He left me in Birka with nothing but a sword on my back. I was scared. Alone. No boy should have to live that.”

  She winced and graced him with silence. Admitting his fear, even if it was a child’s fear, had to taste like brine in his mouth. A warrior preferred to walk the earth, believing it trembled in his wake, not taste words of weakness on his tongue. Jarl Egil’s wife had seeded the bitter harvest that Bjorn and all of Vellefold reaped. Valda had loved wealth and power. Any threats to her position roused her viper’s nature. Much of the time, Bjorn and his mother, Arnora, had gone unscathed.

  Until the jarl spoke of freeing Arnora and making her an elja. A second wife.