To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse Series Book 2) (2 page)

“You don’t want to be a free woman?” Ella asked.

To say no to a man? To stand as his equal and speak her mind? Viking women did, and men listened. The sight of it stunned her. No one had ever asked if she wanted freedom, not until she came to Uppsala. Nor’men and women lived with passions as sharp and bright as their long summer nights. Nothing could contain them.

Growing up a slave of Frankia formed her differently. Sex was her currency. Survival was all she knew. Yet, she loathed men handling her like common goods. Her favorite trick to evade unwanted attention, ply a man with ale until he passed out.

She winced. Sometimes the ploy didn’t work.

“Freedom.” The word tasted unusual on her tongue. Yes, she wanted it. Badly. But, she hoarded that truth. Life was safer if no one knew what she truly wanted. A secret hope couldn’t be taken away. Scratching her thumbnail across the barrel’s wood grain, she finished, “I’ve been a slave from birth. This life is what I know.”

Ella rested both elbows on the barrel’s lid, her cat-like blue eyes flaring at the sight of the man with Brandr. “Well, if I had
to be sold, I wouldn’t mind belonging to him.”

The raven-haired warrior diced for paltry coins. He was only a few years older than Sestra, but his handsome face bore the openness of one not scalded by life.

And like metal to lodestone, her attention shifted to Brandr.

His profile could be hewn from a distant wilderness. Harsh places had built his rugged frame. He stretched one long, muscled leg along the bench, showing trousers coarsely mended in three spots. Probably done by him. The Viking had little more than her.

“No. I need a lord dripping with gold, someone to make life easy.”

“Sestra,” Ella giggled. “You’re a thrall.”

“But a smart one.” She winked and bent to fill another pitcher. “There is one thing. I tire of men grabbing me. I’d like to be free of that.”

Ella looked blissfully at the roomful of warriors. “Lady Henrikkson keeps me close most nights for anything to happen.”

“Be glad she does,” she said softly.

Lady Henrikkson had taken Ella in as a babe. It was only natural the matron would be especially watchful of her. When male guests stayed at the Henrikkson longhouse, Lady Henrikkson beckoned Sestra to give comfort if needed.

Most thought her quick-tongued and flirtatious, but years of rutting men left her heart brittle. No man could truly touch her.

A dull ache yawned in her stomach pressed against the barrel. Memories of gentler times threaded her mind. Her mother’s warm smile on a cold day. A kind touch and laughter shared. Those images frayed the way of old cloth, the cost of seasons passing.

She blinked thrice, wetness prickling her eyes. Dust must have caught on her lashes. “I say find one master who guards his house well and all others leave you alone.” Her voice lightened. “Life needn’t be so hard for the likes of us.”

“I know what you want, less work or none at all.”

Her forced grin faded. Would she ever
stay in a settled home and have a place to live until her final breath?

“What about him?” Ella bumped her shoulder, her gaze sliding to Brandr. “I vow he’d guard a woman well.”

 “Brandr?” She wrinkled her nose. “I wouldn’t want him to have control of me. He’s too…too…” 

“Too what? Too handsome? Too strong? Or too smart to let you lead him by the nose?”

“No. More like too big, too poor, and too…too…” She huffed, searching for the right word. “…too
hard
a man.”

“For you to manage you mean,” Ella said, tossing back her ebon braid. “I’ve heard highborn ladies whisper about him. They seem to like him very much.”

A hot pang hit her. No wonder the surly Viking didn’t touch her. Why would he when highborn women beckoned from lavish, fur-covered beds?

She dragged another pitcher through the ale, banging the insides of the barrel. “And those highborn ladies are welcome to him.”

 Brandr bent his head over the game. Light from a hanging soapstone lamp shined on black-brown locks curling at his nape. He was a rarity, a Viking with black hair cropped short. The uniqueness made him stand out among the people of Svea. Did highborn women like his hair that way?

She set the earthen vessel down with a satisfying thud. He was the wrong man for lots of reasons. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t put them into words.

“Ella. Come quick.” Lady Mardred rose from her cooking fire, balancing a platter of meat. Lips pursed, she raised an eyebrow at the unfilled pitchers. “Sestra, serve the ale.”

She balanced a full pitcher on her hip. The black-eyed warrior dicing with Brandr waved her over, waggling an empty drinking horn. A gold arm ring gleamed brightly on his wrist. A cross and sprouting plant carved the metal, the mark of the exiled King Olof.

“You’re just in time,” the younger warrior said when she approached. “I need to celebrate my victory.”

A small pile of coins sat on the bench between his legs.

“Ah, I see you’ve won much tonight.”

“Beware, man. A woman’ll lighten your purse before they know your name.” Brandr held out his cup, admiring her unbound hair. “Especially the redheads.”

Her lips tightened at the slight. “At least he has something to give a woman.” She softened for the younger warrior. Him she graced with her best smile. “What’s your name?”

“Gunnar.”

She poured his ale first.

“Gunnar.” His name rolled gently off her tongue. She rubbed her hip slowly, ignoring Brandr’s outstretched cup. If he painted her a heartless seductress out to fleece a man, she’d play the part.

Brandr’s stare locked onto her hand stroking her hip, a dark light flaring in his eyes.

“You look new here,” she said to Gunnar. “So let me give you some advice. Keep your earnings. Then you won’t end up like other warriors who have nothing to show for their effort.”

Brandr clutched his chest in mock pain. “Wounded by the fairest of thralls.”

She took his cup, her heart fluttering a split-second. Did he think she was the fairest?

His attention dropped to her neckline. “How modest she looks tonight.”

“And you look like a man running out of coin,” she shot back, pouring his ale. “As usual.”

“Less for a man to spend on women.” His taunting grin showed white within black whiskers. It had to be several days since a blade touched his jaw.

She held out the cup, and warm calloused fingers covered hers, sending a pleasant tingle up her arm. His crooked excuse for a smile played her. Or was it the way Brandr’s gruff voice stroked her skin? The Viking always sounded like he spent too much time in smoky places.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, shaking off his odd effect. “Of all the warriors here, you spend only barbs on me.”

“My charm’s lost on you.”

“
Charm?
” She huffed. “Did your mother ever teach you such a thing?”

He cradled his cup with both hands, black lashes shuttering his eyes. “That woman gave me nothing but misery.”

Brandr took a long draught of ale, lost to a dark place by the distance in his eyes. She shifted the pitcher to her hip, wanting the churlish warrior back. Sparring with him was better than thorny silence. Behind her raised voices debated the merits of the old king against his usurper son.

“I’m surprised you’re not giving your opinion on who should be Svea’s king,” she said. “Everyone else is.”

“Don’t have one. Don’t care.”

“What?” she gasped. “Have you no sense of loyalty? No sense to do what’s right?”

Gunnar raised a finger. “I for one think—”

Her hand went up, halting Gunnar. “I don’t believe it.” She dropped onto a bench and angled herself toward Brandr.

He drained his cup and stared into the empty horn. “It’s true. I’m loyal to me and me alone. Always have been.”  

“What about your vow of service to Lord Hakan? Isn’t he loyal to the old king?”

“I don’t speak for Hakan,” he said, harsh lines framing his mouth. “My service to him ended at Lithasblot.”

Lithasblot. The festival celebrated the beginning of harvest. Men and women considered their accomplishments and asked their gods for strength to achieve what lay ahead. Farmers culled animals deemed too weak to survive winter. Though the season of snow and ice was far off, Vikings refused to waste fodder on unworthy livestock.

It was a time of cold, hard decisions.

And while all of Uppsala had feasted, Brandr had eaten in silence that first night before disappearing into the woods until the festival passed. Now the Viking avoided eye contact, pinching his drinking horn hard enough his fingertips turned white.

“I think you to be many things,” she said. “But a man without honor isn’t one of them.”

As soon as the words were out, she regretted them.

Brandr’s jaw tensed. “Sorry to disappoint, but you won’t have to think of me anymore.”

She went still, her body tensing as if a blow would come. “What do you mean?”

“He leaves on the morning tides.” Gunnar scooted into her side vision. “To Gotland. For good.”

Brandr would be gone forever?

Her feet were planted on the floor, yet the ground could be spinning. She squeezed the clay pitcher in her lap, its coarse surface biting her palms. The weight anchored her on this night of bad tidings. To not see Brandr anymore? They didn’t like each other, but there was comfort in seeing his broad shoulders in a room.

If he was nearby, she was safe.

Her lashes dipped lower at the revelation.

Brandr rested his elbows on his knees, and the iron amulet he wore swung free of his tunic. “Miss me already?”

A quiver skimmed her backside. His voice was low and there was something intimate when he leaned toward her, his hands linked together. She glimpsed skin where Brandr’s tunic opened at the neck. His chest wasn’t tan. Noticing the small detail struck her as seeing an inner sanctum, as personal as the scratched amulet he wore honoring Tyr. A spear had been stamped into the metal, the symbol for the Viking god of war known for courage. Yet, few spoke of Tyr. Thor, Odin, Loki, Freyja. The folk of Uppsala relished discussing those Norse gods along with tales of giants and women warriors flying across the skies.

The well-worn metal dangling from his neck captivated her, a tell-tale secret of the man who wore it. “I thought you’d stay for the fight that brews.”

“You thought wrong,” he said softly.

His silver stare pinned her. The moment strung tautly and for once she wished the abrasive warrior would indulge in open, friendly conversation. But, he didn’t.

Gunnar scooped up his coins. “Ask him why he goes—”

“Why don’t you keep your mouth shut?” Brandr sat up, scowling at the warrior.

Her gaze shifted between the two men. Did Brandr’s business on Gotland have to do with King Olof?

“Even so, he who rules Uppsala rules Gotland,” she said, hugging the pitcher. “Don’t you care who sits on the throne?”

A tiny line cleaved the skin above Brandr’s nose. “The island’s far enough away.”

“Not so far from here.”

He rocked his cup on his thigh, the slanted indent between his brows furrowing deeper the more he held silent. The warrior cared fiercely about something. Or someone.

Why was she pushing him? She craved security but mostly the kind found by a wealthy lord who promised a safe home. Let the man she’d serve sift through the kingdom’s shifting sands. Men determined war and peace, never women like her.

“Do you leave because this fight yields no gold?” she goaded. “This would be a fight for honor and the good of Svea’s people.”

“Careful,” he growled.

“She’s a woman hungry for battle.” Gunnar dropped his winnings in his coin pouch. “Put her in the fight. She’d have no time to think of you.”

“No.” Brandr’s crooked smile slid back in place. “She’ll miss me.”

“Like I’d miss a pebble in my boot.”

But, her feeble insult had no bite. Air thrummed between them, raw and mysterious. Brandr’s eyes traveled the length of her red hair to her hips. Noise faded behind her. They could be the only two in the longhouse. She sat taller under his attention, the adjustment thrusting her breasts higher.

Men’s stares had latched onto her before.

Yet, none made her squirm or…
want
. Not like this.

“This isn’t my fight. I’ve stood in the shield wall with many here.” He shrugged but a bruised quality colored his voice. “It’s time I leave. Make a home on Gotland.”

Home.

The way Brandr spoke, Gotland could be an escape, a place he willed into existence as though any could do the same. She nodded, lost in the comforting image of an inviting longhouse on the fabled green island, but the fine image crumbled.

Brandr sought her out tonight to say good-bye.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. It shouldn’t matter that he was leaving. The hard-edged warrior would sail to Gotland, and she would serve a new lord—be he cruel or kind.

Behind her, shouts rang out. Brandr sprang to his feet and reached for his sword. She twisted around. Men clamored for weapons, knocking over tables and benches. The longhouse door swung wide, a vicious war axe lodged in the wood. Blood dripped down the handle.  

She jumped up, a metallic tang coating her mouth. The earthen pitcher smashed to pieces at her feet.

Was this a raid?

Brandr jabbed a finger at her. “You. Stay inside.” And he ran for the bloodied door.

Chapter Two

A Norse hammer hurled end over end, splintering the lintel. The square metal head narrowly missed an eager warrior running past. Brandr rushed outside to the clash of iron on iron. Men poured around him into the yard to war cries and the crack of wooden shields.

A pair of behemoths brawled, ringed by the crowd holding pine pitch torches. He should leave, wanted to, but couldn’t. He’d served both men locked in battle and like everyone around him stood mesmerized.

Two great friends warred for supremacy, but this was no friendly test of skills. Hakan the Tall and Sven Henrikkson fought wild-eyed in a struggle to kill the other.

“Ahhhh!” Hakan yelled a warrior’s cry and lunged at his bear-sized friend.