To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse Series Book 2) (7 page)

A chill went straight to his bones. Was Odin testing him?

Green trees loomed, the heavy breeze rattling their leaves. Sun shined on his head hot enough for beads of sweat to dampen his nape. He’d do better to keep his mind on the task at hand. He scanned the path ahead, tracing a narrow break of dirt along the stream, but it wasn’t well-traveled. Still, someone had disturbed the bushes. An entry or exit?

Sestra stepped sideways to let him pass, but the trail’s confines pressed them close. Too close. Her breasts brushed him, the soft weight enticing. She inhaled sharply, her eyes spreading wide and pretty.

Barely tamped down sparks shocked him. His feet refused to move. Wind carried her unique fragrance, fresh warmth reminding him of farmsteads and forests. Wispy curls skimmed Sestra’s cheeks, her crown of red hair beautiful against lush greenery.

Primal need surged as she tilted her face to his the way a lover awaits a kiss. Pulse pounding in his ears, his free hand stretched to touch her. Sestra’s lips parted, her tender hitch of breath weakening him more than sweetly curved breasts or a brazen pout. His hand hovered between them when a warning rang in his head.

Don’t ruin what waits for you on Gotland.

His hand dropped to his side. “Keep up with me.”

He turned abruptly. If he gave in—and one touch was all it’d take—he’d slake his need on her. He’d make sure she got her pleasure, but afterward Sestra would look at him differently. He’d be too rough, push too hard, and she’d call him a Viking brute, same as she did other men, words he’d heard her say under her breath when
friendly
warriors reeked of ale.

The earth saved him, calming the lustful beast inside him. Forests renewed his soul the way water quenched a parched man’s thirst. This was Odin’s gift to him.

And his instincts about the stream were right.

The island spoke to him. Men, three at least, were here. Boot prints marked damp earth. The prints didn’t point to the water as when a traveler stopped for a drink. Footfalls headed out to sea, the boot toes digging deeper than the heels—men trotting fast. Axe bites had dug into seedling trees. Someone cut bushes at the root and tossed them aside to clear part of this overgrown path.

Why here and not the other side of the island where the Dane’s boat had landed?

As they walked the bank changed, becoming steeper along the water. Brambles and leaves intruded such that he pushed aside spindled branches for Sestra to pass.

“Why are we going this way?” she asked, plucking leaves off her tunic. “Don’t you think the Dane would bury the hoard off the obvious path?”

“No.” He was lost in reading the trail around him.

“But if he thinks no one knows about the island save the four men with him that day…” Her words drifted into silence.

He slowed down and glanced at Sestra. She grimaced at an insect on her braid, her fingers flicking the invader. 

“We’re here to get the treasure,” he said. “Not worry about comfort.”

Her lips pinched at the mild rebuke, and they forged on, discovering the narrow trail rimmed a cliff. The stream hurried over rocks below, the rush of pounding water growing louder with each step. The waterway wasn’t wide but cut deep into the island. His steps stretched faster when he sighted a clearing.

Sestra hiked fast to keep up. “I can’t imagine the Dane and his men working so hard to bury something they think no one knows about in the first place. This way doesn’t seem safe.”

He chuckled.
These men weren’t bothered by safe.

“Then don’t look over the cliff.”

Sestra trudged behind him, her heavy footfalls snapping twigs. “Do we avoid the island’s obvious paths because you think others might come?”

Her voice wavered. Brandr stopped. He needed to concentrate and was about to say as much until he faced Sestra. Tired, insightful eyes opened to him. She was no fool. On the rare occasion other warriors spied lands with him, he never explained himself. He led, they followed. Yet, he found himself cupping her shoulder and pointing with all patience to a grassy area between trees.

“See that clearing? We stop there. It’s the island’s highpoint, a good place to start our search.”

She inched nearer, angling for a view. Her long braid grazed his hand. The narrow trail conspired again to push them closer. Thick ferns skimmed their legs, enticing him to take a rest. Brown doe eyes framed with cinnamon lashes fixed on him, open and trusting. His hungry gaze dropped to her wide mouth and he was lost. The tiniest freckles outlined her lips save one fat mark on a corner. Temptation drew his eyes lower to a triangle of freckles on her chest.

Heat jolted his loins. The bottom tip of the triangle landed where her cleavage started.

If he laid her down, he’d suckle the freckle and smell her skin. All day.

Jewels graced the necks of highborn women, rare stones drawing the eye to high curves. No costly jewel could compete with Sestra’s utterly kissable freckle.

This close, he stifled a groan. When his gaze wandered back to her face, brown lashes fluttered low. A blush stained her cheeks. Where was the thrall with the quick tongue and saucy temper? The friendly, flirtatious woman serving ale most nights at the Henrikkson longhouse was not the same woman with him now.

Sestra picked at brambles snagged on her skirt. “My new tunic…” Her words trailed off when she discovered a tear in her sleeve.

The forlorn note in her voice touched him. It wasn’t simply a new tunic; it was her only tunic. Sestra was a woman who had little. Her life had never been her own. What she did here was courageous, a thrall endangering herself to save the lives of Uppsala’s free men and women. No firm oath had been given, ensuring she’d gain her freedom when this was done. Hakan couldn’t promise that. Sestra was giving of herself, demanding nothing in return.

And he nearly let lust get in the way.

With care, he pulled a pine needle from her hair and tossed it away. This close he saw the skin of her cleavage pebble from the gentle touch. Sestra faced him, and an ache formed in his chest. Taking a mind-clearing breath, he leaned the shovel and his shield against a tree. He surprised himself with a new want…the want to take care of her, to make her life easier.

His hands worked the tie which strapped his axe to his leg. “Tell you what,” he said, striving for the careless tone he saved for her alone. “You keep quiet until I search the clearing ahead, and I’ll chop all bushes and branches away to save your new tunic. When I’m done checking the area, talk all you want.”

“As in ask anything I want?”

A breeze stirred leaves overhead, forest music a gentle cadence in time with birds singing their day songs. Morning sun shined on Sestra, the rays catching rare gold strands in darker reds.

“Anything,” he said his voice thick.

Full breasts, red hair and you’re weak as an untried warrior.

“You promise to answer me truthfully?”

“
If
you stay quiet. Including checking the clearing.” Like a fool he added, “And I’ll do the digging when we find the stone.”

She tapped his chest, laughing. “For that, I’ll stay quiet as a mouse.”

The cheer in her voice warmed him better than the sun. Like a besotted fool, he smiled back and slid the shovel into the strap holding
Jormungand
to his back and hooked the shield onto the shovel’s handle. He led the way, chopping branches big and small.

The trail took them to the island’s highest ground where thundering water filled the quiet. A waterfall, no taller than a ship’s mast, dumped into a deep, fast-moving waterway. Thick grass carpeted an inviting place overlooking the falls.

The boot prints he followed disappeared, but a few stones had been rolled away, branches unnaturally broken. He roamed the clearing’s perimeter, checking the surrounding trees. Thick pines crowded together. A few Larch trees yellowed in the forest green. No well-defined path of entry existed, yet he found their exit.

Whoever had been here was gone.

His wide circle ended on Sestra spreading her cloak on the grass near a pile of rocks. She stretched out on her stomach and shut her eyes. Her head rested, cheek down, on the makeshift blanket, a picture of contentment in the sun.

He swallowed hard, blood rushing between his legs. He’d traveled far, seen places proclaimed a wonder, yet nothing could match a woman’s form.
Her
form. The bow of Sestra’s hips curved as lavishly as her breasts. Her full, tempting bottom arched under the wool skirt, leading his eye to the valley of her waist.

His balls ached. He willed the hardness growing between his legs gone, but resolve was a weak foe against lust. She was a thrall. He could plough between her thighs and sate his need. None would see the wrong of it.

Grabbing his water pouch, he turned away and gulped the soothing liquid. He couldn’t do that to Sestra. Somewhere this summer past, through barbs and jests, he’d come to count her a friend.

A woman…a friend?
He shook his head and squinted into the tangle of trees.

You’re a half-wit. This is what happens when your brain falls between your legs.

A good dousing in icy water would cool his hot parts and set his mind straight. Even better, get his head on right about finding the hoard. He swiped his sleeve across his mouth and took a deep breath.

The treasure.

This hoard should be easy to find on the small island. All signs pointed to this clearing, the high ground. Grassy footprints on the first path they trod had headed in this direction.

He circled the area again, ending where Sestra rested. Ravens cawed overhead, two of them.

“Huginn and Muninn,” he murmured.

Thought and Memory, the pair of birds scanned land and sea to bring back news to Odin.

Had they come to witness his choices today? He saluted the birds perched on high pine branch, smiling wryly. Of course the All-Father would be curious about his quest with a beautiful woman.

“Have some water.” He dropped the pouch beside Sestra. “We may have to stay the night.”

Sestra raised herself up on both elbows and drank greedily. She handed the pouch back to him, licking droplets from her lips. “You’re done checking the area.”

“For now. We’ll rest awhile. We both need it.”

Better to give in to exhaustion than his lust-strung body. He pulled the shovel from his back and dropped it on the grass under the intent eyes of his companion.

Sestra propped her chin up with both hands. “You owe me some truthful answers first.”

His reach for
Jormungand
halted. The promise he’d made on the trail.

“I do.” He pulled the sword free and set it beside the shovel.

Legs bent at the knee, Sestra’s skirt swirled around her knees. Her boots’ soft brown kid skin leather molded like cloth the length of her calves. Both feet flexed playfully, but he lingered on her leather-wrapped legs, wanting to untie the garters and kiss hidden skin.

“Hmmm…I’m not sure if I should ask how you came to speak so many foreign words or how you learned to read the ground the way you do.” She plucked a long blade of grass. “But, my first question—”

“Your first of three.”

“Only three?”

“I promised truthful answers. Not how many.” He grinned at her and took another swig of water.

“You never said anything about a limit.”

“You never asked,” he said, capping the pouch and dropping it to the ground. “My offer is three. Take it or leave it.”

Her cinnamon brows snapped together. Rusty laughter rumbled up inside him. Riling his favorite redhead was a sport he’d never tire of.

Sestra frowned, making the large kissable freckle by her mouth more visible. She waved a hand over the grassy spot before her. “At least sit down. Or do you plan to tower over me the whole time?”

He braced his hands on a large stone and lowered himself to the ground, his sore muscles in need of a good sauna. “A waste of a question, if you ask me. But no, I plan to rest here.”

He settled his back against the rock, the early fall sun warming his face. His chest swelled with a deep, satisfied breath. Sestra’s eyes narrowed on him, a perturbed cat ready to pounce, and he the  mouse on which she’d feast.

“That’s
not
my first question. I was showing good manners by suggesting you join me.”

Face to the sun, his grin widened. “You asked a question. I answered it.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Never said I was.”

“You’re using my good manners against me,” she huffed.

“Everything’s a weapon for the mind smart enough to see the possibility.”

Sestra dipped her head and smoothed her cloak, wriggling lush curves barely contained in russet wool. Her lashes fanned freckled cheeks as though she worked a puzzle and didn’t want him to see it in her eyes. Their verbal sparring matches were like a battle over the same morsel. This time he had her right where he wanted her.

He breathed easy for the first time in a long while, lulled by the waterfall’s steady rush, and the companionship of a lively woman stretched out before him. If he guessed the lay of her mind, he’d say she gathered her resources, planning how to come at him with a new tactic.

“I can improve your odds.” Her voice broke the silence.

His spine straightened on the hard rock. Sestra’s lips curved as enticing as her words. She never disappointed him.

“And what are we wagering?” he asked carefully.

The green blade of grass tapped a smile of pure feminine satisfaction. “Ah, I see I have your full attention now.”

Already strained muscles tensed. She didn’t have to work hard to get his attention, but he’d be ten times a fool to admit that.

“I’ve gambled enough to know when to listen to a proposition.”

“About that. I’ve noticed you gamble much, yet have little coin to your name.” Sestra’s eyes were half-closed, her gaze measuring him. “For all your talk about spending on women, I’ve never seen it. Quite a riddle you are.”

“And your point is?”

“My point is you know a lot about me, and I know almost nothing about you. I don’t even know where you come from.”