To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse Series Book 2) (10 page)

Courage was a gift given to the man or woman brave enough to grab it.

Giving a jerky nod, she chose to be one such woman. “You’re right.” Her lips trembled. “I know you’re right. I need to let go of the treasure.”

“Keep your eyes on me. I’ll guide you.”

Numbly she obeyed. The whites of his eyes were bright in the darkness, but his voice was the rope she needed. Strong, a fighter to the end, Brandr would not give up on her.

He pointed at a fist-sized tip of a rock sticking out of the cliff. “Brace your foot there.”

She lifted her leg, sopping wet skirts clinging to her skin, and one foot found purchase on the bumpy earthen wall. The waterfall thundered behind her, spraying her head, her back.

“Let the bag fall from your hand,” he said.

Arms shaking, she pressed her cheek against the cold cliff.  “My one hand…I’ll have to let go.”

“You can do it.”

 She gulped air. Her hand dropped to her side, slamming the bag against her leg. The root shook and blood rushed her ears. Wriggling her wrist, the leather strap slid over her hand, pinching the skin to shades of purple-red.

“That’s it. Keep going,” the Viking crooned encouragement.

Her face crumpled at the bag’s slow descent. The treasure jangled innocently, inching its way down her leg as a haze of loss engulfed her. Her mouth opened wide for a deep wail building inside her. The roiling ball of loss welled up from the pit of her stomach, its hard lump rolling on through her chest to her throat.

 “Go on,” he pleaded. “Don’t give up.”

Fresh sweat beaded her forehead. A piece of silver glinted through a rip in the leather, the  metal winking at her, a conniver persuading her not to let go. Eyes stinging, her lids fluttered low, surrendering her to blessed blackness. She didn’t have to watch her future fall away.

Grainy straps slipped to her fingers, fingers curved in a hook not ready to let go. The old bag wouldn’t withstand the sharp rocks. The silver would scatter in deep, watery places, gone forever.

“Let it go, Sestra. Let it go.”

Her forehead bumped the cliff wall. Muscles cramped her shoulders. She swallowed hard, her mouth sticky and dry. Words echoed in her head.

A lifetime of enslavement…

Opening her eyes, she let go.

The hoard dropped, taking with it her muted sob. A metallic clink sounded, the treasure hitting a rock. Below her dangling feet, the bag split open and silver coins sparkled everywhere, beautiful as stars clustered in darkness. The half-full leather bag tipped over onto a piece of drift wood battering the rock.

Without the burden, she was lighter, and oddly, freer.

No pieces of silver could compete with life.

She sucked air the way swimmers did after coming up from a long time under water. Their open mouths devoured life-giving air, a thing she’d seen often sitting safely on the Cordovan shore. Now hanging from this cliff, she lived it, finding a hunger for what could be hers.

Was this what happened when courage demanded action?

Her heart drummed inside her chest, and she wanted to laugh. It took standing up to a roomful of battle hard Vikings and falling off a cliff to learn this truth. Taking a calming breath, she angled her face to Brandr where he waited, his arm outstretched. The warrior was ready to rescue her body, but no man could save her life.

Free or slave, she’d have to save herself.

“Sestra,” he called out. “What are you waiting for?”

“I’m coming.” Hand over hand she inched back up the thick, half-broken root. The toe of her other boot chipped away at the cliff, making a crumbly foothold. Today wasn’t the day to yield her body to the earth.

“That’s it. You’re almost there.” Brandr’s voice was a prayer above her head.

Life surged through her veins. She gripped the root’s unbroken part jutting from the dirt and pushed herself up with one hand while reaching for Brandr with the other. His calloused skin felt good touching hers. His big palm skimmed lower, clamping her arm as though he’d never let go.

Her breath came in fits. She clawed the earthen wall with her free hand, sending chunks of mud flying past her. Both feet toed the wall. She fought for every inch, arms and shoulders screaming in pain. Brandr lifted her little by little, the sinews of his neck standing out in full relief. His metal amulet swung free of his tunic. The spear of Tyr. Courage.

She fed on Brandr’s will, locking onto the spear etched in iron. When she was close enough, he grabbed her other hand. The grip crushed her bones. Her body smashed against the cliff.

The firm line of his mouth, the hard set of his eyes, nothing was stopping him from getting her back on solid ground. Grass and level ground came into view. With a final heave, Brandr hauled her into the clearing and jerked her upright.

Face to face they stood, panting hard, a vaporous cloud billowing around them. Mist dripped down the Viking’s cheeks. Twilight blurred the clearing darkly around Brandr, creating a colorless dream world save his intense silver eyes. Light-headed, she needed her bearings, she needed…

Brandr yanked her against the wall of his chest. “You’re alive,” he whispered into her hair.

She melted into him. Dirty, cold, drenched to the bone, there was no better place to be than in his strong arms. His warrior’s heart banged hard against her ear. For her.

They clung to each other.

Wet. Shaking. Needy.

The Viking brushed mud and hair off her cheeks, searching her face, drinking in every detail, treasuring her. Long fingers warmed her jaw, discovering each slope, smoothing away damp hair. Carefully, slowly, his mouth covered hers.

The first touch stole her breath.

Brandr’s lips were soft. Tender yet hot.

His long, reverent kiss melded into another kiss. Deep. Seeking. So gentle was he, the over-sized warrior could be in awe to have his lips on hers.

Sparks tingled across her skin, each hot ember sharp and bright as flares from a smithy hammering molten metal. Her nipples pinched against wet wool. Brandr anchored her in a half-world of swirling need and emotions. The seam of her mouth opened, and he moaned when their tongues touched. For all her experience, the carnal nature of their kiss shocked her to her toes. She craved Brandr, his taste, his strength. She wanted to cosset him to soothe the dark, unknown places lurking inside him.

She wanted him inside her.

Icy water drenched her, the cold droplets prickling tender skin, yet her blood flowed like hot honey through sluggish limbs. She slipped one hand under Brandr’s muddy tunic, and hard male flesh pebbled against her fingertips.

Brandr broke the kiss, his breath hitching sharply. His mouth hovered over hers as if the enthralling inch between their lips fed a deep need. 

His firm flesh twitched under her palm. “Your hand...” he groaned.

“Is on you,” she finished, brushing her lips on his.                      

Was the hard-souled warrior starved for touch?

Foreheads and noses brushed as she pushed his muddied tunic up determined to have her way with him. They stood in soggy ground, not caring that they were mere steps from the cliff. Dirt smeared Brandr’s furrowed midline. Taking her time, she wiped the grime off smooth skin and a weave of muscles knotted under her hand. Enveloped in darkness, her senses came alive, touching a ridged scar on his chest, smelling pine on his skin, the uneven cadence of his voice as he whispered her name against her lips.

She sought the curve of his ribs, sliding her hands to his back—

“Sestra. No.” Brandr jerked away, his voice ragged.

“Why…why’d you stop?”

It was all she could do to form the question. She still tasted him on her tongue when he let her go. They stood, both breathing hard. Brandr tugged down his tunic, a bulge tenting his trousers. The waterfall crashed behind her its blast matching the uproar inside her.

Brandr picked up his sword from the mud. “We aren’t safe here.”

“Dead men don’t care that we’re kissing.” Arousal flooded her body the effect better than the finest mead.

He chuckled dryly and wiped the weapon clean across his thigh. “No, they don’t,” he said, sheathing
Jormungand
across his back. “But, we need to get off the island and your clothes are soaked. They need to come off.”

“Most men say that come nightfall,” she teased. “The clothes coming off part.”

He went still. “I’m not most men.”

Though it was night, she saw Brandr clearly. Wet black hair fell around his face, the jaggedly cut ends grazing his jaw. The rough-hewn Viking stood like a wild beast in a rare tame moment. His tarnished silver eyes pierced her, left her tongue-tied because she put him with other men who used thralls for their pleasure.

What stopped him from taking her?

 “Come,” he said gruffly, grabbing her wrist to lead her away from the cliff.

Following his broad shoulders, a sweet pang filled her. Men didn’t concern themselves with a thrall’s comfort and certainly not a slave woman’s tender feelings. Yet, this abrasive warrior did, and it touched her. Brandr led her around the open pit, his boots leaving large footprints in the loamy soil he’d dug up earlier. She planted her footsteps alongside his for the pleasure of seeing their boot prints together. Frankish maids wove love garlands made from spring wildflowers. Couldn’t she be fanciful once?

Brandr let go of her when he came to his weapons in the grass. He knelt down, his profile severely set. “We need to get you to Hakan’s farmstead quickly. One of the women can tend you there.”

She rubbed her arms briskly. “Your warming me sounds like a better idea,” she said in her sauciest voice, eyeing the bulge between his legs. “Your body agrees with me too.”

The Viking turned to strap on his axe, but not before she caught his quick smile and a dimple on his black-whiskered cheek. The kiss marked him as much as it did her. Despite the day’s troubles, she didn’t want this time with Brandr to end. Sweet night sounds filled the clearing, of Brandr rustling in the grass, collecting his weapons, of insects and night birds and the waterfall’s steady rush.

Taking a deep breath, her face tipped to the star-washed heavens. Air felt good in her lungs. Inside her chest, her heart beat steady, everything open, flowing fast. “Why do I feel so alive right now?”

“Because you cheated death.”

“I feel unstoppable.”

Brandr stood up, his shield strapped to his left arm. “All warriors get these high spirits when they’re victorious.”

“What do they do about it?” She smiled and tucked loose curls behind her ears. Of course she knew. Freewomen and slaves alike gossiped about fighting men and their particular needs after a victory.

Brandr’s mouth firmed. He waited, his tolerant stare the same as what she’d seen him give to young, untried warriors. “We are getting off the island. Someone else will help you find warm, dry clothes.”

“So concerned with my clothes.” But her teeth started chattering.

He grasped her by the shoulders and walking behind her, steered her to the trail. “Because your lips are turning blue.”

“You could warm them again,” she said, over her shoulder.

They stopped by a fledgling pine tree by the trail where she turned to face him. Brandr folded his shield arm before him, setting a wood and iron barrier between them. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he couldn’t wait to be rid of her. Yet, his gaze devoured sodden skirts clinging to her thighs, wandering up the length of her to land squarely on a tear in her bodice.

Bold fingers touched the shield boss, tracing the iron’s curved head. “Like you I’ll be glad to get away from here, but what about the hoard? Don’t you think we could try to get it? It landed on driftwood.”

“Which carried the pouch to deeper waters, scattering coins on its way.” Brandr’s eyes narrowed on her wayward hand, and his shield arm dropped to his side. “We’re not chasing a few, meager coins.”

Teeth chattering, she hugged herself for warmth since a dead man lay atop her cloak. “We’re already wet. If we went downstream—”

“I said
no
. The treasure’s gone.”

Her shoulders drooped as Brandr strode back to the clearing. Standing at the trailhead, the stream bubbled gently below. The height was great but fewer rocks menaced the waters here. Bravery surged in her veins. The elation made her feet fidget and she didn’t care that she was freezing.

“We came to stop the Dane, remember?” Brandr yanked her cloak out from under the dead Viking’s body. “Part of the wealth is lost to him. He can’t pay men with coin he doesn’t have.”

Gorm. The Berserkers.

She faced the waterfall. Brandr’s words weren’t meant to chasten, but a taste for freedom had grown strong fed by the exhilaration of climbing up the cliff…and his kiss. Being here wasn’t about her. They were on the island for no other reason than stopping the coming berserkers. The reward, like their unexpected kiss, was a tantalizing side promise, and now they’d leave empty-handed.

Grass crunched softly. When she looked up Brandr blocked out the stars, his lashes black crescents on his cheeks. Silently, he reached around her, covering her with the ruined, bloodied cloak. A groan rose in her throat, and she pushed away the heavy wool about to tell him she didn’t want it.

“This will help,” he said, tucking the ends into her icy hands. “For the ride back.”

Mud and water plastered his black hair to his skull; he had to be miserable, though he didn’t complain nor was he shaking.

“What about you? You’re as bad off as I am.”

“I’m used to it.” His graveled voice was tired.

The quest finally sapped the inexhaustible warrior, or he was simply done, ready to be relieved of his vow to protect her and leave Uppsala for good.

Without a word, they turned and headed down the trail, her shoulders drooping. The trek was easier since Brandr had already cleared it. Though fatigue seeped into her bones, her mind spun with lively thoughts. On the heels of Brandr’s leaving would be the coming of her new master. She wasn’t the same woman anymore in part because of the rough Viking before her.   She followed him, her heart fracturing with each step. He journeyed on, the shovel and
Jormungand
slanted his broad back, having no idea the turmoil inside her.