To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse Series Book 2) (11 page)

Once on the beach, Brandr guided her along the island’s inner path. Night creatures stirred in the dense forest, and the sure-footed Viking dressed in black ranged the furrowed trail as if he were one of them. She retraced her morning steps led by the glinting iron shield boss swinging at Brandr’s side. Finally, her legs about to give, welcome sounds of water lapping the beach came. They pushed past trees to the first beach where their boat waited.

With a gaping hole in the side.

She pulled the ruined cloak tighter, unable to ward off an icy chill. Brandr charged across the beach and crouched beside the small vessel, swearing under his breath.

She dropped to the ground, her soaked bottom landing on a patch of grass bordering the sand. “We’re not leaving the island tonight, are we?”

Chapter Seven

“The hole isn’t the worst problem.” His hand grazed wide indents on the beach. “The other vessel is.”

A six or eight man boat by the keel width imprinted in the sand.

“What vessel?”

Wiping his hand on his knee, he studied Sestra huddled on the grass. “The one that brought the two dead men. It’s gone.”

She blinked glassy-eyed, the haze of cold and shock depleting her. Limb-weakening exhaustion eventually followed the thrill of victory. The best of warriors fell prey to this state, and Sestra was untested in such matters.

Tomorrow she’d wake up ravenous, but tonight brought new trials.

“There was at least a third man. He left,” he explained, eyeing the placid water. “But he’ll return.”
Looking for his friends and a treasure hoard.

Across the channel dark trees kept vigil of who came and went. Kneeling on the beach, an unseen burden weighed on him. The island, Sestra, the hoard all made some kind of ordeal from the gods, and he the hapless learner was unsure what he should know.

He dragged both hands through his hair, ending with a hard tug at his nape.  The crows at the clearing, Odin’s silence, and now this damaged boat…the gods tested him with one question.

How badly did he want what waited for him on Gotland?

Wind rippled across water stretching between the island and Uppsala’s mainland, a distance less than a pilskudd, an arrow shot from where he crouched. He could swim the channel and make the long midnight run to Hakan’s farm up the Fyris River, but Sestra would be alone all night. With the hoard lost, he had one oath to fulfill—bring the Henrikkson thrall back safely. His heart beat fiercely with the need to protect Sestra. He couldn’t leave her.

Gingerly, he tested the jagged hole. Across the beach, freckled knees showed pale above kidskin boots. From her seat on the grass, Sestra hiked her skirts up and wrung excess water on the ground beside her. He shamelessly ogled the shadowed space between her thighs when needle sharp pain pricked his finger. His hand jerked off the boat.

Holding out his hand, a drop of blood welled where a splinter gouged. He chuckled without humor. The gods demanded their due. He pinched off the sliver and flicked it to the ground. The day had its strife, but trouble of a different nature got under his skin, sweet flame-haired temptation delivered by the goddess Freyja.

Sestra meandered onto the beach. “What do we do now?”

He reached into the boat and grabbed a small leather bag. “Same as before,” he said, tossing it onto the sand. “Get you warm and dry.”

Tautness spread in his abdomen. He’d be the one to take care of her, and there was one best way to warm her body. He unrolled his hudfat and draped it over her shoulders. Big brown feminine eyes sought him, large and appealing.

“Your sleeping fur,” she murmured, one hand stroking the heavy patchwork of pelts. “Of course you’d have it with you since you’re leaving.”

Gotland. The green isle had slipped far from his thoughts. Being with Sestra filled him, took up every corner of his mind. He strode to the water’s edge, shaking off the revelation. Toes digging into the sand, he pushed their boat across the beach, surprised to see another pair of hands grab the rail beside him.

“Why are we moving this?” Her face contorted as she strove to match his strength.

The unwieldy hudfat hung off her frame, the bottom skimming the ground. Pale-faced, Sestra’s trembling stopped, but blue tinged her lips.

“We’re hiding it.” With a final heave, he heaved the vessel into the reeds.

“You’re afraid someone will steal our little fishing boat?”

He dusted off his hands, his ribs expanding from labored breaths. The fire steel he’d found when they arrived flashed across his mind. This morning he’d stuffed the piece away to shelter Sestra, but the brave woman he saw in the clearing deserved the truth.

“If someone passes by tonight, sees the damaged boat, they
will
come ashore.” He slung his leather bag over his shoulder. “You should rest.”

“I’m not a highborn woman to sit aside and do nothing,” she said, planting a hand on her hip. “I can help. You know I can.”

Sestra tried for her usual brazenness, but sleepy-eyed and draped in his bulky fur she was no more ferocious than a kitten. She stood her ground, red curls falling free around her mud-smeared face. He stood squarely before her, breathing scents of fresh water and clean earth from her skin, good smells to a man who preferred forests to longhouses and women doused with scented oils.

In a moment of weakness, he tucked the fur’s open ends over her breasts. “It pleases me to take care of you.”

Sestra’s lips parted and starlight showed an entrancing indent on her bottom lip. How easily his mouth had fit there. It could again. If he kissed her, he’d test the tiny dip with his thumb, gently stroking her lip and the tantalizing freckle at the corner of her mouth. He’d not rush; he’d savor every part.

“All this time I thought you couldn’t wait to be free of me,” she said, her honest brown eyes searching him.

His pulse quickened, spreading molten heat through his chest, landing hot and hard between his legs. Sestra embodied Odin’s test, the one woman he had no business touching, yet his hands rubbed the fur over her nipples as if he had every right to her. And by the cadence of her breath, a tender flame kindled Sestra’s flesh hidden under layers of fur and wool.

If he didn’t take control of his impulses, he’d steal more than a kiss.

With a slow growl, he let go and slid the bag off his shoulder. “If you want to help me, take this and wait by the pine tree.”

She took the humble leather pouch. “What is it?”

“All my worldly possessions.” His voice was raw and mocking in the dark.

Sestra tested the weight easily with one hand, her cinnamon brows furrowing. “How is it a warrior of your stature and experience has so little?” Her gaze touched
Jormungand’s
hilt over his shoulder. “Yet you possess the finest of swords.”

“Maybe I stole it?”

“Maybe you did,” she said softly. “By strength alone you can take what you want.”

Challenge lit her eyes. The flame-haired thrall dared him to spill another truth about himself. Why did she want to pry open his deepest places?

“I’m good at taking what doesn’t belong to me.”

Sestra’s mouth curled in a tolerant smile when he glowered at her breasts swelling under his sleeping pelt. Fur lay flat where his hands had pressed the pelt.

She touched his arm and he nearly jumped out of his skin, the pressure of her hand palpable against his leather arm brace. “You’re good at a great many things, raiding, scouting, rescuing a woman dangling from a cliff.”

“But never enough to keep a woman.”

A thick red curl blew across her mouth. “I’ve never known you to want one.”

Behind him, water tapped the narrow shoreline, the rhythm of time and tides, a gentle going in and pulling out. Were the gods taking turns testing him? He was sure the wind carried Freyja’s seductive laughter. The goddess could laugh all she wanted. His will would be stronger.

He gave Sestra a tight smile. “Could be my lack of wealth.”

“Because you gamble away what you have. Of course, you’re short on coin.” She stepped closer and the hudfat brushed his thighs. “But you’re rich in a good many things far better than silver.”

His chest swelled under the unexpected praise. Her eyelids drooped as if the day drained her last ounce of fortitude, and she turned, carrying his things at her side, silently picking her way across the sand. This had to be a sign of trust, this change from their usual jabs. Or she was too exhausted to insult him when she had every opportunity to cut at his weakness? Sestra had to be coming off the elation that coursed her veins in the clearing.  

He snapped off a branch from a bush, his body tense with unwelcome urges. Losing himself in labor, he swept away their footsteps from the beach until he reached the grass where Sastra waited. With light scarce, he squatted at the pine tree’s roots.

This was for one night only. Any reasonable man could resist a woman’s charms for one night.

Scanning the heavens, he scooted around the tree on the balls of his feet until he found the perfect spot where sunlight would burn brightest tomorrow. Hands flat on the trunk, he felt his way up until his palms found stickiness.

At last the island offered him a gift.

With his axe, he skimmed off a section of rough bark, exposing pale pine flesh. The blade bit bare wood with sharp slanted jabs. Nine slashes, a worthy number. Odin would be pleased. The tree’s life blood shined on the light. He’d had enough for tomorrow.

Behind him dried pine needles crackled under footsteps. Sestra. Head bent, she inched into his side vision. “What are you doing?”

He took her hand and dabbed stickiness on the back. “Harvesting resin to fix the boat.”

She stifled a yawn. “You’ll repair the hole tonight?”

Grim-faced, he stood up and took his bag from her. There’d be no avoiding what was to come. “No. Tomorrow. Now we need shelter.”

The bag slung over his shoulder, and he led her into the forest not far from the boat’s hiding place. Wet clothes stuck to his skin, but he’d not build a fire. He couldn’t risk someone seeing the smoke, but fire was the least of his concerns.

With one hudfat, there was one best way for two cold bodies to get warm.

Ferns brushed their legs, the tendrils thinning in a ring of trees, their refuge for the night. Covered in his sleeping fur, Sestra perched on a fallen log while he collected large branches under her watchful eye.

“Do you need help?” she asked around a wide yawn.

“No,” he said, dropping his third armload of wood. “This will go faster if I work alone.”

He rammed one makeshift pole after another into soft, willing soil. Sweat pricked his hairline, the labor taxing him in the best way. Grinding wood into the earth diverted his lust, and set his mind on the right course. They’d sleep here. Nothing more. He slanted one row of branches into the other row, nestling the top leafy ends in a point. Their rough abode would protect them for the night and was wide enough for two if they slept close.

“I’ve never seen the like before,” she said, her voice floating behind him. “Yet another talent.”

He faced her, motioning to the inside. “This captures our heat.”

Sestra could be an elfin forest creature watching him from the log. Tales abounded of fair forest maids stealing a man’s life force. Other stories told of men falling prey to their forbidden love.

Teeth grinding, he knew where he’d failed Odin’s test. The kiss. He hungered for another taste. If he was an honorable man, he’d promise to protect her forever, but he wasn’t a good man, never had been. He’d stolen and killed for himself and in service to others. Blood ran thick on his hands. Facing Sestra in the pitch dark forest, he felt her trust in his bones.

She was ripe for the taking.

Folding his arms across his chest, there was only one way to resist her charms. In his rudest voice he said, “Everything wet. Off. Now.”

Silence.

Sestra’s head cocked at an angle. Scant starlight filtered through the trees, the faint glow crowning her red hair. He opened his mouth to repeat the order, but she stood up, shrouded by branches and ferns, more mythical forest woman than thrall. A small animal stirred in the underbrush beside her, its eyes glowing between fern fronds. The little beast’s courage didn’t surprise him as few people ventured here: fright wouldn’t be natural. Sestra lived in a different world filled with dread, yet her feet stayed in place as if she debated the merits of obeying his command. Or she debated the merits of him.

The worse she thought of him the better.

“I don’t like repeating myself, but since you’re a mere woman and weak at that, I’ll make an exception.” He paused before finishing tersely, “Take your clothes off.”

Sestra put one leg in front of the other, twigs snapping with each measured footfall. When she got an arm’s length from him, the hudfat dropped with a quiet
thump
.

Tension coiled low in his trousers. Eyes burning holes in him, she gathered her russet skirts at her hips. He locked onto her hem’s rise, hungrily following it inch by inch. With a murmur of cloth on cloth, Sestra pulled the tunic over her head. The garment coming off was a necessary thing, not meant to be seductive, but it was.

An unseen manacle squeezed his chest when she stood before him clad in wet white linen clinging to her curves, her long braid a rope between her breasts. Round nipples jutted against the cloth, the nubs of flesh plump and red as rose hips needing to be sucked. His wolfish gaze devoured her, straining to see in the dark what he’d imagined all summer.

“Here.” A ball of damp cloth slapped his chest and chin.

He deserved that. Stifling a smile, he clamped the tunic under his arm. “Now your undergarment.”

“You want me completely naked?”

Heat singed his loins. Those words and the pretty O her mouth made pushed him to a sharp edge. He fought the push-pull of wanting to touch her, knowing he shouldn’t, and lost. His free hand grazed her shoulder and her breath caught. The sound made his balls tighten.

He pinched the thin sleeve. “You heard me. All wet clothes. Off.”