To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse Series Book 2) (5 page)

“Have you decided what you’ll do with your gold?” she asked.

Lines framing his mouth deepened his scowl. “Do you always talk this much?”

The scraping got louder under the soles of her boots. Brandr sculled the water in long smooth strokes, checking the boat’s wake.

“Yes. When I’m nervous,” she said, checking the floor.

“Then you must be nervous all the time because you’re always talking.”

“That’s different. I’m supposed to make guests comfortable at my lady’s table.”

The seam of his mouth tightened. “Especially the men.”

She was about to give him a tongue lashing when the boat lurched violently. Heart in her throat, she gripped the side rails. “I don’t know how to swim!”

“We bumped a fallen log. That’s all.” He dropped an oar and cosseted her shoulder. “Shhh. See there.” Brandr pointed one long-boned arm at the water.

She stretched her neck for a better look, her nails digging into the boat’s wood slats. The tree lay in its watery grave, a thick, green-slimed branch reaching under their vessel.

Her fast thumping heart slowed, and she let go of the rails. “Thank you for not turning that into a jest.”

“You’ve nothing to fear. I’ll take care of you.”

Of course he would. He’d vowed as much to Lord Hakan. Watching over her was the Viking’s final labor before he departed for better places. She couldn’t let ideas about him get in her head. This surprising kindness was no different than what he did for the old man at dawn.

She hugged herself against the cold, tasting the watery air in her mouth. “I should’ve told you I don’t like boats and deep water.” 

“No. You should’ve told me you don’t swim.”

Her lips wobbled with a half-smile. How like Brandr to slice the matter to its core. She’d convinced herself with fog hiding the open water, she’d be fine, but Brandr made her feel safe the moment she set foot inside the boat, his presence the lifeline she needed.

Still, her gaze skittered over the boat rail.

Brandr sliced the oars through water…back and forth, his body’s motion hypnotic and smooth. “Go ahead. Talk to me.”

The Viking could be a mystical warrior dressed in black against waning fog, his graveled voice working a kind of silken magic. Sun shined through clouds, the pearled orb anointing his head. Perhaps Odin did send Brandr to save the day.

Wraiths rose up from the channel as if to push them along. Did the Norse gods want them to succeed? She didn’t believe in Odin and his Valkyries, but the stories Vikings spun at night entranced her.

“You could tell me what you’ll do with your reward,” she said.

He snorted. “I said
you
could talk to me. Not the other way around.”

“That’s not how it works. People take turns talking and listening to each other. It’s called conversation.” She angled her head coyly. “Vikings can do it. I’ve seen it happen.”

Brandr squinted at tree tops rising above the mist. “Never been much for talk.”

Your mouth never stops when trading jibes with me.”

His chuckle was raspy and low. “You have a way of loosening my tongue.”

To her shame, his laugh cut a scorching path through her body and her legs fell open under her skirts. Her knees were heavy, and she left them open.

“You’re a warrior long in service to Lord Hakan. Surely you’ll get a bigger reward than a handful of coins?”

His tarnished silver eyes pinned her. “Maybe I get you.”

She burst with skittish laughter, her nipples tightening as images of lying naked with Brandr sprang to mind. He teased her same as always, nothing more, yet she squirmed, rocking the boat, as last night’s conversation with Ella came to mind.

There could be worse fates than belonging to Brandr.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with the likes of me.”

His smile deepened. “Give me time. I’d find a way.”

Her breath hitched, and she turned her face into the cooling mist, certain her cheeks were apple red. Water beaded on her skin. She was no stranger to men, yet this rough Viking played her like a seasoned musician. Brandr lacked the smooth qualities some men naturally exuded, but a direct look, a choice word, and he strummed her senses.

And searching the water she knew. He wasn’t the one who bought her. He would’ve said as much by now. She touched her neck, finding the ridged scar in her hairline. The unknown tortured her.

The last day she hugged her mother taught her that.

The skin she stroked thickened long ago, but memories of the Cordoba Caliphate’s sapphire waters stayed tender as a new wound. She and her mother had served a Greek seller of Tyrian purple, the most sought after dye in the world. The unmarried merchant lived and breathed color, especially the gold and silver coins he counted each night by the light of his oil lamp.  

“
Kokkinos
.” He’d frown and wave her off. It was the name their portly master called them. Greek for red.

She’d scamper away and bury her nose in her mother’s skirts. At night her mother would hold her close, whispering, “Never forget, you are Sestra.”

By day their master herded hand-picked slaves to a rocky beach. There he’d stand, hands clasped over his paunch, watching over swimmers as they surfaced with a flat shell cupped in their palms. No one rested until they filled their baskets with
lapas
, the ocean creature prized for the costly purple dye.

Swimmers shouted that the waters had been stripped clean, but their master greedily sent her mother, his best swimmer, to scour the rocks once more. Waves crashed jagged cliffs dropping into azure water. Her mother’s had head broke the roiling blue surface, dark red hair plastered to her skull, a pained grimace wrenching her face. From a cramp in her leg? Sestra would never know. Their master clapped his hands twice and pointed down. Her mother dove under and never came up again.

For a year she ran to the beach and stood on the shore. Cold, briny water slapped her bare feet as she stared at the same spot, hope filling her heart that her mother would pop up and swim ashore. She never did.

Loss was the open water, a still deceptive place too deep to fathom too wide to escape.

Holding out her hand, deep set lines from years of labor wrote a story in her palm. Sestra’s mouth twisted on bitter truth. A Cordovan master stole her mother’s life for a palm-sized creature of great value. A Viking master, she hoped, would set her free for one palm of silver and gold. But, hope was dangerous.

She folded her hands in her lap. These were secrets best kept to herself.

“You’re quiet,” Brandr said, breaking the silence.

“Because you prefer the sound of rowing to me.”

His lazy smile spread. “Do you think me that bad a companion?”

“Worse than most,” she said, smiling to soften the insult. “You taunt me for friendliness to men, but they at least talk to me.”

He sculled the water, a grumbling sound rising from his chest. “Hakan and Sven agreed once Anund Jakob’s on the throne, the hoard will be split among the families who’ve suffered. With my portion, I plan to buy sails for the ships I’ll build on Gotland.” His dark eyebrows rose. “Satisfied?”

“You’re building ships on Gotland? I can scarce believe it.”

“Believe it. I’m good at working with my hands.”

Under her cloak, one hand cupped a heavy curve. Her fingers rubbed the fine wool, warmth and fullness filling her hand.
What would it feel like to have his hand on her breast?

“And here I told you I didn’t like boats,” she said, her hand dropping to her lap.

“You’d like mine.”

Her head snapped up. A playful light sparked his grey eyes. His deep voice, the long even strokes he took, dipping the oar in and out of water and she was mesmerized. Was the surly warrior…
flirting
?

“It’s small boats that bother me.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “Bigger is better.”

“Building boats,” she said, her pulse threading a touch faster. “I didn’t think your talents went beyond swinging a sword.”

“Now you know I have more than one.” Brandr’s body flowed with easy rhythm. Masculine knees bumped hers as he rowed harder. He wasn’t winded at all. Chest and shoulders swayed back and forth with each steady turn of the oars.

His pace hadn’t slowed since they left the river.

Was he as unflagging in
other
exertions?

“What about you?” he asked. “What will you do with your portion?”

“Nothing. I’m a thrall, remember?”

She twirled a loose thread on her cloak. How could a woman with no control over her future make plans? She never learned who bought her. Everyone was busy saving family and goods, and Sven was too forbidding to approach. The traitorous warrior probably didn’t know his mother had sold her.

Sven and the Aland warriors had circled the longhouse with torches blazing while everyone else worked fast to move people and spare belongings onto the ships. Those torches had set fire to Lady Mardred and Lord Halsten’s longhouse, the flames licking home and outbuildings alike to charred ruins. Skardsbok Gard, the farm belonging to generations of Lady Mardred’s family, was no more.

She eyed black smoke clouds on Uppsala’s distant horizon. “Except I’m glad to stop that.”

Brandr twisted around. “That’ll stop soon. Hakan will make certain of it.” He faced her again. “And because of you.”

“Me?”

“You were the bravest person last night, standing up, telling your knowledge of the hoard like you did.”

Her body stilled save her boot-covered feet rubbing at the toes. Such high praise was foreign to her ears, its source all the more baffling, yet Brandr’s direct gaze was open and honest.

His boot nudged her foot. “You could purchase your freedom.”

Freedom’s whisper had grown stronger after Hakan offered the reward, a steady drum beat in this quest with Brandr, but she wouldn’t confess the seed of hope inside her. Not to him. At least lives would be saved if they were successful.

She searched the fog. “I’m not sure. Where would I go? What would I do?”

“Those would be your choices to make.”

“But a woman alone?” She shook her head. “I’d rather have a safe home where few demands are made of me.”

“Freedom gives you that.”

The words rolled easily off his tongue. Brandr wouldn’t understand. He’d roamed the world, fighting and raiding. Two hawk owls flew overhead. The birds of prey circled and swooped, so graceful. Those two had a better chance of living in a safe home than she did, and the animals had each other. She had no one.

“There’s no certainty I’ll gain my freedom. A thrall doesn’t get to decide how her life will go.”

He scowled at her. “You believe that?”

“What else can I do?”

“Start by remembering you came into the world naked and screaming, same as everyone else. You have choices.”

“You don’t understand,” she shot back. “I have no control over what I do or even what I wear. And don’t forget, the lord I serve decides where I make my bed.”

Brandr’s jaw set. “Good enough reason to fight for what you want.”

“
Fight
?” she scoffed. “Just to be cut down by someone with power over me?” Her hands fisted on her lap. “I’ve borne enough cuts and bruises to know better.”

The oars stopped. Brandr took a good, long look at her. “You’re giving up.”

“I’m not giving up. I’m staying smart. I learned long ago those that fight don’t live long.”

She sat at the edge of the bench, her heart pounding in her chest. Her rush of words said, she found herself leaning forward, glaring at the Viking.

Why did he prod her?

Brandr didn’t move, holding the paddles suspended over the water. “Are you afraid to be free?”

She pushed back on her seat, his question like salt on a fresh wound. Clenched hands rubbed soft russet wool. The pretty tunic and black cloak were given to her by Lady Mardred. The tall Norsewoman loathed the idea of Gorm possessing her things, so she bestowed them on Sestra along with supple, knee-high kid boots and a small knife.

Sestra parted her cloak, and Brandr’s gaze dropped to her bodice where her hand grazed the pretty neckline stitched with shiny saffron and bright blue thread. The tunic was finer than anything she’d ever worn, though she had to squeeze herself into the bodice. Her breasts caused the most comments from lust-hungry men.

One hand traced enticing cleavage, but not with seductive intent. “These are how I’ve made my way in the world. They’re what I’m known for.” She sucked in a deep breath and confessed, “I don’t know what I’d do all alone in the world.”

As soon as the words were out, she wished she could take them back.

Wetness pricked her eyes and she jerked her cloak tightly shut. She faced away from Brandr, not wanting the Viking to see her weakness.

“What?” she said hotly. “Aren’t you going to make some jest?”

She tensed, ready for a fresh jibe to strike.

“No.”

Warm tears rolled down her cheek, each salty drop pelting the unseen shield against Brandr. 

“Go ahead,” he said.  “Let them all out. You’ve had a long night.”

His brusque voice, oddly kind, beckoned her. She turned. Softness eased the angles of his rugged face, and Brandr rested the oars on his knees as if waiting for her.

“A good cry’ll make you feel better.” His crooked smile spread. “Hakan and I…we’d always have a good wallow before battle. Made us feel better.”

And then he winked.

This tender humor showed a rarely seen
nice
side of Brandr. She grinned back, the abrasive warrior surprising her yet again. A few more tears fell, and her body lightened from the tiny drops rolling down her cheeks.

“It’s surprising,” she said, wiping away tears with the heel of her hand. “Crying does help.”

A red curl came loose from the braid and fell across her cheek. She tucked the lock behind her ear.

“You have beautiful hair.” His voice thickened.

She studied Brandr through wet lashes. His fingertips touched her knee bumping his, the faint contact reassuring. Often this summer past, he’d comment on her hair, but never with gentle appreciation.