Heart of a Viking (7 page)

But he might well have taken her and coaxed her into his bed. It would be easy. A few tender touches, enough to spark the fire between them.

Thorarin left her question unanswered. “Finish washing. You have need of rest,” he ordered. He turned. He needed to escape the close confines of the bathhouse. To escape her.

“It is interesting, Thorarin, how you offer up your servitude to that man, yet you have disobeyed him when it comes to touching me.”

He ignored her words and stepped out of the building. However, not even the cool night air could break through the effect her words had upon him. It would be hard indeed not to spend the rest of the night considering how else he could have touched her.

Thorarin pulled the fur tight over his head. The dark cloth bound around his face would hide his features well enough and the night was blessedly dark. Only a speckle of stars lit the sky while the moon was hidden by a bank of clouds. The gods were on his side this night. Hopefully they would continue to be so.

The glow of several light torches offered enough light for him to see the men in the clearing but the shadows would provide him cover. If his prayers were answered, no one would know it was Thorarin, the
jarl’s
trusted man, had stolen their taxes as they were transported to the king.

As for Ragni, he knew Thorarin had been keeping himself busy fixing the farmstead. He’d made fine progress and while it might not be habitable for some, he’d spent many nights sleeping on the ground under the stars, particularly during his first years of banishment. A vagrant boy would find no charity, and he had to learn to survive on his own.

He gritted his teeth when he remembered the fear that riddled his scrawny body. He’d been lucky to survive. Many stronger boys would not have, but the gods had favoured him and he’d known he was meant to return. Determination made him fight harder, work more. To gain the strength and skills he needed to seek his revenge.

Now he was far from that boy who had no hope of ever becoming more than a farmer. Now he was a Viking through and through. He had blood on his axe and strength in his body.

Thorarin stalked about the encampment. The king’s seat was some seven days away and the taxes were heavily guarded. He doubted many thieves were bold enough to try to steal from Ragni. His reputation of brutality and dishonour was no secret. But that meant the men guarding it would not be ready for him.

He allowed himself a thin smile. Coin was power. Once Thorarin was in possession of his coin, yet more of the
járl
’s power would be eroded away. Bit by bit, Thorarin was gaining ground.

The few men who were awake stood at their posts. They were clearly wearied and closed their eyes many times before dragging them open. Three men in total. If he could render them senseless without waking the others, he’d be away before anyone realised what had happened. He had no intention of killing them.

Ragni had some men who were as ruthless as he working for him but for the most part, they were simply doing as their
járl
told them. None deserved to die for his revenge. Blood spilled would only mar his deeds.

The only blood he was interested in was Ragni’s.

His mind flickered to the marks that had been left on Keita’s body after her ordeal. No blood had been spilled perhaps but those bruises made his gut burn. He had avoided her for the past week, choosing to throw his energy into the farmstead. Working on the wood needed to replace the struts and walls gave him a good way of burning off his desire for her. And his anger at himself.

He had spotted her the next day, walking gingerly as though the bruises upon her arms and even those unsightly fingerprints that revealed how Fleinn had put his hand across her mouth were likely all about her body. She had glanced his way and that echo had bounded through him.
Já
, it said.
I’m the same as you. Alone and without hope.

But he had hope, did he not? His revenge was his hope.

The shifting of feet drew his attention back to the man only some ten paces from him. Fool. This was where his attention should be. The slave girl needed none of it.

He eased his axe into his hands and twisted it so the blunt side faced down. He gauged the distance of the other men. If the man cried out, he might awaken the whole camp. Sweat tingled on his palms but a thrill danced over his spine. He allowed himself a wider grin now. How many were there in total? Eight? He liked his odds even if they did awaken.

Thorarin brought the axe down with a swift, sharp motion, connecting it with the base of the man’s skull. There was no crack, for which he was grateful. But the man gave a sigh and collapsed. Thorarin wasn’t sure he’d be as lucky with the other men as they were larger but he was nothing if not resourceful.

He did not bother dragging the man aside. He hoped to be upon the other men before they discovered him and then long gone with their coin. Aware of the pulsing warmth running through his body and the heavy beat of his heart, he forced himself to take slow breaths. It did not matter how many times he’d come close to death or fought an army, the bloodlust never failed to fill his muscles and urge him to fight. But for this night, fighting was not needed. Caution and care were his ally tonight.

Thorarin eased past the sleeping men as their snores masked his footsteps. The second man turned and he ducked deep into the shadows until he had returned to his original position. He was two paces behind him, breathing the same air as the man when he struck. He would not know what had happened until he awoke the next morning with a fine headache.

The third man proved to be larger than the other two. Almost larger than himself. He considered the force of his axe. He could not be sure it would work to take him down but he had few other options. Axe held high, he brought it down in one swift motion. The man gave an
oof
sound but failed to crumble. Thorarin flung aside his weapon and wrapped an arm around his neck. The Viking struggled, grappling against his arm as he put a hand across the man’s mouth and nose.

Thorarin’s back met a tree and it took all his strength to cling on and remain quiet. Stars jarred through his skull briefly, and he had the faintest vision of a goddess watching over him. It gave him enough determination to remain clinging to the man until his body began to sag beneath him. He loosened his grip and eased the guard down to the ground. He was not dead but he’d awaken with a pounding head just like the other men. Thorarin retrieved his axe and put it away.

All he had to do was retrieve the coin, now unguarded but tucked between several sleeping men. He used his skills as a hunter to stalk stealthily to the chest and take the heavy container into his hold. He hefted it up and moved backward, away from the encampment.

Once he’d slipped into the shadows, he released a long breath. He wouldn’t count his job as done until the coin was stowed in his farmhouse.

He rested briefly as the sun came up and pondered their reaction when they discovered the taxes were gone as he eyed the dawn’s rays over the crest of a mountain. The tip burned amber and he recalled the gem around Keita’s neck, reflecting off her pale skin. Once he would have said there was no sight more beautiful than that of his homeland in the morning light.

Now he was not so sure.

He drank from a skin and chewed the dried meat he’d brought in his satchel before hefting the chest into his hold and continuing on. Tonight, he would join Ragni at the evening meal and likely observe his reaction when the news of the theft reached him.

Thorarin started down the slope of the hill toward the river line. Two more hours of following it and he’d be back at the settlement. Water crested and bubbled over the rocks before it deepened and widened, curling around the mountain like a snake.

A brisk wind had cleared away the clouds, leaving the day cold but fresh. Blue skies turned the water a deeper shade of turquoise that reminded him of the beautiful glass beads his mother had sometimes worn.

Then he considered the beauty of his homeland and that of the Picts. What did Keita think of the land of the Norse or did she see only horror here? The strangest desire to show her all that it had to offer struck him. A princess like Keita deserved much—a life more than servitude to be sure. Not that he could offer her anything. After his revenge was complete, however...

Thorarin scuffed a hand over his beard and shifted the weight of the chest to ease the ache in his shoulder. After his revenge, he knew not what he would do. He could seize power, take the place of the
járl
. It would be simple after he had turned everyone against Ragni. They would naturally look to him.

But did he even want that? There was satisfaction to be had in replacing Ragni, of course. However, the political intrigue, the stresses and strains of power and the constant battles weighed heavily on his heart. He’d fought for a long time to become the man he was. The idea of continuing that fight made his bones ache more than ever. Perhaps he would travel to new land. Settle elsewhere.

Alone?

Shaking his head, he thrust aside the thoughts and spied the thatch of his farmstead in the distance. The isolation of it meant there would be no chance of him being caught unless anyone had decided to call on him for his carpentry skills. As yet, none had approached him. Ragni might trust him but the villagers had more sense.

Maybe somewhere deep down they knew him to be the banished boy, the murderer. The
járl
’s arrogance blinded him to such things. It likely would not even have occurred to him that the boy he accused of the crime might be bold enough to return.

He slipped into the hut and placed the chest on the floor. While he’d been working to secure the roof and walls, he’d also created a secret compartment in the building. In one corner, he’d crafted a hole big enough to hide the coin. He drew open the planks that created the false section of wall and slid the chest in before covering it up.

Scrubbing his hands across his weary face, he discarded the furs that had covered his head and began to untie the cloth about his face. As he turned, his gaze landed on where light shimmered in through the open door.

“Oh.”

He paused in untying the disguise. Keita, in all her pure paleness, was silhouetted against the daylight. Ribbons of sun drifted over her shoulders, caressing her skin and drawing his attention to the gown she wore. He blinked at her several times. Was he dreaming? Had his plans failed and he was asleep on the mountains somewhere or rendered senseless? Breaths trapped in his throat and refused to be released. He’d never seen the likes of it.

Thorarin noted her gaze on the disguise and hastily untied it to throw it aside. By the gods, had she discovered him? Would she understand once word of the stolen taxes had reached the settlement that he was the thief? He prayed not. He had no wish to force her silence by any manner.

His gaze followed the curve of her waist. How could he threaten such a creature? Gone was the shabby, brown wool. It had been replaced with delicately woven, pale blue wool. Embroidery enhanced the waist and sleeves and it dipped low enough to reveal the gentle curves of her breasts. She was dressed like the
járl
’s wife. What had happened?

“What are you doing here?” he snapped as she gaped at him.

“I—f-forgive me. Ragni sent me to...to request that you visit with him before the evening meal. I know not why.”

He stepped forward and peered into her eyes. Uncertainty haunted that strange grey colour. “You should not have entered.”

“The door was...” She motioned to the open entrance. “F-forgive me.”

“You forget your place!” he barked, taking another step closer.

There was no scent to her now. It reminded him again of her purity. He ground his teeth in a bid to gain control. She should not be here. Should not have seen him disguised. And she certainly should not be wearing that gown while she was alone in his presence.

Her lips quivered. “Thorarin...”

“Get out!” The molten desire in him bubbled over into fury. How dare she interfere with his plans? How dare she make him think of her while he should have been focused on his revenge?

Keita spun away but not before he spotted the shimmer of tears in her eyes. Those tiny droplets did something to him, something strange. They made his heart flex against his ribs or maybe squeeze until there was no room for anything but this odd sensation.

He grabbed her arm and felt her flinch. Softening his touch, he eased her around to face him. He went to put a finger to her chin but recalled how Ragni had done the same. So instead he pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and used his own gaze to persuade her to look at him. It worked. Her lashes fluttered upward as though pulled by the force of his look.

“Do not fear me.”

“I do not.”

He gave a little jerk of his head. “You cry.”

“Aye. A lot.”

“I did not want to be the one to make you cry.” Thorarin coughed in an attempt to rid himself of the grit seeming to fill his throat. It had become dry and scratchy. “You surprised me.”

“I did not mean to, forg—”

“Your gown.” He could not bear to hear her grovel again. “It is very fine.”

“Ragni decided I should be dressed better. He wishes to make a show of me this night at the feast.”

His lip curled and bitterness hit the back of his throat. The idea of Ragni using her like some object—even if he kept her untouched—almost made him tighten his grip on her arm. He supposed the
járl
had some sense. A woman like Keita was not to be worked hard until her fingers were raw and rough. She should be dressed beautifully. But she should also be touched and loved.

Her eyes, a colour that should have been hard and unyielding, drew him closer. He became aware of her breaths whispering through the air and the slight shiver of her body. Thorarin traced a lock of pale hair down to her shoulder and lightly caressed her skin. The shudder in her increased.

“Do not fear me,” he told her again, softer this time.