To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse Series Book 2) (17 page)

“To save you.”

Her mouth opened but no words came. A man who had little was willing to sacrifice the one costly thing he owned to save her. He valued her that much?

“You’re getting cold.” Brandr’s thumb brushed her lower lip. “Why don’t we see what we can find of the treasure and get off this island?”

And now he was going to risk himself to recover as much of the treasure as possible. This wasn’t about saving Uppsala. This was about saving her.

She nodded numbly. “Yes.” To wanting this brusque warrior to warm her, to gaining her freedom, to a future with him.

His lazy smile spread in black whiskers. “Wait here.”

Shivers started up her legs. Standing in cold water took its toll, but truth would not be stopped. It cropped up at the most unexpected times, as solid as the man slicing upstream.

Water crept higher up his broad back until only his head was visible. At the pool, Brandr dove underwater near the jagged rocks. The dead Viking’s body, mostly underwater, floated to the middle of the pool. The falls thundered. Ravens swooped off the cliff, their wings flapping an awful noise in the ravine. Two birds shot up to a high pine tree edging the waterfall. The rest flew downstream, a black trail against the vibrant blue sky.

She picked up  
Jormungand
 and hugged the sword against her chest. Her lips began to quiver from standing so long in the stream.

Where was he? How long could the Viking stay underwater?

“Brandr,” she yelled, a useless thing since he couldn’t hear her, yet she called again louder, “Brandr?” Her voice echoed off the ravine.

This was foolish. Even if he needed saving, she couldn’t help him. But she could try. Grabbing hold of a boulder, she stretched one leg forward. He was underwater too long. Her other leg shook before finding firm ground on a rock.

“Brandr.” This close the waterfall drowned out her voice.

His head poked up from the water and he swiped water from his eyes. “I don’t have it.”

“Bran—”

He ducked under again, his boots frothing up the pool. Water rippled outward in a wide circle, and the dead Viking’s body drifted downstream. She took two more steps forward and planted a steadying hand on another boulder. Neck stretched, she peered at darker water. Water bubbled up where he had to be deep under the surface.

A hard object tapped her elbow.

She hissed, slamming into a rock. The dead man’s booted foot bumped her. His cloak snagged on large stones on the other side of the stream.

“Ewww.” Grimacing, she nudged his foot away with the tip of Brandr’s sword.

Brandr shot up from the pool, his fist raised with the torn leather bag. “I have some of the treasure,” he shouted. “I can get more.”

“Wait.” Her cry was in vain. He set the bag on a flat boulder and dove under again.

Silver coins winked from the bag. Was this freedom?

Water dripped from her lashes as she followed the dead man’s body veering downstream, feet first. His cloak wrapped around the rock like discarded laundry, holding him in place.

Would she be ready to move on?

Ripples circled wide across the pool’s surface. A woman’s face reflected back, red tendrils stuck to damp skin and large brown eyes the color of river rocks below. The stones were hard, but she was soft and knowing and better off for coming here. She’d stood up to the Viking warriors in Lady Mardred’s longhouse. They didn’t deserve her help, but she gave it, the same as letting the treasure go.

These were acts of will. Her will. The wish to live and thrive blossomed strong, and the first thing to do was release a dead man.

“I can do it.” She sucked in a deep breath, repeating firmly, “I
can
.”

Her hands trembled with cold, rattling Jormungand against her. She dare not use it. If she dropped his prized possession and it fell into the pool…

“You have a knife of your own,” she reasoned through chattering teeth.

She’d need to learn to defend herself. Viking women settled for nothing less.

She set
Jormungand
on a dry boulder and set her foot on a rock. Reaching down, she grabbed her knife handle tucked into her boot. Loose saffron threads drifted in the water from her bodice. The sharp blade came free, and she held it up to the blue sky. This is what happens when courage demanded action.

The pair of ravens watching from the pine tree cawed as if giving their approval. Wading across the stream, she ignored the bloated Viking and his pasty skin. Her small blade sliced easily through brown wool. The cloth gave and the dead man floated downstream, taking her fears with him.

She wouldn’t live in the shadow of death.

Behind her, Brandr broke the surface again, both hands pumping the air. “We did it,” he called out, his smile bright white in black whiskers. Fistfuls of silver shards and bronze arms rings shined in his hands.

Raising both arms in victory, her laughter echoed in the chasm. “No,
you
did it.”

Brandr dumped the treasure in the bag, the water roiling around his body as his legs churned under the surface. He clutched the bag in one hand and swam toward her

When Brandr stood safely on the river rocks, she tucked the knife away. “Now we can get out of the water.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and twirled her in the stream. “Now you can be free.”

Full of glee, they trudged hard, the water pushing their backs, driving them, she hoped, to be together on Gotland. One question stood in the way.

Who had bought her?

Chapter Twelve

“My eyes are brown like dirt. You know, no one sings the praises of dirt.” Sestra stepped from the tub near the open shutter, and snatched her plain linen underdress to her skin.

Night fell soft and black outside Lord Hakan’s longhouse. Crickets chirped evening songs, a reminder nature carried on despite the battles of men. The farmstead was eerily empty save the massive eiderdown bed. Tables, benches and chairs, chests, soapstone lamps, dishes, weapons—all traces of life—were gone.  

When Lord Hakan’s man was missing, Brandr decreed they’d wait.

The former bahadur rose silent and shirtless from stoking the roaring fire pit, orange and yellow lights dance across his skin. The corners of his mouth curled, his tolerant smile, the one he used when listening to her prattle.

Happiness flared inside her at his doing simple chores with his back exposed. He trusted her.

“And freckles,” she sighed, hugging her stained underdress against damp breasts. “Poets don’t wax on about those either.”

The fire outlined his long, powerful legs covered in oft-mended wool trousers. Brandr’s bare feet, long and beautifully arched, stepped quiet as a cat across the earthen floor.

Her heels inched backward the more he advanced on her. “I’m simply saying brown eyes are nothing to sing about.”

One glimpse at the bed and her limbs turned rusty. Lying with Brandr was much more than two bodies rubbing together. The island changed that. Questions tumbled in her mind. Once free, where would she go? How much longer would Brandr watch over her? And the most pressing of all, would he promise to have sex with her alone for the rest of their lives? Simple questions really.

Her bottom hit the wooden wall. “In Frankia, many women have brown eyes. They—”

Brandr touched her lips with one finger, the smell of river water on his skin. Black hair fell loose around his freshly shaved jaw gleaming smooth and kissable.

 “Your eyes are the color of earth. Without it we don’t eat and trees can’t grow,” he said. “We’d have no place to stand unless you prefer rocks. I don’t. I’ll take fertile and brown. It’s the softest place to land for a man like me.”

She gulped. His rough voice gentled her all the way to her toes.

Tiny flames danced in Brandr’s eyes. “You’re nervous again.”

“Uh-huh,” she nodded, tasting salt on his finger.

He braced a hand on the wall beside her head. “Why?”

Her gaze went to two leather bags on the floor. One, Brandr’s belongings. The other, the paltry remains of the treasure hoard he’d found in the pool. She’d cut off excess leather and retied the bag. As soon as Lord Hakan’s man showed, they’d take their palm and Brandr would go his way, and she would go to hers. The old silver coins and dented bronze pieces didn’t shine so brightly anymore.

A lump built high in her chest. Had been there since they left the island. Her arm holding the linen against her body squeezed hard. “I want to go with you.”

“To bed? You can’t miss it. It’s the biggest thing in the longhouse.”

She giggled. “It’s the
only
thing in the longhouse.”

Brandr had dragged the massive bed closer to the fire pit for warmth. While she bathed, he’d sat on the eiderdown bed to unlace his sleeping fur. Task completed, he snapped the heavy fur over the bed the way washer women snapped fresh linens.

The Viking made comfort out of starkness. He’d repaired their boat and rowed them back to Lord Hakan’s farm. When no one was there to greet them, he roamed about the lonely longhouse, cleaning up broken pottery shards and building a fire. He soon trapped two rabbits and cooked a stew with pearls of barley and wild onions in the remains of a large broken cauldron split in two.

When she’d grumbled about her dirtiness, he unearthed a coopered tub from the barn with gaps between its slats. As the sun slipped low in the sky, Brandr heated water in the other half of the broken cauldron and tightened the tub’s iron bands, producing a fine bath. She soaked in hot water, and he cleaned himself in the river. She was done with rivers and streams for a while.

His lids drooped lower. “I’ve already been inside you. Why so unsettled?” He brushed wet curls off her shoulder.

Too many men had used her. Men had said worse, yet her cheeks warmed at his bluntness. “I’ll thank you to remember this is different.” Air hiccupped in her lungs. “We’re different.”

The back of his hand skimmed her shoulder. “Last time, I was rough.” His voice dropped to a near-whisper and he kissed skin he’d just caressed. “Tonight will be different,
shirin-am
…I promise.”

Her skin prickled on his deep-timbered
promise
. This wasn’t about one night. She wanted all of his nights.

His breath smelled of mint, the leaves he must have chewed because he knew he’d kiss her. They barely touched yet her limbs grew heavy. Brandr traced a lazy line down her arm to her waist. His calloused palm slipped behind her. She jumped when four fingers slid into her bottom’s cleft.

Her head lolled sideways on the wall. “
Sheeran-am
? What does it mean?”

The linen undergarment abraded tender nipples, slipping lower from its purpose to drape her. Brandr kissed one faded freckle after another on her shoulder. She was powerless to insist on conversation as he whispered foreign words against her skin.

Brandr rooted out a lock from hair falling down her back and pulled it over her shoulder. “Persian for
my sweet
.”

He concentrated on the red coil, his thumb and forefinger straightening the curl all the way to its tip. Firelight caught rare gold strands. His curious touch could be the wick showering sparks all over her body. A pulse teased soft skin between her legs, and the flesh folds felt heavy.

Still, she had to know.

“Do you promise to lay only with me for the rest of your life?”

The curl sprang free. “You’re unsure of your future.”

“Yes. Especially with you.”

Brandr’s lids dropped low. Both hands traced arcs across the tops of her breasts. The round curves brimmed over loose cloth she was about to drop. Her arms were heavy and her nipples begged to be touched. Wetness trickled between her legs. She fidgeted, pressing her thighs together, the pressure adding to her misery.

He scowled at his fingers caressing her. “I’m not the best man for you.”

A small line slanted between his brows. If she read him right, the Viking didn’t like how much he craved her breasts. His nostrils flared, and his mouth opened as if he’d devour those curves and not stop.

“That’s not the answer I’d hoped for,” she said weakly.

A shadow passed over Brandr’s face. “I want to be, but I’m not.”

The Viking cupped her high, freckled curves with both hands. Gentle and seeking. She trembled. Her toes pressed hard into the earthen floor. The fierce bahadur battled against his own needs and wants. She covered his hands with hers, seeking connection. She found Brandr’s textures—rough skin, the roped scars born of desperation reaching from his wrist, the play of muscles and sinew on strong, life-saving hands.

Beyond the open shutters, a breeze blew through untended rye fields. The Fyris River beside the fields, the river that would take him away.

 “Don’t pull away from me.” His voice was ragged with need. The heels of his hands teased her nipples through the linen with the barest pressure.

The excited tips poked hard against cloth. Her body knew what it wanted— his hands rubbing her skin, his hardness inside her, a connection deep enough to forget where she ended and he began. The future was tomorrow. On the island, she’d untangled his last tortured secret.

Tonight, she’d let the man unravel her.

Bending close, his mouth hovered over hers. “
Doost-et daaram
,” he whispered. “
Doost-et daaram.”

His kiss was tenderness and life. Brandr coaxed her with small kisses, each touch of his lips a word he couldn’t say, soul-stripping kisses gentle enough to make her body sway and her legs part.

His lips delighted in the side of her mouth. The warrior mumbled something about a freckle. His hand released its grip on her bottom to slide on her belly under the linen she clutched. One tug and he ripped the cloth barrier away. Brandr stepped back, his eyes taking in her feet, her knees and thighs, halting on the thatch of hair between her legs.

A shuddery inhale reminded her to breath.

Ridged stomach muscles clenched as if in pain. Eyes glazed darkly, he reached out and cupped her mound. “You are
Sif
.”