Heart of a Viking (4 page)

“I paint.” She let out a tiny sigh. “I used to paint.”

Thorarin stopped again and eyed his progress. “That is enough I think.” He swept the flour into the bowl and leaned over to add hers to it. When he handed her it, warmth blossomed in her chest. Uncertainty haunted his eyes and he reminded her a little of a boy who had once given her a flower as a child. To her, this bowl of flour was the sweetest gift anyone had given her.

“You should paint again,” he said gruffly. “Sell your paintings.”

“And buy my freedom,” she finished for him.

Those shoulders lifted again in a move that was becoming familiar.

“Wood and stones and thrown away beads are easy to come by. Supplies for paint are not. I do not even know what plants of yours I can use to create my paints. Besides if it was so easy to buy freedom, every slave would be free.”

“I would imagine you would want that hope.”

Keita touched the heavy collar about her neck and her fingers automatically trailed down to the necklace underneath. Thorarin stretched out a hand and cradled the amber in his palm. His fingers were close to her collarbone. They need only slip down and be touching her more intimately. The thought made her heart seem to skip and whirl in her chest.

“You touch this when you think of hope.”

“It reminds me of home.”

“I have nothing of my home.”

Unable to prevent herself, she locked gazes with him. Those green depths reached deep down inside her and summoned up more longing than she’d felt in a long time. It was a longing for her homeland, surely?

“Do you have hope?”

His gaze narrowed. “Why should I need hope? I am no
thrall.”

She tilted her head to eye him. She wasn’t sure where these words were coming from yet pain was etched into his face, deep in the lines between his eyes and even in the dark shadows of them. Part of her wondered if she was not staring into polished metal and seeing everything she felt reflected back at her. The loss of his family must have eaten deep indeed.

“Everyone needs hope, Thorarin.”

His name rang about the wooden hut. She moved the bowl into both hands and clasped it in front of her, as though it might offer her protection from...She didn’t even know what, but something.
Something
thickened the air and made it hard to breathe.
Something
made it impossible to look away from him.

Thorarin dropped his hand away from her amulet. “You had better take the flour to the longhouse now.”

With that, he spun on his heel and left her staring at his back as he marched away from the hut and in the direction of the abandoned farmstead—the place that would be his home from now on, she assumed. She looked down at the bowl of flour and her chest expanded.

Viking,
Keita reminded herself. Aye, he was different but that didn’t mean he wasn’t one of them. He would not think twice about capturing Picts and having them work his land. Regardless of how interesting or different he seemed, she had to remember that his baser nature would be no different to that of any other Norsemen.

Thorarin lifted his head to eye the eaves of the roof. The farmstead had been left empty for years. When he had lived here, Magnus had run this farm. The land was decent and far enough away from the settlement that he could be sure to avoid all distractions while he worked to rebuild it. But it would take time and hard work. And while he wanted to see it rebuilt, his priority had to be Ragni.

So he would have to maintain the image of working hard for the community while carefully seeing through his revenge. For when it was complete, he would seize Ragni’s power and take it for himself. There would be no time for farming or woodwork once his plans were at an end.

He circled the damp confines of the empty house. It stretched a good length, with the bed chamber divided from the rest of the building. A loose stone circle revealed where the fire pit had once been but all furniture was long gone. He would need to at least create some pieces to make it liveable and ask Ragni for some
thrall
s for help. Perhaps he could use that slave that so disliked Keita. He could not deny he would take pleasure in putting her to work.

For the past three days he’d watched that woman. She worked as little as she could, forcing Keita to take on many of her duties. It did not seem in the little Pict’s nature to lash out at the woman but he saw that small jaw thrust out every now and then and waited for the day she would rise up against her.

Keita.
By Odin’s blood, she was why he was grateful for the distance away from the settlement. When he ought to have been observing Ragni and his son, he found his gaze following her. His skin prickled when she was nearby and his heart tightened when he feared she might find herself in danger. As much as Ragni’s declaration that no man should touch her protected her, once his power had begun to erode, Keita would find her position eroded too.

If anything happened to her, it would be his fault.

Thorarin knelt and shifted the stone circle back into place. Later, he would take some slaves and an axe and find the wood he needed. He would leave Keita to her work and force himself to forget her. When his muscles were burning and sweat tinged his brow from working the wood, she would be far from his mind.

Já
, that thought appealed. Whenever he had been so eaten up by anger over Ragni’s lies, wood soothed him. When he was shaping and carving the wood, he was master. It had no choice but to obey him.

And soon he would shape and carve this world into his own. Ragni would find out what it was like to lose everything with little idea it was he who had carved him this destiny. Not until the very end.

He paused in the doorway and studied the darkening sky. Streaks of amber lit the horizon, skipping between the trees. the colour reminded him of the gem around Keita’s neck and how it had shimmered off her skin. This night, he could not afford to consider the fragile texture of her skin or how the necklace had been warm to the touch. Or how he wanted to see if the rest of her body was warm too.

This night, he would begin picking apart Ragni’s life. He stepped out of the house and pushed shut the wooden door. It would be time to dine shortly and from his observations these past few nights, he knew exactly how to increase the tension between father and son. His information from Keita might have been minimal but others were happy to talk of the problems between them.

It was as expected. Fleinn was not warrior-like enough for his father. It was unlikely anyone would ever accept him as a replacement for Ragni. The chances were, when Ragni passed into the afterlife, another man would take his place—and certainly not Fleinn. From what he had seen, Thorarin found him to be weak-minded too. Easily led and easily swayed. Not the sort of man any community would want leading them.

Not the sort of man his father would want leading a raid.

That was where he would strike.

Thorarin made his way down the hill toward the settlement. The huts circled the longhouse, smoke seeping from holes in the roofs. The scent of the smoke offered a strange sense of warm comfort and familiarity. It reminded him of his boyhood.

Ragni’s home dominated the landscape. Since his childhood, it had been enlarged to make room for a store and alehouse. The impressive triangular roof added to the dominance.

A few of the villagers greeted him. They were getting used to the stranger in their midst, none of them aware he had once been known by a different name. Time had changed him in many ways, most certainly physically.

As a boy, he’d been weaker than Fleinn. Trying to survive had quickly built him into the man he was today, and for that he was grateful, but he could not help regret that he had been unable to be a warrior in his boyhood. Maybe then he could have defended himself against these accusations, maybe even asking for a duel of honour.

Instead he had been sent away with blood on his hands and no hope of return, under the penalty of death.

But death did not await him here. He paused to eye the ferocious beasts carved into the eaves of the longhouse.
Neinn
, there would be only revenge.

And death for Ragni.

When he entered the dimly lit interior of the longhouse, his gaze immediately sought out Keita. No matter how hard he tried to avoid staring at her, she drew him in like a beacon of light. The golden glow from the torches reflected off her hair and even her plain woollen tunic could not distract from her ethereal quality. This was the sort of woman of which the goddesses would be jealous.

She glanced his way and lowered her lashes rapidly as she dished out some stewed venison. Ragni spotted him from his position at the head of the table and waved him over. Every night since his arrival, Thorarin had been seated next to the
járl
. Fleinn never failed to glower at him from his spot on the other side of him. He managed to avoid smiling as that same glower greeted him when he sat.

Little did Fleinn know he was playing his role to perfection.

The noise of talk and laughter prevented Thorarin from having any serious conversation with Ragni until the evening wore on and the mead had taken its toll. He indulged in the drink but kept his consumption light in comparison to the other men. It would not do to lose his head to the drink—not when his position was precarious. He recalled first stepping foot in the village when Ragni had invited him to dine with him. He’d faced many a foe—armies, animals and criminals—yet his heart had never pounded quite so much as when he first laid the sole of his boot on his homeland. What if someone recognised him? His plans would be for nothing.

But none remembered the scrawny boy who’d been accused of murdering the
járl
’s son.

Thorarin curled his fingers around his eating knife and felt his breaths grow heavy through his nostrils. None remembered the boy whose life had been destroyed because he happened to witness Ragni’s brutality in person. If he had stayed, he might have been better able to protect his family. They would be alive if he hadn’t been sent away.

A fragrance wrapped around him, drawing him from his bitter memories. It broke through the smoky air and clung its sensual fingers to him. He didn’t need to look to know where the scent emanated. A slender arm reached over and poured mead into his goblet. She smelled sweet and he had to assume she’d been creating her own perfumes or rubbing flowers on her skin. Deep down in his gut, a sea of heated desire erupted.

Keita, picking the fragrant flowers, rubbing them along her pale skin...

He nearly groaned aloud and through the fog of lust realised Ragni was speaking with him.

“Forgive me, my
járl
. Of what is it you speak?”

“The next raids. You will come?”

“
Já
. We go when the weather breaks?”

“
Já
, to Ireland.” Ragni leaned in, a finger to his lips as if departing some great secret. “You can prove yourself to me.”

Thorarin forced a laugh. “Have I not done that already, my
járl
, when I saved your life?”

“A man can prove himself in many ways. I have yet to see you in battle.”

“Give me leadership of this raid and I shall prove my battle skills.”

Ragni peered at him, his cold eyes narrow slits. A hint of a smile curved his lips and he tapped a finger to them. “I shall consider it.”

Across the table, Fleinn released a sound of exasperation. Thorarin kept his expression composed but the urge to grin in triumph warred within.

“You would have a stranger lead your men into battle but you would not let me?” Fleinn slammed down his goblet.

“You are not ready, Fleinn.”

“I am eight and ten. I am a man. I have been ready for several summers.”

His father laughed. “When you speak like that, I hear only a boy.”

“You hear what you want to hear. You refuse to see me as anything but a boy.”

“Fleinn, you shall be killed. You are no match for Irish warriors. I must send only my strongest and best men.”

“And this man—” Fleinn thrust a hand in Thorarin’s direction “—is your best man? You know nothing of him.”

The
járl
jabbed his knife into the table top, sending the ivory handle quivering. The laughter and talk dulled and even the slaves stilled.

“He proved himself when he saved my life from that beast. Every man at this table had proved themselves to me in some way. What have you done, my son, except be born from your mother’s cunt? Why are you sitting at my table?”

Fleinn’s pale face reddened. His mouth opened and shut several times before he stood. “You would deny everything to your kin and give it to a stranger. I am not Fálki. I will not be struck down by some boy. If you let me, I would prove as much but you are blind, old man. Soon, I will prove myself and you shall regret every chance you denied me.”

The lad did not wait for a response. He snatched up his goblet and a jug of mead from a
thrall
’s hand and stormed out of the longhouse.

Ragni shook his head and yanked the knife from the table. He directed it at Thorarin, motioning with it as he spoke. It would be so easy. All he would have to do was turn the knife and he could drive it into the man’s chest. While he spat blood and died, he could tell him exactly who he was.
Once I was known by a different name, once you had me blamed for the violence that had taken place by your hand.

But there would be no honour in such an act. His honour had been eroded away for ten summers. His family and land had been taken from him. It would take much to repair that and if he was to regain it all, he would have to continue to be patient.

“You are lucky not to have sons,” Ragni said through a mouthful of meat.

“As you say, my
járl
.”

“You will want a family though, will you not? All men do. A wife and lots of children. There are plenty of women without husbands in our settlement.”

“I have not considered it.”

“You mourn for your wife perhaps? Mine has been dead some two summers. I have yet to see fit to replace her, though I have my son.” He snorted and bit into the meat, speaking through a mouthful. “Much good he does. His weakness comes from his mother. She was a feeble woman. Married her for her wealth, you see, but a man like yourself should raise fine sons if you chose a sturdy woman.”

“I shall think on it,” Thorarin murmured.

In truth, a wife and children had been far from his mind. He’d spent most of his banishment alone, sometimes sleeping with whores or comely lasses on the raids who liked the idea of a rough Viking’s hands upon her. But the rest of his time, he had moved from place to place, finding work and shelter where he could while he planned his return. There was no time for a wife.

But what of after? Should he take a wife then or continue his life alone? He scanned the room and eyed the few women at the table. Only one woman drew his attention and he could not take her as a wife. Nor would she want to be, he imagined.
Neinn,
Keita wanted freedom. He could likely give that to her if she survived his machinations.