CHAPTER SIX

“Sin, are you out of your helmet? Look at our hands. Mine. Ulric’s.”

Sinarr Gudrunsson grimaced as he shifted the struggling weight on his shoulder. What was it he’d said about being unable to stand arguments? If Ari asked him that question about his helmet again, or this damnable spitfire landed her foot anywhere near his balls again either, his inability would be ancient history.

His Odin-damned hearth goddess wasn’t the only one who needed to know what was good for her. This hag he’d yanked from a fate worse than death, needed to know what he’d done deserved applause. Not bite his men half to death.

The Raven pitched, rocking wildly beneath Ari’s weight as he sprung on board. “And not just Ulric. Potlicker, she’s a witch.”

For the first time that stupid nickname Ari had called him since the day they’d met riled. Now he was master of two ships, he didn't need reminding that when he was a boy, he'd been such a starving skinny wretch, Ari had claimed he licked pots clean. “So?”

“You’ve got yourself a woman. Why do you want her?”

“Because.”

“I can’t come on here! Put me down! Put me down now!”

“Happy to oblige, sweeting.” Staggering slightly as the deck lurched, he dumped her down in the stern in a tangle of sackcloth and whatever the hell those white things were that showed off her legs. While Saxon women were different from Viking women, he’d still never known Saxon women to wear anything like that. Nuns especially. Blazing fire-ships, was that pink ribbons lacing the edges? And she’d tried to pass herself off as a boy? With a backside like that? As for why he was looking? He couldn’t help it. She threw herself on the side of the ship, trying to heave herself over. Ari glanced at him.

“I told you Potlicker. She’s trouble. Got a nice backside though.”

“Going somewhere are you? Go on. Get over there.”He grabbed her waist and maneuvered her back into the stern as she threw herself on the side. "Go on. Get over there." He glanced at Ari. "Tell the men to hoist the sail. Gunnar can take the cargo to Jorvik. Tell him that’s the last time we use Haddon. That’s twice now he’s sold us short. And, before you say any more, I’ve the two redheads, the blond, the sister and the fat one. Believe me, this one’s ballast. It’s expendable. Especially in stormy weather.”

“Then toss her over the side now, Potlicker. We can do without the extra weight.”

“Weight?” She burst out, landing another kick in his direction. “How about you go first then?”

“Uh! Go get the sail hoisted.” He gritted at Ari. “I’ll deal with her. Go on.” Forget her hair. The sisters should have cut off her tongue. Maybe they’d tried and rabies was what they had to show for it? Maybe over the side was the best place for her?

Put her on the Reindeer and send her to Jorvik? Dwarves’ dwellings, pity the person buying her. Already they’d lingered here far too long. The Reindeer’s pale sail billowed in the soft breeze blowing up the inlet. It was time the Raven’s black one did the same. All the men were aboard. The hold was loaded with fresh water barrels and dried cod. Everything was stowed, everything that was, except her. “As for you.” He waited till his friend thudded away before cutting the rope binding her wrists. “I’d stop squawking, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Sir . . .”

He took a deep breath, a fog filled, drizzle laden one. While he wouldn’t say this was honey laced, it was almost placatory. “Drottin to you, sweeting.” Placatory or not he wasn’t having it. Drottin was certainly what he was. War-Lord.

“Sir . . .”

He gritted his teeth as he flung the rope to the deck. “What?”

“I know I have made something of a fuss. That to you I must seem unreasonable.”

“The understatement of the year so far.”

Yes. When it came to choosing a woman, the blond would probably be the most efficient, although he couldn’t say for certain till he’d seen them all cleaned up. It might even be the small redhead was the prettiest.

What he could say was, that when it came to choices, he wasn’t even Snotra’s first. That honor had gone to Godfrig, the bald old bastard she’d chosen over him four years ago. Why? Because he didn’t just not have enough money. He hadn’t had any money at all.

His breathing deepened as he remembered that when it came to suitors, never mind those who’d kissed her beneath the pale moonlight—none of whom were worth a damn, himself included—some things were a matter of hope.

He’d thought his were being rewarded when Godfrig had done the decent thing and dropped dead—his pockets empty as Sin’s—an hour before the wedding. But his hopes had been dashed, like a broken ship on the rocks, when Egil stepped forward to take the groom’s walking sticks.

Egil, as in who her damnable old goat of a father had pronounced the best yet. Obviously, when the sickly damned toad had land titles fluttering about him like confetti. Had it mattered he was nine years old and they were not going to live together? That he was stone dead a year later? To the damnable old goat probably. Especially when the piece of toad shit had left her less than he himself could now amass in an hour. Was it any wonder he hated being second best? Third neither? Him? Now the owner of the Raven and the Reindeer?

That she’d never married either of these specimens wasn’t the point. That she’d never married wouldn’t stop him making his. So the woman he chose to keep Snotra on her toes would be pretty. Not an ugly, black haired harridan who was capable of picking a fight with a fish, a fossilized dead one, on dry land.

Of course he could be more gracious about the wedding. He could keep no woman at all. Why the hell should he though?

“So be it. About the understatement that is. But the thing is—the reason I got so upset—“

“I don’t want you as a bed slave, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”

“Not that. No. A dance with joy perhaps, but that would be it in my case.“

“That makes two of us then.” Well, really. Look at her.

“It is heartening that you can count so very well, especially when you've been sold short. And I have just the thing to remedy that. A valuable jewel. Yes. Back there. In fact not just any ordinary valuable jewel either. A jewel worth a king’s ransom."

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“And what were you doing with a jewel worth a ling’s ransom?”

“Hiding it. From the sisters among other people. Hiding it because . . . well . . . I . . . I had stolen it.”

“What? From one of the kings?”

“Yes. Something like that.”

“Which one?”

“What do you mean, which one? There is only one I know of. The king.”

“Of which kingdom?”

“England, of course.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Then you must have led a very sheltered life.”

“Me? Well, where is it then? The place where the Engs live?”

“Not that it matters, when you are looking at it now, but what matters is that you consider taking me back to the convent. Then I shall give it to you. I swear it. I do not even ask to be set free.”

Much. So she could bite the rest of his men? Give him the slip in the mist? Not a chance of it. England? Had he ever heard such horse-piss? As for her telling him she’d be dancing with joy not to be his bed slave? Who did she think she was? “Well, it’s like this. I’m swearing too.”

She raised her chin a fraction of an inch so he had an even better view of those unholy lips and her eyes.

“Good. I think you will find that not only will I give it to you, it will make up for any disappointment about that consignment.”

“I’m swearing that there’s not a chance of it, sweeting.”

“When stealing is my specialty? Can you not see this from the way I am dressed?”

“What? You mean you stole these clothes?”

“I . . . Well … You . . . might say. In fact I suppose it gives us something in—“

“Because, sweeting, if that’s your specialty, you need to find another one. Here was me thinking you dressed like this to stop us men stealing anything from you.”

“I beg your--“

“And for a thief, let’s just say, your fingers weren’t exactly nimble. Unless you were trying to steal my backside. How do you think I knew you weren’t not only a thief, you weren’t a man either?”