motioned for the others to go. The women made the customary gestures and departed. Thyre kept her back straight, waiting. She could do this. She could keep the Viken from guessing the true extent of their wealth. After all, she had put many warriors in their place before. They all seemed to think one ripple of their biceps and an indulgent smile was enough to drive a woman into their arms.
‘What do you require, Ivar Gunnarson?’ she asked.
‘What do I require?’ The Viken asked with a maddening lift of his brow, and his gaze lingered on the hollow of her throat. ‘It depends on what you are offering.’
‘Equipment to repair your ship and nothing more.’ Thyre rolled her eyes towards the sky at the blatant attempt at flirtation.
He laughed and his hand brushed her elbow. ‘Come with me and I shall show you.’
‘Ships and I are strangers. I need a list. I would not want to be accused of giving you the wrong thing.’ Thyre’s lips became dry and she moved her arm away from the heat radiating from his hand.
He rattled off a long list of items. Thyre began to breathe easier. Everything was easy to obtain and she had clearly made her point. He would have to find another woman to romance. ‘You shall have what you have asked for.’
‘And if I need anything else? How shall I call you? Shall I ask for the dark-haired princess? Or maybe it is the dark-haired witch.’
‘My name is Thyre and I am merely the stepdaughter,’ Thyre said firmly.
‘I will try to remember that. A stepdaughter and not a princess, although this certainly appears to be your kingdom.’
‘It belongs to my stepfather.’
His eyes became cold and for a moment he seemed to search her soul. ‘But you know where everything is kept, including the sour ale.’
Her hand flew to her mouth as the realisation hit—this warrior did possess a brain. He had seen through the ruse. The tiny pain in her head threatened to become a full-blown headache. He had warned her and not Rag-nfast. It was she that he held accountable for the trick. ‘You knew.’
‘I will let it go this time, Thyre, but no more tricks or insults. My men are warriors, not farmers. They tend to act before considering the consequences.’
‘I am well aware of who you are…now. You will be given the proper honour.’
Ivar watched the emotions play on her face. The woman understood what he was saying. Good. Perhaps they could avoid any unpleasant incidents and she would stop treating the Viken like they were ignorant or easily fooled. ‘You should trust me, Thyre. All I want to do is get home. It is a simple enough desire.’
‘We do not trust each other. It is how it has been since before I was born. Ranrike and Viken, there is too much between our two countries.’
‘Will you be sitting at the high table during the feast?’ Ivar tilted his head and examined the way a few tendrils of black hair escaped from her kerchief. ‘Or will you find an excuse to be somewhere else? Why not take a chance and learn that the Viken are like other men?’
Her eyebrows drew together. ‘I shall be there if my stepfather deems it necessary. Dagmar normally serves the important guests. It is a tradition.’
‘Traditions can change. Countries do not always need to be at war.’
‘Not this one.’ She strode off, the skirt of her apron twitching and revealing her slender ankles.
‘Is there some problem?’ Erik the Black called. ‘Your beautiful lady appears to have left in mid-conversation.’
‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ Ivar watched her, struck again by the vague sense of recognition.
‘She is a proud beauty, that one. She would be a right forest cat in bed.’
A primitive urge to strangle Erik filled Ivar. If he had noticed Thyre’s appeal, others would have as well. ‘She is not for you or the rest of the crew. You may inform the men.’
‘But I take it the other women are…’ Erik raised an eyebrow as a knowing smile spread across his face.
‘If you must…as long as the women are willing and unclaimed. I will have no disputes over a skirt and a melting pair of eyes. We are here to repair the ship and to make sure the mast holds steady until we can get back to Kaupang. A night and a day.’
‘Will it be enough?’ Erik the Black asked. ‘The mast has cracked. Definitely. I heard the split when we were buffeted by the last gust of wind.’
‘Even though there is no sign of it yet, I trust you, Erik. We sail with our backs and our arms. We enjoy the feast and that is all.’
‘As you say, hospitality is there for the taking.’
Ivar regarded Thyre’s retreating back. Her head was proud and erect and her apron dress skimmed her curves. She moved with complete assurance. An appealing package, and one that held the possibility of being explored. She had flirted with him. For the first time in a long time, the beginnings of desire stirred within him. He would tame her. One single night—it could be done. ‘But that one is mine. I will unlock her secrets. No man is to molest her.’
‘Did anything untoward happen in the ceremony while I was away getting the mead, Dagmar?’ Thyre asked before Dagmar even had a chance to sit down on the kitchen bench. ‘Your father appeared distinctly uncomfortable when I returned with the horn of mead and he has gone to make another sacrifice to the gods. We had an agreement about what was to happen, and he broke it.’
‘If Sven had been here, he would have made sure Far held firm. Why did Far offer so much hospitality? Why not fight? They are not that many.’
Thyre held her tongue. Dagmar’s ideas about strategy were never particularly well thought out. This Viken warrior needed to be handled carefully.
‘What else happened, Dagmar?’ Thyre asked.
‘There was some boring old story that one of the Viken tried to recite, but that was all.’ Dagmar made a wry face. ‘You know Far, he sees the boat and thinks of gold and spices. Far is too greedy and short sighted, Sven says.’
‘And the leader, Ivar?’ Thyre kept her gaze on the kitchen fire, aware that her cheeks suddenly burnt. ‘How did he react?’
‘He acted quickly to calm the situation and Far was mollified.’ Dagmar wet her lips and smoothed her skirt. ‘His scar bothers me. To twist his mouth like that. How do you think he acquired it? It looks far too jagged to be a sword mark. But if you don’t see the scar, the rest of him is more than pleasant.’
Thyre stopped the words about Ivar Gunnarson’s broad shoulders and bulging arm muscles just before they tumbled out. The last thing she wanted was Dagmar teasing her about a fancy for a Viken warrior after she’d proclaimed her loathing of them for so many years. ‘As long as I see the back of him tomorrow, all will be well.’
‘You are right, Thyre. His back is by far the best view. A woman could feast on those shoulders.’ Dagmar smacked her lips.
‘Dagmar!’
