Bjorn was drawn to the scale sitting innocently on a barrel. Walking toward it, Ilsa’s perfumed skin invaded
his senses. He reached for the scale.

“I bought you,” she announced.

“Bought me?” His arm fell to his side and his voice was dangerously soft.

Longsword and Rurik halted their discussion, their mouths open with unfinished words.

Ilsa’s lips curved in a cool smile. “That is what I said.”

The jarl let out a long-suffering sigh. “A blunt way of putting it, lady.” To Bjorn, “Obviously, you’re a free man. She owns your service in battle. Not you.”

A fine prickle skittered across his back. No. Ilsa owned him and it was the strangest fetter, the huntress
netting her prey.

“I gave my var to you,” he said, jabbing a finger at Longsword. “To fight for Rouen. Not to wage war in
another land.”

Addressing both men, the jarl leaned over the table and braced closed fists on smooth oak. “The two of you have known from the beginning my orders will be obeyed. The short time the Forgotten Sons have served me, you’ve honored them all. Except one.”

“Marry a Viking woman,” Rurik said without remorse.

“Everyone knows how that test of loyalty turned out.” The jarl paused, his smile a show of teeth. “Don’t try my
patience over this.”

The jarl’s edict was known to all: his fighting men must marry Viking women. It was a bone of contention
that Longsword’s third highest man married Safira, a Hebrew woman who happened to be the daughter of a Frankish spice merchant.

The message given was clear: Obey my order.

Would the Sons pay a consequence if he didn’t?
Longsword had overlooked Rurik’s transgression because Rouen’s coffers overflowed from a fledgling spice trade when before there was none. But Rurik’s bride choice still festered, a wound the jarl carried, and one that wouldn’t quickly heal. Jaw muscles working, Rurik backed off. Settling in one place came with a cost, and it was paid for in hard decisions. Erik, Thorvald, Thorfinn, and Gunnar craved
a life here. There was land for all the Sons. For that reason, Bjorn swallowed the bitter taste that came from talking of Vellefold and stepped forward.

“I don’t like it. But the sooner we’re done, the better.”

The corner of Longsword’s mouth twitched. Was he surprised at Bjorn being the levelheaded one in this matter? The jarl knew about his storied banishment. Everyone did.

“My thoughts exactly.” The jarl stood to full height. “The Forgotten Sons will be richly rewarded.” His gaze
flicked to Rurik. “I always see to my own.”

“As do I,” Rurik shot back.

Ilsa swept past Longsword. “Now would be a good time for me to return to my ship. I need to sort through
my other purchases.” She headed for the door, adding, “Remember, be on my ship at sunrise tomorrow.”

Bjorn blocked her path. “You’re going to leave and not tell us your plans?”

Face angled to his, her mouth lifted with a feisty smile. “I already tried, but you refused to listen.”

Feminine warmth hit him, a hint of the North Sea and pine trees and long-ago carefree days. The wood floor was solid, yet he’d swear it wavered. A force bounced between him and Ilsa, something far from childhood friendship. Life stripped to basic parts. Power. Anger. Want. Bold green eyes searched him. Behind them was bravery and…need.

He squinted at her, unsure about that vulnerable light. It was there and gone like a wraith taken by wind. He
wanted to shake his head and clear his thoughts. Must be he was seeing things.

“Perhaps I should’ve crawled into your bed with my proposition,” she taunted in a feather-soft voice. “Maybe
then you would’ve heard me.”

“I heard you.”

Skin flushed under his leather vest, and his mind conjured images of tangled furs and plump pillows. Of Ilsa on top of him, naked and pliant. One long leg brushing his, sweat sheening her skin, flaxen hair draping his chest. She kissed an agonizing trail down his body.
Steamy, open-mouthed kisses, going lower and lower and—

“Is that the only place you can talk to a woman?” she asked. “A bed?”