He stared north, sea spray trickling through his beard. Endless ells of blue-grey water revived him. Vast. Eternal. More beautiful than he remembered. Air tasted familiar, a clean brine, the tang heavier than what he’d sampled on southern shores. Riding Ilsa’s wooden dragon invigorated him. Creaks and sways underfoot were natural. He balanced easily and never got sick.

All the openness filled him—and left him empty.

He shouldn’t be surprised. Aegir was known to eat a man’s fortitude and spit out his bones, but the sea giant played an especially cruel game today. Waves carried Jarl Egil’s booming laugh. Sun rays on water reflected his father’s pride-filled eyes. His chest ached from the wrestling match between Hel-born misery and happier times. How was it he detested the jarl and yearned for him at the same time?

“We’re not far from Vellefold. If that’s what you’re searching for.” Ilsa. Her voice was an invitation.

He turned around slowly. “I’m not searching for anything.”

Tolerance flared in light-colored eyes. “Then why do you keep vigil? The sea has not changed.”

Goosebumps scaled his arms. A woman reading his moods was foreign territory. Valgerd’s needling challenge was one thing: Ilsa’s draw was another. Her calm presence soaked him with the same power as his sea watch. She was an unfinished story that left him wanting the rest of the tale.

“There is that fog ahead,” he reasoned.

“I’ve had my eye on it.”

A wall of mist rose in the distance. Eighteen summers he last set foot in the place he’d called home, yet his senses sprang to life with newfound awareness. Vellefold hid behind the roiling mass. Did his father watch for him on the other side?

Ilsa sat under her father’s symbol, a black snake head sewn into a red wool. Sharp winds snapped a time-worn, sun-bleached sail. Its vicious emblem was once a sign of strength, but this sorry viper wouldn’t strike fear in the smallest child. Ripped threads and a hole left the serpent one-eyed and fangless.

“Your Jormungand is toothless,” he said, crossing the deck.

Head bent, Ilsa wrapped fresh wool around her hand. “The stitching frayed. No one repaired it.”

Conversations with her had been limited. They’d rowed together the first day but no more. She spoke the same to him as she did others: about changing shifts at the oars, to ask if he was hungry, and what fish he’d sighted off his side of the ship. Ilsa was firm, steady leadership with full knowledge of her byrding vessel and a solid understanding of the sea.

He dropped onto the bench facing her. “The Odell I knew would never neglect his sails.”

“The sail is not his. It’s mine.”

“Yours?” He hooted. “No wonder.”

Bright green eyes pinned him. “What does that mean?”

“Well, a woman…” He grinned.

She rested both fists on her knees, a breeze twirling untied cloth. “Go on. This should be interesting.”

“You defy tradition.” He motioned to the dragon head.

Ship customs were clear. Dragon head prows were a sign of jarls, kings, and chieftains. Ilsa’s cracked, weathered beast was far from high-born and royal. The ship could easily be overlooked, yet she flew her father’s sail.

Her toughness softened. “I purchased the ship from Jarl Egil.” A small shrug and, “As to the sail, it is cast-off. I never cared to fix it.”

Brown leather hugged Ilsa’s thighs. A finger’s width of skin showed through a split seam where ox sinew bound her trousers with wide X stitching hip to boot. On her legs, tiny blond hairs gleamed golden in the sun. He lost seconds staring at the firm flesh from which they sprung.

“Why don’t your trousers fit? Are your garments cast-off too?” A blunt question but he didn’t regret the asking.

“They were sewn for me last fall when I was thinner.”

Thinner? She was already on the verge of being underfed, but a smart man never asked why a woman’s thighs expanded.

“Do you really want to discuss my clothes?” She eyed him while biting the wool strip with pretty white teeth.

More goosebumps scattered paths over his body. Her effect was pleasantly annoying. Next, he’d wonder if she nibbled a man or bit hard when she found her pleasure, not that he cared. The knot done, Ilsa’s smile was full of confidence. Gone was the fine lady he’d met in Longsword’s hall, replaced by a creature of fast ships and fathomless waters. Stained leather covered her body, seal oil slicked her chin, and dirt smeared her cheeks. Slender braids webbed off her temples, leaving unplaited hair blowing in the wind.

Ilsa was a sea huntress and he the prey she was taking home.