Page 11 of Shared By the Vikings

He smiled a little sadly. “If we are to make it west, start a new life together, we must ensure no one knows who you really are, Ingrid. We need to disguise you.”

“Cut my hair?”

“Maybe some, for it is very feminine. And the berries on your lips, no more of that.” He brushed his mouth over hers. “For a while at least.”

“My father will be furious with me.”

“And he’ll want to murder me in ways I don’t want to think of.”

“Yet you still want to take the risk?”

“I would risk an eternity in hell to be with you, my princess.”

“Raud.” She rested her hand on his wide forearm, studied a pale scar from a blackthorn rip that sliced over her first two knuckles. She’d been cut when she’d been foraging with Raud as bairns, many summers ago. “I can’t imagine you not being in my life in the past, present, or future.”

“And it is the future we must think of. When we get to England we will be together, on different soil to your intended and out of the king’s control. Odin and Thor cannot take offense at our union when there is a sea between us and your father and Bjorn.”

“We will make a sacrifice to the gods.”

“And we will make sons. If we ever return here it will be too late for you to marry Bjorn Har. We will be wed with sons.”

A shiver went through Ingrid. Her poor father would be enraged when he found out she’d run away with Raud. And she’d miss him desperately, he was her only family. But what choice had he given her? Surely he knew she was a headstrong maiden, he’d brought her up to be that way. Teaching her to fight, to hunt, to survive on the land and sea. If the gods threw hardship at her, danger, she could handle herself. That was what he’d wanted for her—strength of soul.

And she, Princess Ingrid Baardsen of Ravndal, had it.

Chapter Four

Twelve weeks later

Ingrid wrenched a rope to tighten the stern end of the sail. It had loosened as the easterly wind swelled. She had blisters on her palms and her spine and ribs ached. She also longed for a soft bed to rest on, anything other than the hard slatted cross-sections of the longboat. Even a fur couldn’t protect her bones from that.

“Take to the oars,” Erik Akeson, Jarl of their vessel shouted in his usual brisk manner. “All hands to it.” He held his sparkling, prized piece of larvikite stone to the sky, checking the whereabouts of the sun through the bloated bellied clouds.

Ingrid held in a groan and plonked down next to a basket containing two white chickens that flapped and clucked, sending several downy feathers fluttering into the wind. She reached for her oar as Raud, in front of her, did the same. He hardly seemed to notice the hardship aboard the longboat. The constant roiling and pitching passed him by, and he could close his eyes and sleep at any time, much like the rest of the all-male crew.

Ingrid had to admit, although she’d sailed in the fjords before, the open sea was a different giant. She’d be glad to get her feet on dry land, use up some energy with her sword and not an oar, and make herself a soft mattress—to lie on with Raud.

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