MacMurtray.She could not get the Scotsman out of her mind. What was it about him? He was good enough to look upon, ja, straight and tall with that lithe, well-muscled body. But so was many a Norseman, and they did not turn her head.
It was not that.
Though his eyes… There was something about his eyes. They spoke to her. As if, almost, he could tell her things without words, which was as well, since words were not entirely easy between them.
Not that it mattered. They had no future, she and Quarrie MacMurtray.
If she ever returned—and it would take a good deal of talking to win Faðir round—it would be to burn MacMurtray’s settlement to the ground.
There could be no other way.
She mused upon that during the journey home, since she seemed able to do little else. Most of the voyage was calm, but north of Shetland, when they turned toward Norge, they were caught in the teeth of a storm that pounced upon them like a cat on a vole.
Indeed, it played with the longboat in the same way a cat might, letting them think several times they had escaped the worst of it, only to bat them back again. Heavy seas raked the deck. They almost lost a man—Sven—saved from going over only by getting his leg tangled in a line.
When it was over, Sven’s leg was snapped like an alder twig, and the rest of them wetted to the bone. The boat limped into the bay under oars with none of the high spirits that should accompany a return.
“A bad voyage from beginning to end,” Ivor pronounced as he went ashore, speaking to his fellows but making sure Hulda could hear. “I am sorry I ever joined it.”
Hulda lingered to speak with the harbormaster after the crew was gone and make sure repairs would be underway. She was not eager anyway to see her faðir.
When she reached the stony path that led up from the shore, she found that Garik had waited for her.
She eyed the young man with some surprise. Clothing plastered to him, fair hair sodden, he maintained his customary calm expression.
Her stomach tightened. He was a loyal man, ja. Yet he alone knew the truth of what she had done.
And he, like the rest of them, had earned only minimum pay for this voyage.
“Let me buy you a drink,” he said easily as they began walking together.
She gave a tight smile. It occurred to her that Garik alone treated her as if she were neither female or male—just someone with whom he chose to sail.
“You wish to buy a drink for me?” At the end of a voyage, it was usually the other way round.
“You look like you need one.” He shrugged.
“It might not be a bad idea. I will now have to go to my faðir and report we have had a wasted voyage.”
“Ja.” Garik said nothing for a moment. Their boots crunched in time on the stone. The storm had clearly moved through here also, and the sky looked dark as the beginning of night.
“Will you go back?” Garik slanted a look at her.
Hulda shook her head slowly. “If I go back, it would require a fleet of boats. An actual fleet, not a ruse. That is a strong settlement.”
“But I think you will want to go back.”
Hulda stopped walking and gazed at him. She did not wish to insult him by asking if he meant to betray her. But she wondered.
“I had an idea,” he said. “It may be a mad idea, but—”
“Sometimes those are the best kind.”
“Then come have a drink. We will discuss it.”
The ale hall was busy and loud. Other members of the crew had reached it ahead of them. There were cries of greeting, men wanting to know how the voyage had gone. They quieted just a bit when Hulda came in. She understood how they felt about a woman going viking. It was not unheard of. Tales of fierce shield maidens abounded in the sagas, and were the Valkyries not female?
Rare, indeed, for a woman to command a boat, and most of the men laid it at the feet of favor on the part of her faðir. As if she had not earned her place sailing with Jute and, ja, with Faðir himself. They would likely never believe she had earned it.
