4. 4Orkney Winds and Unwanted Proximity
The watcher’s sail vanished behind a wall of rain, but Inga could still feel its gaze.
She crouched beneath the low awning near the mast, one hand braced against the wet deck as the longship climbed a slate-colored swell.
Salt stung her lips. The torn bridal veil wound around her wrist had gone stiff with spray, and Rurik’s iron ring pressed coldly against her finger each time the ship lurched.
“Below,” Rurik called from the steering oar. “The wind is turning.”
“I can hear it.”
“Then hear me as well.”
His green eyes found her across the deck. Dark-brown hair clung to his temples, and the missing tip of his left index finger showed white against the steering oar. He looked carved from the same hard weather as the cliffs ahead.
Inga rose, though the deck rolled beneath her boots. “If I go below whenever you command it, your crew will believe your wife cannot stand without her husband’s hand upon her.”
“They already believe you have sense enough to obey a warning.”
“Your wife, perhaps. Not your captive.”
A muscle moved in his jaw. “Do not make me choose between your pride and your safety.”
“I have been choosing for myself since I left Skara.”
“And nearly delivered yourself into the hands of the men chasing you.”
The words struck too near the bone. Inga tightened her fingers around the rail.
Beyond Rurik, the island rose from the sea: black rock, green slopes, and the pale line of a fortress wall crowning its height.
Their refuge. Their stage. The place where every watching eye would measure the lie of their marriage.
“I did not ask you to keep me like cargo,” she said.
“No.” His voice lowered. “You asked me to keep you alive.”
The ship plunged into a trough. Inga stumbled. Rurik released the steering oar long enough to catch her wrist. His grip was firm, warm despite the cold, and infuriatingly steady.
For one breath, she was pressed against his chest. She smelled tar, wet wool, and the clean salt of his skin. His thumb rested over her pulse.
Then he let her go.
“Below,” he said again.
This time she descended.
The shelter was little more than a covered hollow beneath the raised boards, filled with coils of rope, bundled sailcloth, and the damp heat of bodies.
She squeezed past two chests and sat where the hull’s curve forced her shoulder against the side.
Rurik followed soon after, ducking beneath the beam.
There was no room for distance.
He settled opposite her, knees nearly touching hers. Water ran from his beard onto the collar of his tunic. Inga tried not to watch it disappear beneath the wool.
“You stare as though I have grown a second head,” he said.
“I was wondering whether captains always give orders from the comfort of a dry cloak.”
“I was not dry.”
“You were above deck.”
“So were you.”
“Because you would not let me steer.”
His brows lifted. “You have never steered a longship.”
“I have watched men do it.”
“That qualifies you to watch.”
Her mouth tightened. “You find amusement in denying me.”
“No. I find exhaustion in explaining why a ship is not a merchant’s cart.”
“I am a merchant’s daughter. I know the difference between cargo and a living person.”
“Do you?” His gaze dropped to the iron ring. “You have spent the morning standing where the crew can see you, wearing my ring, calling yourself my wife, and pretending you are not afraid of what happens when we reach land.”
The truth of it left her silent.
The hull groaned around them. Outside, the oars struck in uneven rhythm as the crew fought the crosscurrent. Rurik leaned forward, forearms on his thighs.
“You need not pretend with me,” he said.
“That is precisely what I must do with you.”
Something shuttered behind his eyes. “Because our marriage is false?”
“Because every bargain has a price. I have paid mine once already. I will not discover later that you expected my obedience as an added fee.”
His hand closed slowly. The shortened finger made the gesture strangely arresting.
“I expected you to keep yourself alive,” he said. “Nothing more.”
“Men who say nothing more often mean much more.”
His expression hardened, but he did not answer.
That restraint unsettled her more than anger would have.
Rurik’s silence had weight. It made her aware of the narrow space, the heat between their knees, the way his gaze lingered on the small mole above the right side of her lip before returning to her eyes.
A shout came from above.
Rurik rose at once. His shoulder brushed hers, sending a sharp warmth through her despite the cold. “Stay here.”
“I am not a child.”
“No. You are a woman with a price on her head, and the island is not yet ours.”
He climbed out before she could answer.
Inga waited three breaths, then followed.
The rain had thinned to silver threads. Ahead, the landing cove opened between two teeth of rock. A narrow beach curved beneath the fortress, but dark water churned over hidden stone. Men on the wall waved signal flags. The ship altered course.
Rurik shouted orders. The crew hauled at the oars, boots slipping on the wet boards. Inga seized a rope as the longship yawed. The line burned across her palm.
“Let it go!” Rurik called.
She held fast. “If I do, we drift into the rocks.”
His head snapped toward her. “Release it!”
“I can see the current!”
For one fierce moment they fought the rope together, his hand closing over hers. The ship swung hard. A wave broke over the side, knocking Inga against him. His arm locked around her waist, holding her upright while the rope tore free and splashed into the sea.
The crew shouted. The keel scraped stone.
Rurik dragged her toward the center of the deck. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Your hand.”
She looked down. Blood welled across her palm where the rope had burned it.
“It is nothing.”
“It is not nothing.”
The anger in his voice was not for the danger alone. It carried fear, and that frightened her more than the rocks. She pulled her hand from his.
“You cannot command the sea to spare me.”
“No. But I can command you not to challenge it for the sake of proving a point.”
“I was trying to save your ship.”
“You were trying to show me you could.”
The words landed cleanly. Inga’s cheeks heated.
Before she could answer, the hull struck again. A crack sounded beneath their feet - not splitting wood, but a warning from the sea. Rurik turned toward the cove.
“Lower the boat!” he roared.
The crew moved. Inga stood aside, breathing hard, while Rurik directed them toward the shallows. When the longship grounded at last, men leapt into knee-deep water and dragged her higher onto the beach.
The fortress loomed above them, its stone walls dark with rain. A gate waited at the top of a steep path. No welcoming horns sounded. No one came down to greet the captain.
Rurik noticed it too.
“Stay close,” he said.
“I thought I was to remain visible as your wife.”
“You will be.”
He took her uninjured hand and led her across the beach. His fingers threaded through hers with deliberate possession, a gesture for the men watching from the walls. Yet his thumb moved once over her knuckles, a private question.
She did not pull away.
The path was slick with mud and seaweed. Inga climbed beside him, her braid heavy down her back, every step drawing them deeper into the fortress’s scrutiny. She felt the crew’s eyes on them, felt the lie settle around her shoulders like another garment.
At the gate, Rurik stopped.
“Where is the reeve?” he demanded.
A guard pointed toward the storehouse. “Within.”
Rurik’s gaze sharpened. “He knew our hour.”
“He knew the tide, Captain.”
“Then why is no one ready to receive the tribute?”
Inga glanced toward the longship. The chests remained aboard, their iron bands shining wetly. Tribute, Rurik had said, bound for the fortress lord: silver, cloth, grain, and seal-marked goods gathered along the coast. His mission depended upon delivering it intact. His name depended upon the count.
The guard looked away.
Rurik saw that too. He handed Inga to a waiting woman at the gate with a curt gesture. “Take my wife inside.”
Inga’s temper flared. “I can walk without being handed over.”
“Then walk beside me.”
The woman stepped back. Rurik entered the storehouse, and Inga followed before either could object.
The air inside smelled of damp straw, old smoke, and spilled ale. Shelves lined the walls. Chests stood open beneath the beams. A thin man in a fur-edged cloak knelt over a wooden box, turning bundles of parchment and wax tablets with shaking hands.
“Captain,” he said.
“Where is the tribute record?”
The man’s mouth opened. Closed.
Rurik crossed the room. “The record.”
“It was here.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It was placed in the chest with the seal weights. I saw it myself.”
Inga looked at the box. The seal weights remained: bronze, lead, and one small lump of red wax stamped with a merchant’s mark. But the space beneath them was empty.
Rurik’s face went still.
“Who had the key?” he asked.
The reeve swallowed. “You did.”
Inga’s stomach tightened.
Rurik turned toward her. For the first time since she had met him, his suspicion did not seem aimed at the sea, the riders, or some unseen enemy beyond the walls. It hovered between them.
“You carried the key from Skara,” he said.
“I carried nothing of yours.”
“The chest was locked when we left.”
“Then ask your crew who opened it.”
“I will.”
The reeve hurried to his feet. “Captain, if the ledger is gone, the count cannot be proved. The fortress lord will say the tribute was short before it ever reached these walls.”
“And who benefits from that?” Inga asked.
Both men looked at her.
She stepped closer to the open chest. A smear of red wax marked the inner rim, but the broken edge was clean, as if the seal had been lifted rather than smashed. Beneath it lay a thread of dark blue wool.
“Someone opened it carefully,” she said. “Not in haste.”
Rurik bent to inspect the wax. His shoulder brushed hers. The contact should have steadied her. Instead, fear moved through her in a colder current.
He had told her he was being watched. He had not told her what he carried, who trusted him, or why the missing record could ruin him.
“Did you know the ledger was missing before we landed?” she asked.
His head turned. “No.”
“But you knew the tribute mattered.”
“Of course.”
“And you never thought to tell me that its record could be used against you?”
His eyes held hers. “You were busy learning how not to fall overboard.”
The old sharpness returned, but it could not hide the new distance between them. Inga looked at the empty space in the chest and imagined the ledger in another hand - someone who knew their route, their cargo, and the weakness in Rurik’s mission.
Someone who might have followed them from Skara.
Her fingers closed around the iron ring.
The marriage was false. The protection was bargained. And now the man beside her carried a secret capable of making every watching eye in the fortress turn against him.
Rurik reached for her burned hand, but she drew it back.
His expression tightened. “Inga.”
“Do not ask me to trust what you will not explain.”
For a moment, only rain ticked against the roof.
Then he looked to the empty chest, and the hard line of his mouth deepened.
“I will find who took it,” he said.
She believed he meant to try. That was not the same as believing he had told her everything.
Outside, the fortress gate groaned shut behind them.