Page 23 of To Tame a Viking Warlord

The house was larger than he had expected. The courtyard was laid in blue and white tile, with a fountain at its center and jasmine climbing thick along the southern wall. A carved gallery ran around the upper story. There were guards lining the corridor, and every one of them was watching the three Norsemen.

Torstein carried a small knapsack over one shoulder. Inside it was the oak box he had carried all the way from Orkney, holding the Abbess's letters and a clay tablet sealed with her mark. He had not opened any of it. He had not been meant to. In his other hand he held gifts for the household.

Dawud came to meet them himself. The merchant's own robe was white and fell without a crease to the floor, the wool so fine Torstein could not guess what it cost. A sash of blue silk at the waist, one thin silver ring, a clipped gray beard.

"As-salaam-alaikum," Torstein said, and pressed his hand to his heart.

"Wa-alaikum-salaam." Dawud studied him a moment longer than courtesy required. "You carry word from the north?"

"Aye, I am Torstein Hagansson. My jarl sends his greetings, and those of the Abbess of Saddell Abbey in Scotland."

He presented the gifts, and then the Abbess's letter of introduction with its seal plainly visible. Dawud turned it over, examined the seal with care, then broke it and read the contents.

Something in Dawud's face eased. "Then you are welcome in my house. Come. Sit. Meet my family."

At the threshold of the long room, Dawud slipped off his shoes and left them on the step. Torstein and Mathias did the same, and heard Njal grunt as he wrestled free of his boots behind him.

The room opened onto the courtyard, with cushions set along the walls and a low table of inlaid cedar. Torstein set his knapsack down beside the cushion where he was bidden and sat. Njal sat beside him. Mathias sat.

Then Njal's elbow found his ribs.

Torstein looked up and had to catch his breath, because she was here, in this very room. The woman who kept him awake at nights.

She stood in the doorway beside an older woman with sharp eyes. She was dressed in green and gold now instead of dust and loose trousers, and her hair was bound and veiled, and there was no blade in her hand. It made no difference at all. He would have known her in any clothing and in any light.

The amber eyes met his and widened. For one moment she looked as if the floor had shifted beneath her. Then her chin lifted very slightly, exactly as it had in the alley, and her face gave away nothing more.

Torstein got to his feet. He did not remember deciding to.

"My daughter," Dawud said. "Samira."

Samira. He had lain awake half the night wanting her name, and now he had it, and it was better than anything he had imagined.

"Samira," he said quietly.

"Torstein," she replied.

Dawud looked from one of them to the other. The older woman looked too, and her eyes narrowed.

"You have met," Dawud said.

Samira and Torstein answered at the same time.

"No," she said.

"Aye," he said.

There was a short, terrible silence. Beside him, Njal made a small sound that might have been a cough.

"Briefly," Samira said. "In the souk. He is the Northman I told you of, Father. The one who fought beside me."

Dawud turned to look at Torstein properly, and whatever he saw there, he took his time over it.

"Then I owe you a debt before we have even begun," he said at last. "Sit. Please. Enjoy some refreshment."

Torstein sat. Samira sat across from him, next to her father, and folded her hands in her lap and looked anywhere but at him. He did not bother to pretend he was looking anywhere but at her.

Njal leaned close and murmured, "Calm down. Ye look like ye're about to carry her away."