Free Lord of Raven's Peak by Catherine Coulter

strength of youth and health, deep firm muscles that glistened with sweat beneath the sun. She’d seen many men in the past two years—men old enough to die, men too young for the power they held, men who were broken in their spirits and bodies, men who wereso fat like Thrasco they wheezed just getting a spoon to their mouths.
    This Merrik was a beautiful man, she would give him that. His body was splendid in its vigor and shape, his very leanness purifying the lines of him. His face was well looking, strong in its features, his jaw showing his boldness and determination. He could be as stubborn as a pig, she didn’t doubt that, not a bad thing if one wanted to survive.
    But he was a Viking, like all other Vikings, and she didn’t know the sort of man Norway bred. She’d told him he was different and so he was. She’d never met a man like him, but that didn’t mean she could trust him. That was something the past two years had taught her well. She’d quickly come to know perfidy and treachery and the smell of lies. Her nose was as good as Eller’s when it came to recognizing the cruelty and selfishness of people, and thus she now well understood the need for caution. Trust was something for fools. She was no longer a fool.
    Ah, but he had saved her and Taby and Cleve. But he wouldn’t say what it was he intended to do with them.
    He was a trader before he was a warrior. He now had three human beings to trade. Surely he didn’t intend to keep them for himself, and if he did, what would that mean? His reasons for saving her and Taby sounded true to her, but still she couldn’t credit it—just this look at Taby and he’d been compelled to save both of them? Men didn’t behave like that. Vikings would impale a child on their swords before they’d consider saving them, being burdened with them.
    She was shaking her head even as she watched him quit the oars, rise and stretch, and walk back to where she sat, the crooked cloth-covered wooden bowl on herhead. He was wearing only a loincloth, and it rode low on his lean belly. The hair on his chest and belly was golden, crisp, and thick. She looked away from him. He was too big, too intimidating.
    He sat down beside her as he pulled his tunic over his head and she smelled his sweat and the scent of him that was dark and pleasant. He said something to Old Firren, who just spat into the river, and then turned to her. He just looked at her for a very long time, at the exhaustion that still blurred her eyes, lining them beneath with faint purple shadows. He said nothing, just patted his thighs.
    She fell asleep with her face on his thigh, her hands pillowed beneath her cheek. Merrik moved slightly to give her more protection from the afternoon sun.
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    They pulled the longboat out of the river at dusk. There were many marks and blurred footprints on the ground from other boats that had left the river at this point, for it was the shortest land route to the river Dvina. It would take them nearly four days to reach the river Dvina, longer if it rained, untold nightmare days if it rained heavily. It was backbreaking work and there was always danger from tribes who hid between the two mighty rivers, waiting for unwary traders to come along.
    Merrik didn’t use rollers for the simple reason that the longboat wasn’t large enough to carry the rollers and trade goods and men, not without making any voyage more miserable than need be. No, they used brute strength. They were young. They had a lot of it.
    The first time Merrik had voyaged to Kiev, he’d made it a point to search out a tribe during the portage and to kill every man he captured. He didn’t kill any of the women or children nor did he take them as slaves,though he could have made something of a profit in Kiev. No, he let them remain in their village and he made certain that all the women and children knew his name before he and his men were on their way