CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Oh my God. Yes. Yes she had found her way back for that. Men unpeeled themselves from the oars, fell on their knees, hauled off their helmets. As if she was Satan incarnate and only one man could save them. The one standing there rooted to the spot, his blond hair plastered to his forehead and cheekbones, his eyes, livid silver slits beneath his knotted brows. Sin Gudrunsson. When she’d not only covered her mouth, she’d tried to explain herself so nicely too and she clung to the pitching side, her insides heaving.
“Potlicker, I don’t know about the gods, but the men have been rowing for three hours straight now in this maelstrom. And they’re angry we haven’t been able to find calm waters since the storm started up. What if she’s the reason? You know what kind of luck it is to have women aboard. Bad luck.”