by Lola Rebel
The sun, even low as it was, provided a comforting warmth that helped revitalize Gunnar.
"It looks like you're going to live," Valdemar offered.
"It looks like we will," Gunnar agreed. How long they would be able to go without someone recognizing one of them, he wouldn't wager on.
"We never settled our little disagreement." He'd been thinking the same as Gunnar, that it would come to a fight. Who was Gunnar to deny him?
Both of them worked out the tightness in their muscles for a moment. Gunnar held out a hand, his eyes on the sword hanging at Valdemar's belt. He wouldn't dare, would he?
Valdemar took it. He would at least show that much respect. Then he stepped back, pulled the belt loose, and dropped it. So it was to be a fair fight after all.
The duel began properly—Gunnar and his rival grasped each other 'round the waist. Whoever would be able to throw the other, in the old ways, would be the winner. But Gunnar knew that wouldn't be the end of the fight. He had the size disadvantage by several inches and a score of pounds, but he wasn't about to let that ruin him.
He dropped his hips and pulled, feeling Valdemar get light on his feet. It was close, but not close enough. Gunnar replayed the events of the entire journey in his mind as Valdemar started to get traction, as Gunnar felt his weight leaving his feet.
He'd been pushed, prodded, and he knew that Valdemar had played a role in his injury. The timing was too close. How he had known what to do, Gunnar couldn't begin to say. Then the idea flashed into his mind. Only one person had known what to do.
White-hot anger streaked through his mind and he pulled his hand free of Valdemar's waist, pulled it back, and stuffed it in the bigger man's face. They went down in a pile, and Gunnar used the advantage to continue raining blows down.
He felt the blood coming, felt Valdemar's attempts to fight back. The pain of the blows just drove him to hit harder. He took Valdemar by his collar and dragged him into the water. Used his weight to push the man's head down, and sat on him to hold him down.
The only thing that pulled him back to reality was the realization that Deirdre was pulling on him with all her might. He stood up, Valdemar jerking upright and sputtering the air out.
"He saved our lives," she said softly. And as much as Gunnar didn't want to admit it, that was the truth. He looked at her, the anger still hot.
She had tried to kill him.
Forty
Gunnar hadn't spoken to her since they'd left. He'd just started stalking off. It had taken a while to get him headed in remotely the right direction of the cottage, since he seemed to be more than ready to ignore her the whole way.
She wasn't sure what had set him off, the way he was. What could have happened in the midst of that fight? What had made him so angry? She couldn't understand the words that were said, but it wasn't hard to figure what was happening. They were just in the midst of a duel, of some kind.
Some strange, mannish grappling… thing. But then Gunnar had just decided to kill Valdemar all of a sudden. She'd pulled him off, and he'd looked at Deirdre like it would be her next. Then, as quick as you like, he was stalking off into the mainland, and wouldn't explain a bit of it.
She knew what she was afraid he had figured. But he couldn't have. After all this time… unless Valdemar had told him, but then he'd waited a good long time to react to the news. Why would he figure it out now? No, the very idea was absurd. Of course he hadn't figured out her role in his injuries.
And if he had, then he would realize that all she'd really done was try to give him what he wanted. He would realize it, right? She swallowed. He couldn't just—
She already knew well enough that he could. He didn't tell her when he stopped to make camp for the night. Didn't seem to be listening when she told him that she had money to buy food the next day, even if it was still a bit damp.
The first sign that he'd been reacting to anything in the outside world at all was when he diverted south, taking them through a town. Even then, he didn't stop to look at anything. Just came through, his eyes darting left and right, daring someone to challenge him.
Deirdre grasped his arm, pulled it until he whirled round. She was ready for him to shout at her. Instead he pursed his lips and gently tried to turn back.
"Talk to me!"
The words came out more forcefully than she had expected, but she couldn't deny that the frustration had built to the point where she wasn't sure that she much cared whether or not she was being forceful. She needed to talk to him, to understand what in the hell was upsetting him so much, and the only way she could do that was if she forced him to speak to her.
"What's there to talk about?" His voice was hard and bitter.
"What did I do?"
"You tried to kill me," he said.
So he had figured it out. It had taken him a while, and for a time Deirdre had hoped that her little secret would go with her to the grave. But it had come out. How could she ever hope to make it up to him, really?
But she couldn't think about that now. She just had to focus on making sure that she did what she could. If she lied—that wasn't an option. He would know. He wasn't stupid.
"That was—a long time ago. And you asked me to help you. I…" She stopped herself. There wasn't much excuse for what she was doing. None at all, really. Not if she was being honest with herself. She frowned. She had tried to kill him.
She'd ruined any chances with him before she'd even realized she wanted one, and now she was getting what she deserved. Deirdre nodded. She understood now.
"Very good," she said softly. Then she pushed past him, dropped her head down low as she walked, and started the way back home. It would be a long one, but she had time. Plenty of time to think about how bad she'd fucked up.
Gunnar watched her go. He could feel the anger in him still. It had cooled over the past days, but he knew that any little provocation might set it ablaze again, just as hot. Part of him wanted to be angry that she would leave. That she would deny him the satisfaction he deserved.
But mostly he felt… empty. What was the point? The only woman he'd cared about, these thirty-six years, had just admitted to plotting to murder him. She hadn't even tried to deny it. Just explain why it was alright.
But it wasn't alright. He sucked in a deep breath. It wasn't alright at all, and he wasn't going to take it.
He had abandoned his life back home. Had abandoned everything that had been part of him, and for what? So that he could be with someone who wanted him dead.
He sat down on a stoop and brooded. Sooner or later, someone would come by. They'd ask what he was doing there, and he would tell them. He was waiting for his opportunity to start right back where he'd left off.
But as the time passed, as Deirdre was hidden by crowds, and then by distance, he thought about the past weeks. She was right about it being a long time ago. Things had changed for him since then.
All he had cared about then was battle. Raiding was who he was, and when he healed so completely from every wound he'd taken, what was the point of gathering these stories he could never tell?
After he had lost control of the party, something had changed. Something deeper than just whether or not he could give people orders. He'd changed, he wasn't the same person as he had been any more. A month ago, two months ago, he would never have considered giving up the place he had carved out for himself back home.
Now he'd given up the chance to ever go home. He couldn't deny, the changes were bigger than he had realized. He stood up. It would be a long way, but it was only a matter of time until he caught her.
Deirdre's feet hurt. It didn't much matter. She would keep walking. She had a long way to go until she got home, and then she could curl up in her heavy blankets, and she'd let herself cry, and then she would just have to think about how badly she had played out the events since she had gotten captured.
How much of an idiot she had been the entire time.
She'd have an eternity to think about
what could have been, if only he hadn't realized, or if she hadn't been such a fool to have sided with Valdemar. All the death, all the carnage, it was all her fault.
Now Gunnar was who-knows-where, doing who-knows-what. Would he look at other women? She assumed he must have. Assumed that he must have had plenty of female admirers back where he'd come from. If he was lucky, he could go back.
Back, as far away from her as possible. She barely heard the footsteps coming up behind before she felt a hand on her shoulder, pull her, turn her around.
For the first time in five years, Deirdre was facing her teacher, and she realized she had been wrong.
Brigid hadn't aged a day.
Gunnar's body was still tired from the past week. He could feel the hunger gnawing at him again. He already knew that Deirdre had wanted to get away from the camp. He wanted the moment back, walking, to do it again. But if he had it all to do again, what were the odds he would do anything different?
He already knew the answer, though he wasn't happy about it. And unless Deirdre was a much more capable witch than he had realized, with much more fantastic powers, thinking about doing it over meant nothing. He had to go and deal with what he had done, regardless of what he wanted.
Gunnar gritted his teeth and kept moving. The sun was going down, and it had been a long time since he had been through, in the other direction. He hadn't taken this route. None of the towns looked familiar, and he hadn't been able to find any burned-out shells that would have clearly signaled that he and his men had been through.
He wouldn't be able to sleep until he found her. He'd learned that after he laid his head down the first night, and spent the night staring at the stars until he pulled himself back up and forced himself to move.
How far ahead could she have gotten? It didn't much matter. Not much did, until he was able to find her.
His feet were heavy. Too heavy to move. But he forced himself to take another step. Just one more. Then just one more, once again. As long as he could keep himself moving, he would be alright. Everything was getting dark, but he had to keep moving.
He didn't feel it when he hit the ground.
When he opened his eyes again, a face was looking at him. A woman's face. She looked worried. He didn't recognize her, but he could feel something. The same feeling he got from Deirdre. Her hair was yellow like wheat, her eyes a steely gray.
As soon as he stirred she stood up, dusting off her hands. As if her work were done. But what had she done? She reached into a satchel and pulled something out, holding it out to him. He sat up and took it from her. A bread roll. He had never preferred to accept charity, but the emptiness in his stomach felt as if it were going to swallow him whole.
"You can come out now," she called back to an empty road. Then she turned to Gunnar. "Someone came looking for you."
She didn't seem to be talking to him, even as she lowered herself to the ground in front of him, smoothing her skirts over as she sat down on the side of the road.
Something moved behind a tree, and Deirdre stepped into view.
"I'm sorry," she said before he could say anything for himself. She was sorry. She still had a lot to learn. Brigid reminded her of that, after all that time away.
Gunnar looked up at her, clearly unsure who the woman beside him was, or why she was there. If he had something to say, he wasn't going to do it in front of her. But without her, Deirdre wouldn't have found him. Might not have gone looking.
Brigid's voice cut through. "Are you going to introduce us, Deirdre?"
"This is… my teacher," she said. She felt wrong doing this. As if she were introducing him to her parents. In a certain sense, she supposed she was. "She raised me since I was little. She taught me everything I know, and she's the one who found you."
Gunnar still looked out of it. Was he going to be alright? She shook her head. Food and rest, and he'd be fine. He had all the signs.
"Ma'am, this is Gunnar. He's…"
She realized she couldn't begin to explain what their relationship was. She couldn't explain how they'd met, or how he fit into the world. Never mind how he would fit into her life.
She was trying to figure out how to respond when she saw the impish smile on Brigid's face. She waited. Clearly the woman had something to say, but she wasn't going to say it until it was on her terms.
She was smart, and she knew quite a bit, Deirdre thought. But damned if she wasn't stubborn.
"So you want to bring this brute into my house?" Gunnar's face twisted for an instant into a frown before he managed to force himself back into impassivity. "Oh, don't be so sour. It's high time the girl found her own place in the world. I've been putting my ear to the ground for a nice rate on land out somewhere."
Brigid reached into the little bag that she carried everywhere. No matter what she'd needed, Deirdre had never seen her teacher without it, and anything important would go into it. She tossed something small; Deirdre could see it turning and flipping in the light. Small and metal.
She caught it more by luck than by skill. A key.
"The good news is, your lover seemed determined to head straight there." The look on Brigid's face seemed to suggest that there was more to it. But then, Deirdre had learned a long time ago not to question. She took a deep breath. "You'll need to get back soon. You'll want to get settled in, and I think—Gunnar, was it?—will need some bed rest before you get ready for the spring planting."
Then she was off. As mysterious as ever. Deirdre tried to decide if she was ever going to understand. No, she decided. That was damned unlikely. She gripped the key tightly, then reached down to help Gunnar up. He took her hand.
"I couldn't find you," he said softly. "So I went looking."
She pressed herself into him, enjoyed the feeling of his arms around her body. The warm and safe feeling she got from it.
"I'm here now." She pulled back just far enough to look him in the eyes. "Let's go find this mystery house of hers. I don't know what, but she's got some kind of plan for it, I'm sure."
She put her hand on her belly. She could still feel where Brigid had touched it. Her teacher had always been accepted in town, Deirdre thought. She had always made the best midwife.
She knew almost the minute it took, after all.
I’m going to make you beg for it.
I've just turned 18, and now my mother is begging me to get married. My father will die soon. Who will I pass my crown to?
When I see a shadow at the back of the ballroom while I am dancing with a handsome man, I run after it.
I find a thief in my bedroom. An American thief. I don't cry for help.
Instead, I find myself in his arms... feeling his hot breath against my neck... experiencing his warm touch.
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He kissed her again, hard. She could feel the electric want that was running through him.
She almost didn't realize what she was doing until her lips were already on his...
That said, her roaming hands gave him tacit permission—he let one hand drop, cupping her firm round ass cheek in one large, powerful hand and giving it a squeeze...
His hands explored the soft curves of her body, the long lines of her legs...
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I’m going to make you beg for it.
I've just turned 18, and now my mother is begging me to get married. My father will die soon. Who will I pass my crown to?
When I see a shadow at the back of the ballroom while I am dancing with a handsome man, I run after it.
I find a thief in my bedroom. An American thief. I don't cry for help.
Instead, I find myself in his arms... feeling his hot breath against my neck... experiencing his warm touch.
Go to https://goo.gl/tmBSxi to buy!
