Timeless

by Thacker, Shelly

  “You do not have a wife,” she reminded him. “And pray do not change any of your habits on my account. If you wish to douse yourself in that freezing water, by all means do so.” She smiled prettily at him. “Mayhap you will develop a cramp and drown.”

  “There is always hope.” He returned her smile with a slow, wry grin, a flash of white teeth that revealed dimples in his bearded cheeks. “But unfortunately for you, I am a strong swimmer.”

  Avril could not summon a clever reply. Or tear her gaze from his. She had never seen him smile before, at least not with genuine amusement. The expression brought a warmth, an appealing gentleness to his rugged face that had a strange effect on her heartbeat.

  “Milady?” Taking off his boots, he reached for his belt. “Am I offending your sense of modesty?”

  “Nay, why would you think so?”

  “You are staring.”

  She glanced away, managed to laugh. “Fear not. I am hardly some blushing maiden who will faint at the sight of a man disrobing.”

  “Indeed?” He stood.

  She hoped it was too dark for him to tell that she was blushing as furiously as any maiden.

  His weapons hit the sand—his sheathed knife and sword. His belt followed. Avril kept her gaze fastened on a distant rock in the darkness, wondering whether he meant to remove all his garments. Tensing, she poised to flee if he reached for the waist of his leggings.

  “Would you care to help me, milady?”

  “What?” Her voice came out as a squeak.

  She heard him searching through his pack, and a moment later, something heavy hit the sand beside her.

  A flat cooking pan.

  “Start a fire and have that hot when I return,” he suggested.

  Avril picked up the pan as he headed for the water, half tempted to fling it at him for teasing her. He had indeed left the leggings on, she realized. Thank the saints.

  As she watched his tall, broad-shouldered silhouette moving through the moonlit darkness, she thought she might not need to start a fire.

  The pan was already hot from being held in her palm.

  Chapter 10

  Not even a cold midnight swim had been enough to cool his blood.

  Hauk watched the firelight caress his wife’s skin and deepen the tempting shadow of the cleft between her breasts. Sitting next to Avril, before a crackling fire, he had barely touched the shellfish on his trencher. Though his hair and beard still dripped with icy seawater, he felt painfully aware of the heat simmering in his gut, his arousal rigid against the leggings he wore.

  He had dreamed of her like this.

  While on patrol, he had barely slept, tormented by a fevered vision of Avril looking just as she did now—her eyes languid and drowsy, her hair mussed from sleep, her body veiled by a thin shift, rumpled in just the right way to reveal an enticing glimpse of pale, feminine secrets.

  A shift so delicate, he could slip it from her shoulders with a single brush of his fingertips.

  His breathing deepened. His blood seemed to flow hot and thick in his veins. In his dream, she had not been sitting on a moonlit beach, daintily nibbling seafood, her kirtle half concealed beneath a green cloak.

  Nei, she had been in his bed, her lips parted for his kiss, her hands drawing him near, her whispers filled with wanting and welcome. And he had pressed her back into the sheets, poised to join his body to hers, to thrust deeply inside and feel her tight and hot and wet—

  The snap of a burning driftwood log wrenched him back to the present. His heart thundering, he tore his gaze from Avril, unnerved by the power of the images that fogged his senses. By Odin, when he left two days ago, he had thought he would regain his reason, be able to deal with her presence in his life calmly and rationally upon his return.

  Instead, his new bride wreaked havoc with his senses and ruled his thoughts all the more.

  And if that were not annoying enough, she seemed oblivious to his suffering.

  At the moment, she was ignoring him, her gaze on the flat rock she had found to serve as a trencher. She was using his knife to crack open a lobster shell.

  “By all means,” he commented, his voice taut with a different kind of hunger, “enjoy my supper.”

  “You are not eating much.” She broke a claw in half and fished out the steaming meat.

  Words failed him as he watched her lift the morsel to her lips, watched the juices glisten on her fingers, on her soft, pink tongue as she drew the tidbit into her mouth. Her appreciative sigh of pleasure made his entire body burn with need.

  It was a shame, he thought ruefully, that she could not plunge the knife into his heart and put him out of his misery.

  She merely swallowed and continued eating, still blithely unaware of his plight. “I see no reason to waste all of this. It has been years since I—”

  “Purloined a man’s meal from under his nose?”

  An amused smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “Since I have enjoyed fresh seafood. It is almost impossible to obtain inland.” Her voice became wistful. “When I was growing up in Brittany, my parents used to love to cook on the beach like this. Before my mother took ill.”

  Her smile fading, she continued eating in silence.

  Hauk toyed with a crab claw on his trencher, ignoring the curiosity that buzzed through his thoughts like a pestering fly. He was not going to question her about what had happened to her mother. Did not want to learn aught about her past, her family, her home—the life he had taken her from forever.

  He already knew more than he wanted to know.

  Studying her pale cheeks, the shadows beneath her sable lashes, he realized there was something different about Avril tonight, though he could not discern what it was. She spoke little, avoided looking at him... yet she remained by his side. As if she were a curious sparrow that had hopped near enough to steal a few crumbs from him.

  He wondered if she would take flight if he made any move toward her.

  He lifted the crab claw to his mouth, gnawing at the soft meat as he turned that thought over in his mind. Mayhap she seemed different tonight because this was, in truth, the first time he had seen her sitting still. The Avril he had grown used to was a vivid bundle of conflicting emotions, constantly changing, endlessly provoking him, always in motion.

  He had never seen her like this: quiet, at rest, almost...

  Nay, not tame. That word would never apply. But there was a certain sweetness about the way she sat there enjoying her lobster, her hair in tangles, her lashes dipping sleepily low over her emerald eyes, her bare toes peeking out from the hem of her rumpled nightclothes. She looked like she needed to be scooped up and carried to bed.

  Hauk dropped his gaze to the sand, not liking the unexpected, unwelcome feelings that stole through him, softer and warmer than the desire that stirred his blood.

  By all the gods, she was so young. So much younger than him. And she did not even begin to guess.

  He crushed the crab shell in his fingers and flicked it away, annoyed. Seeing her this way—so vulnerable and sweet—only reminded him of how delicate his lovely utlending bride was. How different from him.

  How fragile.

  Reminded him too vividly of the fear he had felt earlier today when he cut his journey short. When he had discovered Thorolf missing from his enclave on the eastern shore.

  The place had been deserted. Abandoned. Thorolf might have gone off somewhere to sulk, as he often did, but he was also vicious enough to seek vengeance against those he blamed for his punishment by the eldrer.

  Including Avril.

  For one moment, standing in the doorway of Thorolf’s empty dwelling, Hauk had felt a stab of cold fear—not for his people, or for his friend Keldan, but for the bride he had left alone and unprotected.

  He had run all afternoon through the rain, not even stopping to eat, pausing at Keldan’s just long enough to warn him. Then he had finally reached his own vaningshus —and found Avril missing.

  Hauk force
d the memory away, not wanting to relive the dread he had experienced. Or the relief and gratitude to the gods he had felt upon finding her safe and well. He could not allow her to stir his heart this way.

  Misery and torment, he reminded himself. She can only bring you misery and torment in the end.

  Avril sighed in enjoyment as she finished her meal—and Hauk realized he had unintentionally fulfilled one of the commands set forth in the Havamal: A new husband was to discover his bride’s favorite foods and provide them for her.

  Just as he was to discover all of her favorite, secret pleasures.

  “Did you eat naught while I was away?” he asked, chagrined.

  “What?”

  “You eat as if you had been starving, and you are”—despite himself, he found his gaze drawn back to her—”unusually quiet.”

  They regarded each other across the scant distance that separated them, the cookfire making the night air crackle with flames and heat.

  As before, she held his gaze only a moment before she glanced away, color rising in her cheeks. “If I seem quiet, it is simply because I am tired. As I told you earlier, the storm kept me awake.”

  Her blush deepened.

  Hauk frowned at her in confusion, unable to fathom why she would turn scarlet because a storm had kept her awake.

  Unless it was not, in truth, the weather that had disturbed her sleep... but something else.

  He almost choked on his own breath, remembering the unfinished explanation she had offered earlier, just before she began babbling on about the storm.

  I have had bad...

  Dreams? Was it her dreams that left her blushing and breathless?

  Had she been unable to sleep for the same reason as him?

  His heart thudded a single, violent stroke then began pounding. He had heard legends of Asgard men and their mates who shared a bond so deep that they did not need words to communicate, even when distance separated them—a bond so strong they even shared the same dreams.

  He had always dismissed such tales as fanciful nonsense.

  But he could not dismiss the way Avril was reacting to him tonight. How different she seemed. His brain rioted with questions.

  Had she been dreaming of him? Was it desire that made her blush? Was that why she remained by his side—because she was drawn to him in the same powerful, inescapable way he was drawn to her?

  How might she respond if he closed the distance between them now, if he drew her near and kissed her? Would it win him a slap? A knife in his gullet?

  Or the kind of response he had dreamed of?

  Her gaze still lowered, she wiped his knife in the sand and tossed it aside. It landed next to his discarded sword. “Sword, knife, battle-ax,” she mused. “You travel heavily armed, Hauk. Was your journey dangerous?”

  “Were you worried for me, wife?” His voice sounded husky, even to his own ears.

  “Do not call me that,” she chided.

  He noticed she had not answered his question.

  He also noted that at some point, she had started calling him by his first name rather than “Norseman” or “Valbrand.”

  How would she taste? Would her mouth be hot and hungry beneath his, or sweet and soft?

  “Fear not,” he managed to say, “I am unharmed. I suffered naught but a small gash.” Lifting his right hand, he revealed an angry red mark that ran up his arm from wrist to elbow, earned when he slipped on a jagged outcropping of stone while running home through the rain.

  She gasped. “Sweet Mary.” Lips parted, she started to say more, then stopped herself, regarding him with a look that held...

  By all the gods, it was concern he saw in her gaze. Concern for his pain. For him. She had been worried about him.

  Just as he had been worried about her.

  He turned away abruptly, shaking off the feelings, unable to look into his wife’s sparkling emerald eyes a moment longer. He would not do this to himself. It was bad enough that she trespassed on his thoughts waking and sleeping. Bad enough that she made him want, in a way he had not wanted in half a lifetime.

  He had to accept her presence in his life, had to protect her and see to her needs—but he could not allow her to stir the ashes of feelings he had forgotten how to feel. For the sake of his sanity, he had to leave them buried. Buried, like the sketches and belongings he kept shut away in trunks because he could not bear to look at them and could not bring himself to destroy them.

  He stretched out on the sand, on his side, giving her his back. Then he reached for his cloak, pounding it into the shape of a pillow and jamming it under his head. Avril was merely a woman, like any other. He could control the desire he felt for her, and the other feelings as well.

  It was only fatigue that made the task seem unusually difficult.

  “You are going to sleep?” she asked curiously.

  “It is what I normally do when I am tired after a long journey,” he grated out.

  “Oh.” She remained quiet a moment. “I thought we might...”

  He clenched his teeth to resist the suggestive replies that sprang to mind: Kiss? Slowly undress one another? Discover how your naked body would feel against mine? Make hot, passionate love under the moon?

  “Talk,” she said.

  He released a harsh breath. “We can talk on the morrow.” Horn of Odin, if he had to look at her again, he was not sure he could keep himself from pulling her into his arms, pressing her down beside the fire, lifting the hem of her shift until her naked bottom met warm sand and his fingers found soft, wet silk.

  He wrestled his unruly thoughts under control, thwacked his pillow for good measure. “Go to sleep, Avril.”

  After a moment, he heard her move away a few paces, then stretch out on the sand. Grateful, he shut his eyes and prayed to all the gods to grant him sleep.

  Dreamless sleep.

  But apparently the gods were busy elsewhere this night.

  “I am certain your wounded arm will heal,” she said quietly. “No doubt within the hour.”

  “That does not make it hurt any less,” he muttered. The ocean breeze felt cool against his chest, the fire’s warmth hot against the bare skin of his back. The soothing, familiar sound of the wind and waves might have lulled him to sleep eventually.

  If he had not been blessed with a talkative bride.

  “How can that be?” she prodded. “How is it that wounds heal so quickly here? My jaw was broken in Antwerp, I am certain of it. And the other night, when I cut my hand, it healed almost at once. And everyone in the town seems to be in perfect health.”

  He did not reply.

  “Hauk?”

  He glared into the night, annoyed with himself for having leaped to half-witted conclusions earlier like some naive, first-time groom. He had been wrong, of course. He and Avril did not share dreams or desire or any gentler sort of feelings.

  This was why she had remained near him: because she hoped to glean information about Asgard, while he was tired enough to be careless. Information that might help her in whatever escape attempt she was no doubt planning.

  “Hauk? Are you awake?”

  He could pretend to be asleep, but he had known from the beginning that he would have to answer her questions about the island sooner or later. Revealing part of the truth—a small part—might satisfy her curiosity for now.

  And keep her from asking questions he truly did not wish to answer.

  “Asgard has certain natural healing qualities,” he said simply, remaining on his side with his back to her. “Injuries heal swiftly and illness is unknown among us.”

  He could hear her sitting up. “But how is that possible? Is it some quality of the air? Or the water or the food? Or... or some unique herb or root found here and nowhere else?”

  “We do not know.”

  She uttered a scoffing sound. “I do not believe you. You know but you do not wish to tell me.”

  “I am speaking the truth. Many among us have sought to answer the question
you ask.” He paused for a moment, an image of his father bright and sharp in his mind. “But no one knows for certain. It may be a combination of several qualities found in nature here, native to Asgard. We do not know.”

  She fell silent, as if weighing what he had said and trying to decide if he was telling the truth.

  “It is a shame that it remains a mystery,” she said at last.

  “Aye,” he agreed, with a bitterness he doubted she could fathom.

  “But even if you do not know how this place offers such wondrous healing, why do you not share it with the world? Why take such care to keep your island secret? Imagine the good you could do. Imagine the people you could help—”

  “Imagine how quickly Asgard would be overrun and destroyed,” he said flatly. “We must keep it secret. It is the only way to protect our home and those who live here.”

  A soft note of understanding came into her voice. “And that is why you will not allow any of the captives to leave.”

  “Aye.”

  There was more to it than that, but he was not ready to reveal the rest. There was no telling what a woman as unpredictable as Avril might do—especially when she was still bent on escape.

  “But why bring captives here at all?” she asked, sounding bewildered. “It seems a terrible risk to take, merely to...” She hesitated. “To what? What in the name of all the saints do you want with us?”

  He rolled onto his back, sighing wearily and staring up at the cloud-darkened sky. It seemed he would get no more sleep tonight than he had the last two nights. “I told you before, I do not want you at—”

  “Aye, I know. You do not want me at all. You acquired me purely by accident,” she said dryly. “But what about the others? Why would men risk so much simply to get a wife?”

  “Some young hotheads find risk exciting. And they want what most men want. Companionship. A comely wench to warm their beds.” He slanted her a glance.

  Avril reddened and lowered her lashes. “But why not marry one of the women who are already here?” she persisted. “Why not marry a... an innfodt woman?”

  Hauk narrowed his eyes, wondering who had told her that word—and how much she had been told about the difference between utlending and innfodt women. That discussion was supposed to be left for a husband to have with his wife. When he decided the time was right.