The Marriage of Time: a Time Travel Romance: Called by a Viking Book 3 (Called by a Viking Series)

by Mariah Stone

  She couldn’t believe how fast time flew. Eventually, her patients were all taken care of, and she knew she would do everything in her power to help them. Satisfaction from her work made her body buzz as if she had a whole swarm of bees inside of her. Lightness filled her and a smile touched her lips. She missed doing what she loved.

  “It is time for dagmal, Arinborg,” Hakon said. “You will eat with me.”

  Mia’s stomach growled at the thought of food. She wanted to protest his commanding tone, but all the patients were fed and taken care of, and she could use a break. Plus, she needed to eat for her baby’s sake.

  Mia followed Hakon. Daylight hurt her eyes after hours in the semidarkness of the windowless hospital. The chirping of birds and gentle rustling of leaves from the woods behind the village were a welcome change.

  “Is this how it’s going to be, Hakon?” Mia said. “You bossing me around? Do you know you sound exactly like my Dad?”

  And like Dan. But mentioning another man to an angry Viking husband seemed like a bad idea.

  She continued walking, but after a few steps realized he wasn’t following. She turned around. He stood looking at her in a way that made her want to run.

  Hakon’s face was destruction. It was death itself.

  He covered the space between them in three giant steps. He loomed over her, and even though he didn’t touch her, he pinned Mia to the ground. “Never say that again. I am nothing like your father.”

  He meant Arinborg’s father, of course. And she couldn’t help wanting to know why he was so full of hatred for his bride’s father. “You are not the only one who feels like that about my Dad,” she said truthfully. “But what did he do to you?”

  Hakon squeezed his lips so tight they whitened. “There will be no talk of that. Not a word. Or I swear to Odin, I will kill someone.”

  His eyes became dark, almost amber, his pupils dilated from all the adrenaline that must be fountaining in his blood right now. Mia swallowed. “All right, all right. I won’t ask again.”

  He turned around and walked towards the great house. Mia followed him, watching his back, which was so broad, children could play soccer on it. His waist and hips were narrow, and under his clothes, strong muscles moved. Mia’s eyes fell on his round ass, and her gaze jumped away, her cheeks stinging. What was wrong with her? She should not be interested in his ass!

  Despite his outburst, curiosity burned her. Something bad had happened between Hakon and Arinborg’s father. Maybe it had to do with his temper. Mia had seen his good side. He was a kind man. He had given up his house to be used as a hospital. But he had so much anger inside.

  “Why are you like this, Hakon? Why do you have this need to tell me and everyone else what to do? Why do you want to make people afraid of you?”

  The gaze he leveled on her was so heavy she thought she’d fall under its weight. “Because it is the only way I can make them keep distance from me.”

  There was so much pain in his voice that Mia held her breath. “What do you mean? You help your people. Your warriors listen to you—”

  “Only because I am the Beast. Unstoppable. I protect my men. They respect me as a warrior, as a leader. Haven’t you heard about me? Your father wants me for himself, to fight for him.”

  Something deep in Mia ached at his words. He was a strong man who could snap her in half if he wanted. She had no doubt he was a great warrior. But to call himself the Beast? She itched to touch him, to make the pain in his voice go away.

  Hakon stopped in front of the gates to the great house. He looked up and Mia followed his eyes. Above them, right under the roof, were broad gables, and on them, long, interwoven carvings of wolves with snarling jaws.

  “Why are we looking up there?” she said.

  “Haven’t you heard about the curse?”

  Mia frowned, a million questions popping into her head. But he’d already entered the hall, and when she followed him, the morning meal was underway. The hall was full of warriors sitting at the long wooden tables, and the room hummed with the voices of fifty or so men and the taps of spoons against bowls and knives against boards. Around them, servants delivered food and poured drinks. The air was thick with the smell of cooked meat and vegetables. Hakon headed towards the table that stood at the head of the hall.

  Mia felt a little uneasy as the eyes of so many armed men fell on her. It reminded her of every time Dan took her anywhere; he always had at least two bodyguards, who looked at her in the same way—a combination of respect and caution. She was their boss’s favorite toy, and they had to protect her with their lives but also follow her every step, and kill her if Dan told them to.

  What was the relationship between Hakon and these men? Were they like his army, his warband, or his employees? He had to feed them, that was obvious. Mia itched to ask, but that was surely something a Viking princess should know. Did a meal like this happen every day, or was it a special occasion?

  But even more than that, Mia longed to find out more about the curse. Hakon sat at the head table, and Mia supposed that she needed to take a place next to him as his wife, although she would rather find a quiet corner where no one would look at her or talk to her for a while. Hakon watched her as she took her seat, and Mia felt his eyes on her like a pair of red-hot rods scorching her skin.

  The table under her fingers was smooth and cool, while the air in the room was warm. Or was it just her? The servants brought the stew—the stew she had ordered for the sick. “Hey!” Mia called the servant girl. “Come here! Is there any more of this left? We need it for the sick in the hospital.”

  “We served all of it, mistress. I did not know. No one told us.”

  Hakon’s face distorted in anger, and the girl’s face was a mask of complete horror, as if he was about to breath fire on her. He opened his mouth to say something, but Mia interrupted him.

  “It’s all right. It’s all right. Probably just a miscommunication. What’s your name?”

  As she said the words, she knew she took on, yet again, the role of mediator. Growing up, that was what she had done. She’d learned that from her mother, and then when she was gone, Mia had taken on that role to keep her father’s temper at bay.

  And then Dan. Even when things had been bad between them, Mia had been the only one who could gently, without undermining his authority, calm him down.

  Mia shook internally from the memories, but that was who she was. She made things easier.

  “My name is Lifa,” the girl answered.

  “Start making another one, Lifa, just like this one. Bring me something else to eat and do not touch my bowl. I’ll take the stew to the hospital.”

  “Yes, mistress.” She shot one more frightened glance at Hakon and retreated.

  He followed her, his face still a threat.

  “Like that.” Mia gestured at him. “Why do you need to be so frightening? She’s already terrified.”

  He studied her, his golden-green eyes surprised. “Are you not terrified?”

  That was a good question. She had been when he had swept her onto his horse and brought her to the village. But something deep inside of her told her that there was no reason to be terrified of a man who would give up his house for the sick and help her in any way he could. He had also promised not to touch her until she asked him to. And she believed him.

  “I don’t know,” Mia said, looking into his eyes a little longer than she had intended to.

  “You should be.” His deep voice brushed against her ears, electrifying even the softest, invisible fuzz on her skin. “I am not going to be a husband who brings you happiness. I do not bring people anything but sorrow.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  She is mine.

  Hakon had thought that every day for the past week as he’d watched Arinborg—the woman with hair the color of young honey, eyes like the first grass in spring, and a mouth as sweet as mead from Valhalla. She was his wife. She was his by law and before the gods.

  But he
could not do anything to make her his in bed.

  He had promised her, and he would not break his word. Not to her.

  The need to earn her trust, to have her smile at him became stronger than the burning that set his blood on fire every night as she was preparing to sleep. He had to turn his back to her while she was changing into her night shift, and the whisper of clothes against her skin, the creak of the bed as she lay in it tortured him.

  She was his wife. And yet he could not touch her.

  Every night, she was just one step away, sleeping in his bed, cuddled in his furs. He lay on the floor on the sheepskins by the end of the bed. Hakon thought how those furs brushed her skin, and he wished he could touch her instead.

  Her peaceful breathing as she slept made his heart beat calmer. She had the rare ability to fall asleep almost at once as soon as she lay in bed. It must be exhaustion from treating the sick all day long. She also ate as much and as hungrily as a man, and yet she was as thin as a teenage girl.

  In the week since their wedding, more people had become sick. All nine babes in the village were now in the hospital, as Arinborg called it, with their mothers, coughing, vomiting and turning red and blue. Arinborg was most worried about one baby who did not suck much of the milk and began weakening.

  As Hakon watched the dark ceiling of the bedroom, he thought that something was very odd about Arinborg. It was the little things. How she refused to eat using just her hands and a knife like everyone else and ordered a small pitchfork from the blacksmith to eat meat and cooked vegetables. She refused to drink mead or ale and only drank water. She demanded to wash daily, not on Saturdays like all Norsemen. For the first few days, she refused to wear anything other than the rich dress she had arrived in. She’d only agreed to accept the clothes that Solveig gave her after her clothes had torn and become filthy from her work in the hospital.

  She was a princess, so she was spoiled. But she worked hard, and she was not squeamish about cleaning vomit, snot, dirty diapers, and the contents of the night pots. Hakon could not help but admire Arinborg’s skills, care, and hard work. All that was so different from what he had assumed Nyr’s daughter would be like.

  But when Arinborg had put on the dress of a townswoman, something had exploded in his chest, as if a rock had broken away from the mountain and a waterfall of warm, clear water had begun flowing down the slope. She looked like home in that simple white linen tunic and pale-blue woolen apron dress fastened by two silver brooches on her chest. Hakon imagined, despite himself, how she’d welcome him home after a raid, with a huge smile on her face and a horn of mead in her hands. Just like his mother had always welcomed his father.

  But all that would never be.

  He disgusted her, and she did not want a real marriage with him. And even if one day he would lay with her to give her children, she would never forgive him after she learned of his plans for her father.

  But hurting her feelings could not stop his revenge. When that worm had taken away the only person who had not seen a curse in him, he had taken away the only good thing in Hakon’s life. He had taken away part of his soul. Revenge alone would satisfy Hakon. Perhaps then he could forgive himself for his mother’s death.

  And despite the pestilence in the village, Hakon needed his allies. Secretly, he sent a messenger to the three jarls that he knew were against King Nyr’s spreading power. Jarl Rafr was more to the north and was rumored to be next on Nyr’s path of conquest. Jarl Brunn was to the south and was himself interested in becoming a king, and Hakon would rather serve him than the man who got what he wanted through lies and schemes. And Jarl Vefuss was the oldest of the men, and he came from the old generation of Norsemen who valued independence and strength above all. He would rather die than let someone dictate to him who he and his children fought for.

  Hakon invited them for a feast in two moons to discuss the plan of attack.

  That night at dinner, he watched Arinborg’s beautiful, delicate hand operate the small pitchfork and put a juicy piece of roasted meat in her mouth. He watched her full lips move as she chewed it, her eyes closing briefly in bliss. He let out a long breath to calm the fire that began to seethe in his loins.

  The hall was not as full as usual—two more houses had been claimed as hospitals, and Arinborg had a small band of women who were still standing to help her nurse the sick. Twenty men and women, and almost all children and babies in the village were in the hospitals. But so far, no one had died.

  “I will have a feast in two moons,” Hakon said. “I need you to prepare the best one you can.”

  Arinborg looked up at him. “A feast? What can I do about it? I don’t have time—you know how busy I am at the hospital.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You are a jarl’s wife. It is your duty to be a good hostess. It is as if you were raised in another world, Arinborg. Are these things not clear to you?”

  She paled, and her mouth stopped moving. “Yes. You’re right.”

  “I did not say anything until now about you not fulfilling your duties of the head of the household—managing servants and thralls, preparing food and drinks, making clothes—because you are busy with the hospital. But you said in one moon they won’t be able to pass the sickness anymore. In two moons, people either heal or die, and I will have guests because I must.”

  “Why?”

  Hakon clenched his jaws. “That is not a woman’s business. I am the jarl, and I need other jarls as friends. Your business is to be a good hostess and make the guests feel welcome. Did your mother not teach you that?”

  Arinborg pursed her lips. “She did. But if you talk to your guests the same way you are talking to me, then your mother taught you even less.”

  Her mentioning his mother set his world into a net of sharp blades that moved and cut his body into thin slices. “Do not dare say a bad word about my mother.”

  She laid down her small pitchfork and looked him straight in the eye.

  “Hakon, if you don’t want people to think you are a beast, don’t behave like one.”

  He froze, the air knocked out of him as if she had just kicked him in the gut. “You don’t know what you are talking about,” he growled.

  She lay her hand on his, and a wave of warmth covered him like a blanket. “Is it because of your birthmark? Anyone would feel a little shy, but you have nothing to worry about—”

  “Hold your tongue. That does not concern you.”

  “Hakon, it’s just that I can’t help but see it. Your people are afraid of you, and I’m not sure if they have a real reason for that. You bark at them, but you do take care of them. I think you do more for them than they realize. Why are they really afraid?”

  Images filled his mind: winter; the door of this great mead hall opening; his dead mother in his arms; her body frozen, torn by wolves. His father jumping to his feet, face whiter than the snow. King Nyr’s eyes as wide as two moons. And all eyes in the mead hall—servants, farmers, children, warriors—on him. Same terror in them. Same revulsion.

  There was nothing that a Viking was more afraid of than bad luck.

  Not even death.

  And Hakon had been born with it, right on his face.

  “Every Norseman knows why they are afraid of me. The real question, Princess, is why aren’t you?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  M ia swallowed a hard knot.

  The fire in the small oil lamps that hung around the room threw dim orange light on Hakon’s face, playing like little fires in his eyes, making him look devilish, violent. Dangerous.

  So dangerous that the fear she had not felt in a week gripped her stomach again with an ice-cold fist.

  Had she made another mistake? Had she done something else that gave her away?

  Her hand landed on her belly.

  “Why are you not afraid of the curse?” he repeated.

  “The curse?”

  “The curse.” He pointed at his birthmark.

  Mia frowned. “Wait. Do you think you are curs
ed because of your birthmark?”

  His gaze lay heavy on her. “Of course. All know this. Did you not?”

  Mia swore under her breath. She wished she had read more about Vikings. Should everyone know that? She went with, “No. I knew.”

  “Why do you appear surprised then?”

  She raised her chin. “Just because I know, doesn’t mean I believe it.”

  The astonishment on his face was priceless. “You do not?” His voice sounded as if he had eaten gravel instead of stew.

  “No. There’s absolutely no proof of that. How exactly would a congenital, benign irregularity on skin lead to whatever you call a curse?”

  Hakon looked at her as though he could eat her alive. “You are saying your magical words again.”

  One of these days Mia really needed to start speaking like a proper Viking.

  “Sorry. I just mean, your birthmark is the same skin, just a different color. It’s not a curse. It has no purpose, and it’s a completely random thing that happened. Trust me. I’m a healer. If anything, it makes you look…”

  She wanted to say mysterious, badass, unforgettable but stopped herself. She should not give him compliments or other ideas that she might feel more for him than she wanted to.

  Plus, she didn’t.

  She didn’t!

  During the past few days, every time she had thought about him, a lightness had filled her chest. He hadn’t left her side. Of course, he still didn’t trust her. But he also helped in the hospital. Sometimes Mia needed him to run an errand, and he did what she asked without hesitation. The more people who got sick, the fewer servants there were to do household tasks. Hakon served the stew and medicine, took laundry and dishes to the well, brought firewood and water, vegetables and meat for cooking.