by E. B. Brown
“I fear the ghost of that savage will always haunt me.”
He clenched her skirts as her fingers slid over his head, holding him to her lap. Her scent was too close, too inviting, her skin too soft, her breasts too round as he held her. Her tears no longer fell, her face now more a mask of certainty in her own failure than one hopeful of trudging through it. He needed to think, to figure out a way to mend things, but he could not do that when his base response was to toss her back down in the furs to calm her fears. Especially when she looked at him with those haunted blue eyes, begging him to just take her no matter what the consequence.
“I am nothing like that man. He was of my people, but he was no warrior. Is it him you see, when you look at me?” he asked, raising his eyes to meet hers. Her throat tightened and she said nothing, looking down to avoid his stare. Her silence was far worse than what her words might have been.
He stood up away from her. He grabbed his new sword and sheathed it over his shoulder, then addressed her as calmly as he could muster with his back to her.
“Take your rest, chulentet. I must join the men, we can speak on this later,” he muttered.
He felt like a swine for leaving her. Yet it was how he had dealt with painful emotion his entire life, and he knew no other way to journey.
Chapter 15
Rebecca
“Oh, I thought Kwetii was with you.”
Rebecca looked up at the sound of Maggie’s voice. She wiped the back of her hand over her nose and then over her flyaway hair, acutely aware that she looked like a windblown mess. Except her appearance was not due to the wind, unless one counted the man who had just fled her side with the speed of a beach-swept breeze. She swallowed back a sob at the thought of his back to her and his cold words before he left her. Yes, she had angered him, even if he would not admit it so, and she feared there would never be a way to give him what he wanted.
“Nay, Teyas took her to play with other children. They have many little ones here,” Rebecca answered. Maggie tilted her head a bit to the side, her mane of red hair falling across her face. With her lips pursed tight and her eyebrows raised, Rebecca knew that look. As much as she loved Maggie, the woman was tenacious when it came to knowing secrets, and if she suspected one held anything back she would be at it like a horsefly on sweating skin.
“What troubles you? Your eyes are red,” Maggie asked. Rebecca shook her head in denial, knowing full well it would not be enough to placate Maggie.
“It is nothing to worry ye. Go on, be about yer tasks,” she said. Instead of listening, Maggie plunked down on the bedding platform next to her. It was the space Makedewa had occupied only a few short moments ago, she thought with a pang in her belly. What if Maggie had found them, doing what they were doing? Her friend would surely think her nothing more than a harlot, as her poor dead mother would have.
“Come with me then. I’m going to watch the men train with Erich. I’d like you with me,” Maggie offered. “Unless you’d rather tell me what makes you cry.”
Rebecca sighed. It was no use keeping anything from her.
“Makedewa asked me to be his wife,” she murmured, her voice cracking somewhat. She jumped when Maggie let out a squeal and threw her arms around her, hugging her and jumping up and down.
“That’s wonderful! Oh, that’s perfect! We’ll have a beautiful wedding here—I’m sure Marcus will help, and—”
“There will be no wedding,” Rebecca interrupted, putting an abrupt stop to Maggie’s excited tirade.
“Why? What happened?”
“I willna be a good wife for any man, Maggie. Especially one such as he.”
Maggie drew back, her brows squinted down over her bright jade eyes as she shook her head in a motherly manner.
“You’d be a fine wife to him, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m sure he’d treat you kindly. He loves you so, it’s plain to see.”
Rebecca felt the tears escape at Maggie’s declaration, and she let the other woman hold her then. Yes, she loved him as well, if she was bent on making confessions. It only made it that much more difficult to hear that Makedewa loved her the same way.
“Does it always feel so…so frightful…when a man lays with a woman?” she asked shyly, her voice barely audible. She knew her cheeks flamed when she spoke, but Maggie was the only one she trusted enough who could give her any hope.
Maggie rocked her gently as she would have done with Kwetii.
“No, lamb, it’s not. It’s a beautiful thing. I’m sure you would find it was very special with Makedewa. He would never hurt you,” Maggie replied, her voice comforting, even as Rebecca heard the nervous falter in her tone. She swallowed back her pride, determined to ask the questions on her mind.
“But I’ve heard ye sometimes at night. It sounds like Winn’s killing ye.”
It was Maggie’s turn to blush, and her skin flushed from her ears to her chest. Her breathing came a bit faster as she struggled to answer, and Rebecca waited patiently. If anyone would tell her the truth, it would be Maggie.
“No, no. I know it must sound—it sounds strange. It’s only because we both enjoy it. It’s normal to—to make sounds,” Maggie stammered. “Because it feels…nice.”
Rebecca buried her face in her hands. She understood what Maggie was getting at, and she certainly knew the pleasure of his touch on her body. It was what came after she was afraid she could never do. Worse yet, she feared disappointing him. She was no idiot; she witnessed the raw passion between Maggie and Winn on a daily basis. Winn was just as volatile as Makedewa, if not more, and there had been many times she’d heard Maggie and Winn rutting and feared he was killing her friend. Yet Maggie never seemed angered or upset after their episodes, in fact, she seemed placated. He made her happy, no matter what he was doing to her under their furs. She identified with the happy aspect, as she had been the happiest of her life since the day Makedewa confessed his feelings for her. Yet along with the pleasure of exploring touches and stolen kisses, fear of the culmination began to smother her thoughts. Until that very afternoon, she thought she could push it aside.
“Will ye send me back to the English if I do not marry him?” she whispered. Maggie pulled her into a hug.
“Of course not. You’re family, no matter what. You will always have a place with us,” Maggie insisted.
They clung together for a long time in silence, with Maggie rocking her as if they were born blood sisters.
Chapter 16
Maggie
Maggie walked beside Erich to the training field. She could see the men gathered in a semi-circle, watching a pair of combatants as they sparred. Winn stood with his brothers among the Norsemen, his legs banked shoulder-width apart, his hands folded across his bare chest as he watched. It was strange to see him amongst the others, these men whose bloodlines he shared. She was surprised to see Makedewa wearing a fur lined harness, similar to what Marcus wore, with a shiny new steel sword strapped to his back. Makedewa was the flamboyant one compared to his brothers, and seeing him attired like the Norseman was something to behold.
“Why are they training? Do you expect trouble?” she asked.
Erich showed her to a rough hewn wooden bench and sat down beside her, his eyes on the men. She wondered why he did not join them.
“We must always be ready. Trouble comes when ye least expect,” he replied. He tilted his head to her and pointed to the two men fighting. “See that lad? The one who first found yer family in the woods? That man is yer cousin, Young Cormaic, my son.”
He was the tall young man who had spoken with Marcus before Erich intervened. Metal clashed and squealed as they struck, the sounds of hollow thuds spiking the silence from the blows upon their shields. Cormaic was the aggressor in the pair, pushing his opponent back until the man knelt down in defeat. Erich grinned.
“My son has never been defeated since he reached manhood.”
“He looks tough,” she mumbled. He raised an eyebrow.
“What meaning
is that?”
“Strong. Tough means strong.” She looked down at her hands, folding them together in her lap. “Your wife. Is she here?”
He nodded. “I will take you to her. She would have come sooner to see ye, but she tends a sick man.”
“All right.”
“We can take yer bairn as well. Yer aunt will be happy to meet ye both.”
She heard the way his voice cracked, and stole a curious glance at him out of the corner of her eye. His almond shaped eyes were squinted nearly shut as he watched the men, his back stiff and straight beside her. He cleared his throat with a cough and kept his eyes averted.
“Dagr has been my friend since we were children. He’s done well in protecting ye. I’m proud to see ye grown, so much like yer mother. It is something I never thought to see with mine own eyes, so I thank ye for it.”
“You don’t have to thank me. Just please…try to understand how strange this is. I grew up with only Marcus and my Grandfather. You can’t expect me to—to know how to act.”
He smiled a bit, and his eyes softened.
“Ye staying here is enough. We have plenty of time now.”
“I don’t know how long we will stay, Erich—uh, uncle—I don’t even know what to call you!”
“Ye can call me Erich if ye like,” he said quietly. She bit her lower lip, keeping her gaze on the warriors.
“All right. Erich then. But my husband wants us to go live with the Nansemond, I’m sure we won’t be here much longer.”
“I spoke to him on it. He says he will leave ye here for a time, whilst he rides to do his tribe’s bidding. I tried to have him leave off of it but he would not be swayed. He’s a hard man, yer Indian husband.”
“He’s not leaving me anywhere. He wouldn’t just leave us here,” she snapped, agitated at the revelation that Erich knew more of her husband’s plans than she did. It was unlike Winn to make such a decision without at least telling her of it, and she was not ready to believe he would leave her among strangers. Family, yes, but they were still strangers, no matter if one was her uncle and one was Winn’s long-lost father.
Erich laughed, a hearty guffaw that brought a flush to her cheeks.
“What is so funny?”
“Ye think ye can turn that man’s vow once he’s made it? He’s a bull-headed lad if ever I met one, not likely ye have any say in it!”
“Humph,” she snorted. She turned to him, lips pursed. “You have a lot to learn about women from the future, uncle.”
“Aye, surely I do!” he laughed. She smiled along with him despite her annoyance.
Her grin diminished when she saw the next warrior enter the circle. It was Winn, and he held a long sword. Sunlight shimmered off the polished metal as he turned it in his hands, as if he tested its weight. Makedewa and Chetan looked on from the sidelines, and several other Norsemen pounded him on the back as he adjusted his grip on the weapon. Cormaic stood a few paces away, stretching his arms above his head.
“What is he doing?” she asked, more to herself than to Erich.
“Fighting, fer sure,” he grinned. She stood up and made to move past him, but he caught her by the upper arm and deposited her back in her seat.
“He’s never used a sword!” Maggie said.
“He’s doing just fine. Keep yerself here, are ye daft thinking ye might stop them?” She blew out her air in a snort and crossed her arms over her chest.
“This is ridiculous!” she hissed. “I’m going down there!”
“No, my lady, ye are not!”
He leaned down, so close she could see the crease across his forehead and the tiny flecks of gold within his green eyes. He placed a hand on either side of her on the bench.
“If ye want to shame him before the men, then go down there. If not, I bid ye to keep yer arse on the bench and pay heed as yer man fights.”
“I don’t want to shame him,” she said softly.
“Then pay him honor by watching. Do they teach ye no manners in the time ye came from? I swear ye act right barmy!”
She ducked her head as the unwanted grin crossed her lips.
“You sound like Granddad. He used to say I had rocks in my brain.”
“Well, Da was a sharp man. Might been some truth to that,” he replied. He stood back and opened his arms, waving a hand at the warriors. “So ye’ll sit then, like I bid ye?”
“If you’re asking, then, yes,” she agreed.
She flinched at the clash of metal upon metal, her attention captivated by the fight before them. Winn was not quite as tall as Cormaic, yet he was equal in musculature. Wearing only a breechcloth and leggings, Winn seemed less encumbered than his opponent, his gait swift and precise as he tested the limits of the weapon. Cormaic was more brawn than speed, yet he was no opponent to be dismissed as even she could see. Each blow connected with a squeal and thud of the weapons, and she saw his muscles standing out as tense sinews when Winn deflected each assault.
Winn stepped back as he blocked an overhead blow, shaking his head as Cormaic advanced. He adjusted the sword in his hands, twirling it before he gripped it more securely. Cormaic’s skin was drenched with sweat as he approached, his chest heaving as he prepared his sword for another strike. When he struck high again, Winn went down onto one knee.
Erich put a hand on her shoulder when she gasped and started to rise, and she sat back down with an audible thump.
“Sit!” he warned. She gritted her jaw.
Cormaic stepped back and Winn rose slowly to his feet. He adjusted the sword again, his face a blank mask as he considered it. Giving him no more quarter, Cormaic closed in, striking low as the men around them roared their approval. She felt numb and heavy all over as she watched, bound to the bench even without Erich’s hand keeping her there.
Winn blocked the blow and threw Cormaic back with one powerful twist of the sword. Cormaic stumbled, recovered, and a perplexed look crossed his face as he looked down at his hands. Fresh blood stained his wrist where Winn had marked him.
She put her hands over her eyes as the two men crashed together in a spray of metal and straining flesh. The sounds of the battle were worse than the vision, so it was not long before she parted her fingers to peer out between them.
Suddenly, Winn had Cormaic in retreat, stumbling backward as Winn advanced with a series of heavy blows. Low to the side, low to the other, and then high overhead.
Cormaic fell onto his backside with the point of Winn’s sword nicking his neck. She could see Cormaic’s throat as he swallowed and a trickle of blood ran down his skin where the sword pierced him, his chest heaving as he lay immobile in the dirt. There was no sound or movement from the men as they all watched.
Winn looked down on Cormaic for a long moment. Finally, he drew the sword away and extended a hand. A wide grin crossed Cormaic’s face, and he clasped Winn’s arm to get to his feet.
“Well done, lad. Well done,” Erich said. “Son of a Chief, no doubt.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. The gesture was entirely lost on her uncle, but it made her feel better, in any case.
*****
Erich’s wife was a buxom woman, her smile a rash of round flushed cheeks and a sweet heart-shaped face. When Erich made a short explanation of who Maggie was, Gwen flew across the room and tackled her head-on, nearly knocking her off her feet as she cried.
“Oh, child!” was all she said, repeating it as if it were the only thing she knew to say. “Oh, sweet Odin, child!” Although she struggled with feeling any connection to the strangers she now called kin, as the older woman embraced her and sobbed, Maggie felt tears rim her own eyes. She had never felt the embrace of a mother, nor anything close, and to feel the arms around her as she had often held her own child brought a sting of emotion she could not deny. Warm, soft, welcoming—the embrace of one who loved unconditionally—it was enough to thaw the ice in her heart.
“What do they call ye? Margret, ye say?” she woman asked, looking toward Erich for confirmation.
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“Maggie they named ‘er. It’s like yon Margret, I suppose. But Esa’s daughter she is. My niece, all the same. Our own blooded MacMhaolian, returned to us.”
Maggie glanced back at Erich, who leaned against the doorframe, watching them. He smiled, but she could see the pain in his eyes when he spoke her mother’s name. She wanted to ask of her, but she feared the barrier it might bring to the blossoming relationship they had formed. After all, she had waited a lifetime to know her kin, a few more days would not be so long before she could demand answers.
“Ye used the Bloodstone to come here? Dinna Dagr tell ye how dangerous it is? Even if he meant to see ye married to his son, he risks too much!” Gwen suddenly squealed, pushing Maggie back to glare at Erich. Erich shrugged, apparently expecting the question.
“Dagr dinna send her back. It was an accident, ye know how it can happen, woman,” he answered, his words clipped. “And she is married to his son. His Indian son. It happened with no help from him or I, so bide yer venom.” She scowled. Maggie noticed the inflection in Erich’s tone, and the warning glance he shot his wife.
“Well, good thing ye have yer aunt here, child. It seems like ye need a good dose of help if you’ll be using that blasted Gothi magic!” she grumbled.
“None of that, Gwen. She’ll not be using any more of it, not while I take breath. I’ll not have ye foolin’ with it. Ye know the laws as well as I.”
“What laws?” Maggie asked. Gwen and Erich fell silent. “Well, are you going to tell me, or do I have to ask Marcus? And what is this nonsense about marrying a son of Marcus?”
Erich uttered a groan and waved his hand at them in dismissal.
“Yer mother was the last blooded MacMhaolian, the most powerful ones among us Gothi. We meant to protect her, and ye, by sending ye forward in time. But using a Bloodstone to return to the past like ye did is forbidden. No one will question Chief Dagr, but ye must know it’s not permitted among our people. Best ye forget about the Bloodstone. Leave off with it, aye?”
