A Twist in Time

by Susan Squires

  “No hemeth like this.” Galen pointed to the red acetate shirt that shimmered on Brendon.

  “No, no, no.” Brendon rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t carry this off in a million years.” He gave Lucy the jeans and indicated the dressing rooms. “But never fear, I shall provide.”

  “Can you find him a jacket, too? We need something waterproof.”

  Brendon grinned. “I’m on the job.”

  Galen was stiff and glowering as she took his hand and drew him to the dressing room. “Don’t look like that,” she said. “He’s sweet.”

  “I do not wish to eat him.” Galen’s brow grew even darker.

  “ ‘Sweet’ sometimes can mean ‘kind.’ ‘Good.’ ” She drew him into the big dressing room and closed the curtain. “ ‘Vulnerable.’ Like the Latin word.”

  She watched Galen’s face take on a rueful cast. “We have such ones as he in my time.”

  “Then you know he needs protection, not hate.” She’d bet anything “hate” was the same in his time as in hers.

  Galen’s lips pressed together in a grim line and he nodded.

  “He will help us.” She handed Galen the jeans.

  He kicked off his smelly boots, peeled his shirt off, and pushed down his sweats. Lucy tossed his boots out under the curtain. When she turned back, Galen stood in his boxers, unbuttoning the jeans, but he was nonplussed by the zipper.

  “Here,” she said, pulling it down.

  His intake of breath was sharp. He pulled the zipper up again. He pulled it down. His eyes lifted to her, stunned.

  She couldn’t help the giggle. “It’s a zipper.”

  He pulled on the jeans over the stitches on his thigh and his boxers, jerked up the zipper tab, worked at the button. She swallowed. The jeans rode his hips. Which left ridges of muscle that disappeared into the waistband and the vee of light brown hair that pointed downward. The only thing that kept his body from perfection was the horrible stitches across his shoulder.

  “Is good,” he said, looking at his reflection in the long mirror. “I look like your time.”

  “How are they with your stitches—your wound?”

  Galen shrugged. “Good enough.” However he spelled it in his mind, it sounded the same.

  Steps sounded outside the dressing room. “Excusezmoi,” Brendon trilled. He peeked through the curtain with an armload of shirts, sweaters, and socks. “G-goodness. Well, those fit.” Galen turned and Brendon saw the stitches. “Ouch!” he exclaimed. “That’s one nasty wound.”

  “Car accident,” Lucy improvised. “Which is why he only has the clothes on his back. His luggage was destroyed in the fire.”

  “Car fire?” Brendon looked horrified. “He’s lucky to be alive.” Brendon averted his gaze, suddenly shy. “Well, uh. Here are some shirts that might work. I’m guessing seventeen-and-a-half collar with thirty-three sleeves and extra large for the sweaters and pullovers. He’s . . .” Brendon cleared his throat. “He’s a pretty big guy.”

  Lucy sorted through the booty and picked out several. A work shirt, a pullover sweater with a collar and a zipper at the neck, a couple of thick waffled Henleys. Brandon had brought soft blues to match Galen’s eyes, a kind of gold/beige to match his hair, and chocolate brown. “Put on one of these,” she said to Galen, and slipped out to speak to Brendon.

  “Can you dispose of these boots?” she asked, making a face. “And find us some Nikes.”

  “Certainly, mademoiselle.” He picked them up with two fingers.

  Lucy thought she probably owed him an explanation. “Gutting fish. A bucket overturned.” She was getting tangled up in her lies again. “Uh . . . before the car accident. You know how Scandinavians are about fish.”

  Brendon rolled his eyes. “Herring. They all eat herring.” His eyes slid over to the curtain. “Apparently makes them big and strong, though. I’ll get him all the accessories.”

  Brendon disappeared with only one longing backward glance. Sheesh, as bad as the nurse. Anyone would give their eyeteeth to hook up with this guy. Anyone except her of course.

  Lucy returned to Galen. He was pulling his hair from under the collar of the work shirt. She held up the shirt-tail. “Inside your breeches.” While he unfastened his jeans and tucked, she buttoned all except the top two buttons. Her knuckles couldn’t help but scrape his chest hair. She chewed her lips and worked fast so she could step back. He fumbled at buttoning the jeans again. It took all his attention. That allowed her to look her fill. Whoa. The tenth-century Viking had disappeared, and in his place stood one hunk of a modern man. This guy would turn heads anywhere. Not good for hiding, but at least the beard and the braids were gone.

  Brendon returned with a lined windbreaker that was just what she’d had in mind and a bomber jacket in chocolate brown, another pair of jeans and some brown cords, some Nikes, and a pair of Frye boots. A couple of belts in both brown and black leather with brass buckles hung over his shoulder.

  “Leather,” Galen said, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the bomber jacket and the boots. He pulled on both carefully. She helped him get his other arm in the jacket. This might be the garment most familiar to him. Lucky he hadn’t spotted any leather pants or she probably wouldn’t have been able to talk him out of the sleazy rock star look.

  She glanced back to find Brendon watching in fascination. “That should do it. We don’t have much space on the boat.”

  Brendon bustled out ahead of them, his arms filled. “Hey, I’ve always wanted to live on a boat. Just sail away if you get tired of one place.”

  “Storage is a problem. And then there’s the mold,” she said. “Boats are just plain damp.”

  “Hmmmm. That couldn’t be good for my poster collection. I may have to rethink.”

  She was betting Marilyn Monroe movie posters. And the fact that he could consider having a poster collection aboard a boat showed how little he knew about living aboard.

  Brendon checked them out and distributed the many bags, Lucy thanking him profusely.

  She was fuming by the time she and Galen got to the parking lot, though. He turned heads all right. Women were undressing her Viking with their eyes at every turn. And Galen might be exhausted, but he was looking smug. He had just discovered that women were women, whatever the millennia. But once in the car, he eased his shoulder against the car seat, letting out a breath.

  “So, we will go back to the boat and you will sleep now.” Her speech had taken on an unfamiliar rhythm as she strove to use words they shared or that he had learned. Who was changing more, Galen or herself?

  “Ja, Lucy,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “You speak sooth.”

  But there was one more stop to make. They rolled into the parking lot of the Quik Stop about half an hour later. Lucy got out, motioning Galen to stay, and practically sprinted into the little store. The sooner she got him back to the boat and some Vicodin the better.

  “Hey,” she greeted the clerk. The radio was blaring. Sounded like a basketball game.

  “That package you were expecting showed up.” He turned to the boxes behind the counter, took out a key that unwound from a clip on his belt, and retrieved a thick package. There was no name at all in the address. It just said: Occupant, Slip 18. Talk about discreet.

  She glanced up to find that the guy had a really curious look on his face. “It was delivered by messenger,” he said.

  “Oh. Well . . . thanks.” She turned to go.

  “Wally,” he called after her. “The name is Wally Campbell. And you are . . . ?”

  She laughed in what she hoped was a carefree way, glancing over her shoulder at him. “The newlywed in slip eighteen.” Then she escaped, the bell of the door dogging her heels.

  When she got to the car, she ripped open the padded bag and pulled out the contents. Two passports lay on top of a sheaf of papers, one the familiar navy blue with gold lettering and one red. She flipped open the navy blue one and saw her picture—the one Jake had taken in the apartment. Her nam
e was now Lucinda Jane Gilroy. Great, Jake. Couldn’t you have thought of a nicer name? At least she could still be called Lucy. That prevented slipups. Today her name was short for “Lucia,” but “Lucinda” worked just as well. Her passport had some official-looking stamps in it, the latest from . . . Denmark. The other passport turned out to be Danish. And the picture was clearly Galen. The hair was short, the beard trimmed and neat. Good old Photoshop. He didn’t look fierce at all. Someone had retouched the circles he’d had under his eyes that night and given him a complexion that wasn’t ashen. He looked like a modern, very civilized denizen of Copenhagen. You’d never know he was a Viking from more than a thousand years ago. His passport was stamped with a U.S. entry.

  Galen peered at the passports. He started when he recognized himself. “What is this?”

  Of course he’d never seen a photograph. “That is a photo. It captures your reflection. Like the far-seer, or . . . like a mirror.” She took her compact mirror out of her purse.

  “Ahhh. Like a sceawere. Mirror.” He peered more closely at his picture.

  “It tells people who you are.” She pointed to his name. “See? Galen Valgarssen.”

  “I can tell people who I am.”

  “Everyone needs one of these in our time. People want you to have one.”

  “Then I have one.” He peered over at the other documents.

  Jake had been thorough. A U.S. visa for Galen. Two birth certificates, one in English for her and Galen’s in Danish, and a California driver’s license for her, registration for the Chevy in her name, even some letters from a fictional mother, saying how happy she was at Lucy’s marriage and wondering whether she would be taking Galen’s last name. There were pictures she couldn’t even tell were faked that showed her and Galen against the backdrop of a busy Mexican market. She looked like a real person. A different person, with a different life, but real.

  Impressive. If she had ever wondered whether Jake was really some bad-ass dude who did dirty work for the government, her doubts had just been laid to rest. Jake was the real deal. And he thought she and Galen were in big trouble.

  Now that was frightening.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Well, look who’s up and about,” Lucy said, looking over her shoulder at Galen. He looked tousled and soft with sleep. He’d been out like a light for several hours. Now, in the fading light, barefoot in jeans and a Henley pullover, he looked good enough to eat.

  “No wind,” he remarked, easing himself carefully onto the bench around the table.

  The boat rocked gently in its slip. “Fog tonight.” She glanced her question to him. He shook his head. “Mist?” she tried.

  He quirked his lips and nodded. “Ja. Mist.”

  “New storm . . .” She raised her brows. “Storm?”

  “It is ilca in my words. Storm.”

  “The word is ‘same,’ ” she said automatically. “New storm comes tomorrow night.” Of course the basic words for weather were the same. Weather endured. The Earth endured, though it might be embattled just now.

  “How do you know this?” he asked.

  Uh-oh. That was a tough one. He’d think she was a witch again. She bent to the refrigerator and opened the door while she thought. Pulling out the sour cream, she scooped out a cup for her dill sauce. “Wise men can learn to know what weather will come. They tell us.”

  “They know weder? Storm? Wind?”

  “Weather,” she corrected. “They are not always right.” Galen gave a look of frustration that he didn’t know all the English words. He’s been at it what, two days? He pushes himself so hard.

  He frowned. “Were they here that they tell you of this?” He obviously didn’t like to think others had been on the boat while he had slept.

  Well, she might as well show him now as later. She reached over to the radio on the bar and turned the knob.

  “And now, the marine forecast,” the announcer’s voice said, right on cue, sounding slightly tinny. Galen lurched to his feet in a crouch.

  “It’s okay.” She raised her hands, palms out. “It’s okay. It’s like the far-seer.” She pointed to the small flat screen mounted on the wall in the salon. “Men in other places speak. We hear them through this.” She pointed to the radio and turned it off.

  He heaved a breath and sat back down. She could see he was troubled. “Your time is not the same as mine. I do not belimp here.”

  Belimp . . . belimp. Limp? Context was wrong. “Belong?” He looked away. What could she say to that? He so did not belong here, no matter that he looked the part now.

  “I am like a bearn . . . a lytling.” He looked disgusted with himself. “Not like a man.”

  Those words she understood. She turned down her sauce and went to sit beside him. His analogy was pretty good. He was like a child learning a new environment. But that meant the problem was temporary. “We all learn about radios and TVs and cars. You will learn, Galen.” She knew the word for learn was the same—they had been through that this morning. He turned his head away. He must not want her to see the pain in his eyes. And why wouldn’t he be in pain? Far from all he knew, all those he cared about. Not sure whether he would ever get back. “I do not belong in your time, either. I was there only a moment, and I almost died.”

  He was silent for a moment. “You are not a duguth, Lucy.”

  She shook her head, signifying she didn’t understand.

  “Wigend?” He sighed and used the Latin.

  “Warrior,” she supplied. “I understand. But there are many ways to fight. Fight?”

  He nodded.

  “You fight to learn the words. You fight to heal your wounds. That is enough for now.”

  “It is not enough.” Before he turned his head away, she saw the look of shame flicker across his eyes.

  That right there was what she wanted to know about him. Why he got that look in his eyes. He had opened the door. She could ask him why he said that. But wanting a tit-for-tat revelation because she’d said things about herself she hadn’t meant to say was petty revenge. She patted his forearm instead. The contact made her thrill even through his shirt.

  “You are too hard on yourself.” He looked up, a puzzle in his eyes. They seemed to see right into her. She broke the moment by standing. “What you need is food. Yes?”

  “Ja, Lucy. I am hungry. Like hors. You have horses?”

  “Ahhh. Beautiful horses. I rode as a child. Lytling.” She liked that word.

  “I have a strong horse. No, had a strong horse. He is long dead.” Galen sighed. “His hide was frfaexen.”

  “We would call him a chestnut.”

  “You have horse now?”

  “No. No horses in the city.” She got up and went back to the tiny galley.

  “Hund?”

  “No. No dog.”

  “Mother?”

  She shook her head. “Dead when I was lytling.”

  “You have women who are friends?”

  “I have kept much to myself since my father died.”

  “Only Jake and this Brad.” Her lips would not behave. Galen said Brad’s name with such disdain. “You need more friends, Lucy.”

  He probably had lots of friends. Female friends. She didn’t like the feeling that brought on. “Perhaps you’re right.” She had thought just this afternoon that he might become a friend.

  “Oh, I have the right of it? You besyrwast me.”

  She could tell by the sarcastic tone of his voice he probably meant “surprise.” She checked with him in Latin. Yep. “The word is ‘surprise.’ ”

  She was surprised herself. Who knew Vikings could be sarcastic? She couldn’t help the crinkle in her eyes as she bent to take out the salmon. As she moved around the galley, he kept it light, asking the words for food, for the actions she took. She turned on the lights, and the gently rocking boat was bathed in a soft glow. The feeling of rightness washed over her again, unrelated to kisses and the almost constant pull she felt to his body. It was a deeper, m
ore satisfying rightness, comfortable, certain. Lucy had never felt anything like it, not even when her mother was alive. It was as if this was where Lucy belonged, talking softly to a half-Saxon, half-Viking warrior as she made him salmon for dinner. Brad and Colonel Casey were far away. Her fears and doubts seemed almost foolish.

  Sated, Galen watched her wash up the dishes. She had made him a fine dinner. Beef and a bowl of lettuces and a roasted wyrt she called potatoes. It was a woman’s place to cook, but she had provided even the food, much to his shame. Her red hair glowed in the light of the lamps, the movements of her body endlessly fascinating. What a kind woman she was, generous. In other times, if he were another man, he would have felt . . . content.

  He puzzled over the thrumming rightness he had felt sometimes in the last days. Was it some kind of a call? He had felt it when he kissed Lucy today. Her mouth was sweet, yielding. He had felt her nipples peak against his ribs. She was a tiny thing but strong of spirit. Still, she had trembled as they walked down the dock. She was not afraid of him physically, in spite of the differences in their strength. Was she afraid of what she felt for him?

  He understood that. He was drawn to her. He wanted her as he had never wanted a woman, not because he had not spilled his seed of late, not because he was dependent on her. That was abhorrent to him still. He needed Lucy in such a deep way that . . .

  It was if some foreign thing possessed him, growing inside him and straightening his cock. Even now, as he watched her reach to place a dish in a high cupboard, the curve of her breast made a drumbeat in his loins. He had desired many women in his life. But this was something else, growing more urgent, more insistent every moment. He needed to make love to Lucy. He needed to protect her. Claim her. Something inside him said that if he did, everything would be all right.

  As he watched her silhouette, he saw her nipples peak again. She was aware of him. Her eyes slid to his. He saw both lust and fear there, echoes of the unfamiliar emotions circling inside him. She stared at him, and he could not look away.

  He sucked in a breath, almost a gasp. A thought chased itself around inside his head. This was no ordinary lust. It felt like a force on its own, apart from him. Was she a wicce indeed? Did she bespell him? He barely suppressed an outraged laugh. Not what his mother wanted for him when she named him Galen, meaning “bespelled one.”