“Der? Dog? No, you call them hounds.”
“Swine, hors, lamb, all these.”
“Oh. Animals. Beasts.”
He nodded. Beasts liked him. They came to him naturally. “You will name this dog, Lucy. He be your friend.”
“Will be,” she corrected, looking doubtful. “Well, let’s get him some water. He probably has fleas.”
“No fleas.”
“How do you know?” She frowned at him.
“If other beasts are here, I know.” It was just true. He could always sense other life. It was part of his warrior’s senses. No one could waylay him from a hiding place.
She gave him a wide-eyed look and got down a bowl, not made of glass but of something she had told him was plastic. She filled it and put it on the floor. The dog lapped eagerly.
“Poor thing,” Lucy said, looking down at him. His fur was worn away where the rope around his neck rubbed. His skin was raw. “And that poor boy.” She sighed. “I don’t think he’ll ever escape his father.”
“Mayhaps not.” A father could twist a boy’s soul as a mother could not. Galen was lucky in his own father, who had been honorable and stern but loving. It was he who had made Galen a warrior and a leader of men, when he could not be something more.
Lucy knelt and examined the dog. She made soothing sounds. It occurred to Galen that this was the sound women made when they crooned to their babies. “He’s got some raw places, but no wounds. And nothing’s broken. Maybe he’s just sore from getting hit recently.”
“Ja, sore. Same word.” Watching her, there, caring for the dog as she had cared for him, made him remember her hands on his flesh. His loins tightened. His scamlan began to swell as well as his wpen. Odin’s eye, but she could raise him.
She must have felt his gaze on her. She glanced up and reddened. He found her blushes inflaming. And her eyes. So green. And her hair. Frfaexen. And her breasts and the buttocks the breeches she called jeans revealed so clearly. Dear Freya and her maidens, this woman was attractive to him. So attractive he was like to lose his soul.
“I’ll brush him. We’ll feed him good food. He’ll heal and his coat will shine.”
Galen nodded, swallowing.
“You . . . you want some Vicodin?”
He shook his head. He had forgotten about his shoulder and his thigh. He pretended he didn’t want to raise her to her feet and drag her to his bed. Instead he peered out the small, high windows. The rain had brought twilight early. The boat that had been the dog’s home was making a noise like Lucy’s car as it moved out from the docks. “He goes.”
Galen heard her clear her throat. “How about pork for dinner? Swine?”
“Ja. Is good.” Now how was he going to get through the night without ravishing her?
Chapter Sixteen
Sunday
Lucy had lived through another rainy evening, trying to focus on the dog rather than the pull toward Galen that was becoming unbearable. Worse, it seemed that the attraction was as much emotional as physical. The man practically radiated the fact that he had a core of goodness and honor. But how could you reconcile that with the fact that he was a Viking, with his smug looks that said he knew he was attractive to women and used it to his advantage, or with that look of shame that crossed his face sometimes? What in God’s name would a Viking, who had probably done everything, be ashamed of? She resolved not to think about him. Again and again.
The dog was settling in nicely. Galen took him out before they went to bed last night and first thing this morning. A clever creature, young and playful, the dog threw himself into everything with total gusto. He nipped at your heels when he wanted to relate or nosed his way under your elbow for petting. Definitely a sheepdog. He was still worried, though. He would return anxiously and touch Galen’s thigh with his nose to reassure himself that Galen was still there. And if you made a sudden movement with your hand or your foot, he’d cringe away. Maybe someday that reaction would fade, but for now, it was a reminder of the kind of life he must have led. Lucy caught herself vowing that she’d make him forget that life. She was not in a position to make promises.
She’d lived through another morning sitting next to Galen as they studied, trying to control her responses. But her nerves were much the worse for wear. They’d walked up to the con ve nience store during a break in the weather. They bought overpriced dog food, though the dog was more than happy with the scraps of pork and gravy from last night. He gamboled beside them as if they’d always been a threesome. She’d picked up a can of tennis balls. Galen insisted on carrying the supplies home in his good arm and she let him. A Viking had his pride after all. The look of shame she’d grown to watch for had flickered across his face as she paid for their purchases. She’d have to teach him about money. He needn’t be ashamed he didn’t have any. She didn’t, either. They were both living off Jake at the moment.
On the way back to the boat, she threw a ball for the dog, who trotted after it, a little gingerly. He’d soon be racing after it when he felt better. Galen marveled that the ball bounced.
“Plastic inside,” she explained.
“Like the bowls?”
“Not really. I can’t explain. I don’t understand it.”
“You live in a world you do not understand?”
“Yeah. Get used to it, guy.” He might have to get used to it if she couldn’t get him back to his time. “And don’t believe everything people tell you.” She showed him the can the tennis balls had come in. “ ‘Miracle bounce,’ ” she read. That took some Latin to translate. “Not true. It’s not a miracle. Just plastic.”
“Men lie to you about your world?”
He was serious, as she had not been. “All the time. That hasn’t changed.”
“Men do not lie about balls in my time.”
“Only because they didn’t have tennis balls.” The dog brought it back, a little soggy. She threw it out again and the dog trotted into the green weeds blooming with small yellow flowers. “Men lie and trick and steal.” The man was a Viking, for goodness’ sake. Vikings weren’t naïve. “What do you call conquering the east of England but stealing?”
He looked indignant. “Mighty people are meant to spread over the world.”
She raised her brows. “Doctrine of manifest destiny if I ever heard it.” She sighed. “Not that America is any different. Bush doctrine of preventive wars and all. And the Mexican-American War. And the War of 1812, now that I think of it.” The dog brought back the ball.
“So, Lucy, your people are like Danir.” Galen’s voice was sly.
“Do not think that’s anything to brag about.” She threw the ball with two fingers. Yuck.
“Danir are a good people. They do not lie about what they want.”
“Of course they do,” she protested. “Look at Leif Eriksson.” His expression was puzzled. How does he not know one of the most famous Norsemen of all time? Oh. “You were before his time. But he is known by all. He discovered a great island west of Iceland and even colder. He named it Greenland so he could get settlers to go there. Real estate scam if I ever heard one.” Now how would she explain “real estate scam”?
But Galen didn’t ask what it was and indeed seemed unfazed by the accusation. “Who would take his woman and lytlings to ‘Ice and Snow Land’?” He watched the dog go after the ball. “This Leif Eriksson is a wise man.”
“What about Danegeld? Your people asked for payment to leave a kingdom in peace.”
“We took the silver. We went away.” He shrugged and looked his question.
“But you didn’t stay away. You came back the next year.”
“It was the choice of the king. Pay again, we go away again. Or we settle there.”
“So that’s what you call it.” She grinned. “Settling. I’d call it conquering.” A disturbing crinkle around his eyes made her sure there was no use arguing with him.
But he came back to being serious. “No land in Denmark for second sons. Only land in Eng
land, Iceland, Brittany, the lands around the Volga River. My father was second son. You think we are thieves? We do not take the land of the English. We make villages beside them. Often the land of our village is not so rich as their land. But we do not fear work.”
She sighed. “I guess it’s the way of the world, anyway. That’s how America was settled, too. We did take land from the people who were here.” Vikings had nearly been the ones to settle North America. Their settlements in Nova Scotia, way before Columbus, didn’t take. She had to admire that they’d crossed the North Atlantic in boats that couldn’t even tack before the wind. “Your people were good sailors.”
“We know the sea.”
Lucy noticed that he used present tense and she used past tense to talk of his time. Another signal of the barrier between them. They walked on in silence. Lucy was worn-out. Maybe it was all the lessons or the constant electric arc of attraction between them. He felt it, too, even if it was just desperation for a lay. But he didn’t act on it. Was the only reason because he had promised not to kiss her? He was an honorable man, but was that all?
She knew why she didn’t act on this growing urge. Because he didn’t. She wasn’t going to risk rejection. And because he was from another time and would soon go back.
God, how? How will I get him back? She tore her thoughts away. Don’t go there, Lucy.
If he couldn’t go back, he’d be devastated. Indeed, so much stood between them conversation was like shouting across a chasm that grew wider by the hour.
When they got back to the boat, she could see he was tired. She showed him how to work the DVD recorder, so he could listen to words, and she put in a copy of The Searchers from Jake’s collection. A cowboy movie wouldn’t overwhelm Galen with dialogue at least. The dog plopped down at his feet with a sigh. She went out to make dinner.
This was the most domestic she’d been for four days in a row in forever. At least since her father died. At home her fridge was filled with Lean Cuisine dinners and pre-washed vegetable packs. Why cook for one? But this . . . it seemed . . . peaceful. At least when she wasn’t thinking about Galen’s dilemma, or whether Brad and Casey would find them. That underlying core of . . . rightness was growing. Was she getting sentimental? Was she . . . ?
Hell, she didn’t know what was happening to her anymore.
She took a bowl in to Galen. It was a stew, but homemade this time.
“Right kind of you, little lady,” he said in a perfect John Wayne drawl. The guy did have an ear for accents. His accent had been growing less pronounced as he listened to her speak.
She laughed. “You are dangerous.”
“What means this?” He looked askance. “Uh . . . something or someone who gives others fear that something bad will happen.”
“Ahhh. Plihtlic.”
She considered. It sounded like “plight.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“I am dangerous.” He looked up at her, his bowl forgotten. “You are dangerous.”
“Me?” she asked with a half laugh. “I am sooooo not dangerous.”
His gaze roved over her face. “I like laughter. Your laughter.”
He said it without an “f” sound in it and who knew how he thought it was spelled, but she knew what he meant. She felt herself blushing. “Laughter is always good.” She got her own bowl and sat beside him. The dog begged shamelessly, nosing her bowl and licking his lips. “You go away,” she ordered. Her words fell on oblivious ears. “You have food in the galley. Free feeding means your bowl, not mine. Now go away.” Nothing.
“Go.” Galen flicked a finger. To her astonishment, the dog went to the other side of the bed and lay down.
“Boy, you do have a way with dogs.”
He nodded. “It has always been so.” And then the look of shame flickered across his face. His expression went flat to hide it, and he turned to his stew. But he was still thinking about something. She could see a muscle work in his jaw.
How she wanted to know what caused that look. How she wanted to relieve whatever pained him so. She wanted to reach out to him, touch his shoulder. The feeling was almost overwhelming. It didn’t feel natural. She was losing herself. Or at least her self-control.
They grew silent, pretending to eat without thinking or feeling. What a lie. When she heard his spoon scrape against the bowl, she rose. He handed it to her and their eyes met and Lucy felt as though she were falling a long ways into icy blue waters that burned they were so cold. It took all she had to jerk away and hurry out the door.
Odin’s eye. What was he going to do?
She was a wicce and she had ensnared his soul. And it felt right. That was the worst of it. He wasn’t sure he cared to keep his soul, if giving it to her would make him feel thus. He was glad Egil’s axe had found his flesh, because only his wounds could possibly make her feel safe around him. And he wanted her around him. All the time.
So, what was he going to do?
He could feel she wanted him in spite of this Brad. But he couldn’t be her lapdog, dependent on her, answering to her beck and call, because she was more powerful than he in this time. He could have no value to her except what pleasure his body could provide her.
He grimaced to himself. When had that stopped his frolicking in bed with a winsome widow, or even a married woman whose husband was vikingr and who needed the services of a man? They took their pleasure of each other in bed and were done with it.
Mayhaps he could do the same with Lucy and be done with it. Once he had plunged himself inside her and loosed his seed, then she would not have this hold on him.
He knew then that she had been right. Danir did lie. He was lying to himself. If he bedded her, he would be lost. He began to throb as thoughts of bedding her had their usual effect.
He could hear her moving about in the little place for cooking food. He’d just shut the door. There was no use releasing his seed himself. He’d already proved that did not help. He’d have to just wait out his violent erection.
He felt the moon rise.
Could you feel the moon rise? But he did. Moonlight bathed the cabin through the small, high windows. It twisted inside him, a cold fire. His loins throbbed almost painfully inside his tight breeches. He rose from the bed against his will and went to the small passageway. A feeling of incredible urgency washed over him. Something was required of him. Something immediate and real. Things were wrong, somehow, and he had to set them right. He saw Lucy, standing in the moonlight, frozen, staring at the hatch. His gaze moved to the hatch and was caught, too.
The lights in the boat fizzled and went out. They were bathed in darkness. Galen’s gut trembled. Lucy must be trembling, too, because she dropped the pot she had been washing. It clattered to the floor. Galen knew that if he moved, he would race toward that hatch.
And his brain told him, whatever his heart and his loins were shouting, that he should not go out in the moonlight.
The lights in the cabin went out with a fizzle, leaving only the clear, pale moonlight streaming in through the ports. Lucy couldn’t get her breath. She was hurtling toward something that had been growing inside her, around her. It felt like destiny. She could refuse it. She had a choice. But she was standing on a precipice and everything would soon be very wrong if she made the wrong choice right here, right now. Her certainty was stark, as though illuminated by lightning.
But the sky had cleared. No storm, except the one inside her. So what had doused the lights? She felt Galen behind her. His physical presence overwhelmed the small space. Her thighs were wet and she throbbed, her pelvis aching. She didn’t know what to do. But she had to do something. She just stood there trembling until finally she couldn’t hold the pot in her hand.
It crashed. She held herself still for one long moment more. And then her head moved of its own accord. She turned to look at Galen. He shook, alternately flushing and going dead pale in the moonlight. His gaze jerked to hers.
Conflagration.
And she knew what
she must do. It wasn’t what she’d thought.
She held out a hand. “Let’s go on deck.”
He looked alarmed, confused.
“You know it’s right.” She did. All would be well if they could but see the moon.
A taut invisible line stretched between them. She saw him struggle. She smiled, hand still extended. He closed his eyes, took a breath. She moved to touch him. He flinched under her hand. She didn’t flinch. She expected the firestorm of feeling that shot through her. It was just a more intense version of what she’d felt each time she touched him since he’d fallen against her on a battlefield in 912. His eyelids fluttered and opened.
“I fight no more,” he whispered.
She opened the hatch. They climbed the ladder single file, the dog wriggling out ahead of them. The moon was rising over the bay to the east. It had cleared the horizon, golden from the pollution in the air. It shone in eerie serenity. Clouds still laced the sky. The moon would be obscured soon, but just now it was sure of itself, eternal. It spread that sureness to her.
This moon had shone over Galen’s time, just as it shone now. He came up behind her.
“What month is it?” he whispered hoarsely.
She shivered, only half from cold. “We call it March. Third month.”
“What day? What day?” He sounded as if it was the most important thing in the world.
She had to think. What had the woman at the hospital said? The day before St. Patrick’s Day. Yeah. That would make this the . . . “Twenty-first.” She held up fingers.
He rolled his head as though in pain. “Ostara’s day. Change of season.”
“The . . . the vernal equinox . . .”
“Ja. Ja. Day same long as night.” His voice held half wonder, half fear.
The beginning of spring. The day that signaled a change in the world as it quickened toward the plenty of summer. “Who . . . who is Ostara?”
He seemed most agitated. “Norse goddess of . . . ,” he went to Latin, “fecundity. Like Saxon Eostre,” he added. “Very mighty day.”
So powerful that Christian priests had borrowed it, moved the date and made it the celebration of Christ’s resurrection to spread their faith among the pagans. Druids, who believed that the elements of the Earth, its plants and animals, all were incarnations of the gods or the force of the universe—they celebrated the first day of spring, too, didn’t they? But the moon couldn’t always be full exactly on the twentieth or twenty-first of March. That must be pretty rare. . . .
A Twist in Time Page 21
