Miranda's Viking

by Maggie Shayne

  Miranda shot to her feet and ran into the basement, flicking on lights as she went. Every disk in their files had been taken in the burglary. But according to what she'd read, this information was stored in the hard drive. She switched on the computer and typed in the path: C: plague. The screen went black. In seconds it lit up once more. "This file is password protected." Miranda typed Biblio at the command prompt and tapped the Enter button.

  Then she sank slowly into a chair as she scrolled through page after page of her father's words. Dazedly she realized she was reading a synopsis. He'd been working on a book—a book about the Plague of the North. A book about Rolf Magnusson. It appeared he'd been trying to delve into the past more deeply than ever before. He'd asked himself questions. Why does one of the most respected men in his country suddenly commit murder and go on a trans-Atlantic spree? What became of all the stolen goods? Her father theorized that more than one trip had been made across the Atlantic. He based that supposition on the period of peace between one raiding spree and the next. The ship had been laden with plunder, he wrote, and that plunder had been carried across the North Atlantic. It had been hidden away before Magnusson and his cohorts returned to the coasts of Europe with a vengeance.

  "He was an intelligent man," Russell had written. "A genius, by all descriptions. Too intelligent to continue in this manner on the basis of a mere tantrum. I believe he had a plan, and I further believe he may not have been guilty of treason and murder to begin with. The accounts I've seen of the tale tell only of a single witness against him, the daughter of a Norwegian noble. The nobles of Norway were the ones who placed Magnus on the throne. Furthermore, if Magnusson were guilty of treason against Knut, he'd no doubt have received a pardon the moment Magnus took the throne. He did not. The why of that puzzles me."

  The text of the synopsis went on for page upon page. Russell had planned to return to the site and search for the missing treasure before the agreement with Canada expired next August. He'd wanted to search for the sunken dragon ship, as well, to learn if any part of it still remained. The sword, with the word "Vengeance" carved in runic symbols upon its hilt confirmed his theory that the respected Rolf Magnusson of Norway and the feared Plague of the North were one and the same man, and he wanted to find every clue he could uncover as to why.

  So did Miranda.

  Was she presently living under the same roof as the crazed Berserker who'd plundered three villages in a single night, leaving forty dead men in his wake? Leader of the raiders who penetrated the most heavily guarded fortresses in all of England, and looted them to the bare walls?

  "Miranda."

  She leapt to her feet and spun around. No. There was more. There had to be more. Her father had sensed it. Miranda knew it. What?

  Rolf's gaze narrowed, then heated as it moved down her body, tracing the shape of her lengthy, unclothed legs. She saw his lips thin and felt the force with which he lifted his gaze up again to meet hers.

  And then he frowned. "Why do I see fear in your eyes? Only a few hours ago you would have fought me to the death, I believe. I angered you enough to do so, no doubt."

  "What do you want?" She bit the question off too quickly, too impatiently. She didn't fear him. She'd simply managed somehow to suppress the knowledge about who he had been. The account of all the deaths and destruction attributed to him, written in her father's own words, had been a sharp reminder. It had shaken her. She'd had enough of death.

  "I wish to know what I have done to frighten you. I did not take you for a woman easily frightened."

  "I'm not—"

  "What is this?" With a quick movement, he pushed her aside and peered at the computer screen. Reading the words there, he scowled and whirled to face her. "Plague of the North, is it? And you, no doubt, believe every word this… machine tells you?"

  "Th-they are my father's words. He—"

  "He judged me by rumors, stories. He could not have known the truth."

  She shook her head quickly. "He didn't judge you at all. He questioned everything he learned. It was his way. Look." Returning to the screen, but careful not to turn her back to him fully, she scrolled back to the questions she'd just read and stepped aside to allow Rolf to do the same.

  When he finished, he looked away and blew an exasperated sigh.

  "Well?"

  He only looked at her, his expression tired. "What?"

  "Is it true? Are you the same man who raided those villages?"

  He met her gaze, his own unwavering. "I am."

  Miranda averted her head. She'd been so hoping he would deny it. She just couldn't look him in the eye.

  "You are disappointed? I thought you had already branded me as a murderer, a plunderer, a rapist."

  "Are you?" She looked up quickly, wishing there could be some plausible explanation for what he had done, fearing there wasn't. Fearing that the certainty inside her was no more than wishful thinking.

  He looked her up and down, and finally shook his head. "Believe what you will." He turned to go. "I will leave here in the morning."

  "Wait." He faced her again. She cleared her throat. "I don't want you to leave."

  His brows went up as he studied her. "You wish for the Plague of the North to remain sleeping beneath your roof, Miranda? Why, when you fear me, do you wish me to remain?"

  "I told you, I'm not afraid of you." She stiffened her spine and stepped closer to him as she spoke. She couldn't let him leave; it was that simple. She sensed that if she didn't convince him she wasn't afraid, there'd be nothing she could do to make him stay.

  "You are a poor liar, Miranda."

  "It's not a lie. I honestly don't think you would hurt me." Oddly enough, it wasn't until she spoke the words that she realized how true they were.

  His eyes narrowed. "A woman who reacts to a kiss as you did to mine is afraid."

  She shook her head. "That was no kiss. It was an attack, and you're too intelligent to pretend you don't know the difference."

  "Correct. I know the difference. Shall I demonstrate?"

  She felt herself stiffen, and though she didn't mean to, she drew away slightly. His breath escaped him in a rush. "You fear me. I will go."

  He turned from her for the second time, and Miranda felt self-disgust rise through her. Because of her ridiculous reactions she could easily lose the chance of a lifetime. Desperation made her voice louder, harsher, than necessary. "It isn't you! Dammit, Rolf, you can't assume I'm afraid of you just because I don't want you touching me."

  He stopped in the doorway, but didn't turn. "What then am I to assume?"

  She sighed, pushed a hand through her hair, wished for her wire rims to hide behind when he turned slowly to face her as he awaited her answer. "I just… don't like to be touched."

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully, then observed, "That is untrue. You did not mind so much the embraces of Saunders or young Darryl. You found comfort in the touch of Travis. Even in my repulsive embrace you relaxed." He glanced again at the electric blue screen behind her. "But that was before you knew of my crimes, was it not?"

  She closed her eyes. "Listen to what I am saying. It is not you. When you held me in the hospital, I did find comfort." She was disconcerted. She hadn't given that odd reaction much thought before now. "More even than when Fletcher hugged me. But that was different. You touched me then only to give comfort, not to—" She bit her lip and looked down.

  "Not to what, Miranda?"

  "Look, I just don't like men, okay? Not in that way."

  He scowled and his head tilted to one side. The movement of his head sent his long hair sliding down over his shoulder. "You… prefer women?"

  "No!" She pressed two fingertips into her forehead, grimacing. No help for it, she had to blurt the truth. Remaining in that posture, eyes tightly closed, she did just that. "I'm frigid, Rolf. I don't like sex. In fact, I adamantly dislike it."

  He stepped closer, his expression hard. "Then, you have known men before me?" Always he had to end with
that "before me" comment. It shook her to the bone. "How many, Miranda?"

  "Enough to know my own mind." She turned from him back to the computer. She'd pretend she had to finish reading her father's notes. Anything.

  But Rolf caught her shoulder, his hand surprisingly gentle as he turned her to face him once more. "How many?"

  She swallowed the lump that came into her throat. She did not want to discuss this. It would only resurrect the memory she'd murdered and buried. "One." There, it was said. Maybe he'd leave her alone now.

  "Only one? You base this certainty about yourself on the touch of one man?"

  Bitterness welled up in her like the sea at high tide, and she forgot that she was going to say no more on the subject. "One was plenty, believe me."

  His gaze moved rapidly over her face, as if he was trying to read every nuance of her expression at once. "Was it—"

  She shook her head hard and fast. "No. I won't discuss this with you. Not anymore. I've told you I'm not afraid of you. I've asked you to stay. Will you or won't you?"

  He considered her question for a long while before he answered. She knew he was debating whether to drop the subject of her problem with sex and she prayed he would. Already her stomach churned and her hands trembled slightly.

  He drew a deep breath. "I cannot stay."

  Miranda felt a fist tighten around her heart. "Why?"

  "Because I am not of your time, Miranda. I do not think the way your people think. I cannot allow a woman to provide for me. My garments, my food, my bed. I must find a way to do for myself."

  She blinked. She hadn't taken time to think about his pride, or to wonder how it might be faring in all of this. "The silver you gave me is worth more than I make in a year, Rolf."

  "You no longer have it," he countered. "You gave it to Travis."

  "Just to study. He is an expert in old coins. He won't keep them."

  "Nor will you. Your university will put them out for the world to view. Foolish waste of good silver."

  "Rolf, I'm not going to let you leave. I need you. I need your help."

  "In what?" The skepticism in his voice was evident.

  "In answering the questions my father asked. In finishing the book he was writing about you. I can't do it alone. You are the only one who can help me."

  "That is foolish. Writing words on paper will not pay for the food you eat."

  "Yes, it will. Publishers will pay a great deal for this book when it's finished. Especially if we locate the relics to back it up. And I need your help to do that, as well."

  "Relics? I do not—"

  "The treasure you and your crew amassed on that first set of raids, that you carried across the Atlantic and hid before going back for more. Do you know where it is?"

  Doubt clouded his face. "What could remain after so much time?"

  "You were preserved. Why not the treasure?" She paced across the floor, turned and retraced her steps. "And the ship. I need to know precisely where the ship was when it went down. Can you tell me?"

  Rolf watched her intently, wondering at the sudden change in her. Where before she'd seemed weary, saddened by the loss of her father and slightly afraid of him, now those feelings slipped from her countenance like ice thawing in the hot sun of summer. Her steps brought her to a stop in front of him and her eyes widened as she awaited his answer.

  He cleared his throat, sensing the import of what she asked of him, not wishing to disappoint her and see the soft light fade from her eyes. "I might." He scratched his head, giving the matter much thought. "I cannot tell by using your maps, as I am unfamiliar with them. No, nor by traveling northward by land," he added, recalling the shape of this continent on the globe she'd so recently demolished. "But from the sea…" He stroked his chin and strode toward the window. He pushed it open and inhaled the familiar scents of the ocean. "By sea I believe I could take you there." He faced her again, nodding firmly.

  "If you can do that, Rolf, it will be worth more than you can imagine, more to me than if you gave me every bit of that treasure." She turned from him, staring into empty space, seemingly seeing nothing, he thought, but oh, how her eyes sparkled. "This would make up for everything, for losing the Ice Man, even." She faced him again, hurrying to him until she stood so close her warm breathing bathed his chin as she tipped up her head. "Will you stay? Will you help me finish what my father began? It would mean so much to him… and to me."

  He would. He could deny her nothing, not when she looked at him in such a way. Did her heart turn out to be as rotten as Adrianna's, no doubt Rolf would again be taken in by it. There was no helping it.

  He looked down her body, his gaze moving over the unbound shapes of her breasts beneath the thin layer of cloth. He could see them so clearly there. He wished to touch them, to learn their shape, their weight… their taste. Her long, slender legs, bare from midthigh to unclothed feet, held his attention for a very long time. He wanted to press his lips to that supple skin on her thighs.

  "Rolf?"

  The sound of her voice made him look up again, but he only became lost in the wondrous mane of her auburn hair, which floated about her as untamed as a windstorm. How he longed to bury his face in that unruly silken mass, to inhale its scent, to feel it touching his skin. He shuddered and forced himself to speak. "I will help you, Miranda. I owe you as much. There is one thing I would ask in return. Nothing too difficult. A token, really."

  She smiled, her excitement showing in her heightened color. Her cheeks glowed as if they'd been vigorously rubbed with rose petals. "What is it?"

  "A kiss," he replied.

  She sighed in despair, dampening his enthusiasm. "Rolf, I've already explained to you, I don't—"

  "I understand. I do not expect you to respond or to feel any… attraction to me. I only wish to be certain you no longer fear me, Miranda. I cannot remain unless I know I am not frightening you each time I come near you. Do you allow me to kiss you, and do I not feel you recoil in utter revulsion, or see you grow pale and ill at my touch, then will I know you fear me no longer."

  A convincing reason for a kiss, he thought. Especially considering he'd made it up this very moment. In truth, he did long to feel her lips beneath his. And more, to feel her response to him, for he thought she was wrong about herself. He had seen the hint of a flame in her eyes before he'd frightened her so badly with his brutality. He'd felt the heat in her gaze as it had moved over his body. He wanted more than anything to believe his behavior hadn't extinguished that flame for good.

  He looked at her face now as she struggled with unseen demons. "I don't know," she said, and her voice was very soft. "If I ask you to stop, will you stop right away?"

  "On my sword, I will stop."

  Her lower lip trembled, but she nodded. "All right, then."

  She braced herself as if preparing to be struck rather than kissed. Rolf lifted his hands to her shoulders and immediately her eyes flew wide. Damn, but she feared him, despite her words to the contrary.

  "It isn't you," she whispered fiercely, as if sensing his thoughts. "Could you do it… without touching me?" Her gaze slanted to his hands resting on her shoulders as she made her request.

  Rolf contained his frustration and lowered one hand to his side. With the other, he hooked only his forefinger beneath her chin and gently lifted it. He lowered his head, and as he did, he felt a new purpose. No longer was he eager only to satisfy his own inexplicable thirst for her mouth. Now he also longed to erase that haunted, wary look from her eyes. He wanted to prove to her, because his pride would not allow him to tell her, that he was not the ruthless killer she believed him to be.

  His lips touched hers lightly, brushing their satin surface briefly while every fiber in his being yearned to crush them beneath his. He indulged himself only by allowing his mouth to open slightly, that he might capture her full lower lip between his lips and suckle it softly… oh, so softly, not to frighten her. His free hand began to move upward, but he stilled it with a supreme ac
t of will. He released her lower lip only to capture its mate and taste its sweetness, as well.

  She didn't move away from him. In fact, her eyes tremulously closed, her thick lashes resting upon her cheeks like frightened birds, ready to take flight at a moment's notice. With the tip of his tongue, Rolf traced the shape of her lips. When he slipped it between them, to touch the tip of hers, she did not pull away. He caressed her tongue and then the inside of her mouth. He felt himself grow uncomfortably hard. The restraint was killing him. He wanted to put his arms around her and pull her tight against him. He wanted to force her mouth open wide and plunder the sweet moistness within. He refused to allow himself anything beyond this tiny sip. And when a moan of suppressed desire leapt from his mouth into hers, her hands came up to press lightly against his chest.

  Rolf lifted his head, keeping his forefinger still hooked beneath her chin so he could search her eyes. They were wide, but not with fear or revulsion. With something else… something that might almost have been… wonder.

  Chapter 11

  Miranda stood very still for a long moment, her hands resting lightly upon his chest, her eyes still searching his. There was so much there she hadn't seen before. The ice blue depths grew darker the deeper you looked, just like the sea itself. His lashes were not golden or honey or wheat, the three colors she saw in his hair. They were darker, a rich sable brown, as were the smooth, full brows above them. And those very eyes in which she'd allowed herself to become immersed were plunging themselves into her own just as searchingly.

  She blinked, breaking the spell under which she seemed to have fallen. Never in her wildest imaginings had she believed he could be so gentle. It was a shocking contrast. He was big, with a raw power and masculinity that was almost frightening. Yet he could kiss her with the tenderness of a poet, with a touch lighter than a springtime breeze rippling the surface of the bay, far from shore. A touch so tender… She shook her head in wonder. It had been so tender she hadn't been afraid. In fact, she'd enjoyed the kiss. When her hands had planted themselves against the muscled wall of his chest, she hadn't intended to push him away. She'd been ready to pull him nearer. Only his soft groan had prevented her from doing just that.