"Asta?"
"Hmm?"
"About my brother…"
"Shh. Sleep."
"Sweep, sweep, sweep," chanted Mist, over by the fire now with the other children.
Brit gave in and did as she was told.
* * *
The next time she woke, Eric Greyfell was sitting in a chair about two feet from her nest of furs.
She blinked, then muttered, "It's about time you showed up."
He nodded, one regal dip of his head. "My aunt informed me that you wished to speak with me." And then he just sat there, looking at her.
They were alone. The high windows were dark and the lamps were lit. "Where is Asta?"
"My aunt, as you may have deduced, is something of a healer. Her skills are needed elsewhere tonight."
It occurred to Brit that she'd met Asta's daughters-in-law and grandchildren. But she'd never seen a husband. "Your uncle?"
"He died several years ago."
She had assumed as much. "I'm sorry to hear it."
He shrugged. "We live, we die. That is the way of things. For my uncle's death, the time of mourning is long past."
"I see. Well, a good thing, right—I mean, that grief passes?" Sheesh. Talk about inane chatter. She was filling in time as she worked her way around to what was really on her mind: Valbrand.
And the little detail no one seemed to want to talk about—the fact that he wasn't dead, after all.
Greyfell said nothing. The fire crackled in the stove and Brit stared at Medwyn's son, wondering how best to get him to admit that her brother was alive—and to convince him that he should bring Valbrand to her. Now.
As she debated how to begin, he watched her. She found his hooded gaze unnerving. "Why do you look at me like that?"
"Like what, precisely?"
She wished she hadn't asked. "Never mind."
He stood and came closer, until he loomed over her, his deep-set eyes lost in the shadows beneath the shelf of his brow. She stared up at those shadowed eyes and wished he hadn't come so near. She felt like a total wimp, lying there in somebody else's nightgown, weak and shaky and flat on her back.
She sat up—fast enough that her head spun and pain sliced through her shoulder. "Listen."
"Yes?"
His shoulder-length ash-brown hair had a slight curl to it. He wore it loose, though it seemed it had been tied back—in the fjord and that time he stood over her when she was so sick. Now it looked just-combed, smooth and shiny. He smelled of the outdoors, fresh and piney and cool. She didn't want to think about what she smelled like. She clutched the furs close to her breast, as if they might protect her from his probing eyes. "Look. I just wanted to talk to you about … well, I mean, my brother…" She waited. Maybe he'd give it up, tell her the truth that everyone kept denying. Maybe he would see in her eyes how badly she needed confirmation that Valbrand lived.
Maybe he would realize that she could be trusted.
But it wasn't happening. He said nothing. She let out a low groan of frustration. "Can we skip the lies and evasions, please? Will you just let me speak with my brother?"
His mouth softened. He lifted his head a fraction, and the lamplight melted the shadows that hid his eyes.
Kind. His eyes were kind. They gleamed with sympathy. She hated that—his sympathy. It made her doubt what she knew in her heart. And it made her soften toward him. She didn't need softening. She was weak enough already.
He spoke so gently, each word uttered with great care. "You must accept that your brother is dead."
"No."
"Yes."
Brit clutched the furs tighter and wished she didn't feel so tired. She wanted to keep after him, to break him down, to get him to admit what they both knew was true. But how?
Her mind felt thick and slow. Weariness dragged at her. All he had to do was stay kind and steady—and keep on with the denials. Eventually she would have to give up and go back to sleep.
She spoke softly, pleadingly, though it galled her to do it. "I saw him. In the fjord, with you, I'm sure of it, though then he was wearing a mask—but here, when I was sick, I saw his face. Please stop lying. Please stop implying that I was too sick and confused to know what I saw. Please admit—"
"I cannot admit what never happened." His deep, rich voice was weighted with just the right measure of regret. He seemed so sincere. She could almost begin to believe he spoke the truth. And to doubt what her eyes had seen…
"He was here. I know it."
Gently, so regretfully, he shook his head.
She swallowed. Her mouth was so dry.
And this was a subject better pursued when she was stronger. "I wonder. Would you mind getting me some water?"
"It would be my pleasure."
He went to the sink. While he pumped the water she tried to come up with some new approach, some brilliant line of questioning that would make him open up to her. She drew a complete blank.
And he was back with a full cup. "Do you need help?"
"Thanks. I can manage." She held out her hand, pleased to see that it hardly shook at all. He passed her the cup. She drank long and deep, sighing when she finished.
He was watching, the slightest of smiles tipping the corners of his mouth. "Good?"
"Wonderful."
"More?"
"I would appreciate it." She held out the cup. Their fingers brushed as he took it from her. It seemed, for some reason, a far too intimate contact. He went to the sink again and she watched him go. He wore heavy tan trousers, mountain boots and an oatmeal-colored thermal shirt. He had a great butt. He also carried himself proudly—like the king everyone thought he might someday be now they all believed that Valbrand was gone.
In Gullandria, succession was never assured. All male jarl, or nobles, were princes. Any prince might put himself forward as a candidate for king when the current king could no longer rule and the jarl gathered in the Grand Assembly for the election ceremony known as the kingmaking.
Since childhood, Eric had been groomed, not for the throne, but to one day take his father's place as grand counselor. It had been Valbrand, everyone felt certain, who would win the throne. King Osrik was a respected and effective ruler. The country had prospered during his reign. And the people loved Valbrand. That made him the logical next choice.
But then Valbrand went to sea and didn't come back. And Osrik and Medwyn turned their sights to Eric as the one to claim the crown when the time came. The two had schemed shamelessly. Eric, they decided, should marry one of Osrik's estranged daughters…
The potential king in question had reached the sink. He stood with his back to her, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, regal even from the rear, pumping water into her cup.
Brit allowed herself a wide grin.
Her father and Medwyn's schemes kept backfiring. Elli had fallen in love with the man they'd sent to kidnap her. And on Elli's wedding night, Liv had dallied with the notorious Prince Finn Danelaw. She'd become pregnant as a result. And Eric? After months spent in search of the truth about Valbrand's supposed death, Eric had come here, to the Vildelund. He'd resisted his father's repeated requests that he return to the palace and begin preparing for his future as king.
Yes, Brit knew that her father and Medwyn considered her next in line to be Eric's bride. But she'd made it clear to them that romance wasn't on her agenda. She was after the truth about Valbrand. Period.
King Osrik and Medwyn had said they accepted that. And if they didn't, so what? Her father and his grand counselor could plot and plan to their heart's content. She had a goal. Marrying Eric Greyfell wasn't it.
"Brit?"
She blinked. Eric was standing right over her, holding the full cup. "Oh, uh, sorry. Just woolgathering." He wore an expectant look. Maybe he didn't get her meaning. "Woolgathering is an expression. It means—"
"Purposeless thinking." Those deep-set eyes gleamed. "Aimless reverie. The word is derived from the actual process of woolgathering, which entails wanderi
ng the countryside, gathering up bits of wool from bushes that karavik—sheep—have brushed up against."
"Very good."
"And where, exactly, did your woolgathering take you?"
She took the cup again and sipped. She was stalling. She really didn't feel up to going into it—especially since it would only lead to the part about how their fathers hoped they'd hook up. "It's not important."
"Somehow I don't believe you."
"Then we're even, aren't we?" She drank the last and handed back the empty cup. "You know what? I'm really tired. I appreciate your coming and talking to me." She stretched out and pulled up the furs. "You don't have to stay until your aunt gets back. I'll be fine, I promise." She snuggled down deeper and shut her eyes. Sleep came almost instantly.
* * *
Eric stood over Valbrand's youngest sister and watched her face soften as she drifted into the land of dreams. She had great courage. She'd sought him out in the wild land of his birth, alone but for a single guide to show her the way. She'd lived through the crash that had killed her guide, emerging unaided from the wreckage of her plane, armed and ready to face whatever waited outside. She possessed spirit and stamina—few survived a hit from a renegade's poisoned arrow. And he liked her fine, quick mind.
Her eyes had dark smudges beneath them. A limp coil of lank blond hair lay across her cheek. He dared, very gently, to smooth it back, careful of the still-livid bruise at her temple.
She sighed, a tiny smile curving her cracked, dry lips. He felt the corners of his own mouth lifting in instinctive response.
He supposed he was willing to admit it now. His father had chosen well.
* * *
Chapter Three
« ^ »
It was much later when Brit woke again. The lamps were out, though night still ruled beyond the high-set windows. The fire had burned low. It cast a muted glow out the stove door window, spilling soft gold light across the table a few feet away. Where Brit lay, in the far corner, the shadows were thickest.
She sat up. Wow. Her head didn't spin and her shoulder throbbed only dully.
There were three other wide, wall-mounted benches like the one where she slept. One of them—down the wall past another bed, sharp right, then halfway down the next wall—was occupied. And not by the kindly old woman who had brought her back from near death.
Eric lay with his furs to his waist, his eyes shut, face turned toward the center of the room, one arm to his side, the other across his chest.
So had he been sleeping there last night, and the night before? She really hadn't noticed. She'd been far too busy sweating and hallucinating. Strange, to think of him, living here in Asta's longhouse, sleeping in the same room with her and her not even knowing it.
Moonlight from the window across the room slanted down on him, making shadows and silver of the strong planes and angles of his face, defining more sharply the sculpted perfection of his lean, bare chest and hard arms.
The guy really was gorgeous.
And she really, really had to pee.
She figured by now she was strong enough to handle at least that problem on her own. Easing back the furs, she swung her feet over the edge. The clogs were right there, toes peeking out beneath the bench—bless you, Asta.
Brit slid her feet into them. Then, slowly, she stood. Ta-da! Upright and okay about it. So far, so good.
She grabbed one of the furs from her bed and wrapped herself up in it. And then, as quietly as she could, she started for the door.
Ever try to tiptoe in clogs?
She got about four steps when Eric spoke from behind her. "What are you doing out of bed?"
She sighed. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you. I just have to make a quick trip outside." She was pointed toward the door and she stayed that way. She had a feeling he was naked under the furs and she also knew that he was going to insist on getting up and helping her out to the lean-to. If the rest of him looked half as good as what she'd already seen…
Down, girl. Don't go there.
"I'll go with you," he said.
Surprise, surprise. "Make it quick, okay? The situation is getting urgent." She shuffled forward. He must have had his pants nearby, because she only got a few steps before he was taking her elbow. He wore fur-lined moccasin-style slippers over bare feet, the tan trousers he'd worn earlier and no shirt. She cast a meaningful glance at his hard, bare chest. "I'll bet it's nippy out there."
He shrugged, pulled open the door and ushered her out into the starry, cold night. Ten steps and they were at the lean-to.
"Be right out." She hustled in and shut the door.
Boy, was she grateful she wasn't wearing any panties. It was a near thing, but she sat down in time. And after the initial relief, she worried about what women always worry about when they're performing a private function and some guy is standing right outside.
She was sure he could hear everything.
Life in the Mystic village was a little too simple for her tastes. Give her insulated walls. And a real toilet that flushed, with a seat that didn't leave slivers in inconvenient places. And a bedroom door to shut when she went to sleep at night, for crying out loud.
When she opened the door again, he was waiting right there, those lean, strong arms crossed over the goose bumps on his beautiful smooth chest. "Ready?" He held out an arm for her.
"I can make it on my own, I think."
He shrugged and fell in behind her.
Inside, she turned for the sink. He followed. Her irritation level rose. Okay, she'd been seriously sick.
But she was well enough now to walk to the sink unattended.
But then he said, "Here," and manned the pump. She rinsed her hands and couldn't resist splashing a little icy water on her face, sipping up a mouthful or two. When she was done, he handed her a towel. She wiped her face. He bent and picked up the fur that had dropped to the rough wooden floor while she reveled in the feel of the water against her cheeks. He gestured toward her sleeping bench. "Back to bed."
It sounded like a great idea. She clomped over, left the heavy clogs where she'd found them and stretched out. He settled the fur over her. "Sleep now."
She couldn't help smiling. "Your aunt's always saying that."
"It's good advice. You've been very ill."
"Is she still at the neighbor's?"
He nodded. "It doesn't look good. A heart attack, we think. The man is young, too. Barely forty."
"Shouldn't he be in a hospital?"
"The man's a true Mystic. No hospitals for him."
"But if he dies—"
His eyes gleamed down at her through the shadows. "It's a choice, to make a life here. With few conveniences. No phones, poor access to emergency care. Most who live here embrace the realities of this place."
They were both whispering. It was nice—companionable. A quiet little chat in the midnight darkness. "Why?"
"They find peace here. And real meaning to their lives."
She smiled, thinking again of what Asta had told her. A simple life, one that made for strong character and a clear mind. "I was surprised tonight, when I woke up and you were sleeping right over there."
"I live here, in my aunt's house, when I'm staying at the village."
She let a second or two elapse before she asked, "And where does my brother live?"
He didn't answer right away. She had a lovely, rising feeling. He would tell her the truth. And then she would keep after him until he agreed to take her to wherever Valbrand was staying.
But then he said softly, "Your brother lies forever sleeping—at the bottom of the sea."
She bit her lower lip to stop its sudden trembling. "That was cruel."
"The truth is often cruel."
She looked him dead in the eyes. "But it's not the truth. It's a lie. I saw him. You know I did. You were right beside him, standing almost where you're standing now. You said, 'She sees you. She knows you.'"
"In your dream."
"I
t wasn't a dream."
He was already turning away. "Good night, Brit."
Good night, Brit. Damn him, he so easily called her by her first name. Everyone else fell all over themselves Your-Highnessing her to death. But Eric Greyfell had presumed to address her with familiarity from the first.
And come to think of it, why did it bug her so much that he did? As a rule, since she'd come to Gullandria, she was constantly asking people to please just call her Brit.
She heard faint rustlings over by his furs. He would be taking off his trousers, slipping into bed… "Eric?"
"Yes?" He sounded wary.
And well he should. "You do have some way, don't you, of contacting my father—and yours?"
"There is radio contact, yes. It can be undependable, but eventually we get through."
"Is that how you got hold of my father to tell him what had happened to me?"
"That's right."
"So why didn't he send a helicopter to take me out of here and get me to a hospital?"
He was silent for several seconds. The remains of a log popped in the grate, the sound jarring in the quiet room.
Getting impatient, she prompted, "Eric?"
"Is that what you would have wanted, to be airlifted out of here, had you been able to make the decision for yourself?"
She considered for a moment, then admitted, "No."
"Then it was done as you would have wished."
"But who decided that I would stay here, at your aunt's village, instead of going to a hospital? My brother?"
Did he chuckle then, very low? She thought he might have. "That would have been difficult for him, as he is dead."
She scowled at the ceiling. "This radio—where is it?"
"Here, in the village."
"So. You brought me here, and then you contacted my father…"
"Yes."
"And my father decided that I would stay?"
"Your father. And mine. Your father knows you—better than you might think."
"And your father?"
"Some say he has a way of seeing the secrets that lie in the hearts and minds of others. He understood that you were set on a certain course, that if they took you away, you would only return."
The Marriage Medallion Page 3
