Snowflakes in Summer (Time Tumble Series Book 1)

by Elizabeth Preston

  His ominous dark-blue eyes were fixed on my face. I wanted to look away, to break the stare, to stop him from boring into me like that, but turning from him was difficult to do. There was something hypnotic about the way he stared me down. I’d never seen eyes like his before: almost too much. His gaze held me in place like a butterfly pinned to a board. I was sure he noticed it all: my flinching nerves, my teeth clamped over my bottom lip, my wildly beating heart. I turned, searching for a place to cower.

  His face was smeared with muck, his battle clothing caked with filth. If he’d come from a recent fight, as his bandaged head suggested, then there was more than earth on his plaid. I tried not to think of the skin, the membranes, and other fragments of the human body that were wedged in his clothing.

  He was the one bound so why was I so worried? Because he was formidable. I told myself to bob down or turn and skulk in the corner, anything but look his way. Did he have a temper? Even though he was bound by his hands, he could still ram himself against my body, pinning and squashing me into the wall. How long would it take a hulk like that to snap my ribs? To suffocate me? Two or three minutes, four perhaps.

  Then he spoke. His voice rumbled out and my whole body jumped. “I heard ye talking,” he said, his voice thick with an archaic form of Scottish brogue. “You’re a Sassenach, so I’ll no’ waste my breath speaking Gaelic. Ye look Norse though.”

  “I’m not Norse,” I whispered, then strengthened my voice, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “What year is it, do you remember?”

  He tilted his head to the side and took a long time to answer. I think he was trying to decide if I was just plain stupid or if I was setting some sort of trap for him to stumble into. In the end he answered honestly. “’Tis the year of our Lord, 1263.”

  I slumped over and then clutched at my stomach like I was in pain. I wanted to scream, to yell and rant, to blast him for lying. But there was a horrid stirring deep in my gut, a knowing that said, he’s not lying to you. No words came. Instead I stared down at my Viking leather boots. I struggled then, fighting to keep the tears at bay.

  He was the one to end the yawning silence between us. “If you’re no’ a Norsewoman, then why are ye wearing a Norsewoman’s dress?”

  “I found this clothing. I was cold and this dress and cape looked warm and inviting so I put the outfit on, that’s all. I’m Scottish like you. Only, not like you.”

  “Ha,” he said, “no’ like me at all. I wouldn’t wear a Northman’s tunic, not even if the icy frost rose up like a beast out o’ the ground and bit my leg.”

  “I think you might,” I snapped, and then I flinched, realizing what I’d just done. I might have really angered him this time, snapping at him like that. The last thing I needed was more trouble. But, instead of charging forward and flattening my body against the wall, he stayed put. Much to my relief, he even laughed a little.

  “Aye, I just might put that tunic on if it meant I got to keep my leg.”

  I smiled back and let my breath go. The relief was huge.

  “Ye don’t sound like a Scottish lassie, at least none I’ve ever heard.”

  “I know. That’s because I’m from a different place, a different . . .” Better I didn’t finish that sentence. Best not get myself trapped. “My accent is muddled because I’ve lived in different countries, some so far away you won’t have heard of them. But, my family is Scottish so that makes me Scottish still.”

  “Faraway places, ah? I’m eager to hear about those lands.” His eyebrows rose. “But the truth is, it’s not just the way ye sound. Ye have a funny way of saying things, too. And there’s something forthright and quarrelsome about ye manner. Most wee strangers I come across, especially if they’re lassies, are meek.”

  I shrugged. “We can talk about all that later. But right now, I’m more worried about him, the peasant man.” I pointed at the door. “From the look of things, you’re his prisoner, too. I think we’re both in big trouble. I fear we’re in the worst predicament of our lives.”

  He laughed again, quite loudly this time. “Ach, nay, lassie. I’ve been in far worse muddles than this one. This is naught but a wee break in my plans.”

  This was reassuring news. If he wasn’t worried then maybe I should calm down, too. I peered at him openly then, no longer quite so afraid. There was a sinister stain on the front of his tunic shirt, and it appeared to be growing. “I think you might be bleeding. Actually, your face is quite pale. I’ve just done a first aid course so I know what to look out for. You’re ashy-colored, like someone who’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “Aye. I have.”

  I took a tentative step toward him. He was still big and menacing but, if I treaded carefully around him, I doubted he’d hurt me. I no longer felt in imminent danger, and that made me bolder. He was clearly a killer, but a killer with an easy, open manner that I was warming to. “I’m Caitlin,” I offered.

  He repeated my name, rolling it around his tongue. People did not say my name like he did. No one said my name with such heart and warmth. He said it again, as if “Caitlin” was the name of his favorite ale.

  “I’m Bern. Laird of the Mackenzie clan.”

  “Burn?” I asked. “Like in a fire?”

  That made him smile. “Aye, and twice as fierce. My name’s Bernard, but Bern for short.”

  I stepped forward, moving closer toward him. “Pleased to meet you, Bern.”

  He was smiling still. “Ye English, ye make me laugh. Always mannerly, even when you’re shoving a dirk into my neck.”

  “I’m Scottish, remember.”

  “So ye say. But . . .”

  “Bern, I think you might be bleeding. I think we need to find the wound and stop the blood.”

  I closed the distance between us, now standing a foot from his face. He really was a startlingly good-looking man up close, but luckily I was not the type to be swayed by appearances. “I have a recent first aid certificate. Just got it, so now I’m all trained up and rearing to go.”

  “A what, a first . . . what?”

  “Never mind. It’s something people get in my faraway land. As a first-aider, it’s my job to inspect people’s injuries and treat them when I can.”

  “Is that so? Then you’d better take a wee look at my scratch and tell me what ye think.”

  I gazed into his dazzling eyes. It was hard to do anything other than stare because they were so, so very blue. I didn’t know that eyes came in that cobalt color. If I’d been back in my own century, I’d swear he was wearing colored contacts. “Right then,” I said, suddenly doubting myself, wondering if inspecting his injury was the wisest move. He might be in a lot of pain, and then lash out in anger when I touched him. His manner was relaxed and open but Scotsmen were famed for their tempers. I stood appraising his face, searching for the answer. Should I do this? Do you have a hair-trigger temper?

  “Right then, lass. If you’re to look, you’ll need to lift my shirt.”

  “Right,” I said, feeling hesitant. He was watching me in that intense way of his, studying my every move. Why did I feel that he was capable of seeing more in my face than men could in my own time? Carefully, I let my fingertips fall to the bottom of his shirt. The pads of my fingers tingled, as if I was about to do something I shouldn’t. Do it, Caitlin, lift the warrior’s shirt and look at his big bare chest.

  Very slowly, trying not to come across as timid or inexperienced, I let my fingers lift the linen fabric up over his stomach. So far so good. He had tightened stomach muscles, not an inch of fat anywhere. He also had one of those muscular abdominal patterns they call a six-pack. I stared, drinking him in, quite unwilling to look away. The female hormones inside me flickered to life. Then, suddenly remembering what I was doing this for, I said, “No injuries so far.”

  “You’ll need to keep going.
” I heard the smirk in his voice, that sound of subdued amusement. I lifted his shirt higher, exposing the full breadth of his chest. Is that real? My fingers hankered to trace his beautiful contours, to memorize every line, feel every dip and groove. Oh yes, here was the answer. Once Bern was well enough, these muscles would secure our freedom. I glanced up then, straight into his smile. There was a question waiting, in the rise of his brow.

  “Um, all good,” I stammered. “Very good, in fact. No injury that I can see. Or feel.” Not that I had actually felt anything. I should have felt all over his chest, hunting for a wound or tender spot. That’s what a good first-aider is supposed to do. But I was thrown off my task. First-aiders don’t usually come across perfection.

  Even his voice was hypnotic. “You’ve not gone far enough, lass. Ye need to keep going.”

  “Ah? What? Oh, of course.” I drew in another stabilizing breath, and then lifted his shirt right up to his collarbone. I winced. There was a wide gash about four inches long beneath the bone. The skin was parted and I could see red jelly flesh underneath. “Ouch. That’s not good. Nasty. You’re lucky you’re alive, Bern. That cut is awfully close to some pretty important veins and arteries. We need to clean and stitch that wound right away.”

  “And how are we t’ manage that, young Caitlin?”

  “Sit down for a start. When that peasant man comes back, I’m going to ask for some whiskey, or wine, or honey. All those things are good for cleaning wounds.”

  The smirk spread across his cheeks. “Have ye noticed that he’s a peasant? Do ye think the peasants sit around sipping whiskey and licking honey from their fingers? Nay, they do not.”

  “Vinegar then, do they have any of that? Or moldy bread? I could make you a hot drink from moldy bread. I believe that moldy bread makes a type of medicine you can drink.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “I doubt Silis or any other peasant would leave bread lying around long enough to get moldy. Peasants are peasants; they’re usually hungry. In any case, I don’t expect Silis to offer me anything in the way of healing remedies. I consider myself lucky that he pulled me from the battlefield and did no’ leave me there in the cold to die.”

  I helped Bern down to the ground, encouraging him to sit. “But he’s holding you prisoner, too. What did you do to him?” Why did I desperately want to help Bern? I barely knew the man. Not, I hoped, because he was handsome. No. That would be horribly shallow of me. I hoped the true reason I wanted to help was because he was a fellow human being in need. But deep down, I knew there was a truer reason for my concern. I really did not want to be stuck in this unfathomable mess on my own. A problem shared is a problem halved.

  “The peasant man, his name is Silis?” I asked.

  “Aye. Silis found me. As soon as the raiders were gone, Silis was over the battlefield, scavenging. He found me still alive.”

  “Scavenging?”

  “Aye, ’tis a common enough practice. Silis was out treasure hunting. Once the battle’s done, there are always folk like him hovering. They scrounge around the bodies, looking for weapons, or clothing and the like. They’re searching for anything they can take and trade. ’Tis a common enough practice.”

  My jaw fell.

  “He found me still alive. I’d lost a lot o’ blood because of the dirk wound to my shoulder, but I wasn’t dead, not yet. Silis dragged me to his cart and wheeled me all the way back here to his burned-out village. So ye see, I’m feeling kindly toward the fellow.”

  Well, I wasn’t. I certainly wasn’t about to thank Silis for anything. He’d kidnapped me, taken me prisoner. “He could hardly leave you there, wounded and dying. Of course he had to help you.”

  “You’re an odd one, Caitlin. Don’t they have wars where ye come from?”

  “Yes, although none on home soil. Where I’m from, a person might be thrown in prison for stealing off the dead and dying. It’s a low act, profiting off someone’s illness or death.”

  It was his turn to look surprised. “What of it? Aren’t ye being a little harsh on the poor peasant? How else are the peasants t’ get their windfalls if they don’t take from the weak?”

  Bern’s brilliant eyes had settled on my mouth. He seemed to find my lips appealing, or maybe he just found them strange.

  “So, Caitlin, now it’s ye turn. Tell me how Silis come across such a bonnie lass as yourself? A lassie that’s nay a Norsewoman, nor a Sassenach, and certainly no’ a Scot.”

  I raised my chin. “He found me sitting in a pile of shi . . . midden. That’s what you call it, I think.”

  “Did he just?” He tried to keep his face straight but I could see that he wanted to laugh.

  “It’s true. Silis wasn’t very friendly to me either. He couldn’t see past my Vik—my Northwoman clothing.”

  Bern nodded. “He’d take one look at your rich furs and flawless beauty and not be able to look away. Then he’d notice that glossy hair and the rich plumpness of your skin. Next, he’d see the perfection of your shape and know for certes he’d found himself a treasure.”

  I’ve been flattered before, but those lines would take some beating. “So you don’t think Silis will hurt me, then? He’s not likely to do anything evil to me?” I didn’t want to mention the word “rape” just in case I planted the idea in Bern’s head. He was a grievously wounded man, but I’d no idea what warriors in his time were capable of, what he was capable of. He might not consider rape much of a crime.

  “I can’t promise but I think Silis will keep ye fed and alive if he can. He’ll be wanting to trade ye back to the Northmen; those settled on Shetland, most likely. He’ll spread the word that he’s captured a high-born Norse princess. Because that’s what ye look like to me.”

  “Silis plans to sell me, for coin?” For pity-sake! He intended to treat me like a cow or a pig.

  Bern was already shaking his head. “Now what would the likes of Silis do with coin? Nay. He’ll trade ye, swap ye for his wife and daughter. The Shetland Norsemen captured his wife and girl. Silis wants them back.”

  “Oh, I see.” This news was even worse. Silis had reason, serious incentive to hand me over to the Vikings. Rape might be nothing to the Northmen, not a crime or even a wrongdoing. Of course Silis would want his wife and daughter back. Who wouldn’t want their wife and child away from the murdering and raping Vikings? My only hope was that the Northmen would not go for the deal Silis hoped to broker. If they accepted me in exchange for a wife and daughter then the Vikings would be getting one slave and losing two. Hopefully, the Shetland Northmen were too sensible to agree to such a poor deal.

  Bern was studying me again, watching me bite my lip. “Don’t worry, lass. I’m sure the Norse will readily agree to the trade,” he said, misunderstanding my apprehension. “Who wouldn’t swap an old wife and plain daughter for a juicy, fresh, Norse princess? Every Jarl will want ye warming his bed, no doubt there.”

  I stepped away from him, moving back to my side of the hut. “It’s not happening. I’m not ending up in any Jarl’s bed. I’m going to break out of this hut and once I’ve managed that, I’m going straight back home again.”

  We heard someone approach and both turned toward the door. The little wattle doorway rattled and then Silis yanked the door wide.

  Chapter 3

  Caitlin

  Silis stepped into the hut, armed with a big hunting knife which he duly waved our way in warning. “Ye two better behave or there’ll be no supper for either of ye.”

  My stomach grumbled at the mention of food. “Silis, have you seen Bern’s wound?” The peasant man stared at me and his face answered my question. Of course not, why would I look?

  I pushed flyaway strands of hair from my face and squared my shoulders. Both men needed to take Bern’s injury seriously. Silis, especially, needed to listen to me. “His stab wound will fester so
on if we don’t tend to it. Do you have alcohol or vinegar, or something I can use to clean his wound with?”

  Silis stood his ground, perplexed. From the look on his face, I could see that this healing talk was the last thing he’d expected. “Aye. I believe there’s a pot o’ vinegar lying around some place. We use it for the onions and apples.”

  “That’s great, Silis. If you’ll fetch me a mug full, I’ll do what I can. After all, Bern’s no use to you dead, is he? I don’t know why you’re keeping him here, holding him hostage, but I do know that he can’t fight for you or bring you any sort of monetary reward if he’s lying facedown in the dirt, his flesh rotting from his bones, fouling up the ground, and making the whole place stink. How will his dead carcass get you thatch for your roofs and the seeds you need for your garden?”

  They both stared at me. Did they have to find everything I said odd? What was wrong with asking for vinegar? Were there no practical, forthright women where they came from? I wasn’t being pushy, only trying to solve a problem.

  Silis recovered first. “Vinegar. Anything else?”

  “Yes, actually. Clean bandages would be good but best we leave those out in the sun before we use them or, better yet, boil them in salted water first. A needle too and some thread. And then of course some food. I think I speak for both of us when I say that we’re famished. If you’re going to take prisoners, Silis, you must feed them and keep them healthy.” Maybe I shouldn’t have used the word famished. Back in medieval times—which looked awfully like where we were right now—famines were common. And famished people would have been much thinner than either Bern or me. We must have looked like stuffed pigs to poor, skinny Silis.