The Jewel of Time: Called by a Viking

by Stone, Mariah

  Kolbjorn swallowed and thought that perhaps, as Rachel said, his father had just wanted to manipulate him, to keep him close in case he needed him.

  He continued, “Father kept saying that because I was a bastard, he could only accept me into the family if I was worthy, if I was the example of honor and the best warrior in the whole of Norway. That if I would accomplish every single task and bring him everything he asked me to, he’d make me his real son one day. That I should make him proud.”

  Rachel’s eyebrows knit together. “He should have done it a long time ago. I think you fulfilled his tasks and more. He should not make you work so hard for his attention. No parent should.” The last words came out choked.

  What Rachel said resonated in Kolbjorn as a dull ache, but even though doubt turned in his stomach, he refused to see it her way. “You don’t know anything.”

  “Anyone who has eyes and sees you, knows that. I bet he won’t find a more worthy son than you if he searches the whole world.”

  Kolbjorn’s eyes prickled—surely from the wind blowing right in his face, not from her words. They gave him strength and energy, though, and he continued hammering the nails into the flitches as the storm continued to fight him—and as the beautiful woman, who had made him talk better with her questions than a torturer with hot coals, stood by his side.

  Every time she handed him the flitches, he touched her fingers, lingering. And she accepted his touch with a smile, the moments of connection stretching into eternity. As warmth spread through him at the contact, it warred with the cold certainty that their future would be all too brief.

  Chapter Eight

  Rachel watched Kolbjorn feed the fire with a log, and it crackled as flames licked at the fresh wood. Darkness had returned to the room after they’d finally repaired the roof—just in time for the short winter day to end and a howling night to engulf the world.

  Rachel and Kolbjorn sat by the fire, their legs almost touching. The proximity of Kolbjorn’s powerful body made her tingle all over, on top of the buzzing of her muscles from the physical strain of the day. The comforting smell of woodsmoke had returned in the room, but despite the fire, it was still cold in the shack, the patchwork that Kolbjorn and she had done with the roof had only provided a temporary solution.

  Rachel eyed his gorgeous profile as he stared into the fire, his hazel eyes and chestnut-brown hair—such a lovely color—his high cheekbones and straight nose.

  Rachel had a strange feeling, as if she and Kolbjorn were in between worlds, both shielded and threatened by the storm that cut them off from everything else, including their worries. And at least for now, just for this moment, when she could do nothing but wait, Rachel allowed herself to relax.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. When he glanced up at her, she smiled, the feeling foreign on her lips.

  “Starving, but there’s nothing in the hut.”

  “There is.” She rummaged in her purse.

  She removed the bottle of wine, two packs with hot dogs and a bag of buns, all of which she had planned to use to distract the guards if necessary. But neither that nor her main distraction, a plastic bag filled with three hundred synthetic sapphires—she had planned to throw them on the streets and let people fight for them—was needed in the end.

  She handed the hot dogs to Kolbjorn. He eyed them with curiosity and rustled the plastic wrapping between his fingers.

  “What is this material? Is it leather? Slime? How is it made?”

  Rachel opened her mouth to tell him the truth but stopped herself. She was not sure if she should trust him. It would give him even more power over her than he had now. The thought made her feel guilty because Kolbjorn had trusted her today.

  “I don’t know how the material is made.” She had no idea how plastic was actually produced. “But we’ll eat what’s inside—the sausages and the bread—and we’ll drink the wine. We have fire, we have hot dogs—that’s what the sausages are called—and we have sticks. We’ll eat the best dinner in ages. For me, anyways. Can you roast them? I’ll open the wine.”

  While Rachel twisted the metal cap off the Australian Shiraz, Kolbjorn broke open the pack of hot dogs and eyed them with curiosity.

  “Never seen sausages like that,” he said.

  “Just put them on a stick to roast them over the fire. Here are the buns. It’s nice if they’re toasted, too, but we don’t have a grill rack.”

  Kolbjorn spitted the dogs on a thin twig and held it over the fire. The heavenly smell of roasted sausages filled Rachel’s nostrils and made her mouth water.

  “Cheers,” she said, raising the bottle as if in a toast then taking a sip. The wine was good, and the rich, full taste of grapes and blackberries filled her mouth and slid down her throat, burning her stomach pleasantly. Her head began to spin almost immediately, alcohol hitting her system on an empty stomach.

  She held the bottle out to Kolbjorn who shook his head curtly.

  “Come on, you are a Viking,” she said, “aren’t you guys like big drinkers or something?”

  “I am not. Never have been.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because alcohol clouds the mind and the judgment.”

  “Yeah, it does. I could use some clouds in my mind right now. Plus, this is really good stuff.”

  “If you say so.”

  Rachel took another gulp and moaned, savoring the taste.

  “Ah well, your loss, buddy. I fully intend to enjoy this evening because who knows, maybe I won’t have another one tomorrow.”

  Even though she joked, the thought chilled her skin, and she chased it away. Not now. Tomorrow did not exist.

  Kolbjorn watched her, and his gaze burned her skin, making her feel even more drunk.

  “All these things,” he said, “the sausages, the wine. When people tasted the food you left in the cart, they said it had come from Valhalla. You cannot be from Valhalla. Where are you really from?”

  Rachel took another gulp. She felt careless, joy filling her chest. The most handsome man she had ever seen sat by her side roasting hot dogs. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but she seriously considered just telling him. He had been honest with her. How badly could he really react? Maybe he would even cut her some slack. But most likely, he just would not believe her.

  “I am from the future, Kolbjorn,” Rachel said, and hearing the words made the corners of her mouth curl. She was much drunker than she should have been after just a few sips.

  “What?”

  “I am from the future. From the year 2018. Almost twelve hundred years in the future.” She stared into space, considering the numbers she had just said. “Wow,” she whispered.

  “Don’t think I believe you for a second,” Kolbjorn mumbled, although he thoughtfully regarded the plastic wrapping from the hot dogs, the bottle, screw top, and then somewhere under Rachel’s cloak—probably where her purse was—which made her cheeks burn.

  Alcohol always made her stubborn, and proving to Kolbjorn that she was telling him the truth, became more important than anything in that moment. “You don’t believe me? How do you explain this?”

  She found a chocolate bar in her purse, broke the wrapping and handed it to him. “Try it. It’s chocolate. Bet you never had this before. It’s delicious!”

  While he turned the chocolate in his free hand and sniffed at it suspiciously, she rummaged for some more evidence. She found her wallet.

  “Aha!” she said, and handed him her driver’s license. “Look at the date.”

  Kolbjorn took the card and studied it, then picked at its laminated corners. “I can see that it’s a masterful portrait of you, but I don’t read these runes.”

  “This masterful portrait is called a photo, and it’s done with a machine called a camera.”

  His face had a blank expression. “A machine?”

  “If you could read these ‘runes,’ you’d see that the year I was born is 1997 in the city called Chicago in the country of the United States of Ame
rica.”

  He frowned and eyed her up and down. One of the sausages exploded into an octopus form, and he removed the stick from the fire.

  “From the future…” he said with a blank stare and an intonation that suggested everything finally made sense. “The iron wasp, the food and the drinks… The goddess dancing in the air, was it one of your future tricks, too?”

  “Yep. A small projector, fits in the pocket.”

  Kolbjorn’s eyes squinted.

  “Suppose I believe you. How did you travel in time then?”

  “There’s a golden spindle in Chicago, and when I touch it, I get sucked in and appear here. Three old ladies had it, but well”—her cheeks burned—“I stole it.”

  Kolbjorn froze, his eyes wide. “Three old women, a golden spindle— They are the Norns, aren’t they?”

  “Who?”

  “Three Norns who spin people’s fates. They have the power to do anything with people’s lives. So it must be true. They must have sent you here.”

  Kolbjorn studied her. “Give it to me,” he stretched his hand out for the bottle. Rachel handed it to him, surprised. “Not every day that I meet someone from the future.”

  He took a big sip, and once he removed the bottle from his mouth, he looked at it appreciatively and smacked his lips. Rachel wanted to kiss those lips, to feel them sucking not at the wine, but at her breasts, brushing over her skin. A tremor of warmth went through her.

  He drank. “The sausages are ready.” Kolbjorn waved the stick with the dogs.

  Rachel reached for the pack of buns. “Put one in a bun, like this.” She removed one sausage, burning her fingertips a little, and put it in a bun. “There should be ketchup and mustard in my purse.” She found the small packets, ripped open the ketchup and squeezed a long line along the sausage. “Eat and repeat!”

  She handed him the hot dog and he took it and almost swallowed it whole. “Mmmm,” he moaned, licking his fingers. Rachel bit her lip, her mouth watering from the sight.

  She made a hot dog for herself and bit into it. The juice of the sausage with a hint of woodsmoke sprung onto her tongue, and she thought she had never tasted anything so good.

  “The food and the wine are from the future,” Kolbjorn said, taking another sip from the bottle. “Odin would be jealous, but the Norn must be laughing at me right now! A jarl’s bastard stuck in a hunting cabin with the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and she’s from another time.”

  Rachel’s cheeks burned despite herself at his compliment. It must be the wine talking. He didn’t mean what he said, but Rachel really wished that he did.

  “She must be laughing at me, too, then,” Rachel said, taking the bottle from him. And as their fingertips touched, their eyes locked, and Rachel’s heart raced five hundred miles per hour. She couldn’t remove her hand. It was as if they were glued together, as if the whole tingling world was created by their touch. “Making me care about someone I really shouldn’t,” she whispered.

  “What?” Kolbjorn practically choked on the word.

  Rachel removed her fingers, the bottle clenched in her hand. Her skin tingled where they had touched. Her lips pressed against the wet glass opening to take a sip, and she thought that this was where his lips had been just now and that it was as if they were kissing through the bottle. She closed her eyes.

  “Kolbjorn, I really should not say this, but you are a great guy. If I met you in my time—”

  She stopped herself before she could say too much, before she could say the words that would change everything.

  But Kolbjorn’s eyes burned her. From hazel they darkened to mahogany, fire dancing in them.

  He shifted closer to her, and her breath caught. “Then what?”

  She swallowed. “I’d be in trouble.”

  He shifted again, until he was sitting right next to her, and his nearness made Rachel’s hands and knees weak. He brushed his knuckles across her cheek, catching a lock of her hair, and electricity tingled through her skin. “You are in more trouble than you know,” he said.

  He took her shoulders and pulled her to him, his mouth covering hers. Lost in the wildfire that spread through her body, she thought that he was right.

  Chapter Nine

  His kiss started slow, exploring, and Rachel melted from every pull of his lips and stroke of his tongue. She ran her hands up and down Kolbjorn’s chest and stomach, savoring the hardness of his muscle under his tunic.

  He was kindling the fire in her, somewhere deep, making pleasure run through her like quicksilver.

  Kolbjorn took control of the kiss, tilting her head back and gaining full access to her mouth. He tasted of wine and of him, and it was driving her wild.

  She wanted more of him—ah hell, she wanted everything. How could she like him this much after having spent just a few hours with him?

  The truth was, she was falling for the gorgeous Viking.

  She’d been dreaming about him every night, imagining this moment since the first time she saw him. She’d been disappointed by his absence the other times she’d returned to the village, and she’d been so excited to see him again.

  His smooth tongue teasing her, his teeth biting her lips playfully, his hands traveled under her cloak and brushed her back up and down, making her already-soft muscles even more pliable.

  Her heartbeat drummed in her ears. Without removing her cloak, Kolbjorn undid the brooches that held the broad straps of her apron dress, and they fell heavily behind her back. He pulled the dress down to her stomach, leaving her in just a linen shift. He massaged her breasts through the fabric, and she moaned her approval into his mouth, the deepest muscles inside of her clenching.

  Rachel undid the belt that held his tunic together, and let it fall lose. The leather purse thumped slightly as it fell to the floor, and Rachel registered distantly that this was where the necklace was.

  But she was way too hot and way too far gone to care. She needed his big hands on her body; she needed them right on her skin. Rachel couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so strong, so sexy.

  She sucked gently on his tongue, and he growled and rolled her hair on his fist—a gesture so primal it made Rachel arch her back and press herself into the hand that cupped her breast. He teased her nipple, making her rub her thighs together.

  “You feel so good, Rachel,” he murmured when he released her mouth to lave his tongue against her neck.

  He let go of her to lift her up, apron dress hanging, and carry her to the sleeping bench, which was covered with soft furs. He undid her cloak and let it slide down her shoulders, then pulled her shift up. Fresh air, still a little chilly, bit her bare skin, and she shivered.

  “I’ll make you warm enough, don’t you worry,” he growled, undoing his own coat hastily. Then off went his linen tunic. Rachel’s breath caught at the mighty sight of him.

  Kolbjorn’s body was all muscle. Soft curls of dark-brown hair covered his chest, and a trail of smaller curls led beneath his waistband. Everything she had imagined in her hottest dreams come true—and then some. Silver battle scars ran across his left shoulder and his chest. Rachel’s heart squeezed imagining him fighting for his father, who would never appreciate his commitment—just like her own.

  She planted soft kisses on the scars, and felt him trembling under her lips.

  Kolbjorn put his fur cloak around them, and the wild scent of animal mingled with leather and his own earthy essence engulfed her. He cupped her naked breasts, stroking them with the rough pads of his fingers. Then his mouth was on them, his tongue flicking her nipples, his lips torturing her skin in the sweetest way.

  Rachel shook from pleasure, and she wanted to pleasure him, too. Her fingers found his rock-solid stomach and traced the soft line of curls towards the rim of his pants. She undid the rope that served as a belt and slid his trousers down his strong thighs. His erection sprang into her hand, and she bit her lip at the firm feel of it.

  Kolbjorn sucked in a breath, and, encour
aged, Rachel stroked his length, his skin soft and velvety under her fingertips.

  But he did not let her continue. He pushed her gently so that she lay on her back, his fur cloak covering them like the wall of a cave, his mountain of a body hovering over her. Rachel wrapped her arms around his body, needing more, and he kissed her, hungrily, deeply, his tongue dipping into her mouth and dancing with hers. His lips tickled, taunted, teased her neck, the skin of her chest, then her fevered stomach, only to stoke the wildfire inside her as he continued even further down.

  No one had ever done this. No one.

  Not that she had much experience.

  His fingers brushed her inner thighs, the rough skin at their tips making all kinds of pleasure whirl in her. Embarrassment tinged her cheeks, and she felt heat roaring within her.

  For god’s sake, you are not a virgin. What is wrong with you?

  But she might as well have been—no one had ever kissed her there. And she was glad that Kolbjorn was the man she would have this first experience with.

  His fingers gently dipped into the hot, damp depth of her, circling the soft, wet tissue that throbbed for attention, spurring waves of urgent pleasure, quick and fierce. But when she felt his mouth on her, fluttering against her, his soft beard intensifying every sensation, her cheeks began to burn in earnest—hell, her whole body did.

  Violent pleasure was born where his tongue lashed her, and Rachel felt so wanton, so bad, and so present, her body free. As if she’d finally woken up to a world of color after years of gray.

  And she did not want to go back.

  Ever.

  Her body was ready, her nerves saturated, sodden with pleasure.

  “Kolbjorn, I’m going to come,” she whimpered.

  “Good,” he mumbled against her.

  “No,” she tugged on his shoulders, so huge that her palms could only cover the tips of them. “I want you, please. I want you inside.”

  His head rose from between her thighs, a hungry smirk on his lips.

  “As you wish.”