The Blooded Ones

by Elizabeth Brown

  “Wh – what?” he stammered.

  “Were you gonna knock, or just stand there? If you’re looking for Marcus, he’s in the kitchen,” she replied, as if impatient with him. Winn knew his face must have looked addled, so he made an attempt to slow down his breathing and make his words more confident. It confused him that she would not ask who he was or what he wanted, but instead she merely offered him entrance to her home.

  “Yes. Yes, I am here to see Marcus,” he said slowly.

  “Whatever. Later,” she said as she shrugged. She turned away to leave, but before he could stop himself he reached out and snatched her hand. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to feel her heart pound against his. But this was not his wife yet, he was no more than a stranger to her, and he could not endanger the success of his journey by falling prey to his aching soul.

  “Wait,” he whispered hoarsely. “I think you dropped this.”

  Winn pulled her watch from the pocket of his tunic and placed it in her hand. She stared down at it but did not pull away. Her fingers felt warm against his despite the brisk air, and she slowly looked up at him.

  “Thank you. I’ve been looking for that,” she said softly. Her green eyes softened as they met his, creases forming as her lips twitched and dropped slightly open. “Who did you say you are?”

  He continued to hold her hand, fighting the urge to draw her close.

  “An old friend,” he replied.

  “Oh, okay. Well, thanks. See you later,” she said, and this time her words were stammered out as her cheeks filled with color. She uttered a nervous laugh and pulled her hand back before she walked away. As he watched her go into the barn, he had no doubt about what day he had arrived in the future. Any moment she would be taken to his time by her Bloodstone, and he could recall every detail of their meeting as if it had happened only yesterday.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  Norse Village, 1634

  Maggie

  Curled on her side, her limbs still felt heavy from the dreams of a rested sleep when she felt the touch on her ribs. Inquisitive, testing, his fingers traced up across her belly, then paused before his warm palm came to rest. His hand squeezed lightly, a question more than anything, and she answered him with a slight, but definite nudge of her elbow into his ribs.

  “I’m awake,” Maggie said. A smile crossed her lips as she felt him slide one leg over hers. Winn was a furnace, his skin aflame against her even when she needed layers of furs to keep warm. She snuggled deeper into him.

  “I’m sorry. I did not mean to wake you,” he whispered. His words were teasing, and by the sound of his voice she knew he was anything but sorry. It seemed he certainly had no intention of sleeping.

  “Sure you didn’t,” she replied. “I thought you’d be with the men longer.”

  “I should be,” he admitted, his lips grazing her cheek. She closed her eyes at the contact. “But I’ve heard nothing of what they speak of for the last two hours. All I could see was you, across the hall, holding my son, without any care for your poor husband…”

  He squeezed her gently to demonstrate, and she let out a tiny shriek.

  “Winn!” she laughed.

  “…then you left, and I’ve been missing you ever since,” he whispered.

  “Well, that doesn’t sound very fun,” she admitted. He shifted so than he could look down on her. Leaning on one elbow, his eyes glazed with playfulness, he bent to trace his lips over her skin. Down her neck, making her shiver.

  “No, it was not fun at all,” he agreed. “Then I realized there is a solution to my, uhm, problem.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, I am Chief. If I wish to seek out my wife, I will do so,” he muttered with a grin. He kissed her soundly, stealing the breath from her lungs. “Ah, that is better now.”

  “So it’s good to be the Chief,” she murmured. A brief echo of her past surfaced at her clumsy attempt at humor, but when he stared down at her she was glad he did not understand it. Silent now, his gaze slicing through her soul, his banter turned serious.

  “I am only your husband now,” he said softly. “And this is where my duty lies.” Winn spoke with his touch rather than his words, the shadow of flesh upon flesh drawing him deeper than anything spoken. His gleaming eyes never left hers.

  “Then do your duty, husband,” she whispered, and he did.

  Winn left early the next morning as was his usual routine, taking eight year-old Dagr with him to meet with the men. She wondered what her son might learn with his father today. Would it be to hunt? To learn the ways of being a Chief, as his father was? Or might it be a lesson in killing?

  The possibilities unnerved her at times. Despite her best efforts, Maggie still had difficulty going along with life in the seventeenth century. Sometimes she thought of how her life might be if Winn had journeyed to the future, instead of the magic of the Bloodstone sending her to the past. She had no doubt and no regret that her life was joined with his, but she could not help but wonder how things might have been different.

  As she made her way to the Northern Hall, what the Norse speaking members of the village called the Noroanveror Skali, she spotted Winn grappling with Dagr in the courtyard. She adjusted two-year old Malcolm on her hip to watch them as her daughter Kyra ran ahead.

  No, she thought with a secret grin as her husband taught her son a lesson. Winn was meant for the time he was born to, and she was meant to find him.

  Winn’s arms stood out in welcome beneath his simple fur-lined vest as he taunted his son, and Maggie let out a groan when Dagr rushed his father haphazardly. The boy was promptly upended onto his backside, eliciting an uncharacteristic swear word in Norse from the youngster. Maggie tried not to smirk when Winn reached down and ruffled Dagr’s mane of thick black hair, which did nothing to stem the tide of obscenities coming from his mouth.

  “That cannot possibly be my son talking like that,” she commented as she joined them. A crooked grin graced Winn’s face. With one hand holding the squirming Dagr flat on the ground, he glanced down briefly at his son before he greeted her.

  “Do not blame me. He’s your son,” Winn chuckled. When Malcolm reached out two hands toward his father, Winn released Dagr and took his younger son from Maggie.

  “Da! Down! Nior!” Malcolm cried, his demand relayed in both Norse and English.

  “It is not time for you to fight yet, Mal. Soon, I promise,” Winn said to the child. Malcolm pouted but stilled in Winn’s arms, sticking a thumb in his mouth as his dark eyes turned to his father.

  Maggie caught her fingers in the edge of Dagr’s braies before he ran off.

  “You!” she admonished him. Dagr had the good sense to know when he was in trouble. He stood bravely beside her, his narrow chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to contain his ire. “I’ll wash your mouth out with sand, don’t think I won’t!”

  Dagr scowled when she kissed his cheek.

  “Aww, Ma!” the boy hissed. He twisted away from her kiss and raced off to join the older boys who were gathered by the well. Dagr was built like his father – lean but solid, thick through his shoulders, with a strength from his core that gave him an undeniable aura. With his dark skin and long hair, he could easily blend in with any of the Indian tribes just as his father had. Yet in the village, he was the young son of the Chief, unique in his own special way among the Norse.

  Ahi Kekeleksu grabbed Dagr around the neck as the boy ran straight into a mob of young men. Keke, son of Winn’s brother Chetan, had turned into quite a stout young man over the winter. Gone was the boyish shyness and the uncertainty when speaking with others. Keke seemed the leader of the pack of youths in the village, those who were new to manhood and testing the limits. Iain was his closest friend, the half-Indian son of Roanoke survivor Ellie, and Tyr was a Norse youth that kept company with them.

  When Keke let young Dagr pummel him before he shoved him toward the meal table she smiled. Although quite a bit younger than hi
s cousin, Dagr still assumed a spot of honor amongst the boys. After all, Dagr was Chief Winn’s eldest son.

  Across the expanse of the Northern Hall, Maggie spotted Rebecca. With her long blond curls hanging loose over her shoulders and her skin flushed with radiance only happiness could give, she sat quietly beside her husband Makedewa as he spoke with the men. Although she was close to term with her pregnancy, she carried small, her bump only scarcely visible under her long gown. Rebecca gave a quick wave to Maggie when they spotted each other across the room, but the younger woman quickly returned her attention to her Indian husband.

  Maggie smiled. Perhaps she could corner her friend later to ask how she was feeling, without Makedewa near. Rebecca would never admit any discomfort with her husband within earshot.

  As Maggie and Winn joined the group, Winn swung Malcolm onto his shoulders, a place of prominence that the child loved. Winn held the youngster’s kicking feet in place with his hands and Malcolm pointed and laughed at his kin.

  “Winn is here now, let him decide,” Cormaic called out. Maggie’s cousin was a bear of a man, standing taller than her husband with a set of arms to rival any body builder from her future time. His physique was earned from a lifetime of labor, hewn from endless hours spent hunting and fighting. Maggie was surprised to see him agitated, being that gentle Cormaic usually kept his stronger emotions under wraps. Standing next to the Indian Makedewa, however, Cormaic appeared anything but happy. Cormaic handed Winn a tankard of mead.

  “On what shall I decide?” Winn answered.

  “There’s more woodland being burned, and now it’s close to the Nansemond village. We should send some of our men to protect them,” Cormaic replied.

  Winn took the proffered mug and drank half of it before answering, his eyes scanning the men before him. He kept one hand on his son’s heels, and Malcolm rested his hand on Winn’s head.

  “So they want more fields for their tobacco,” Winn said. Cormaic nodded, casting a look at Makedewa.

  “The English are never happy. They keep taking the land, destroying it with their crops. They burn too much and leave nothing for the tribes,” Winn’s Indian brother replied.

  “Has Pepamhu sent for help?” Winn asked. Maggie was not aware of any emissaries from the Nansemond village, nor of a visit from Makedewa’s father. It was a sore subject for both Winn and Makedewa, since the Nansemond sheltered the last of the Paspahegh people. Among them was Winn and Makedewa’s mother, now first wife to Pepamhu, the Nansemond leader of that particular tribe.

  “No,” Makedewa answered.

  Winn handed Malcolm back to her when the boy grabbed for his mead cup. Maggie took the child without a word, intent on listening to what the men discussed.

  “Send a rider to the village. I need word from Pepamhu before we act,” Winn said.

  “I will go.”

  Winn nodded to Makedewa at his offer. Maggie knew it made sense for the younger man to carry out the duty, yet she wondered how Rebecca would feel over her husband’s departure.

  Hoisting the toddler higher up on her hip, she made her way over to Rebecca as the men continued to discuss their plans. Things had been quiet in the village for some time, with no interference from the English or threats from any native tribes. They kept close ties with the Nansemond, a tie that gave them some standing with the Indian community and kept them relatively safe. With the English, however, relations were strained, and it seemed only a matter of time before the English curiosity grew into something more. Over the last few months, Winn had restricted the men from journeying into town for trade; they went only in groups of heavily armed men, and they only ventured out when there was the utmost need.

  Despite all their efforts, it seemed they would soon be right in the path of the English expansion. If they were burning fields near the Nansemond, it would not be long before they reached the Norse village as well.

  “How are you?” Maggie asked as she reached her friend. Rebecca brushed the back of her palm over her brow, wiping away the bead of fine sweat at her hairline. Her blond curls lay matted at her nape, her cheeks plump and flushed. If anything bothered her she hid it well, striking a wide smile as Maggie joined her.

  “Fine,” Rebecca answered. “But I will admit I am ready to meet this wee one. I canna hardly see my toes this morning, and I feel so clumsy.”

  “Soon, I think. Gwen seems to think so as well,” Maggie replied. Malcolm squirmed away and hid his head in her shoulder when Rebecca tried to give him a kiss.

  “I should hope so,” the younger woman smiled. Rebecca perked up when Makedewa lifted his chin to her across the room. He split away from the group of men and moved to join them.

  “I’ll leave you to your husband,” Maggie whispered, giving her friend’s arm a squeeze. She nodded to Makedewa. “Morning,” she said. He scowled and grunted a greeting under his breath, causing Maggie to roll her eyes with a sigh. Always coarse and unmanageable, Makedewa’s stony demeanor was a constant they could all rely on. Except when it came to his wife, there was little that would crack his facade, and even the impending birth of his first child had not softened him. If anything, his tension seemed to swell with each day that passed. She wondered if Rebecca was truly ready for the birth, or if she only wished to end her husband’s distress. It was anyone’s guess.

  Maggie made her way across the Northern Hall. On the long table was the remnants of the morning meal. She let Malcolm chew on a piece of hard bread as she gathered food into her small pouch, taking enough to fill her belly and soothe the child. The rest of her family managed on their own; Winn ate with the men, and Malcolm sat with his friends. Maggie spotted eleven year-old Kyra with her aunt Gwen near the hearth fire, and she knew all those she loved were fed. There was little she had control of in her world, but it was one thing she took comfort in seeing to.

  Malcolm toddled ahead, happy to explore on his own as they left the hall and walked through the courtyard. Winn’s eyes met hers as she passed by the men. She ducked her chin down and kept going, knowing he was busy and she should leave him to it. Tending the village was a full-time occupation, and as Chief, Winn took it upon himself to see everyone’s needs were met. It was a duty that kept him long hours into the night, sometimes only returning to her bed in time to see the morning sunrise in the sky. As such, it was her responsibility to support him, and she tried her best to be the sort of wife he needed.

  She was surprised, but entirely pleased when she felt Winn come up beside her, his stride matching hers. He took her elbow and pulled her to a stop. Although his eyes were still on the men, he dipped his head to her ear and his hand slipped down onto her hip. He rested it there for a moment, his fingers kneading her gently as his breath tickled her cheek.

  “Did I say you could leave?” he asked, his voice low and teasing. She bit back a giggle and gave him a demure half-bow.

  “No, my lord,” she shot back. Her surly response sent the corner of his lip up into a grin.

  “You should mind your tongue, wife,” he said. He touched her neck with his fingertips, sending a shiver straight through to her toes. “You know I hate when you call me that. I would rather hear my name on your lips.”

  “Oh, would you, my lord?” she laughed. His grip tightened on her and he pulled her close, despite the fact that they were in the middle of the busy courtyard and that people milled around them. She felt a rush of heat fill her cheeks.

  “Yes, I would. Perhaps you have forgotten it. I could put off my duties if you require a lesson in how to address me properly,” he whispered. She swallowed as his blue eyes flashed with mock ire, his gaze drifting from her eyes to her lips.

  “I’m not sure you can teach me anything,” she stammered. His brows narrowed.

  “Oh, you will regret that,” he murmured. He took her hand and placed it flat against his chest, flush to his skin beneath the edge of his vest. His pulse beat madly under her fingers, showing her exactly how serious he was.

  “I hope so,” she
said softly as she caught her breath. She gathered her flailing wits and planted a playful kiss on his cheek as she whispered, “Have fun with the men, my lord. I’m very busy today, I have no time for talking.”

  With his lips pressed lightly to her ear, he uttered his hoarse reply.

  “When I see you next, you will have no need for talking. That, my wife, I promise you.”

  She kept the rest of her retorts to herself when he left her standing there. He shook his head as he turned and left, and Maggie sighed with a grin spreading across her face. As she caught up ahead with Malcolm and swept him up in her arms, she glanced back at the men.

  Winn was surrounded by the others, yet his eyes met hers through the crowd. She could see the promise in his gaze as clear as the sun blazing above them.

  Oh, yes, she thought. Next time she saw him, there would be very little talking.

  CHAPTER 2

  Kyra

  “Oh, I cannot stand it! Make it stop!” Kyra muttered. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her palms over each ear to muffle the screams of childbirth, yet the clamor continued despite her efforts. There was no escape from Rebecca’s shrieks, which she thought had been going on an awfully long time in spite of there being plenty of help. Why didn’t Aunt Gwen do something to ease her pain, or have Gramma Finola utter a spell? Surely, there was some way to make it better!

  “Are ye all right?”

  She cracked open one eye, just a slit, but enough to cast a glare at sixteen-year-old Morgan. He kneeled beside her in the grass, looking idly toward the village and the sounds of Rebecca’s pain. The chaos seemed not to bother him so much.

  “No. I think it’s killing her. The blasted wean is killing her, I’m sure of it!” she whispered. Unwilling to say much more, she shook her head in defiance and clamped her hands tight when another squeal pierced the air.

  “Nay, it will be fine,” he assured her.

  Morgan patted her arm, the motion hesitant but still comforting. In her panic to stop the screams from reaching her ears, Kyra ducked her head into Morgan’s shoulder. She heard the older boy let out a sigh as she burrowed into him, but he relented and made a clumsy attempt to comfort her by gently hugging her. Although she was only eleven, he still looked out for her, and she did not know what she would do if she did not have his friendship. They sat on the ground next to the moss-covered log as Morgan stammered words of consolation.