by Kris Tualla
Also By Kris Tualla:
Medieval:
Loving the Norseman
Loving the Knight
In the Norseman’s House
Renaissance:
A Nordic Knight in Henry’s Court
A Nordic Knight of the Golden Fleece
A Nordic Knight and his Spanish Wife
18th Century:
A Discreet Gentleman of Discovery
A Discreet Gentleman of Matrimony
A Discreet Gentleman of Consequence
A Discreet Gentleman of Intrigue
A Discreet Gentleman of Mystery
and
Leaving Norway
Finding Sovereignty
Kirsten’s Journal
Regency:
A Woman of Choice
A Prince of Norway
A Matter of Principle
Contemporary:
An Unexpected Viking
A Restored Viking
A Modern Viking
*****
For Aspiring Authors:
A Primer for Beginning Authors
Becoming an Authorpreneur
Finding
Sovereignty
by
Kris Tualla
Finding Sovereignty is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
© 2012 by Kris Tualla
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.
ISBN-13: 978-1480159419
ISBN-10: 1480159417
This book is dedicated to the characters
who tell me about their lives.
They make me laugh,
and make me cry.
And make me fall in love all over again.
Part One
FINDING
CHAPTER ONE
September 6, 1781
Philadelphia
Reid Hansen tried to open his eyes but something was holding them closed. He lifted his arm to remove the obstacle. Warm fingers and a soft palm stopped him.
“Let it be.” The voice was soothing and female.
His hand was placed on his chest. The stranger’s hand rested on top of it.
Reid’s head throbbed with his pulse and his right leg ached. When he flexed his calf, a slice of searing pain slid up his thigh. Whatever happened to him, at least he still had a leg.
He searched his mind for an explanation, for the last thing he remembered. He knew he was in Philadelphia. He marched here with the New Jersey regiment as they headed south toward Williamsburg.
Reid stayed behind as an emissary to General Rochambeau and the French army, who were expected to arrive in Philadelphia the next day. He was directed to an encampment of Pennsylvania soldiers stationed in the city and housed at the docks on the Delaware River. He planned to spend the night with them.
He recalled being surprised to find a modest stockpile of munitions; Charleville muskets, several kegs of gun powder and a canon strapped to a huge caisson and aimed toward the river.
Something happened to me there.
The incident pranced around the edge of his thoughts but wouldn’t be reined in.
“Am I blind?” he blurted.
After a pause the voice replied, “No, the doctor doesn’t think so.”
Pauses generally did not portend good news. “My head hurts.”
His unseen attendant turned his hand over and stroked his palm. It felt good. “You were concussed rather severely. Do you remember?”
No. “My leg?”
“A shard of metal. It left a deep gash, but a clean one. The metal was so hot that it cauterized the wound and you didn’t bleed. Of course—” she turned his hand over and began to massage his wrist, “—once the doctor pulled it out, you bled. But he stitched up the gash and you should heal well.”
He still didn’t know about his eyes. He lifted his other hand slowly so he wouldn’t be stopped again and laid his fingertips on the bandage.
She answered his tactile question. “The doctor put a salve on your eyes and he wants you to keep them covered for another couple of days.”
Another couple of days. “How long have I been here?”
“This is the third day since they brought you in.” She moved her massage to his other hand.
Reid had no idea why she did that, but her soft warmth and sure touch relaxed him. As long as her hand was on him, the burgeoning panic—caused by his blinded state and threatening to undo him at any moment—was kept somewhat at bay. He needed to keep talking to distract his tumbling thoughts from dragging him down into hysteria.
“Where am I?”
“My home. My parents have a large manor and we offered the lower parlor as an infirmary for American officers.”
“What’s your name?”
Another pause. “Call me Nurse.”
“Do you know my name?”
“No.”
He couldn’t smile effectively with half of his face bandaged but he offered his free hand, holding it in the direction of her voice. “Reidar Magnus Hansen, Captain of the Massachusetts Militia.”
She gave it a small shake. “You are Norwegian, are you not?”
That observation surprised Reid out of his self-focused contemplation. “American born, but of Norwegian parents. Why do you ask that?”
Reid thought he detected a smothered chuckle.
“Because you are speaking in Norse.”
*****
The soldier’s jaw fell open. “Jeg er? I mean—I am? Skitt. Shit!” He waved the hand she wasn’t holding. “I beg your pardon, miss. Apologies for my language.”
Kirsten Sven laughed at that. “You are forgiven, Captain.”
Captain Hansen stilled. “Wait—you understood me. And you answered in Norse.”
“As incredible as it sounds, I am American born of Norwegian parents as well,” she confessed. “And while I would love to sit with you longer, I do have others which require my attention.”
She was amazed at how clearly she saw his mood change in the shift of his mouth. She wondered what his eyes looked like and how expressive they might be.
“Of course. I understand.” He pulled his hand from hers and clasped them over his chest. “I’ll just be waiting here, on this cot, if you need to find me.”
The man had a sense of humor, that much was sure.
Kirsten stood and walked through the otherwise empty parlor of the Sven home. She needed to get away from Captain Hansen and assess this odd twist of events. Finding servants at every turn, she lifted her skirt and hurried up the stairs to the private rooms.
“Kirsten?” Her mother’s voice snared her and Kirsten halted, caught in its tether.
She clenched her fists and drew a calming breath. “Yes, mamma?”
“Is anything amiss?”
Kirsten walked to her mother’s doorway. “Not at all. In fact, I have very interesting information about the injured soldier.”
“Oh?” Marit Sven looked up from her correspondence. Her pale blonde hair had nearly completed its transition to white, but her eyes were as dark blue as always. “Is he awake
finally?”
“He is,” Kirsten answered without entering. “And it turns out, he’s of Norwegian descent.”
Her mother looked surprised. “He is? How did you find this out?”
Kirsten shook out her skirt. “When he awoke, he was speaking Norse.”
“Hm. How odd,” Marit said as she turned back to her letters. “Where are you off to?”
Kirsten took a step back. “I only wanted to lie down a bit before supper.”
Her mother gave a look over her shoulder. “You have been sitting too long with that soldier, haven’t you?”
“It’s not that. I didn’t sleep well last night. The thunder woke me and I couldn’t get back to sleep,” she lied.
Marit nodded. “I’ll be sure to rouse you in time to prepare for supper. We are having guests.”
Kirsten gave her mother a compliant grin. “Thank you, mamma.”
She turned and walked to her room, careful not to draw any more attention. She closed the door and flopped on her back on the bed.
Kirsten wasn’t given to lying as a rule, but she had told two fabrications in the last five minutes.
The first was to the officer lying in the room below. In truth, he was the only injured soldier in the house, a fact he was certain to discover in short order now that he was awake. The explosion which injured him had claimed the life of five foot soldiers. Two other officers caught in the debacle weren’t hurt as severely as he and didn’t require lying-in.
Captain Hansen was unconscious when they carried him to her home, and only today had said anything coherent.
And in Norse. Kirsten smiled. That was quite a surprise.
Unlike what she told her mother, she had been spending all of her free hours beside the injured man. Something about him tugged at her—and not, she told herself, because he was the only distraction from the boredom of life in a country long at war. He seemed interesting.
He was quite tall to begin with. Kirsten had to set crates at the end of his cot for his feet to rest on. His thick, straight hair hovered between blond and light brown, with sun-streaks of polished brass glinting in her lamp’s light. Untied, it hung just below his shoulders. On his first night here she carefully brushed out the tangles and detritus of the explosion, and then plaited it out of the way.
When he spoke today, his voice was deep and smooth, like a far-off storm on a heavy summer night. She loved hearing her parents’ native language tripping off his tongue, and wondered if he had ever been to Norway.
I’ll ask him when we speak next.
Kirsten turned over and applied herself to her nap. The soldier hovered in her thoughts and she wondered if she would dream of him.
She truly couldn’t wait to see his eyes.
*****
Reid listened to the sounds of the household, evaluating what actions were taking place. Any diversion from the throbbing in his head and thigh was highly welcomed. Because he could do nothing but lie on this negligibly comfortable cot, the beat of his pulse as it surged past his injuries kept pulling his attention. He was afraid it might soon make him crazy. Plus the fear he might be blinded.
Don’t think about that.
When he listened, Reid heard the muffled sound of china plates being set on a cloth-covered table. The zing of silver utensils rubbing together accompanied the settings, as did the snap of linen napkins. He wondered if the formality was commonplace, or if the family was expecting guests.
He also listened for signs of other injured men, supposedly ensconced nearby. He heard nothing but silence and the tick of a clock. He couldn’t smell dirty uniforms, other than his own long-familiar aroma, nor could he detect the stench of fleshly injuries. No breathing, no shifting on cots, no low conversation.
His solitude wasn’t a surprise, though. Philadelphia hadn’t seen any battle for years, and most of the active warfare had moved south into Virginia and the Carolinas. Reid was glad that the family still took him in, as apparently he had been hit fairly hard.
By the explosion.
There had been an explosion. On the dock. Something set off the powder.
Reid sighed and shifted his weight on the cot trying to lessen his pain. That was all he could remember. He needed another track for his musings before he let this lack of memory deepen his frustration even further.
Why would his nurse claim to have others to attend to when clearly he was the only man there? And why wouldn’t she tell him her name?
Perhaps she was young and had been instructed to keep her distance from the soldiers who received comfort there. It was possible she was told to stay away completely and was disobeying parental orders.
No, that didn’t feel right.
Her touch on his hands bespoke someone with experience at nursing. Philadelphia was attacked five years earlier, so she may have been treating officers for half a decade. She might be older than he; a spinster in her thirties.
Reid concentrated on taking deep and regular breaths to assuage the pounding in his head. He felt for the bandage around his thigh and discovered that his trouser leg was cut away. He began a physical inventory of his condition.
Shirt. No jacket. No boots. Small clothes. Half his pants.
Head hit, hard. Eyes—burned? Thigh gashed. No other injuries.
Hair brushed and plaited.
Reid smiled. Thank you, nurse.
The exhaustive aftermath of his injuries, combined with the recollection of her soothing voice, slowly lulled him back to sleep.
*****
Kirsten changed into a dinner gown with her maid’s help, waited with feigned patience while her hair was done up, and then tiptoed barefooted past her parent’s bedroom to avoid detection. She hurried down the stairs and into the parlor where her lone patient was housed.
Captain Hansen was sitting up.
He turned toward her when she stopped in the doorway. “Nurse?”
“How did you know I was here?” she asked, padding across the carpet.
“I heard the swishing of your gown,” he answered. “And I smelled your odd perfume, if you will forgive me for saying that.”
Kirsten sat on the chair she had left next to his cot. “I forgive you. My mother calls it odd, as well. She says cloves are too masculine for a lady and will turn suitors away.”
His lips twitched. “Is it working?”
A decidedly unladylike laugh burst from her. Kirsten clapped a hand over her mouth and looked toward the door. No one was in sight.
“Your sense of humor is going to get me into trouble,” she accused and began to work her feet into her slippers.
“You are not married, then,” he ventured.
Captain Hansen was leading her into awkward territory and she needed to divert him. “I am not. Are you?”
The query bordered on outright rudeness; as soon as it was out of her mouth, Kirsten wanted to pull it back. However the soldier didn’t seem to be put off by her direct question, which was a relief.
“No. I have been at war these last eight years,” he replied.
“Eight? This is seventeen-eighty-one. Have you forgotten your arithmetic?” she teased, still fiddling with her shoes.
“Boston was under siege long before the Declaration was made in seventy-six. Would you like some tea? We have a harbor full,” he teased back.
“Oh. Yes. I—I was out of the country for some time and forgot.” Kirsten felt her face flush and was glad he couldn’t see her. She sat up straight and changed the conversation once more. “Have you ever been to Norway?”
The captain tilted his head. “Am I still confused by the influence of my injuries, or are you changing subjects again?”
Her defensive hackles rose. “I’m only making polite conversation.”
“By demanding to know if I am married?” Hansen chuckled. “Be careful, Nurse. I like cloves.”
Kirsten’s jaw fell open.
Hansen’s hand shot toward her and landed on her arm. His fingers closed above her elbow. “I apologiz
e for that! It was far ruder of me to point out your bluntness, than it was for you to be blunt in the first place.”
“Well, yes, I—”
“You see,” he interrupted. “I find that without being able to see your face, I cannot judge your mood. Please forgive me and attribute these grievous social failures to my recent troubles, I beg of you.”
Captain Hansen was certainly the most unusual man she had ever conversed with. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Flocks of bland suitors, past and present, flew through her awareness chased by this odd bird.
“Kirsten,” she murmured.
The lips beneath the bandage curled upward. “Call me Reid.”
CHAPTER TWO
"Kirsten? Darling? What are you doing in here?” The woman’s endearment couldn’t hide the irritation that colored her tone. She was obviously displeased with his nurse.
It was interesting how not being able to see made other aspects so clear.
Reid let go of Kirsten’s arm as she moved to stand, bemused by his own forward behavior toward her. As much as he couldn’t see her, he felt like she couldn’t see him. He needed to remember that she absolutely could, and not step too far over any acceptable lines.
“Mamma, come meet Captain Reidar Hansen,” Kirsten said.
More swishing fabric approached him. He held out his hand. “Pardon me for not standing. I would if I could.”
A gloved hand landed in his. He pressed it to his lips. “Are you the one I must thank for the aid I am receiving?”
“My husband and I are honored to be of assistance to those brave souls fighting King George’s oppression,” she deflected. “Jeg stoler du føler deg bedre?” I trust you are feeling better?
Reid frowned; was this some sort of test?
“Egentlig føler jeg forferdelig.” Actually, I feel horrible, he began. “Hodet mitt er pounding, min lår er bankende, og jeg kan ikke se noe med disse bandasjer på.” My head is pounding, my thigh is throbbing, and I can’t see anything with these bandages on.