“Both,” Megan murmured. “I want to know about both.”
Meyla considered her words a moment before continuing. “Rennir’s brother, the former king, had been a problem for many years. Not only did he want my father dead but he wanted me as his trophy. It was because of his strength combined with the seers’ that father had to call on the gods. He and my uncles were younger and not nearly as powerful as they are now.”
“You make it sound like years ago,” Megan said. “How old were you when you had this child?”
“This happened two winters ago. I was seventeen.” But she soon gave clarity as she seemed to understand Megan didn’t have all her facts. “My father and his brothers are as one with their dragon blood. As such, they didn’t come into their full strength and power until all three had entered into their third decade of life.”
Ah. “So Kol turned thirty.”
Meyla nodded, somewhat sad. “Yes. They’re all getting so old.”
Megan kept amusement at bay. Old indeed. “So that explains why they don’t need Adlin’s help this time to fight Rennir and Yrsa.”
“Yrsa?” Meyla’s frown grew heavy. “She’s involved? Loki’s balls. Poor Unkle Raknar.”
“But what of you and Adlin and…” she trailed off.
“Adlin and I named our son, Darach,” Meyla said softly, reverently. “It means ‘oak’ in Gaelic and we felt it suited the strength we saw in him.” A calm pride lit her eyes. “And though I can visit him whenever I like I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting the men who descend from him. Good, strong, noble men who were of the next generation of MacLomains.”
Again, Megan was in true awe of all this. “Yes, I read about them…even you.”
“Good,” Meyla whispered. “It’s nice to know they live on even if in scripture.”
Such an odd thing knowing that all of those people save Leslie and her Scot in New Hampshire were technically already passed away…including her friend Cadence. A chill went through her. If one really wanted to get technical, none of them had even been born yet and Megan herself was but a ghost of the distant future.
As everything truly sunk in, Megan looked at the other woman, concerned. “I’m so sorry you had to leave your son behind. Are you all right?”
“I wasn’t at first,” Meyla admitted, eyes suddenly staring at something only she could see. “But my father helped me through it. When he wasn’t a shoulder to cry on, he was strength, telling me as Adlin had again and again that I could go back to Scotland and raise my son. But even I knew that if I did it would skew the pre-destined fate of the MacLomain clan and that what was destined to happen might be affected. So many might not have come together and found true love. I couldn’t risk it.”
Hell. Megan couldn’t stop the tear that rolled down her cheek. Such strength. Such sacrifice. She was speechless. Not sure what else to say, she murmured. “I love that Naðr was there for you but shame on him for giving you such strife over Valan after you’ve gone through so much.”
Meyla blinked a few times, tearing herself from the past. Then, as if dark clouds lifted and only sunshine lit her face, she shook her head. “You haven’t heard the good news yet then?” A smile blossomed. “My father has requested that Valan and I be married this eve.”
Chapter Fifteen
Megan supposed the timing for a wedding was just right in that it was what the Viking’s called Frigg’s day, which as she soon learned from Naðr, meant Friday in her era. Frigg being the god of marriage. Thank the god’s then, possibly even Frigg, for the king’s dragon blood, or she might have remained clueless.
Nonetheless, Meyla and Valan’s wedding was by far the most unusual she’d ever attended. As it was for Valan, so it seemed, as his eyes widened more and more by the moment.
All poetry and forms of endearments had been officially banned at the beginning of the process. And wow, was it a process. Or at least that’s the word she used for the bargaining and bantering going on.
Poems of love were an extra big no, no. After all, they were interpreted as a disreputable slur toward a woman and taken as a grave matter to her family. It seemed if a man hadn’t actually slept with a woman yet, how could he possibly be passionate enough to recite a love poem to her? No wonder Naðr had been edgy when Meyla and Valan were so open with their displays of affection.
Megan could only suppose the rules when it came to the king’s daughter certainly didn’t apply to his futuristic woman.
All aside, Meyla looked beautiful with braids wrapped around her head and Valan was dashing as ever in what Megan assumed was full highland regalia, plaid in place, shiny brooch at his shoulder.
The smallest Viking she’d seen yet, standing perhaps five feet tall, held a scroll studiously and bargained back and forth loudly with Naðr. As his brothers were by the king’s side, Kjar, thankfully, filled her in on what was happening.
Since Valan had no family backing him, this was solely for show. Basically, it came down to how much Naðr would give to the dowry and how much Valan would repay him. And, though he was doing pretty well with everything, Megan didn’t miss the hint of smug satisfaction in the king’s eyes as he reminded his new son-in-law that his daughter was a grand prize indeed.
And if she wasn’t mistaken there was a little something lethal in the look Naðr gave Valan as he blessed the union. Modern day translation…hurt her and you’re dead.
Then there was the exchanging of swords. The husband entrusted his bride with his ancestral sword which in Valan’s case it was hard to know what that was. Perhaps he’d brought one with him or one had been provided here in Scandinavia? Either way, Meyla would retain the sword until their first-born son grew of age then pass it down.
In return, she gave her husband the sword bearing the crest of her family. After that came the rings presented on the tips of those swords. This act emphasized the sacredness of their union. Then they joined hands upon the groom's sword to recite their vows. They were touching and profound, love so obvious in their eyes. The kiss that sealed their vows even had Megan averting her eyes.
Then it was time to feast.
As it turned out, feasting at a Viking wedding was a grand affair by anyone’s standards.
Kjar, bless him, never left her side, filling her in on anything she didn’t understand about their customs. The more she got to know him, the more she found the shipwright’s actions at odds with his appearance. Although he looked fiercer than most, he had a way of maneuvering words and descriptions as surely as he must his hands when building those magnificent ships. Even then, there was much more to this man than met the eye. A mysticism she couldn’t explain.
Where Naðr and his brothers typically sat at a table equal with all, tonight it was raised slightly to honor the bride and groom who sat on one side of the king. On his other side sat an empty chair then Raknar and Kol. Megan stopped and stared as the king’s words two nights past echoed in her mind. ‘Return to it if you like.’ A chair that gave her great honor.
And there it was, empty, waiting…for her.
“You do not have to sit in it if you don’t want to,” Kjar said, words soft as he looked with pride at both the king and the empty chair next to him.
“Oh, I want to.” She shook her head, shocked when a rush of sadness filled her. “But I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve it.”
Kjar’s deep smoky green eyes never left her face. “Why not?”
Megan’s mouth went dry as the truth stared her in the face. “Because I can’t give him forever because I need to go home to my sisters and let them know I’m okay.”
“And if you were able to do that then come back to my king, would you?”
Lost in watching Naðr adore his daughter and trying his best to welcome Valan into the family, she whispered, “Yes. No. Maybe.” She closed her eyes as pain squeezed her chest, but her voice grew stronger as her eyes once more met Kjar’s. “How could I ever leave my sisters? They need me.”
He squeezed her hand,
the gesture soothing, the usual devilish yet subdued demon gone from his serious gaze. “But what do you need?”
Him.
Naðr Véurr.
But even she wasn’t such a fool that she didn’t recognize she spoke not only from feelings of lust but the beginnings of something that made her feel so incredibly alive. Regardless, leaving her sisters behind wasn’t an option. “I need to stay true to my family.”
“You are as true to your kin as he is to his.” Kjar nodded at the seat beside Naðr. “Go sit. It is your rightful place.”
Why would he say that? She really had no right to that seat. But as he pressed his hand against her lower back and urged her toward the dais, Megan’s feet wouldn’t say no. The last time she’d approached Naðr like this it’d been with defiance in her heart. She’d slammed her hands down on the table in front of him and demanded respect. Now, it was the complete opposite. He wasn’t determined that she come to his side but instead chatted with his daughter, genuine contentment on his face.
When she at last slid into the chair next to him, Raknar nodded, a small smile on his face as he handed her a horn of ale. Kol, two women on his lap, winked.
While it was nice to have their acceptance, what Naðr did meant more.
Though in conversation with Meyla and even Valan, he took her hand and threaded their fingers together on the table for all to see. Lightning bolts shot through her. Desire. But also a feeling of completion she hadn’t expected. Music was lively, people were dancing, many were singing, but all she could see was their hands.
Every second that passed between that moment and when he turned toward her was made up of something she’d never felt before. A powerful, magnetic feeling that told her he was as eager to politely end his conversation and turn his attention her way as she was to have him do it.
So when at last Meyla and Valan became lost in one another’s eyes, Naðr’s gaze swung her way. Eyes hungry, devouring, he seemed to visually eat her alive from the thin braids of hair trailing down over the modest, almost matronly dress she wore for the wedding. Yet, when his pupil’s flared, she knew he vividly remembered what lay beneath the material.
“I missed you, beautiful,” he murmured, dropping their joined hands onto her lap then snaking his hand between her thighs.
If Raknar weren't so close, she would have yanked up her skirts and given him easier access. But a girl had to have some scruples. Or so she always heard. But that didn’t keep her from sliding her hand over his waiting and willing erection.
“I missed you too,” she whispered.
Naðr raised his horn to her. “Then let’s drink to…love found?”
Sure, if that’s what he wanted to call how horribly aroused they were. She tapped her horn against his. “To love found.”
Then they drank. Too fast and no doubt too much. Several hours of wicked flirting later he at last stood, tapping his newfound horn of ale on the table to get everyone’s attention. The music quieted, as did all in the hall.
Connecting remarkably sober eyes with many before he spoke, Naðr finally continued. “Thank you for joining us to celebrate my daughter’s marriage to Valan, a man who will fight bravely alongside us.”
Though the crowd roared with approval, Megan didn’t miss the huffs and puffs of some as they eyed Valan’s kilt.
Naðr, confrontational, quirked a lip and cast a sidelong glance at the Scotsman. “Yes, he wears a skirt but have you not all seen him wield a sword?” Then he snorted and winked. “And I’m not talking about the one he’s been waving at my daughter.”
This gained another roar of approval. One that the king utilized. “So you know how good he is to have come so far. But wait until you see him when he defends our people against King Rennir.”
Megan sobered up real fast when Naðr pulled a dagger out of nowhere and buried it in the table, eyes sweeping over the crowd. A hush fell.
“You know our enemy comes.” He met the eyes of several men. “Do you know what they want to do to us?”
“Kill us,” someone cried.
“Let ‘em try,” another boomed.
Raknar leaned forward, eyes narrowed and challenging, voice loud, “And do you think they can?”
“Never,” someone yelled.
“That’s right,” Kol declared and slammed his mug down. “Because nothing stands between us and certain victory.”
Men nodded far and wide, eager for battle.
“Are you ready to go to Valhalla to protect our people?” Naðr roared.
The deafening approval that met his invitation made Megan’s eyes widen. Only as the sound died down did she hear more voices ring out.
“I’ll kill Rennir where he stands.”
“I welcome a drink at Odin’s table.”
“Shove Loki’s balls right down Rennir’s throat I say.”
Naðr raised a hand in the air, silencing the crowd while he held up his horn of ale. “The enemy comes. We will meet him and we will win. Just look at how the gods are at work, look at what they already sent me. Do I not have a woman from the future standing by my side? Nothing can stop us!”
A roar broke from the crowd.
Likely to fuel the fire he’d started; Naðr pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly.
But something about what he’d done miffed her. Why did she suddenly feel used? He’d definitely used her to rev up the crowd. Was she some sort of pawn in a game to further his own ambitions? Was this the reason she’d been given the chair next to him? The crowd had heard and seen what they’d needed and soon turned back to being rambunctious.
Megan tore her lips away. Not overly fazed, he sat, bringing her with him. Though she squirmed, she was trapped in a cage of pure muscle.
Naðr eyed her for several long moments then said brief goodbyes to his daughter, Valan and his brothers before he swung her up into his arms and started walking. “What’s got your blood fired, woman?”
“Put me down. I can walk,” she muttered.
But he didn’t until they reached his bed, and only then did he set her on her feet, eyes studying hers. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Fine, she’d answer him. “I wasn’t crazy about that display you just put on.”
His warm hands skimmed the sides of her neck gently. “Display?”
“I suppose I shouldn’t care because I am leaving, but I’m not a huge fan of being used like that.”
Naðr’s brows drew together and he frowned. “It wasn’t my intention to make you feel used.” One hand cupped her face, the other wrapped in her hair. “You are special to my people because the gods sent you. I wanted them to know that you are special to me as well.”
She tried to ignore his distracting touch and heartfelt words. “What you said all but implied you only had me by your side because, as you seem to think, the gods sent me.”
Awe heck. Megan bit the corner of her lip as the truth behind her irritation became blatantly obvious not only to her but to him. She wanted him to want her by his side not because the gods had sent her but because he genuinely cared for her.
A small smile came to his lips as he fanned his fingers over her jaw. “You’re by my side because there is love between us. And because I want to show you respect. Not because I think you can further aide my cause. What is between us is strong and I do not want to lose it. I do not want to lose you.”
Her throat closed at the desire in his voice, at the passion in his eyes.
He was being absolutely truthful.
Megan worked hard to keep emotion at bay, but it was difficult as he gazed at her. Any aggravation she’d felt fizzled away and she blinked away the wetness in her eyes. Way too many intense feelings were blazing through her, frightening ones that gave her a good idea what to expect when she left because she had to leave. Reiterating that, she whispered, “You’re going to lose me…this.” She swallowed. “Don’t you understand?”
A flicker of gut-wrenching sadness touched his eyes before he inhaled
deeply and nodded. “I understand your need to get back to your sisters. I would feel the same about my brothers. And though I cannot say with absolute certainty that your family will become involved with our pact with the seers, it is very likely. Even so,” he said softly. “I can offer you the comfort of knowing you will be returning to your own time.”
Megan’s heart thudded into her throat. “I am? How do you know?”
Naðr brushed his fingers over her cheek one last time before he crossed the room and pulled the cylinder she’d found beneath the sea out of a chest. “Because of this.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Again, I cannot tell you save that it is a means to help you return here if you wish. You will understand when you open it.” He touched her shoulder over the tattoo. “The Vegvisir, compass, will then help you find me.”
Megan was blown away. “So because of these items you know with certainty I’ll be going home?”
“Yes. The stone that helped bring you here and the tattoos me and my brothers were marked with were of the seers.” He seemed to struggle with his next words. “The cylinder is of the gods. A means to give you the free-will to come back to me or not.”
“Oh,” she whispered, baffled as she met his eyes. “Why not tell me this sooner? Why not give me the peace of mind?”
“Because they were not easy words to say.” He frowned at the cylinder before his eyes went to hers. “I didn’t keep such to myself to cause you further distress. I suppose I’d hoped you wouldn’t want to go and I’d figure out a way to keep you. But since this cylinder is here, I will have no choice in the matter. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner.”
Megan sat down slowly as he continued speaking while putting the cylinder away. “I’ve had a case fashioned for you to strap to your back. It’s just big enough to hold the cylinder and stone. From now on, you must keep it with you.”
A chill raced through her as the weight of his words settled in.
Viking King (The MacLomain Series: Viking Ancestors, Book 1) Page 21