Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  “Andrew, what — ?”

  He helped her down and led her to the cabin door. He opened it, and she stepped inside. Her eyes took a moment to adjust from the brilliant sun outside to the dimly lit room. When they did, she saw a figure lying on the bed.

  Her heart stopped, and she could not breathe. Her knees buckled, and Andrew supported her weight.

  “Jonathon! Jonathon!” She ran to the bed.

  “Love,” he whispered as she buried her head in his chest. “My beautiful Em.”

  She looked up at him through her tears. Her hands stroked his face and chest, their desire for the feel of his body unquenchable.

  He pulled her forward and kissed her long and full. His mouth on hers was the sweetest sensation she had ever known.

  Emily laughed and cried. She barely noticed Andrew’s quiet exit; she presumed he would return to Brentwood Manor to share the news.

  • • •

  Once her eyes had adjusted to the darkened room, Emily saw how pale and weak Jonathon looked. Concern gripped her.

  “Jonathon, we must get Dr. Anderson to look at you,” she insisted.

  “You are the best medicine for me, Em,” he argued.

  “Oh, Jonathon. I cannot believe you are really here!” She bent to kiss his lips. “What happened? How did you get here? How did Andrew find you?”

  “Stop, stop! I shall answer your questions later, love. But right now I feel the need for some tender ministrations.” He chuckled.

  “I do not think your health is quite ready for that, Jonathon,” Emily scolded.

  “Well, we could explore just what my health is ready for, Mrs. Brentwood.”

  “I can see the British were not able to tame you,” she teased.

  “Only you have ever been able to tame me, love.”

  More from This Author

  Love’s Spirit by Elizabeth Meyette

  Viking Fire

  Andrea R. Cooper, author of The Garnet Dagger

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Andrea R. Cooper

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-7122-8

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7122-0

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-7123-6

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7123-7

  Cover art © 123rf.com

  Dedication

  To my Grandmother (McLaughlin) Hyde, who was proud of her heritage, and instilled that same curiosity in me. She never knew that Vikings might have been part of our ancestry, but she would have loved that. Her childhood stories of her feisty temperament were my inspiration for the heroine and this story.

  To my husband who not only showed me love is real, but opened up a world of magic and fantasy. Who encouraged me to indulge in my love of reading, and never told me to give up my dream of becoming a writer. And who wrestled with little ones so I had time to write. Thank you for your support. I love you.

  To my children, Troy, Levi, and Chloe, may you always follow your dreams, and hold onto them until they come true. Never accept defeat even when friends or family doubt you.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  A special thank you goes to Jennifer Lawler for giving me and this story a chance. Thank you to Ashley Myers who bled my manuscript like a ravenous vampire, but through her guidance it was reborn into a better version. The Crimson Romance editors, for polishing my story further and inspiring me to make my writing better. Thank you Crimson Romance staff for helping my story reach others.

  Thank you to my writing group, friends, family, and strangers who supported me by listening to my ramblings about this book, or reading it and offering insights.

  Enormous gratitude to my sister, Pam, who helped me take this story further.

  Chapter One

  Ireland 856 CE

  “I renounce Father for this.” Kaireen threw the elderberry gown. Dressed only in her leine, she glared at the new gown on the stone floor.

  “Shame on you and your children for speaking such.” Her handmaid, Elva, gathered the damask and then dusted off the rushes. “It’s a wonder one of the clim has not scolded you from your hearth for such talk.” She wore her white hair twisted in a chignon, underneath a linen head cloth. Strands of white hair poked out the sides of her covering.

  “No, curse Father for a fool.” She plopped on her bed and a goose feather floated away. With a huff, she leaned against the oak headboard. Red curtains puffed like a robin’s chest around oak poles supporting her wooden canopy.

  Her bare feet brushed against the stone floor. Why was she not born plain like her two older sisters? Already they had married and expected their second bairns by spring. Well, at least so far she had enjoyed twenty years of freedom.

  Three years longer than her sisters. Her parents had her sisters married by their seventeenth birthday. Marriage at such a late age was uncommon, but her father had wanted suitable matches. They had enjoyed freedom longer than others. Many women were given in marriage soon after their first woman’s cycle.

  Neither of her sisters had had matrimonial dreams of love matches. Both were arranged marriages. Margaret was married to an O’Neill. They courted through the long winter and past the blooming of spring with an early summer wedding.

  Two months later he roamed other women’s skirts, finding too many others who were willing. Margaret’s irritation was lessened as she was ensured by the Laird O’Neill’s formal letter that no bastard would have claim to her husband’s land or rights if she were widowed.

  Her other sister, Shay, and her husband did not set eyes upon each other until the wedding feast. Then they were never separated until tragedy ripped them apart.

  Four months ago, her husband was killed in an unexpected skirmish against another clan. Shay refused to admit his death—until his blood-soaked body arrived with his clansmen.

  For days she refused to eat or drink. Her salvation was she carried their second unborn child in her womb, and their two-year-old daughter needed a mother. The wee bairn was due this month. Kaireen feared that without the children, her sister would have wasted away without her love.

  Often she wondered what her life would be like with a love like Shay’s. A love so strong it threatened her sister’s life . . . or would she prefer Margaret’s marriage, w
ithout love and faithfulness?

  “You know your da arranged a marriage within a season.” Elva smirked.

  Kaireen shook her head. “To another land holder,” and waved a hand in disgust, “not t-this heathen. Twice they raided our land in the last month alone.” She slapped away a strand of her auburn hair from her face. “Their forces choke the land like the town of Ath Cliath, the hurdled ford they call Dubhlinn.” This was in reference to the bank of wooden hurdles the Vikings built across the Liffey River. Recent whispers of a possible spy in their midst sent shivers down Kaireen’s back. What if this foreigner was the spy? What if he had fooled everyone in her clan?

  Well, she would not have the wool pulled over her head by likes of a Lochlann.

  “Many a raid has come from them. Now father wants me as wife to one of them?” She clenched her fists. “No, I will not marry this Viking or as we call his kind from west Scandia-Lochlanns.” She snatched the green hazel twig from Elva’s outstretched hand. Then she scrubbed her teeth.

  When the foreigners had first attacked Ireland, they had been called Gaill. Over time the distinction grew between Gaills, Lochlanns, and Normanni depending on what part of Scandia they swooped down from.

  Elva smiled, reminding Kaireen of the rumors of her handmaid’s uncanny foresight. Whispers of Elva making strange things happen and often blamed as the cause of Kaireen’s stubborn refusal to behave as a laird’s daughter should.

  Kaireen tossed the twig in the fire burning in the hearth. After taking the woolen cloth Elva handed her, she wiped her teeth.

  “You’ve not seen him yet.” Elva wiggled her brows.

  “So?” Kaireen shrugged. “I would like to never see him.” She scrubbed her teeth again with the woolen fabric, and then set the cloth aside.

  “Well then, would you not like to know if you have a handsome husband or not?” She waited for her response, but Kaireen scowled at her. Elva chuckled. “I would rather get a good look at him now than the morning after.”

  Kaireen’s ears heated. “I am not marrying.” She shook her head for emphasis. “So there will be no morning, nor night, nor wedding.”

  “If he is handsome, I may fight you for him.” Elva smiled, deepening the wrinkles around her eyes.

  “Welcome to him either way.” Kaireen laughed.

  “Careful.” Elva winked. “Love makes us fall hardest when we have no intention of doing so. “Especially if stubbornness or pride is involved.” She fluffed the damask gown. “Up with you now. We cannot have you going for supper in your leine.”

  “With or without my leine, I do not go willingly.” Kaireen rose. She allowed Elva to yank the violet gown over her head. She pushed her arms through and her clenched hands emerged out of the long sleeves.

  She brushed her pale hands down the front of the pile-weaved material. She squared her shoulders and then slipped on her leather shoes.

  Plopping on her wooden stool, she suffered though Elva fixing her hair.

  As Elva brushed her auburn mane, she fidgeted. Despite refusing to marry this foreigner, her stomach did a flip at the thought. After all the Lochlanns are good for nothing but raping and pillaging! To be safe, she would bring her dagger with her. It was waiting for her on top of her cherry wood chest. She tucked the nervousness away as her being hungry. Her handmaid twisted her locks and weaved ribbons within the waist length strands.

  Then she secured the end with a ribbon sewn with pearls. Elva gestured for her to rise. Kaireen did so reluctantly.

  “Stand straight,” Elva snapped.

  Kaireen frowned but obeyed. At least Elva was better than her mother’s handmaid, Rhiannon. Ever since Rhiannon came to the keep fifteen years ago, she had given Kaireen nightmares. Kaireen would have asked the fairies to put a changeling in her place if she had to have her care. Her mother tried to explain why they had accepted her into their clan being that she was an O’Neill, but Kaireen had tuned her out. She did not care where the woman was from or why.

  “And stop scowling or I will throw you out the window with the chamber pot waste.”

  Her stomach tightened, but she bid Elva goodnight. She hiked up her gown to avoid tripping and then marched the corridor to the great hall.

  Through her slippers, she felt the cold of the stone floor. A draft of wind coursed through her and she shuddered. She rounded the corner and forced her arms to her sides. She must appear strong and unnerved. Her arguments would hold no bearing if she could not stop shaking from fury.

  • • •

  Inside the banquet hall, the tables were covered with spiced apples, roasted carrots, asparagus, wild duck, quail, and foul smelling pig. Her father and mother sat next to each other at the middle of the high table.

  Various lords, barons and their wives along with sons and daughters, laughed at an amusing story her father told. Three hunting dogs scampered around, devouring falling morsels. In a corner lay a fourth dog, shaggier than the rest gnawing on a bone.

  Kaireen strolled to the low table, taking the empty seat on the bench across from her parents. Her favored place on her father’s left was already taken by a stranger with golden hair, the Lochlann stared at her. Kaireen felt the urge to check the neckline of her gown, but stifled it. A servant girl refilled his goblet with ale.

  Kaireen glanced back at him. Golden hair cascaded to his broad shoulders. His azure eyes unsettled her. Her breath caught in her throat and she jerked her head away from his gaze. Didn’t the priest say something like “Breton, the devil that dragon often disguises himself as an angel of light.” She had no desire to find out from which side of Sidhe, the fairy haven, this stranger sailed from.

  Silently she admonished herself to stop playing the role of a child. Thought Elva might find him handsome, well, most women would. She heard women’s gowns rustle as they leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the man from across the seas. The way these women gasped at his sailing story, any moment one of them would faint. Did they forget so soon that he was a Viking? One of many who ravaged their land, sacked their monasteries at best, and took women and children as slaves. Some of the women were fortunate enough not to be raped, others were not so lucky.

  Her ears burned when the Lochann’s resonant voice told of the fiery red dragon he tamed sailing their coast. Did her father tell him that he had always teased her that it would be easier for him to raise a red dragon then a red-haired daughter?

  Her insides twisted as the Lochlann finished spinning his tale. She would not look at him again tonight. What did she care what his appearance was anyway. She took a sip of wine, glancing at the stranger over the rim.

  He winked at her and she choked.

  As the baroness on her left twisted, the bench creaked. She pounded Kaireen on the back with her palm. Her back bruised from the woman’s smacks, she assured the woman she no longer needed assistance.

  “What do you think of our country, Bram son of Ragnar?” her mother asked the Lochlann.

  “Never seen anything so green. Until I looked into your daughter’s eyes which make the trees bow in shame.”

  “Blasphemous.” A blush flooded to the roots of Kaireen’s hair.

  “No, ’tis truth.”

  Her father held his cup in a toast. “To Bram, the first man ever to bring a blush to my daughter’s cheeks.”

  Kaireen glowered, her anger filling her.

  The hall rang with laughter. She wished for sap to stick their mouths shut.

  After the laughter subsided, her father cleared his throat. “Now, now. We must control ourselves. Not every day a man gets his last child married.”

  “I am not marrying,” Kaireen interrupted. “And I am not a child.”

  “Gracious Bram has agreed to stay on with us for a fortnight. Then he will marry our Kaireen.”

  The applause was deafening. She jumped off the bench, glaring at the Lochlann’s smiling face.

  “A fortnight?” she screeched. “Not enough time for me to…he is a foreigner and a Lochlann at that.”
Why did they believe it was suitable for her to marry this Viking? She had to have time to figure out how to get rid of him.

  “How much time do you need?” her mother asked in a warning tone.

  “Never would be too soon,” Kaireen shot back.

  “Enough.” Her father slammed his fist on the table.

  Before the ale spilled, her mother snatched her goblet. Their argument brought whispers through the tables.

  Her father waved his drink and the ale sloshed on the linen tablecloth. “A fortnight was his idea. I wanted you wed tonight.” Kaireen opened her mouth to protest, but his glare caused her to clamp it shut. “Further, you will wed Bram son of Ragnar and be happy about it. Or I will have you whipped until your ungrateful hide is stripped from you.”

  Kaireen fell on the bench with a groan. She did not need to look to know the Lochlann was beaming. Curse them all for fools. With her knife she pushed her piece of duck around on the trencher. She would not submit, no matter how much her father yelled.

  After they finished the other five courses, her father ordered the musicians brought in. Servants scrambled to remove the tables and benches, making room for the dancers. The high table remained.

  At Kaireen’s orders, the servants placed her bench near the back of the high table so she faced away from the dancers.

  The baroness continued to eat beside her; it was the subject of many jokes she would not finish her supper until the kitchens were empty.

  Three lute players, and a harpist played the round dance song.

  Soon, Kaireen tapped her foot to the rhythm. She watched her father and mother, along with many of the other guests, whirl through the hall changing partners within the lines. The foreigner danced among them.

  The oldest woman grinned, as though he were her suitor when he took her arm. Rebecca, a year younger than Kaireen, circled around twice in a row with him.

  “It matters not to me who he dances with. Maybe he will change his mind and marry her,” she muttered.

  She smirked, envisioning his astonishment at learning that Rebecca’s dark mane was a wig. Rebecca’s hair, a stringy brown, had been chopped off three years ago. No one knew exactly why, but ever since her bout of sickness, patches of baldness showed through her hair, which refused to grow again.