by Hazel Hunter
His paralysis vanished the moment she spoke, and his mind cleared. Gavin blinked and shook his head. “What did you do to Fenella?”
“Fenella?” she asked, but then nodded. “’Twas she who summoned me.” Her slim hand stroked the golden neck piece. “That one ’tis gone though I have her memories. My torque called me back from Valhalla. Since she destroyed my body, I took hers.” She flashed across the room to him. “I am Thora.”
Here was his proof of an afterlife, yet Gavin found he didn’t care. In fact, now that Fenella was gone, he couldn’t remember why she had mattered.
“Thora,” he repeated, as though he were waking from a dream. At their feet were the shattered bones that must have been hers. Around her long neck, her torque glittered in the torchlight. “Why did you come back?”
“To avenge my brother,” she declared, the red flashing in her eyes. “He gave his life so that I might be free.” For a moment her gaze took on a faraway look before her eyes snapped back to his face. “That debt will be repaid in Pritani blood.” Though Gavin didn’t know why the Pritani had slain this woman’s brother, he pitied them. She cocked her head. “The Romans return. Too soon to have raided that village.”
Flaming torches were hurled into the pit outside the hidden tomb.
“Show yourself, you murderous cunt,” a voice called. “It is time you paid for your crimes against the legion.”
“They, too, seek vengeance,” Thora said. Without hesitation, she moved toward the tomb entrance.
Gavin put a restraining hand on her arm. “They mean to kill you.”
Though her gaze rested on his hand for several moments, she finally looked him in the eye. “I ken it.” When he let her go, she took the dirk from his hand, tested the blade, and nodded her approval.
Gavin didn’t know much about Thora returned from Valhalla, but she was a soldier. Of that he was sure.
“Leave now,” Thora called out to the Romans, “and keep your lives.”
He moved to her side. “Even with your speed they have the advantage. They have the higher ground and control the only exit.” A flaming log landed in the low arched entrance, followed by two more. “They mean to smoke us out.”
“If you think that fire and smoke can stop me–”
Gavin shifted into camouflage mode. His body blended with the pit and also the flames that danced near its entrance. “I’ll create a diversion,” he said, and left her before she could object. He stepped around the logs and climbed out of the pit unnoticed.
“Pile more wood in there,” one of the Romans sneered. “If she will not come out, it will become her tomb.”
“I will go in and drag her out,” a bigger man boasted. “She does not frighten me.”
“You only wish to fuck her, Caro,” another man chided.
The Roman chucking in the wood had lain his sword aside. Gavin snatched it up as he reappeared.
“Of course she frightens you,” Gavin announced from behind them. The big man jumped straight up in the air but managed to turn as his three companions spun. “At least she’d frighten you if you had any brains.”
“You,” said the man who was closest, brandishing his sword. He smiled a crooked, fanged smile. “Where is that bitch you serve?”
“Here,” said Thora.
Gavin leapt forward and knocked aside his opponent’s weapon with a downward slash. A quick upper thrust skewered the man’s chest, which turned to ash, followed by the rest of him. Meanwhile the blur that was their former prefect swirled among the remaining Romans. They’d only barely begun to raise their weapons, when all three crumbled into gray heaps of ash.
Thora came to a stop beside him and looked down at the remains. “They were no’ my enemies but they stood between me and my revenge.” She used the toe of her boot to nudge the ashes. “For such there cannae be mercy.”
There was no gleeful gloating in her voice, only more grim determination. Slowly it was dawning on Gavin that, despite her looks, this was not Fenella at all. She tucked the dirk behind her leather belt and studied him. Gavin had the distinct impression he’d not been found wanting.
“I see why the prefect favored you,” she said and touched her torque. The amber eyes slowly closed. “I must journey north now, to the sea. You may accompany me, McShane, and serve as my personal guard.”
He wiped the dust off his sword and pointed it at the horizon. “The sun will rise in twenty minutes. You’re not going anywhere but the root cellar at the lodge until it sets. Unless you want to return to Valhalla as a burnt heap.”
She grimaced but eyed the deeply purple horizon. Gavin watched as her reddish-brown eyes assessed the approaching dawn. She nodded tightly.
“I have waited this long, I can manage more.”
“This way,” he said and hustled her along the forest trail. They reached the lodge just as the first glimmer of sunlight came through the trees. He kicked the door open and ushered her in. As he slammed it shut he pointed to the cellar entrance. “Down there.”
She disappeared in a whoosh down the stairs, while he grabbed the old blue tartan and a bundle of furs. Once he climbed down into the cellar, he wrapped the tartan around Thora and mounded the furs in a heap by the corner.
“This body is not alive,” she told him. “It does not feel the cold as you do.”
“Then give me the tartan,” he suggested as he went over and sat down heavily on the furs. Though it was day outside, he found himself exhausted. Sleep would be welcome.
Thora came to stand over him. “Tonight we must travel. Once we reach the sea, we shall take a boat to a skerry off the coast. There I shall retrieve the instrument of my vengeance, and the debt I owe Tormod shall be paid.”
Though Gavin had never said he would accompany her, the warrior from Valhalla was assuming it. Maybe she sensed the soldier in him, as he did in her. Or maybe it was simply the fact that she had no one else.
He nodded. “What’s the name of this little island?”
“In my time, it had none.” She sat down beside him, and with her finger drew the shape of an eye in the dirt floor. “But it looked like this.”
Chapter Eleven
THE LONG RIDE back to Dun Aran gave Jema plenty of time to think, but she was too upset to make any decisions. Once they left the village Tormod fell into a brooding silence that made her feel even more depressed. The Viking was her only ally in this world. She depended on his friendship. Why he was trying to scare her into returning to a time she couldn’t remember didn’t make sense. She knew he cared about her enough to rescue her, nurse her back to health, and hide her from the McDonnels. Why wouldn’t he want her to stay? Life was ever a gamble, and he could get sick just as easily as…
“Tormod, if Mistress McCallen’s sickness is so contagious, why did you touch her and kiss her on the forehead?” Jema demanded.
“You saw much,” he said, sounding a little amused. “I’ll no’ get the water elf sickness. I’m never ill.”
“Is that right.” Typical male arrogance, Jema thought, believing he was somehow indestructible. “If you happen to be wrong, who will take care of you?”
“Jema, hide,” Tormod said suddenly.
As she cloaked herself in invisibility she saw the rider coming out of the ridges to intercept them. Tormod reined in the mare and waited for the other man, who wore the McDonnel tartan and had intricate, web-like tattoos on his neck and forearms.
“Did you see her?” the man asked without preamble.
“Aye. She’s poorly. I left food and drink, but she’ll likely want help with it.” Tormod tossed a small sack to the other man, who rode on without a backward glance.
“That’s what she meant by her ‘guards,’” Jema said as Tormod guided the mare through the empty trail. But this close to the stronghold, she decided to stay invisible. “You’ve been sending other men from the clan to watch over her. I supposed they never get sick, either.”
When he said nothing Jema’s misery swelled and tightene
d into a gargantuan knot in her chest. Tormod didn’t trust her. He didn’t want her to stay. And all she was doing was making it worse.
Instead of dismounting outside the stronghold, the Viking rode the mare around the outer walls and into a large stable filled with horses. After looking around them, he dismounted.
“You can let me see you,” he said reaching up for her. “Kalan is the stable master, but I’ve paid him to stay with Colblaith until dawn.” He helped her down and nodded at the stair leading up to the hayloft. “Go up while I see to the nags. You can watch the sunset.”
As she trudged up to the second level, Jema silently acknowledged that the Viking was right: she couldn’t stay in this time. It was too savage and primitive, and she didn’t have the spine to go it alone. Whatever pleasures or terrors the future might hold, at least there she might have some family and friends. Perhaps she’d discover she had a sweetheart who’d been going mad trying to find her.
Jema halted at the top step and blinked. The hayloft held plenty of hay, baled and stacked neatly against the walls, but someone had installed a huge bed directly across from a shuttered window. Was Kalan living up here?
Cloaking herself, she went to open the big shutter, which folded to one side to reveal a breathtaking view of the loch. From here she could see the width and breadth of the sapphire waters, and the high ridges on the opposite side of the deep crater. The pleasure of seeing more of the island’s splendors made her body slowly rematerialize. No one would see her up here.
In one recessed cove steam danced in long curls above a white froth-capped pool. The thermal spring beneath the stronghold must have been supplying the heat. Beyond the vent a wide swath of blue flowers bloomed, which several shaggy young goats were busily cropping. Jema saw several tawny rabbits suddenly bound through the blooms, causing the skittish goats to bleat and hop away.
She turned her head and stopped breathing as she saw the cause. Two large men carrying swords passed directly beneath her. She froze, but neither one looked up as they headed for the castle. It almost hurt to watch them go.
Even when she was visible, she was invisible.
Jema went over to the bed, which had been neatly made. The linens appeared new and clean, and smelled of sunshine and lavender. With a sigh she sat down on the edge, and then gingerly reclined. The mattress felt much thicker and denser than Tormod’s bed. It cradled her back and hips like giant hands. Only then did she understand. This wasn’t Kalan’s bed. Tormod had made it for her. She would not be going back to his bedchamber.
A surge of exhaustion swamped Jema, who rolled over onto her side. Through watery eyes, she watched the sky turn all the shades of gold and pink as the sun sank toward the horizon. Soon she gave up the fight to remain awake and closed her eyes.
Sleep soothed away her despair, wrapping her in a quilt of soft darkness for a time. Gradually Jema felt the bite of damp chill, and huddled away from it, unwilling to wake to a world in which she was unwanted. Tomorrow she would tell her Viking she would return to her time, but for now she wanted one last, dreamless night in his.
Warmth crept over her shivering limbs, rousing Jema. She turned to it, pressing herself against a wall of hard muscle. It felt so delicious to soak up the heat pouring from the man holding her that she didn’t bother to open her eyes or speak. She knew who he was, and she had spent too many nights wishing she could sleep in Tormod’s arms. She wouldn’t waste this arguing with him again. As surely as if he’d said it, she knew he was saying goodbye.
Her Viking held her loosely at first, one arm under her shoulder and the other curled around her waist. She could feel him cupping her nape, and stroking the center of it with his thumb. The fingertips of his other hand caressed the small of her back with such slow circles Jema doubted he realized he was doing it. As she nestled against him his arms tightened, as much to hold her to him as to eliminate the last of the spaces between their bodies.
She’d leave him tomorrow. Leave him to leap back into the abyss, when all she wanted was to be his.
“Jema.” He made her name into another caress. “I am sorry I was short with you. I dinnae wish to let you go.”
“Then don’t. I could live away from the village,” Jema whispered, and curled her fingers around the jut of his jawline to feel his heartbeat. “Up in the mountains, in a little hut, where no one will know about me but you. You can teach me how to raise goats and chickens and pigs.”
His chest vibrated with a silent laugh. “Lass, I’m a map-maker, no’ a farmer.”
“I wish I knew what I was,” she said and tucked her face against his neck and then turned her head. Strands of his long white-gold hair tangled with her eyelashes, but before she could free herself he tipped up her chin.
“You’ve blinded me,” Jema murmured, closing her eyes.
“I ken the feeling.” Gently he untangled his hair from her, then pressed his lips to her brow. “You cannae go and live alone in a mountain hut. You shall freeze without me to build your fires.”
“I like how you warm me now.” Jema slid her hand up around his neck, bringing his face close to hers. When he stiffened she said, “Don’t, please. Tomorrow I’ll go. Tonight I need this. I need you.”
A groan spilled from his mouth a moment before it took hers. He kissed her with utter ferocity, taking what she offered and demanding more, his lips and teeth and tongue marauding hers. He kissed her like a drowning man gulped air.
She wanted that. She wanted him to drown in her.
Jema didn’t waste time with more talk, but turned over and urged him to roll with her, so that he lay atop her. When she cradled him with her thighs she felt the steely length of his erection press against her, throbbing with his heartbeat. She wanted his hands on her, and arched her back to rub her hard-peaked breasts against his chest. But the teasing press had the opposite effect. Tormod rolled away from her and bolted off the bed.
“Wait,” Jema said, sitting up. But she stopped when he tore off his tunic as if it were on fire. “Tormod?”
His hands knotted as he turned away from her and into the moonlight, which illuminated his shoulder. The lines of his tattoo glowed with icy light, and she felt the inside of her arm grow fiery hot. Then an unseen force dragged her arm up. She stared at it as an arrow of golden ink shot from her flesh, flashed through the air, and buried itself in the center of Tormod’s tattoo.
“Oh my God,” was all she could mutter, as a shooting star sliced through the sky behind him.
Heat flashed over her as if she had begun to burn from within, her body growing so hot she expected to see flames engulf her flesh.
“It’s happening again,” she gasped. “I swear to you, I’m not doing this–”
“I ken, lass,” Tormod said as he staggered over to the bed. He reached for her with his shaking hands. “Dinnae fight it.”
Afraid of what she might do, Jema avoided his touch. His skin had gone white, making his eyes resemble blue ice and his hair sunlight on snow. She felt as if her insides were boiling, and saw the heat blooming over her in a dark rosy flush. She tore open the maid’s gown, dragging it down to her waist as she gulped the chilly air.
The moonlight seemed to grow brighter as a resonant voice came out of her, and said in flawless Old Norse, “Before that which is now, the perfect silence of Ginnungagap, the nothing, was all. The chaos of what was and was not parted the realms of fire and ice. They came together with the nothing, and destroyed each other to create that which is. From fire and ice came the Aesir and the nine worlds. Came you, our valiant son.”
Tormod’s shoulders went rigid. “You marked Thora, no’ me.”
“The helm of hiding cannot be seen.” She looked into his eyes, feeling terrified and assured all at once. “You gave it to this one as protection.” Something lifted her hand to run the edge of her knuckles along his lean cheek. “Just as you gave your freedom for Thora, and your life for the children of the oaks.”
“Please,” he hissed. His fist
s bunched, and his body shook slightly, as if his self-control were about to snap. “Take me. Do as you will with me, no’ my lady.”
She leaned forward to kiss his brow. “We see you, son of Arn.”
Jema’s eyes widened as the golden arrow emerge from his big bicep, and darted between them, bouncing back and forth at first and then striking her like a shard of ice impaling her forearm. The arrow melted into her body, flattening back into an inked image.
Tormod dropped down beside her, his cold arms wrapping around her as the light from his tattoo faded. The moment her swollen breasts pressed against his stiff chest she felt the power inside her fade. She felt his body cool hers as she warmed his. Whatever had spoken through her was gone, but now she was weak and empty. She drew back to look at Tormod’s shadow-masked face.
“What was that? You were trying to bargain with it, to save me from something.”
“You were god-ridden. ’Tis when a Pritani spirit possesses the flesh of a mortal and speaks or acts in their stead. Only the spirit riding you was one of the Aesir, the Viking gods.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “I offered myself to spare you.”
“Spare me what?” She looked down at their fingers, which they had meshed together without even knowing. “What are they going to do to us?”
“It doesnae matter. I was never theirs.” He lay back and pulled her down on him, shifting her until her limbs draped over his. “And they cannae have you.”
Jema felt suddenly, ridiculously pleased. “You did call me your lady.”
“Are you no’?” He gripped the back of her head and guided her lips to within a breath of his. “I’m yours, if you’ll have me.”
Jema felt the heat return inside her body, but this time it was soft and deep and wet. She watched his face as she reached down to tug at the fabric bunched around her waist. It took some twisting and wriggling before she could toss the gown away and stretch out naked atop him.