Tormod

by Hazel Hunter

  But if she were better off there, then why had she been sent back in time to him? What did the Gods expect him to do with her?

  “I told you he’d be here,” a low, somewhat annoyed female voice said from behind him.

  As Evander Talorc and Diana Aber walked across the curtain wall toward him, he saluted the captain of the guard, and eyed his best friend. “Fair morning to you both.”

  “Viking,” Evander said evenly. Tall, lanky and deceptively lean, the captain exuded a decidedly menacing aura. He was a vicious fighter, and his skill with a spear was unparalleled. Yet he had changed since returning to the clan’s fold to take charge of the castle guard. “You’re late.”

  Tormod could tell tales as skillfully as a skald. But if he ended locked in the dungeon for lying, who would care for Jema? Better to admit than deny. “I was, Captain. Forgive me.”

  “Fergus told me you went hunting last night,” Lieutenant Diana Aber put in. As tall as Evander, and possessing the same mane of gilded copper hair, the former San Diego police detective had become a gifted tracker. “Next time let me know. I’ll come with.”

  “You despise hunting everything but the undead,” Evander told her before he regarded Tormod. “Must I put you on until dawn tomorrow, Viking, to remind you of your duty?”

  The thought of leaving Jema alone for two days made Tormod’s blood curdle. Ducking his head, he said, “’Twillnae happen again, Captain. You’ve my word.”

  “See that it doesnae,” Evander said and continued along the wall to the opposite tower.

  The lieutenant leaned back against one of the wall’s shield stones and folded her arms. “Pissing off Talorc, not very smart. He’s creatively mean. Also, you hate hunting even more than me. What’s going on with you?”

  He considered lying to her, but Diana’s former profession had trained her to detect such things. Confiding in her about Jema was also unwise.

  “I did go hunting, but no’ for game. I’ve been searching for my sister Thora’s grave.” He gestured toward the mainland. “She’s buried somewhere in the highlands. I leave Skye this day each year to look for her.”

  Diana frowned. “Why not tell anyone?” Before he could answer she smacked her palm against her brow. “Because when you were all still mortal the Pritani burned your settlement and wiped out your tribe.”

  He shrugged. “’Tis long past and naught to us as we are now. I’ve no’ held a grudge.”

  “Then you’re a better man than me, pal.” She bumped her shoulder against his. “You could have asked me to join the search. After all, it was my job as a cop to find the missing.”

  “She’s no’ missing, Red,” he snapped. “She’s bones.” Tormod immediately regretted his tone, and added, “Dinnae make a destrier of a dormouse. ’Tis naught to do with the clan. ’Tis a private business—mine.”

  Diana regarded him in silence for so long he thought he might spill his spleen then and there. “Okay. If you change your mind, I’m happy to help. Next time you might also mention it to Evander, though, so he doesn’t think you’re catting around in the village.”

  “I never hunt village pussy,” he assured her gravely, making her chuckle. “Why did you look for me last night? Never tell me Aber has stopped spotting you with your grain sack lifting.”

  “No, Raen is having the smith forge me some dumbbells. I’ll explain when they’re finished. I came looking for you because I need all the detailed maps you’ve got for the northern, eastern and western coasts.” She tugged a scroll from her back pocket, opening it and flattening it on the top of the shield stone. “Another black ship was spotted by free traders running at night here, near the Isle of Mull. They drew me this gem as reference, which is basically useless.”

  Tormod scowled as he examined it. “You might use it to wipe an arse.”

  “Don’t be snide, not everyone can cartograph like you.” She pointed to a spot on the crude map. “We need to start searching the coves and inlets around here for a new undead lair. But if they’re still using black ships they could be anywhere there’s water deep enough to safely anchor. I’d like to organize a grid of all the possible locations based on your maps, which do not resemble kindergartener art.”

  He nodded. “I’ll deliver them to your work room once I’m off duty tonight.”

  “You look exhausted, so tomorrow morning is fine.” Diana crumpled the map and let it drop into the moat far below them. “Just don’t be late for guard duty again or Evander might chuck you out a window.”

  Jema woke to the scent of cinnamon and honey, and the gentle touch of a callused hand on her brow. She opened one eye to see her Viking sitting beside her and smiled. “Did you bring me a pizza?”

  “I dinnae ken what a pizza might be,” Tormod said, and helped her sit up before he placed a tray on her lap. “I have cannel brew, oat cakes and pottage with leeks and chicken. If you’re a good wench and eat the lot, I’ll slaughter an ox for your evening meal.”

  His voice had a slight rasp to it and Jema realized why: he’d hadn’t yet slept. Feeling horribly guilty, she set the tray aside and pushed away the furs.

  “I’ll eat while you take a nap,” she said. “When do you have to go back on duty?”

  “Now.”

  “Now?” she said, her voice as plaintive as she felt. “So soon?”

  Quickly Tormod put a finger to her lips. “Shush now,” he whispered and glanced at the door. “Someone may hear.”

  Jema stilled, only flicking her eyes to the door for a moment before the warmth on her lips drew her attention. Tormod stared at her mouth as though he felt the same thing. With a barely perceptible touch, he brushed his finger along her lower lip. But no sooner had he started than he yanked his hand away. He covered her legs with the furs and then shifted on the bed to keep her from rising.

  “I’ll have a look at your wound before I go.”

  She grimaced as he removed the bandage and inspected the gash, which to her felt hot and tight. “How bad is it? Do you think it’ll infect?”

  “’Tis closed already, so no’ likely.” Carefully he probed the area before taking her hand and bringing her fingers to the short, jagged seam crossing her temple. “You heal like the Eir-beloved.”

  Jema knew Eir, the goddess of healing. She was often invoked in kennings for women. Thinking of the Norse goddess made some of her tension ease. She might not know her own name, but everything she did understand made it clear that she had been born to the Viking.

  “Maybe it wasn’t so bad,” she ventured.

  His golden brows arched. “Do you wish to see how red you left your coat and semat? And they’re no’ soaked in bearberry juice.”

  “Head wounds always gush like fountains,” Jema chided without thinking. “When I was a wee lass, I fell out of our old alder tree and split my scalp. I thought Mum would…faint.” She stared at him. “Tormod, I have a mother.”

  “Aye, and a father. We all of us have.” Tormod took from his belt a tiny carved box the size of a walnut. When he opened it a bitter-sweet scent tickled her nose. “’Tis a healing salve our people used to keep their wounds from festering. My mother made it of yarrow, wool fat and honey.”

  Jema held still as he carefully applied it, expecting a sting but feeling only an easing of the tightness. “Are you going to tell anyone about me being here?”

  His mouth tightened as he drew back. “No’ yet, lass. Mayhap once you’ve mended, and your memories come back.”

  “I don’t want to get you into trouble.” She reached out to touch his arm, and then saw the tattoo on his shoulder start a slow spin. Her head decided to do the same. “Are you sure I’m not feverish? Because if I’m not, your ink is moving.”

  He turned his head and dropped his chin to watch it. “Oh, fack me, no.”

  Jema took her hand away, and the ink went still again. When she reached to touch the tattoo directly, she felt something tugging at her fingertips, as if his skin were magnetic. The moment she made contact a
bolt of strange, cool delight sizzled across her palm. The pleasure spread over her inner forearm, where it seemed to contract and form into a long, thin patch of ice. Despite the minor discomfort, she splayed her hand over his ink, and felt it slowly start spinning again.

  “What is doing that?” she whispered, but when she looked into her Viking’s eyes she saw their pale blue color had changed to something fierce and inexplicable, like ice on fire. “Tormod?”

  “Dinnae move,” he commanded. He dragged in some air, his broad chest expanding like a huge bellows. A long bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. “It cannae be. I am no’ one of them. ’Twas never my tribe.”

  Jema sensed he wasn’t speaking to her, and whatever was happening to him was causing pain. But with that realization something strange rose up in her. As though in response to his words, it swept away her concern and replaced it with a sudden sensual curiosity.

  “I think I’m your tribe,” she said lowly.

  He flinched. “No. Thora is gone and I’ve no’ ever… No, lass, you cannae be.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said and stroked his tattoo. Then she pressed her other palm to his lean cheek. “Let me help you.” She shifted closer, leaning into him as she slid her hand to the back of his neck. “Come here.”

  Resting her brow against his made him close his eyes, while a peculiar heat shimmered through her, intensifying her blooming desires.

  “Jema,” Tormod muttered, his whole body tense. “Clout me.”

  “Hmmm?”

  Why was he talking? Jema wondered. They didn’t need words. They didn’t need anything but their hands and mouths and skin.

  “I cannae stop if you dinnae.” His hand pushed into her hair, and he tilted her head at a slight angle as he looked all over her face. “Gods, you’re lovely.”

  Jema liked the way his fingers curled against her scalp. Everything inside her seemed to be turning to hot slush. “Maybe it’s me, or something inside me.” And she didn’t care if it was. “Are you afraid?”

  “Of you? Never.” He cradled her jaw with his hand, and covered her lips with his.

  Her Viking’s scent enveloped Jema, wrapping her in delicious heat and spice, while his mouth fed the fire in her belly. He kissed her with such complete, shattering passion that at first it was all she could do to hold on and be open to him. Then the bold thrust of his tongue against hers seduced her, unleashing a shocking hunger for more. She tugged him down on top of her, clutching his vest when he tried to roll away. When his big hands clamped over her wrists she released a long, heartfelt moan.

  “You’re like rose petals,” he muttered, taking his mouth away for a moment before ravishing her lips again.

  Jema wanted to feel his skin, and hated the leather preventing her from touching it. She tore at his vest until he reached between them, opening the fasteners. He reached to her shirt and dragged it up, uncovering her breasts. Nothing felt as good as the ripped, unyielding hardness of his chest abrading her puckered nipples. The sensations that flooded her became so intense she arched up and cried out into his mouth.

  A harsh knock sounded at the door.

  Tormod clamped his hand over her lips as he lifted his head and turned it toward the door. “What is it?”

  “You’re wanted in the map room, Viking,” a deep voice out in the corridor replied. “’Tis the laird waiting, so make haste.”

  Tormod waited until the sound of footsteps receded before he took his hand away from Jema’s mouth. “Forgive me.”

  He sounded as stunned as she felt. As he sat up he covered her breasts with the shirt, then got to his feet. She watched him jerk off his torn vest and take another from his trunk. At least he was feeling as frustrated as she did, or she hoped he was. She lay on the bed not moving to cover herself with the furs.

  “Is the laird as good as a clout?”

  “Better,” he said, pulling on the vest and fastening it quickly. “No, lass,” he said as she started to rise. “If I kiss you again, I’ll have you. I’ll have you against the facking wall.” When she swung one leg over the side of the bed he muffled a groan. “Jema, think. We ken naught of your life. You could belong to another man. You might have bairns–”

  “No kids,” she replied instinctively and pressed her hand against her abdomen. “I can’t tell you how I know, but I’m not a mum.” She splayed out her fingers. “No rings or ring marks. I don’t think I belong to anyone.”

  But you, her heart added.

  “We willnae be sure until you remember.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I cannae keep the laird waiting. I… Forgive me.”

  Tormod left, as did the last of the strange desire that had almost taken her over. Her body still throbbed, though sullenly now. The aching tightness of her beaded nipples made her press the heels of her hands against her eyes. When she rolled onto her side she felt the wetness between her legs. A tiny lump made her reach under her arm and pull out the map disc, which had gotten wedged in the linens.

  She should have been grateful for the interruption, Jema thought as she idly rubbed the disc. Without that knock on the door she felt absolutely convinced she would have had sex with Tormod. But now she wanted to find the deep-voiced man and slap the sense out of him, and then hunt down her Viking.

  Jema reached out to put the disc on the bed side table, and saw a mark on the inside of her forearm. She turned her arm toward the lamp, and saw the tattoo of a bright golden arrow on her skin.

  Carefully she touched the ink. “How the hell’s bells did you get there?”

  Chapter Seven

  THANKFULLY THE LAIRD’S questions had been few. Diana had told him of the new map of coves and inlets and Lachlan had wanted to assure himself of the territories it covered, including the most likely places where the undead might hide. As the hour was late, the laird did not tarry, nor did Tormod.

  He went directly to an unused guest room and stole the straw-stuffed mattress. He dragged it quickly through the empty hallways to his room. Without a word, he opened the door, pulled it in after him, and shut the door. Though he heard Jema stir, he didn’t look at her as he crossed to the far side of the room and put down the mattress.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she told him as he took a sheet and blanket from his chest. “I won’t kiss you again, I promise.”

  “I cannae make the same vow, so I must.”

  He made the bed and stretched out on it, looking down to see his feet hanging over the end. He’d have to wear his boots or his toes would be frozen by morning. If only his cock would do the same, but no, he still felt as hard as Gramr, Sigurd’s dragon-slaying sword.

  “Don’t you trust me anymore?” Jema asked, her tone woeful now.

  If he comforted her he would have her, and then the Gods would surely stuff his shit of a soul up a dragon’s arse.

  “I might jar you in my sleep, lass. We dinnae want that gash to reopen.”

  “That’s not what we want and you know it,” she said, her voice sharp. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to say that.” She thumped back on the pillows. “I’ve been staring at the map disc but can’t make sense of it. I’ve tried to remember something—anything—about my life but all that does is make my head hurt.” She blew out an exasperated sigh. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Naught that I can tell you,” he said, though he had his suspicions.

  She could be possessed by one of the Pritani’s war spirits. That a woman could be chosen by the Gods for such a thing didn’t disturb him, but such a suggestion would outrage the clan. Among their tribes, only men had been offered to the spirits.

  Tormod considered speaking with one of the druids that regularly attended the clan. Since learning that Diana belonged to his bloodline, Bhaltair Flen had become more approachable. The old druid certainly knew much about the Pritani. His acolyte ovate, Cailean Lusk, still remained in training, but something about him had always made Tormod suspect he was not as young or as inexperien
ced as he appeared.

  Still, he didn’t want to instill false hope, so he finally said, “We’ll fathom it as we may, Jema.”

  When she didn’t reply he sat up and saw that she lay curled up, her eyes closed. In slumber her beauty was ethereal, as if she hadn’t a care in her heart. Silently he rose and walked over to snuff out the candle by the bed. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he simply stood there to watch her sleep.

  It occurred to him that he’d never brought a woman to his bed.

  To see her pale locks spread over his pillow made him imagine waking to such a sight every dawn, as married men did. He knew himself capable of love. Thora and Red both owned bits of his heart, but he had never considered taking a wife. Even if it were not forbidden by the laird, what had he to offer as a husband? He had no tribe and no rank. Immortality had taken from him any hope of siring children. The clan regarded the maps he made as theirs. His weapons, some coin, a saddle and the gelding were all he truly possessed. Besides, any wife he took would age and die while he remained unchanged.

  Tormod stared down at Jema. For the first time since his mortal death he realized he didn’t want to spend eternity alone.

  Dropping down on one knee, Tormod put his face as close to Jema’s as he dared. She smelled of the herb poultice he’d used earlier on her wound, as well as of her own soft sweetness. He inhaled and tasted the honey on her breath from the brew he’d made her, that and the dried mint sprig he’d given her to clean her teeth. Her lips parted as she murmured in her sleep, and he lightly traced her lower lip again with a fingertip. The delicate curve felt as thin and silken as a rose petal.

  To do more would have woken her—and shamed him.

  Summoning all his will, he slowly rose and returned to his short bed. With his arm under his head as a pillow, he watched her from across the room until he fell asleep.

  The days that followed crept by on crippled, dragging hours for him. Most nights when he returned from guard duty Jema was awake, but he made sure to keep his distance once he brought her meal tray to her. For a woman accustomed to the countless comforts of a faraway future she never complained, although she insisted on bathing every day, and washing her bloodied garments so she might wear them again.