Tormod

by Hazel Hunter

  “You’ll barely have a scar,” he told her one night as he removed her head bandage to expose the now-healed gash. “And that your hair shall hide.”

  “I’d like to wash it if I could,” she said, touching the strands around the wound, which were stiff with dried blood. “A bucket of water and a catch basin for rinsing should do.”

  He’d convinced Meg Talley, the clan’s chatelaine, that his appetite had expanded enough for two, but like the other men he bathed in the loch.

  “I’ve another idea,” he said.

  Few of the McDonnels ever went to the basement level of the stronghold, where the water heated by an underground thermal spring welled up into a series of enormous cisterns. One of them had once been used as a laundry before the clan built a proper wash house. Late that night he led Jema down a back passage to the pool.

  “If we chance upon a clansman, you must disappear,” he told her, particularly now that she was dressed in her own clothes.

  “If we run into someone,” she assured him, “I won’t even have to try.”

  In the cistern, mineral deposits had darkened the old walls, and the water smelled faintly of iron, but Jema looked as happy as if Tormod had showered her with gold. With his help she lay on the surrounding deck, and dangled her head over the water.

  Trying not to splash her, he wet and lathered her hair.

  “That soap smells good,” she said, her voice almost dreamy. “Like minty nuts.”

  “You’ve a good nose, lass. My tribe made soap from conkers, salt and mint leaf.” He cupped his hand to begin rinsing her silken locks. “I still make it for myself. ’Tis no’ as harsh as the clan’s ash and lard soap.”

  “You’d make a very good housewife,” Jema teased as he gently squeezed out the excess water. “And if you’ve ever a mind to give up guard duty, you’d make a brilliant hair dresser.”

  “’Twas ever my secret hope to become a lady’s maid.” He eased her up into a sitting position and held her propped against him while he used a length of linen to rub over her damp hair. “That, or an axe man. Heads are my passion. And you?”

  “I dream about tossing mounds of dirt from a hole in the ground,” Jema admitted, and glanced down at the words on her shirt. “Maybe I’m a ditch digger. Or a prospector.” She tilted her head back to look at him. “You don’t think I’m a grave robber, do you?”

  Guilt stabbed him in the gut. “No, lass. That would be me.” He shifted back and stood, offering her his hand. “We should get back now.”

  “You said no one would come down here until morning,” she reminded him as she rose, and then gave the steaming water a look of longing. “Would it be all right if I take a bath first? No one drinks this water, do they?”

  “We’ve other wells for that,” he said. He knew from how often Kinley and Red bathed that women of the future were obsessed with bathing. Yet the thought of being in the same place with Jema while she was naked sent a surge of hot blood to his groin. “I’ll fetch fresh garments for you.”

  “These are clean. I’d just like a soak.” She studied his face. “You don’t have to stay. I’m not going to faint and drown. If anyone besides you comes in, I’ll do my vanishing act.”

  “Keep to the steps,” he told her, pointing to the stone shelves leading down into the pool. “I’ll stand guard outside. Call to me when you’re done.”

  Walking away from her made Tormod feel relieved, but as soon as he took position outside the entry he wanted to turn and watch her. No, he thought, what he really wanted was to bathe her himself, as he had washed her hair. He imagined running his hands over her, and then carrying her up to his bed. There he could dry every inch of her soft, pale skin, and stroke her, and hold her against his own bare flesh until she fell asleep in his arms.

  Dinnae be a fool.

  Tormod knew if he lay naked with Jema he would not hold her chastely at all. No, he would be atop her before she could blink. His cock swelled as he thought of surging into her softness, and stroking hard and deep until her pleasure gripped and milked him of his own. So he would again and again. If she grew tender, he would idle away the hours caressing her, sucking her breasts and tonguing her pearl.

  The sound of a splash and a yelp echoed around him.

  His erection abruptly withered, and he ran into the cistern chamber to see Jema clinging to the pool’s edge. “Are you hurt?”

  “Not at all, but I used the soap.” She nodded at the steps. “The stone is so slick I can’t climb out.”

  Without thinking he reached down and snatched her from the water, lifting her out and setting her on her feet. She swayed against him, as if her knees were buckling, and then braced herself on his arms. That she stood all wet and rosy from the water made him stare for an instant before he forced his gaze up and away from her.

  “You don’t have to stare over my head,” Jema chided. “You’ve already seen me skuddie. I’ve no surprises for you.”

  “Just the same,” he said tightly. He kept a hand on her as he reached down for the garments she’d left folded beside the pool, and put them in her grasp. That was when he saw something golden inked on her skin. “What’s this?”

  “It showed up after we…the first night I spent here.” She extended her forearm to show him the golden arrow. “I don’t know what it means. You didn’t mark me before I woke up, did you?”

  “No, lass. Without your blessing I’d never dare.”

  Instinctively, he reached out and touched the arrow. But the moment he made contact, it vanished. A piercing sensation on his shoulder made him look at his own ink. The arrow now occupied the center of his helm, and was pointing east. When he turned he saw the inked pointer adjusting to his change in stance to keep its direction.

  Tormod was thunderstruck. She had marked him, just as a Pritani warrior would. But she was a woman, and from the future, where such things never happened. An ugly suspicion crept into his mind.

  “Do you mean to own me?” he demanded. “Is that why you brand me now? Do you think I serve you, like some half-witted lout?”

  Her eyes widened, and she turned as white as sea-bleached shell.

  “No, I didn’t do that. I mean, I never meant to do anything. I’m sorry.” Jema began jerking on her garments. “I’ll go back to the forest. There must be something there to explain the things I can do. I’ll find a way to fix it.” Her chin trembled as she looked at him. “Please don’t be angry. You mean the world to me.”

  He knew that to be true but only because she couldn’t remember anyone else in it. Remorse filled his suddenly heavy chest.

  “I’m already ever your slave,” he said, softening his voice, “and you’re too jeeked to go anywhere but bed.” He tugged her close, and rubbed his cheek against the top of her head. “I’m an ass. ’Tis naught but ink. ’Twill no’ kill me.”

  “You should have left me there,” Jema said and leaned her trembling body against him.

  “Nonsense,” he said into her hair, inwardly kicking himself for the way he’d made her feel. “We will go back to my chambers.”

  He held her against his side as they made their way out of the cistern chamber and ascended the back stairway into the guard tower. Once inside his room, she leaned back against him.

  “I’m pure done in,” she whispered, her eyes closing.

  As she went limp Tormod swung her up against his chest and put her to bed, covering her with his tartan. She tucked one hand under her cheek before she fell fast into a deep sleep.

  Tormod believed she hadn’t intended to mark him. Such a look of horror could not be feigned. It could have been a trick played by the Gods, to give his brains a stir. They enjoyed such torments. Or Jema had Pritani and Viking blood, which may have given her powers no one could fathom. If she didn’t understand what the inking meant, he did.

  He had been chosen as Jema’s mate.

  Jema opened her eyes to see moonlight filling the chamber, but no sign of Tormod. Her hair still felt damp, and when she
got to her feet none of the weakness she’d felt after bathing returned. She must have fainted after the bizarre ink transfer that had made him so furious.

  Her stomach knotted.

  Had she hurt him? Had she violated some sort of taboo? Or was it just another thing the Viking was hiding from her?

  She remembered the look on his face. It had been one of shock, yes, but also recognition. What else did he know? Did the tattoo have something to do with the loss of her memory? Why couldn’t she remember her life? How was she able to become invisible?

  “What happened to me?” she said to the empty room, throwing her hands in the air.

  All she had was questions.

  Without thinking she turned to the door—but stopped. With every passing day since that first night in the forest, she’d felt ever stronger. Though she seemed to be able to control the invisibility, she had never really been put to the test. As she glared at the wood door, she took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Tormod cared for her in a way that she felt deep in her soul. She had no doubt of his feelings. But his chamber had become her world. It was time to change that and find some answers.

  He’d been working in the map room on some project for the laird all week, so he probably wouldn’t be back for hours. He had, however, told her how to get to the room if she were in trouble.

  This most definitely qualified.

  Jema took off her socks, not wanting to slip, and grimaced at the touch of the stone floor on her soles. The unexpected cold jolted her into the moment. It took little to channel her power, since she was already afraid. As she reached for the door, her hand was already invisible, followed by the rest of her body. Carefully she eased open the massive door, but just an inch to peer outside. There was no one in the outer hall, so she slipped out and started for the stair.

  In order to reach the map room, she knew she needed to leave the guard tower and enter the gallery above the great hall. But even as she approached, she was shocked by the din of dozens of voices. As she peeked over the low wall to the men below, she froze. The sight of so many large, well-built men drinking, gaming and arm-wrestling made her gulp.

  If the McDonnels found that she’d been secretly living in the castle, would they make her a servant, or a slave? She had no defenses, just the ability to disappear. If they locked her in a cell, it wouldn’t make a difference. They could do whatever they wanted to her, seen or unseen. No wonder Tormod had been trying to keep her out of sight.

  She crept along the upper floor, until she realized their noisy conversations would mask any sound she made. She hurried toward the archway leading to the map room—and came to a sudden, stumbling halt. As two men walked out onto the upper floor, she nearly collided with them.

  Oh God, oh God, damn, damn–

  “Something is amiss,” the tall, lanky man with a hard, attractive face said. He stopped barely a few inches from Jema as he looked down on the men. “He’s hardly left his chamber all the week, and he’s as silent as a wraith. Thrice I had to order him this morning to attend the laird before he heard me. What does Diana say?”

  The man-mountain with him sighed and rubbed a hand over the jags if ink marking his face. “Naught to me, but you ken how she is with him. The shifty bastart never had such a mother. He seems distracted. I’ll have a word.”

  The other man grunted, and they continued on.

  Jema released the breath she’d been holding, and felt as if she might deflate and collapse. Pressing her hand to her fluttering heart, she forced herself to calmness. With conscious intent, she walked more sedately through the archway. More than once as other clansmen passed her she had to hug the wall, but finally she made it to the map room, which she knew because the door stood open.

  Tormod stood in front of a large, white-washed wall on which a huge map had been drawn in charcoal. From the way he looked from it to the map disc in his palm, he was comparing the two.

  Jema strode in, pushing the door closed behind her. As Tormod swung toward her she rematerialized and said, “Just me.”

  “Jema, what do you here?” He hurried to her, looking all over her. “Are you hurt? Did someone find you?”

  “I’m fine, no one saw me, and we need to talk.” Deliberately she stepped away from him and made a circuit of the room. The shelves of neatly-stacked scrolls intrigued her as much as the giant map of Scotland he’d drawn on the white wall. “I need you to be honest with me, Tormod.”

  His jaw tightened. “I’ve no’ lied to you.”

  “Yes, but you’re keeping things from me.” Jema picked up a fragment of shale, on which tiny triangles and swirls depicted mountains and rivers. “I can see it in your eyes every time we talk about the forest, or where I’m from, or who I might be. Tonight I saw it after the ink on my arm jumped to yours.” She put down the shard and faced him. “What did I do to you? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I didnae say, for I dinnae ken for certain.” The Viking dragged a hand through his hair. “All that you are has me fashed. You’re this and that, and neither and both. There’s no one to ask without revealing you’re here. And what if I tell you wrong?”

  “What if it helps me remember?” she countered.

  “Tormod?”

  The strange woman’s voice made Jema dash back to the shelves, ducking behind them as she transformed. From there she watched as a tall, beautiful redhead and the man mountain she had encountered on the gallery entered.

  “Who are you talking to?” the woman demanded.

  “Myself, Red,” Tormod said as he stepped between her and Jema, who looked down to see her body finish its vanishing act. “Raen,” he said, nodding toward the big man. “How may I serve?”

  “Raen is worried about you,” the redhead told him flatly. “I’m not, because I’m used to your crap, but you have been acting a little weird, even for you. Oh, and Evander’s highly annoyed with you, never a good thing with all these spears around the castle. So.” She made a beckoning gesture. “Spill it.”

  Jema knew he wouldn’t tell them about her, but she still measured the distance to the door. She’d have to move between the couple to get out of the chamber, and even if she remained invisible, they might feel her passing. She’d also be tempted to give the supermodel redhead a good, hard shove into something.

  “I may leave Dun Aran,” Tormod said abruptly. “’Tis safe to journey to Norrvegr now, and I wouldnae be noticed there as I am here. There is always work for a strong man who can hold his tongue.”

  “Sure, you’d be great, until they notice you aren’t getting any older,” the redhead drawled as she picked up the map disc he’d left on the table. She turned to the big man. “They burn witches in Norway, too, don’t they, honey?”

  “Aye, my heart,” he replied. “Since the great freeze began, hundreds.” His expression filled with contempt. “So you’re done with us at last, Viking. You might have said. I’ll be in the armory, Diana.”

  Jema flinched as Raen slammed the door on his way out, hard enough to make the wood panels crack.

  “And now you’ve pissed off my husband, who no one but an army of undead can even knock over,” Diana told Tormod. She came to stand beside him and looked at the wall map. “Here’s what I do know. Rachel told me every time you see her you turn and go the other way. Lachlan is worried you’re depressed and might try death by legion. Oh, and Meg thinks you’re pregnant. What is this, the thing with your sister?”

  “Aye,” he snapped. “All my life is about Thora, and finding her grave, and burying her on this facking island.”

  “So that’s a no.” She gave him a sideways glance. “I’m your best friend. I’ll do just about anything for you. I’ll even help you pack your shit. You really want to go?”

  Tormod’s mouth twisted. “I dinnae ken. No’ yet.”

  Diana nodded. “Then get it together, pal, before the menfolk decide to beat the crap out of you just for sport. And I’m so pissed I might let them.” She tossed the map disc to him, swatted hi
s arm, and left the chamber.

  Once the damaged door had creaked shut, Jema rematerialized and stepped out from behind the shelves. “An army of undead? Death by legion? Until they notice you aren’t getting any older?”

  Tormod went past her to bolt the door, and then took a dark bottle out from behind a stack of scrolls. He brought it over to the work table, where he sat down and gestured for her to take the chair next to him. As she did he uncorked the bottle, drank from it, and sighed.

  “I ken you are no’ from my time. Your garments, the way you speak, ’tis from the future,” Tormod said. “Here oak groves may be used to move through time. Three other women like you have journeyed here from the future. Red is one of them. But only magic folk, druid kind, may do such things.”

  He told her of the laird’s wife, Kinley, a wounded soldier and the first to come back from the future. Diana had been the police detective assigned to find her. The latest arrival, Rachel, her husband had tried to murder her in their time before Evander found her in his.

  “You think I’m from the twenty-first century,” Jema said. Oddly that didn’t make her feel alarmed, any more than it did to hear that oak groves worked as time-travel devices. However, it didn’t explain why everything here felt so familiar. “If I’m like these other women, then why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Moving through the portal healed all of their wounds, but no’ yours. They say they are Americans from a place called San Diego, and speak with the same accent. You sound like a Scot. ’Tis known that they have druid blood, but you’ve the look of a Norsewoman, and you speak my tongue. Some Viking have magic, but they cannae use the groves.” He offered her the bottle. “You can.”

  “Losh,” Jema said and took a sip. She let the fiery burn of the liquor blaze its way to her belly. “No wonder you kept quiet. I’m nothing but a great fankle.” She met his gaze. “What about the other things Diana said? Was she joking?”