There was a hint of wickedness in his eyes, but he lowered his hands to the place where their bodies were joined. While he was inside her, he began stroking the hooded flesh above her entrance. Waves of sweet aching flooded through her, and she couldn’t stop herself from rising up. He kept one thumb against her center, circling it, while he used his other hand to touch her breast. It was as if the two places were joined together, building higher as she arched back. She shuddered against his hand, knowing that her release was so close now.
Her heartbeat quickened, and she could feel his thickness at her entrance while she clenched him hard. He moved his hand higher, and began to rub her with the lightest pressure, faster now, until she was unable to speak or breathe. She was coming apart from the inside, a pulsing eruption claiming her.
The shimmering release caught her, unfolding like a blossom as she milked his shaft, letting him feel how much her body needed him. Never in her life had she known that making love with a man could feel this intimate.
He thrust against her, and took his own pleasure, grinding against her until he spilled his seed. She lay down against him, his body still within hers.
Her eyes welled up, and she knew her foolish heart was falling fast. She had become intimate with a man who never cared if she argued with him or dared to touch him. With him, she could be a strong woman who did as she pleased. If she stayed near him for very long, she would be vulnerable to her feelings. And she feared he was right, that he could not possibly remain with her.
She closed her eyes, wondering what she’d done. She’d mistakenly believed that she could take this night with him to prove to herself that she was no longer bound by William. That she would let go of her past and move forward with her life, making her own decisions.
Instead, she knew that the wiser course of action was to leave Arik Thorgrim. She withdrew from him and he rolled to the side, pulling her against him. A few hours from now, she would return to London with her grandmother.
It was the only way to protect herself from a broken heart.
He was drowning. The water pulled him under so violently, he could taste the salt. His arms thrashed, and beneath the dark waves, he sensed the silent call of death.
I will not die.
He fought for every breath, and within his consciousness came the awareness that he was not alone. He struggled to move his body through the sea, while above him, the blood-red moon cast its rays upon the water.
There. A broken piece of his ship floated upon the water, and he swam as hard as he could to reach it. His fingers seized the wood, and he crawled upon it, his heart pounding.
All grew still, and ahead, he glimpsed the flare of a torch. The crushing weight of fear lifted, for it meant land was surely near. He closed his eyes with thankfulness, so grateful for the gift of life.
His clothing was drenched, and when his feet finally touched the ground, he lifted his face to the sky and prayed his thanks. He sank to his knees, digging his hands into the wet sand. He didn’t know where he was right now... likely Norway, as he’d spent the past year sailing along the coast of Prussia, Denmark, and Finland. He wanted to go home, to see his father again and apologize for all that he’d done. He’d never have left home, were it not for his frustration at his lack of freedom.
None of that mattered now. He was alive, and though he’d never wanted to be a duke, he would accept the responsibilities he’d fled. He’d been so angry at the legacy of his forebears closing in around him... at his requirement to sit in the House of Lords, debate laws, and, of course, marry an heiress from a good family.
Now, he didn’t care.
He would bind himself to the life he didn’t want, if it meant he could see his father sitting by the fire, reading his favorite book, Gulliver’s Travels. He could envision the older man seated in his wingback chair, a cup of cold tea on the table beside him.
The wind whipped at his skin, and he shivered. A dark vision came over him, of being struck in the back with an ax. A phantom pain ached, and strange words mingled within his mind. Tangled words in a language he’d not heard before... but somehow he could understand them.
Svala betrayed me.
Who was Svala? He blinked a moment, forcing himself to get up, trudging forward through the sand.
The crude houses that lay before him were not made of bricks with glass windows. These were far older, more primitive. Where was he? It was as if his life had been unseated, torn apart at the seams.
He was Eric Fielding, the Marquess of Thorgraham. And yet... he was not. Another name came into his consciousness, Arik Thorgrim. Flashes of memories intruded, memories that weren’t his.
Eric tried to force them back, wondering if the violent storm had caused him to see and hear things that weren’t there. God help him.
A woman emerged from the shadows. She wore a woolen gown with a long apron pinned at her shoulders by two golden brooches. She stared at him in shock, her mouth hanging open. Her golden hair hung unbound below her waist, and she whispered, “Arik... I thought you were dead.”
Arik awakened in the soft bed, the dream slipping away like grains of sand. He stared at the ceiling, understanding that he had glimpsed the dream through another man’s eyes.
We were switched, he realized. For some unknown reason, he had been given this life, a thousand years in the future, while the duke’s son was sent back in time.
He remembered the woman who had stood upon the sand. Her name was Katarina, and she had been a friend for years. In truth, she had cast lovesick eyes upon him, though he had not returned the feelings. He’d been too blinded by Svala’s fiery beauty, never recognizing her treachery.
It took long moments for the remnants of the dream to fade. His body was cold, and he could almost feel the frigid salt water clinging to his skin.
He rolled over, tangled up in the sheets. He had slept later than he’d thought, and Juliana had already risen and departed. He wished she were here, so he could curl up with her warm body. The moment he thought of touching her last night, his body grew aroused. He had wanted to awaken beside her, with her soft curves pressed against him.
He dressed quietly, realizing that the nightmare had made him lose all sense of time, for the sun was high in the morning sky. When he looked around the room, he realized that all of Juliana’s belongings were gone.
His first instinct was to seek her out and bring her back... only to realize that she had likely returned to fetch Harry. After that, they would continue to London as they had planned. He knew not how he would make his way there, but he suspected the place called London was actually Lundenwic, a town his brother Magnus had raided on many occasions before he’d gained control of East Anglia.
A bitter pang caught him at the thought of his brother. They had been the best of friends, and he missed Magnus with a fierce ache. If the gods were willing, he hoped to see his brother in the afterlife that awaited him. Perhaps even his father.
He stared outside at the land and the large standing stone that had been marked with runes. So much had changed in a thousand years. The large river that had cut a path through the land had now dwindled to a small stream.
Yet the earth and sky were the same. Human needs were also the same—the desire for companionship and family. Juliana’s love for her son reminded him of his own mother’s love, constant and unfailing.
He wanted to help her regain all that was lost, not only for the boy’s sake, but for hers. She was beautiful, strong, and loyal. A woman worth fighting for.
Although she claimed she did not need Arik’s assistance, he didn’t believe that. Her enemies would not give up the land without a battle. Juliana kept insisting he couldn’t kill anyone, as if she expected him to hack his way through her enemies. The idea was tempting, for a dead man could not seize land. But, for her sake, he would not strike unless her enemy gave the first blow. He also needed to learn more about this man Marcus, to determine why he had stolen from Juliana’s son.
He co
uld not attack without men to help him. Lundenwic was an unknown place, and if that was where her enemy dwelled, then there he would go. His gaze rested upon the Duke of Somerford’s lands. The elderly man strongly resembled his father, and possibly the man could be an ally. The vivid dream made him wonder if their parallel lives were meant to converge.
Arik slipped outside his room and down the stairs without being noticed. Years of raiding had taught him how to be nearly invisible, and he managed to leave the house like a shadow. Only when he was free of Hawthorne House did he walk openly toward the stable. The moment he stepped inside, a young lad stared at him in shock. “My—my lord, I—do you need something?”
“A horse,” he answered.
The boy looked as though he were about to argue, but Arik stepped forward, using his full height to look down on him.
“Yes, my lord. Of course, you may borrow... that is, Lord Hawthorne wouldn’t mind a’tall.” The boy scurried to put a saddle and bridle on the gelding, while Arik waited. His presence seemed to make the lad nervous, for the boy was jabbering something about the Duke of Somerford and bringing back the horse.
“Where did Lady Traveston and her granddaughter go?” he demanded.
“Lady—that is, Miss Nelson—went to fetch her son. And then they were going straight to London afterward, so I heard.”
Which was what he’d anticipated. With a nod to the boy, Arik mounted the horse and began riding toward the stone monolith on the duke’s property. Though he supposed Lady Traveston had her own servants to guard them, he didn’t like leaving Juliana alone. She was a beautiful woman who would attract the eye of any man.
Arik slowed the pace of the horse after they crossed the field, and the more he thought of her, the more he tensed. She had left without a farewell, as if she did not intend to see him again. As if she wanted none of his help.
But he was not about to let her walk away. Juliana of Arthur had come to mean more to him than he’d anticipated. And if that meant seeking help from the Duke of Somerford, this he would do.
He continued on his path, imagining how his brother must have walked these lands, a thousand years ago. Though he had only visited Magnus once, this place held pieces of his brother’s spirit. The loneliness caught him like a fist in his stomach, knowing that he would never again see his family alive. He forced back any emotions, unable to dwell on it. The gods had sent him through time, and once his task was completed, he would join his brother and father in the afterworld.
The duke’s fortress stood on the rise of a hill. It was made of stone and was poorly guarded from what he could tell. There were no warriors, no armed men. Only a circular gravel pathway that curved before the limestone stairs.
A servant appeared, and from the moment he glimpsed Arik, his mouth dropped open. He spoke words in the Anglo-Saxon tongue that took a moment to understand. Something about the duke’s lost son being alive when they believed he was dead. He forced himself to concentrate, and slowly the meaning of the words broke forth.
“My lord, His Grace will be so glad to see you. Here, let me take your horse.” The man reached for the horse’s reins. “Go on inside, and Mr. Nolan will see to you.”
Arik remained wary, but he dismounted and approached the stairs while the man saw to his horse. Before he reached the doorway, it opened, and another servant greeted him. Once again, it seemed that they believed he was the duke’s son, and he did not deny it. He wanted to speak with Somerford, and if omitting the truth would help him, so be it.
They were about to lead him toward another room, but he saw the older man standing at the far end of the hall. The moment the duke laid eyes upon Arik, his eyes turned troubled. Although Arik’s appearance had deceived the servants, both of them were aware that he wasn’t the man’s son.
“So, you’ve returned,” the duke said. “I was hoping you would.”
“We should talk,” Arik said. “Without the others around us.”
The duke nodded for Arik to follow him, and once they were inside a smaller room, he closed the doors. The walls were made of wood panels, and there were leather-wrapped manuscripts lining the space.
For a moment, Arik was reminded of the dream he’d had. Across the room, he spied a wingback chair with a table beside it—the same furnishings he’d seen in his dream. A chill rose over him with the realization that the visions he’d had were another man’s memories. More and more, he was growing convinced that he had somehow switched places in time with the duke’s son.
For a time, the duke stared at him. It was as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Arik struggled to remember the man’s name. Gregory Fielding, that was it.
Gregory went to a small table and opened a door, revealing the sack that contained the hoard of gold and silver. He spread it out on a low table, piece by piece. Arik sat across from the man, and traced the edge of a woman’s silver armband. It might have been worn by his brother’s wife.
“These pieces of silver were forged hundreds of years ago,” the duke guessed.
“A thousand,” Arik corrected. “They belonged to my—” He was about to say brother, but realized how it would sound to the man. “—to someone I knew once,” he amended.
“I do not know how you knew they were buried on my land or why you gave me half. You could have taken all of the treasure for yourself and not told me of it. I want to know why.” The duke’s voice was cool, and yet, there was unrest within his tone.
“Because you were meant to have it,” Arik answered. There was no other reason he could give. How could he tell this man that he’d felt an instinctive need to give away half his brother’s hoard? But he added, “You remind me of my own father.”
“My servants believe you are my son, returned to me. You do look like him.” There was a trace of worry in his voice, as if he didn’t trust his eyes. Surely the man understood that Arik was not his son, didn’t he? Beyond the questions, he saw the desperate need for hope in the older man’s expression as Gregory picked up a golden brooch. “I know that you are not a bastard son, for I remained true to my wife. There is no explanation for your resemblance to Eric, except the one I wish to believe.”
Arik lowered his head and said, “I am not your son.” Yet, deep within him, he felt the need to offer this man something. Whatever the reason, there was a connection with someone else. He had dreamed visions of a different life that included this man. Somehow he possessed memories that likely belonged to the duke’s son.
“Ever since I returned to these shores,” Arik continued, “I have had visions that were not mine. I dreamed of this room, last night. I saw you sitting in that chair, with one of those leather manuscripts beside you. Gulliver’s Travels, it said. And there was a cup of tea gone cold.” He struggled to recall the rest of the dream. “You do not read it, do you? Your wife wrote notes to you inside the pages.”
The duke said nothing, but his face blanched. “How could you know that?” For a moment, a flare of hope welled up in his brown eyes. By the gods, the man wanted to believe that somehow his son had returned. “No one knew that, save my son.”
“As I told you, it was a dream given to me by the gods. Nothing more.”
The old man stared at him for a long moment, as if searching for the truth. “I don’t believe you.” He opened a desk drawer, searching for something. “You must be Eric. Perhaps you were wounded and have forgotten a great deal. I have heard of circumstances like these before.”
“I am not him. Some of his memories were given to me, but we are not the same.”
“At first I believed that, for you dress and act like a different man. But perhaps I was wrong.” The desperate need in his eyes, to find his son, was so strong, it seemed to push away the duke’s grasp upon reality.
“No,” Arik said again. He didn’t want Gregory to make false assumptions, when there was no chance that he was the man’s son.
But the old man persisted. “Even your name, don’t you see? You call yourself Arik T
horgrim, when your name is Eric Fielding, Lord Thorgraham. They are one and the same. Somehow you must have forgotten who you are,” he insisted.
“I have not forgotten. And though you may long for his safe return, it will not happen.” This man’s son was lost in time, a thousand years earlier. And there was no reason to think he could come back.
The duke remained unconvinced. “But don’t you see, he—”
Arik seized the man’s hands and held them upon the desk. The old duke needed to face the truth, despite how harsh it was. “We were switched.” He would not relinquish his grip, allowing no argument. “The gods took our spirits and switched them in time. I don’t belong here, any more than he belongs in my world, with my family. I have his memories, and he has mine. I know this makes me sound like a man of lies, but I swear on Odin’s name, that I tell you the truth. Your Eric is gone, and I am in his place.”
With that, he released the duke’s hands, and the old man staggered back to stand behind the desk. His eyes had widened, and he gripped the back of a chair like a shield.
“It can’t be. Such things don’t happen.”
“No. They do not.” It had taken time for Arik to accept it, but he saw no other explanation for the strange visions he had or why Gregory so strongly resembled his father. This world seemed parallel to his own, for an unknown reason.
Gregory stilled, but his eyes held weariness. “Tell me more of what you saw in your dreams.”
Was it right to tell him of the strange visions? It might only heighten the man’s hopes, when Arik believed the duke’s son was trapped within his time.
“I do not know where the gods took your son,” Arik said quietly. “But I have heard his thoughts. I sensed his spirit with me, in his words and in his voice.” He took a step closer to the older man. “He was in a shipwreck, in the same storm that brought me here.” He told the duke about the dream he’d had, of his son landing upon the shores of Rogaland.
“Eric always wanted to travel,” the duke admitted. “He was angry with me when I wanted him to stay and accept his duties.” He took an unsteady breath. “Will he return?”
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