She put away the book and bustled around the kitchen, marinating some whole snapper, peeling asparagus. Would he know asparagus? There was so much she didn’t know about life in tenth-century England. She found a pan large enough to fry the snapper. Fresh bread and butter—he’d be used to those for sure.
A couple of hours later she whirled to find him behind her. For a big guy, he moved silently.
“Stinks good,” he said “Ic am hungry.” At least that’s what it sounded like.
She nodded to the sofa. “Sit. We eat soon,” she responded in English.
He nodded. Had he understood that? “After we eat, you will teach me your Englisc,” he said, reverting to Latin.
She nodded. The sooner the better. Latin was getting to be a real strain.
The woman could cook. The fish was delicious and the vegetable, too, whatever it was. The bread was sour, but he liked it. She said it wasn’t spoiled. It was supposed to be that way. And when he had insisted on mead instead of water, she had reluctantly produced beer in a glass bottle. Not mead. Not beer as rich or flavorful as he was used to, but better than nothing. She would allow him only one, though. It had something to do with the tablets that kept away pain.
He sat now and watched her cleaning up. He had been shocked this afternoon that she wore breeches that showed the rounded curve of her buttocks, but at least her legs were covered. Her torso was covered, too, but so tightly that every swell was clearly visible—a contrast to her tiny waist. Did women always dress to provoke a man in this time? And the shirt clearly showed the cleft of her generous breasts. This Brad was a lucky man.
She did not seem to long for her lover to come to her. She was, in fact, hiding from him with the very man he wanted to imprison. That meant she did not value him. Good. This Brad was not man enough to bind her to him. Galen could make her forget him. He would show her what belonging to a man could mean.
When she was finished, she got some large parchment from a cupboard aft and laid it out on the table. She patted the padded bench beside her. It was almost a command.
But it was easy for him to obey her in this small thing. She had something he wanted. He went and sat. She was very close. He could smell the soap she used on her hair and feel her heat. He watched as her nipples peaked beneath her thin, tight shirt. She held a strange wooden stick that appeared to have a charcoal center, for its tip left marks upon the parchment. She drew a line down the center before turning to him.
“You speak Danish and English very well,” she said slowly, in Englisc.
He got most of that. “Min moder is Englisc,” he said, also slowly. “Min fæder, Danir.”
“Do you read?”
“Ic raede and wrte.” He was proud of that. He was a rarity, if not in the way his mother had wanted, at least in some things.
“Good.” Here Lucy pointed. “Write your words here and I write my words there.” She pointed to each side of the parchment
He nodded. “Werds. We beginnen.”
She was so excited she nearly let him work at it too long. She sat back when she noticed the lines of strain around his mouth and eyes. “Enough. You are tired.” He didn’t understand that. “You work too hard.”
“I wyrce heard.” He wrote the words on his side of the makeshift ledger and gestured to her to do the same with her version. They had been through four pieces of chart paper, both sides. He already understood that modern English had simpler verb forms and he got the fact that the sentence order dictated whether the noun was a subject or object—you didn’t need a different word ending. He had the pronouns down cold and could name most everything in the boat. She’d gotten through conjugating the basic verbs, “to be,” “have,” “do,” “speak,” “know,” a few others.
Galen was really intelligent, maybe brilliant. She was nothing short of amazed.
“You are very good at this.”
His smile could only be called smug. “I learn swift.”
“Swiftly.”
“Swiftly,” he repeated, frowning in annoyance. She had seen that several times tonight. He was smart but also driven. He demanded more of himself than anyone had a right to expect.
They resorted to Latin sometimes, but it wouldn’t be long before they could stick pretty much to English. What a relief that would be! There had been some surprises in how he spelled the words. His “cn” was like modern “kn” sounds. “G” sounded like her “y” sometimes. “Wh” sounds were spelled “hw” in his time. And there were two letters to indicate the “th” sound that didn’t exist at all anymore. But on the whole, it was starting to make sense to her, too.
“Bed now. It is late.” She rolled up the charts. “I will tend your wounds.”
In his cabin he pulled off his sweatpants and lay on the bed. She turned on the bedside lamp. It cast a golden glow over his body. Outside, the rain still beat on the deck and ports. The boat rocked in its slip. She had never felt so alone with a man. The world was far away beyond the darkness. Brad and Casey and Jake, even the convenience store guy, were all irrelevant. It was only she and Galen in the watertight cocoon of Jake’s boat, safe and dry, at least for now.
She got the hydrogen peroxide, the Betadine and bandages. She pulled the adhesive on his shoulder wound in toward the incision so she wouldn’t tug at the stitches (thanks to the book’s instructions). Then she pulled the sodden gauze away. He peered down at his shoulder.
She tossed the gauze and tape aside. The wound was still shocking, but it had pulled together and tightened. The drain in the lower end seemed even more a violation of his flesh than the black, uneven track of stitches. “It’s better.”
“Hit heth swift.” He was staring at her. “It heal swiftly,” he corrected.
Forget the dropped s on “heals”—no use overcorrecting him. “You are wonderful with words.” She turned to her disinfectants. He’d understand that. “Wonderful” was a word they shared.
“I was meant to be more,” he said in Latin.
She glanced up to him and saw a look of shame flicker across his exhausted face. She had seen that expression before. What had he to be ashamed of? A potent warrior, a man who could read and write several languages in a time when literacy was almost unheard of . . . why would he be ashamed? “What more? More than warrior? More than leader? More than intelligent?” She spoke in a mixture of English and Latin, whatever occurred.
His expression flattened. “You ne understandeth.”
Well, if he was going to retreat to being the strong, silent type, two could play that game. She focused on her dressings. As well as she could. Her hands on his body were sending signals to parts of her that shouldn’t be taking the call. In fact, she wasn’t sure the boxers helped much. They were bulging over his generously constructed male . . . area, which only drew her attention to what she knew was underneath. And the rest of him was bare, except for bandages of course, and so her hands touched hot skin at every turn. Was he fevered? Or maybe she was the one who was hot. Either way, the result was the same. Signals. Shuddering, tingling signals.
Focus, she thought. Not on that! On the wound. Just tend the wound. New bandage. Lay it out. But the crisp hair on his chest brushed her knuckles and his nipples were soft. They made her want to rub her thumbs over them until they peaked. How had his left hand gotten to her thigh? She looked up. His blue eyes were communicating in a language that didn’t need words. She got the message loud and clear.
And she was really afraid her eyes would be speaking just as clearly. What was the matter with her? This is a probably murderous Viking, remember? She’d bought pepper spray just to thwart unwelcome advances. Only her body was sending out signals that the advances weren’t unwelcome. And she was going to be cooped up on this boat with him for a while. At the moment it seemed like forever. So she had to deal with this whole attraction thing head-on.
She sat back and took his hand from her thigh. Her heart was thudding uncomfortably in her chest. “Look,” she said, then started again in
Latin. She wanted no misunderstanding. “I am not interested . . .” She wasn’t sure that was the right word. More direct. “I do not want you.”
Those blue eyes blinked, slowly. Was there a hint of a smile around those lips? There’d better not be. “Thou haban . . .” He started again. “You have lust for me.”
“I . . . I do not . . . lust for you!” Why did “lust” have to be a word from Old English?
“Ja. You have lust for me.” He reached his good hand around her neck, under her braid.
And she let him. His calluses felt coarse against her skin. She was throbbing and wet between her thighs. What would it be like to let a man like this have his way with her? Would it be her way, too? Would she give in to him? The word “yield” sounded in her mind.
“Gield to me,” he said clearly, echoing her thoughts.
She started and sidled out from under his hand, to stand above him, panting. Yield was an Old English word? Oh, she hated that. “I will not yield to you.” Or to my feelings. She switched to Latin. That seemed more . . . impersonal. But she was so flustered it was difficult to find the words. “You will be . . . be . . . good.”
“I be good.” He smiled, slowly. He did not switch to Latin. “Very good for you, Lucy.”
“You will not touch me,” she continued firmly in Latin. “Or I will leave you.”
“You . . .” He searched for the right word. “You want to cyssan me.”
“I do not want to kiss you.” Much. At least her brain didn’t. She could no longer vouch for her body, betrayer that it was. She searched for purchase on a very slippery slope. She stuck firmly to Latin. “I do not want a lover.” Did she?
But this Viking didn’t love her. He was looking for an easy conquest. That thought gave her the purchase she needed. “Women now do not live only for the kiss of a man. We have our own lives. We choose our lovers.” She would have gone on, but the language barrier was just too tough. “Do you want help for your wounds or no?”
He searched her face. “Ja, Lucy. You heal mine wounds.”
“Okay then,” she muttered, losing her Latin entirely. “But you keep your hands to yourself.” She sat back down and made sure all her movements were extremely brisk as she taped the bandage over his shoulder.
Out of half-closed eyes Galen watched her secure the bandage. Why had she refused sex with him? Galen was not used to rejection. Women looking for a man thought themselves fortunate to attract his attention. But not this one. Perhaps he had mistaken her. Could she possibly be a virgin? He never trifled with maidens. She said she had male “friends.” Not possible. Women had male relatives who protected them, a husband or a betrothed, or lovers. Jake was more like a father or an uncle to her. Galen had seen that. But what about this Brad?
She said that women of her time chose their lovers, that they did not need a man. Danish women, too, were strong and independent. But, Galen had to admit, not until they were married and widowed. Their fathers chose husbands for them. And many were bought for their bride price and their comely bodies more than for lifelong companionship. When they were widowed, they could inherit land and run their own lives. If Lucy ran her own life, mayhaps she was a widow who had taken this Brad as a lover. That would explain much.
But what would keep her then from a little enthusiastic sex?
Ahhh. She was afraid she would want to deny this Brad after Galen had swived her well and thoroughly. That made sense. It would be hard for another to follow in his footsteps.
And yet . . . Could it be she loved this Brad? The thought rankled. What if, no matter her transient lust for Galen, it was he who did not measure up? He imagined this Brad a warrior with dark hair and steely eyes. Did she writhe under him as he claimed her, night and morning? Did she moan his name as he suckled at her breast?
Then, too, Brad was very important if he could imprison anyone he wanted. Galen was nothing here. What matter that he was the king’s trusted commander when that king had long since turned to dust? He must push his body back to health. He would have to face this Brad to get back to his own time. And when Lucy saw Galen bring her lover to his knees, when this Brad begged for mercy, then she would be sorry she had not taken Galen to her bed.
She bent over his thigh, not looking at him. She made an apologetic face as she pulled the bandage fastener away from the hair on his thigh, though he did not flinch. Her lips pouted in concentration as she daubed at the wound with her stinging orange-yellow medicine. That wound was already drying and pulling together. The flesh around it was still reddened but not hard and hot with rot. She sat back and cocked her head, studying it.
“No bandage.” She spoke in Latin even though it was hard for her, just so she would not speak words their languages shared. She rejected even that intimacy. “It is better.”
He grunted assent.
She rose. Ahhh. Her blush betrayed her. She lusted for him whether she would or no. She hurried from the room. But soon she returned with her cursed tablets and a glass flagon of water.
“Here.”
He took the tablets. His fingers brushed her hand. He managed to touch her fingers as he took the flagon, too. She practically snatched her hand away. She would not meet his eyes as he swallowed the tablets.
“Good night.” She switched off the light. The little, rocking room went pitch-black.
He sighed. Whatever happened, he could not afford her fear. “Lucy.” He could feel her uncertainty in the darkness. He spoke carefully in Latin to make sure she understood. “I will not try to . . . kiss you again. You need not be afraid of me.”
The silence stretched.
“Thank you,” she said, in English. Then she was gone.
The whole parking structure reverberated with jackhammers and the bone-jarring crash of front-loaders dropping hunks of concrete into waiting dump trucks. This would have to be the last load. It was long after dark. The smell in the air was a curious mixture of diesel fuel and powdered cement. They’d cleared away the little kiosk and the striped gate arms at the entry.
Brad stood still while Casey paced the sidewalk. His head ached with the noise. Or maybe it was the fact that he wasn’t sleeping. He couldn’t stop thinking about what a fool he’d been with Lucy. Why had he been so obsessed with her? A bookseller, for God’s sake, when he deserved someone as brilliant as he was himself. She wouldn’t take up science. She wouldn’t run marathons with him, even though it would have made her leaner. She wasn’t his ideal of a woman at all. Who knows what some hulk from the past saw in her?
He wasn’t the only one upset. The hospital administrator was livid. Especially since no one would tell him exactly why the machine in the parking structure was so important that hospital routine had been shattered, or how it had gotten there if it was too big to fit through the entry. Patients had to park two blocks over in the public lot. Employees were walking five blocks. Only ambulances were allowed to use the driveway and even they had to pull in about fifty feet from the ER doors and run their gurneys up the sidewalk. Cops manned the barriers out at the street where gawkers milled.
And now the engineer said it was going to take three or four days to get the machine out.
Casey stopped in front of Brad, fuming. Casey looked worse than Brad felt. “I need a cup of coffee,” Casey muttered in a normal voice, which meant Brad had to read his lips.
Brad followed, squinting, as though to shut out the noise.
The hospital felt as silent as a tomb after the din of construction, in spite of intercoms and conversations and heels clicking on the linoleum floors. Down in the cafeteria they filled Styrofoam cups with sludgy coffee and paid the cashier before finding a table by the window. An elderly woman was crying in the corner. A father tried to keep a boy of about seven from zooming around the room like an airplane. Casey didn’t even seem to notice. He stared out the window at a little courtyard garden, ignoring his coffee.
“Any news of them?” Brad blew on his coffee. No use burning his lips.
Case
y turned cold blue eyes on him. “What do you think?”
Brad just sipped his coffee. It burned in spite of his efforts and he sputtered.
Casey ignored him and turned those eyes out to the garden again. “Won’t get anything useful out of her shop assistant now, because she’ll say whatever we want to hear.”
Brad shuddered. He didn’t want to think about why.
“They didn’t use cabs,” Casey continued. “No hotels. No other hospitals. We’ve checked surgeons and primary-care doctors to see if they had anyone showing up for aftercare for shoulder surgery. Nothing. We’ve got the pictures and the artist’s renderings spread out over airports from San Diego to Seattle, BART and Amtrak stations. We’re blanketing the surrounding counties.”
“That sounds . . . promising,” Brad offered. Casey’s eyes were scary cold.
“No, it doesn’t,” Casey snapped. “It’s as if she and the Viking disappeared into thin air.”
“So . . . uh, the Stanford guy confirmed the guy is Viking?”
Casey seemed to notice his coffee for the first time and took a gulp. It must have been hot enough to scald, but he didn’t register pain. Casey was one big callus. “Hard to tell. Clothes are tenth century. Sword is Saxon workmanship, but the etching on the blade is in Danish runes. Apparently, it says: ‘I was made for the son of Valgar, for whom the world waits.’ ”
“What the hell does that mean?” Anger welled up in Brad’s throat.
“It means the guy has a high opinion of himself.”
Lucy had a high opinion of him, too. Stupid bitch. She falls for someone with empty boasting on his sword. Brad only realized his grip had tightened on his coffee cup when the Styrofoam broke and hot coffee spewed over the table and onto his lap. “Jesus!” He jumped up and grabbed napkins from the dispenser on the table to scrub at his Dockers.
A Twist in Time Page 14