Miranda's Viking

by Maggie Shayne

  He scowled darkly, and she thought he called her a less than flattering name. He still remained unsteady on his feet.

  "You're sick, piŏ eruŏ veikur."

  He hesitated, but finally he sat on the edge of the table. He closed his eyes for a long moment and his voice was almost sad but tinged with bitterness when he spoke again. The words had the ring of despair and the lilt of a question. And again he used that name—Adrianna.

  "No." Carefully she touched his face, tilting it upward so he would look at her more carefully, then quickly drawing her hand away so as not to offend him. It would be in her best interest to make him see she wasn't whoever he thought she was. He seemed as if he'd like to throttle Adrianna, whoever she might be. When his ice blue gaze, clearer now, fixed upon her face, she said softly, "I am Miranda." She tapped her chest with her forefinger. "Miranda."

  He frowned and his eyes narrowed as he studied her more closely. Again he reached for her hair and she forced herself not to draw back in fear. He drew a lock forward and rubbed it between his fingers. He shook his head and leaned nearer, lifting the hair to his nose and inhaling its scent. His gaze traveled over her face and he seemed confused. Not convinced, though.

  After a moment, he glanced at the room around him, his brow furrowed. Then he lowered his head and pressed a palm to it. When he noticed the electrodes taped to his chest, he frowned harder and lifted a hand to tear one free.

  "No." She laid her hand over his, looked him in the eye and shook her head. "Let me. It will hurt if you just rip them off." He tilted his head, seemingly just realizing she spoke in a tongue he'd never heard. She clasped his hand and gently moved it away. He allowed it, then watched curiously as she caught the edge of a strip of tape and carefully peeled it back. As she pulled it away, she winced, knowing the sting he'd feel. She glanced up at his face to see if she'd hurt him.

  To her amazement, he smiled at her. His eyes glittered with unmistakable amusement. His huge hand came up again, and imitating her, he picked at the edge of a strip of tape. Unlike her, once he had it, he yanked it free in one quick motion, not even blinking as he did so. He kept glancing at her as he repeated the procedure until his chest was free of wires and sensors. He was showing off, she thought, her mind reeling. He thought it funny that she'd been worried about hurting him. She smiled back at him. She couldn't help it.

  Her smile instantly instigated the return of the angry glare in his eyes. He looked quickly around the room, made a sweeping gesture with his hand and murmured a hoarse question. What is this place? she imagined he wanted to know. Or where am I? How did I get here? She made a helpless, shrugging gesture. Then she touched his throat with her fingertips. Instantly his hand closed like a steel trap around her wrist.

  She stiffened, but didn't turn away from him. God, but he didn't trust her. "Thirsty. You must be thirsty. That's all I was trying to say." With her free hand she made a circle of her thumb and fingers to lift an imaginary glass to her lips. "Drink," she told him. "Would you like a drink?"

  Frowning, still looking skeptical, he released her wrist. "Eg er pyrstur," he said hoarsely.

  "Right, pyrstur. Thirsty." Miranda quickly left the room and him. She paused in the control room, her hands gripping the edge of the sink as her knees began to tremble in reaction. For a moment, the enormity of what was happening hit her like a whirlwind, but she had to keep calm, not think about it too deeply or she'd lose her mind or have a fit of hysteria. Things like this did not happen. "What in God's name am I going to do with him?"

  She shook her head, filled a glass with cold water, and returned to the cold room, which had now become hot. The table was empty. Startled, she swung her gaze around the room and saw him in the corner, so large she nearly reconsidered her determination not to be afraid of him. He held the massive sword by its hilt, turning it this way and that. Miranda found herself glad she'd painstakingly polished it, to ready it for viewing by the archaeological staff tomorrow.

  She swallowed hard. What on earth was she going to tell the staff? And Professor Saunders? "Sorry, guys, the find came to life. I'm afraid you can't have him." She rehearsed the words silently in her mind, and her eyes widened as she realized they would still want him. He'd be the center of study by every scientist on the planet when they learned… if they learned.

  He saw her and came toward her, his stride not quite steady, but extremely confident. She held the drink out and he took it. He held it up, frowning harder than ever as he examined the glass and the clear, sparkling water it held. "Glass," she said firmly, tapping the outside with one short fingernail. "Glass."

  He nodded slowly and, his voice still coarse, repeated the word, "Glass."

  Miranda couldn't suppress a smile. She nodded. He lifted the glass to his lips and began guzzling. When he lowered it, Miranda said, "Vatn. Water."

  He cleared his throat, and returned the glass to her. "Water," he mimicked. When her hand closed around the glass, though, he caught it and lifted it, examining her fingers with close scrutiny. He even ran the pad of his thumb over the edges of her unpainted, neatly cropped nails. He frowned. Then he released her hand and studied her face. "Adrianna?"

  She set the glass down. "No." She shook her head firmly. "Miranda." She tapped her chest hard for emphasis. "Miranda." She saw that she was at least making some headway. He now wondered. She spotted her glasses where she'd left them the night before, and automatically picked them up and slipped them on.

  A second later, they were removed by amazingly gentle hands. He turned them this way and that, a frown making parentheses between his brows. He drew them close to his face and peered through the lenses.

  He's like a child, she thought, watching him. Like a big, lost child in a strange new world. Except that he was a dangerous child, one she needed to handle carefully.

  She took the glasses from him and slipped them into her pocket. She pointed to his chest and said, "Ulf? Svein?" So far she only knew him as The Plague of the North. "Hvaŏ, um, your name… heitir pú?"

  "Rolf Magnusson." His voice was clearer now, and decidedly louder. He nodded, indicating the empty glass. "Water."

  "More?" She took his wrist in her free hand and drew him carefully from the room and into the adjoining control room. He gazed curiously all around, eyes widening at the bank of monitors with their flat white lines and the rows of buttons and dials and switches. He was more amazed, though, when she turned on the faucet and water flowed into the sink. He watched her, and a second later, he moved her aside to stand where she'd been.

  Setting his sword aside, he turned the knobs first one way and then the other, making the water flow, hot then cold, and finally making it stop. He studied the stream, following it to the drain. Dropping to his knees, he next examined the pipes beneath the sink.

  He frowned, nodded slowly, and rose to take the glass from her hand. She willingly let it go, and watched as he filled it on his own. He held the glass beneath the faucet until it was spilling over his big hand. He reached again for the knob and turned it off. For a long moment, he regarded the glass in his hand. Finally he brought it to his lips and tilted it up as if he'd down it all in one gulp as he had before.

  This time she put a hand over the one holding the glass. "Slow," she told him. She pushed her other hand in a downward sweep and repeated, "Slow." She placed a palm on his stomach by way of explaining that he'd give himself a stomachache if he drank too quickly. It was as hard as rock and warm beneath her fingers, even through the thin tunic he wore and the shirt beneath it. She looked up quickly. His eyes seemed to darken. He held her intense gaze for a long moment, and it was Miranda who finally looked away, baffled by her sudden shortness of breath and the odd tension coiling somewhere within her.

  He studied her as if she'd done something unexpected, then he drank, slowly this time. It was remarkably easy to make him understand her, she thought. When he finished, he set the glass carefully on the counter. "Rolf." She tested the name. "Rolf Magnusson." What now, she wonde
red.

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs alerted her, and when Rolf saw the way her eyes flew wide and her body went rigid, his powerful hand closed around her upper arm, jerking her behind him as he lifted his sword and sent a fierce glare through the doorway, into the darkened basement.

  "No, Rolf. Nei!" she whispered urgently. She tugged at his arm until the sword lowered. She reached around him to close the door until it was only open a crack.

  "Miss O'Shea?"

  "Who is it?" She clung to Rolf's tensed biceps, praying he wouldn't decide to behead the man with a single swipe of Vengeance before he could answer.

  "Officer Phillips, miss. I was knocking for quite a while. Got worried when no one answered, since the lights are still on. Everything all right?"

  Rolf emitted a low grunt and his expression told her what he thought of her restraining hand. "Fine, everything's fine. I'm afraid I can't talk to you now, though. Some of the controls got knocked out of whack earlier and I have to get them back in order. Sorry to be rude."

  "No problem. Anything I can do to help?"

  "No, thank you. Good night, Officer Phillips." She sighed in relief when he responded in kind and she heard his steps returning up the stairs. She listened until the door slammed. Then her entire body sagged at the close call. She hadn't realized until this very moment what she was going to do with Rolf. It shocked her now that she had. Her entire life had been devoted to science. The decision she'd made, though, was the opposite of the one the scientists of the world would wish for. It was more like the one the romantics of the world would approve. But there was only one decision she could make. She couldn't allow him to become the hottest new guinea pig in the world. She simply couldn't. She had to hide him from everyone… she didn't know how, but she had to do it.

  Rolf's hand closed on her shoulder and she winced. He turned her toward him, his frown deeper than ever. His fingers closed on the collar of her blouse and he pulled it to one side, snapping the top two buttons and baring the shoulder he'd inadvertently hurt. He saw the bruise she knew had formed there, the one she'd received from the intruder. His face turned thunderous and he spewed forth a stream of words she didn't understand. As he spoke he motioned with his sword toward the stairway and the last phrase sounded as if it might have been a question.

  She wondered if he were asking whether Officer Phillips had given her the bruise, or whether she'd like the man dissected for his crime. Either way, she knew she had to disabuse him of the notion. Funny, she thought, that he would pull her hair the way he had, shove her around like that, yell at her for whatever this Adrianna had done, and then get so angry at the knowledge that someone else had harmed her. She touched his face, bringing his gaze back to hers. "Nei, Rolf. It wasn't him. Nei." She touched the hand holding the sword, putting a slight downward pressure on it, and he lowered the weapon, looking none too pleased about it.

  She nodded in approval and smiled. His gaze dropped to her bruised, exposed shoulder and softened. Gently he touched the purplish skin with two fingers and murmured something low and soft.

  She pulled her shirt together hastily, feeling the blood rush to her face at his show of tenderness. It was an odd feeling, having someone so angry on her behalf, one she didn't remember ever having experienced before. Of course Russell would have been upset if he'd known the intruder had harmed her, but not like this. Rolf had been ready to do battle… all over a little bruise. All right, not so little from the way it ached, but still… She shook herself and took one of Rolf's hands, or as much of it as she could grasp.

  She looked up into his eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you, Rolf. I'm your friend. Eg er vinur pinn. You're going to have to trust me."

  He watched her closely, his eyes going from hers, to her lips as she spoke, to her throat and back to her eyes again. He licked his lips after a moment, pressed two fingers to his thumb and tapped his lips three times. "Eg er svangur."

  "Hungry? I'm hungry, too." She touched her lips as he had. "I am hungry. Say it, Rolf. I am hungry."

  "I am hungry." His mimicking ability was astounding.

  She nodded encouragingly. "Now say my name. Miranda. Endurtakiŏ. Repeat it, Rolf. Miranda." She had no doubt he understood what she was asking of him. He seemed keenly intelligent.

  He studied her for a long moment, his eyes narrow with suspicion. At last, sneering slightly, he gestured, lifting one hand, four fingers touching the thumb. He flicked the fingers open with a sarcastic little snap and whispered, "Adrianna."

  "Can't pull one over on you, can I?" She shook her head, rolled her eyes to show her displeasure, but still gripped his hand and drew him through the basement and up the stairs.

  Chapter 3

  Rolf's body felt oddly weak, and strange tingling sensations still radiated through his limbs, though not as severely as they had at first. His mind seemed fogged. He knew not where he was nor how he'd come to be here, let alone why he felt so peculiar.

  The woman—Adrianna, he was certain—was behaving strangely, speaking in this odd language, pretending not to understand him. Without a doubt the language was of her own creation. Did she believe she could deceive him, the man known throughout the North for his gift with languages? He could learn any tongue there was in a single night of study—enough to communicate, at least. Given a week he'd be as fluent as the natives. Adrianna knew that. Everyone knew that. Before his name had been ruined by her slanderous tongue, Rolf had been summoned to England by King Knut himself to act as translator to visitors from other lands. So what game was the lovely Adrianna trying to play?

  He watched her as he sat at her table and ate the cold roast fowl she placed before him and drank the milk, wishing it were mead. He nibbled the oddly shaped, sliced bread and he studied her. There was something… something different about her. Her eyes were the same deep gray of storm clouds, set far apart and fringed in rich auburn lashes. But they were filled with some turmoil he had yet to understand. She covered them with a strange shield. Disks of what she'd called glass, though clearer and smoother than any he had ever seen, held in place by thin metal the color of tarnished gold. They seemed to distort the vision, those eye shields. Her fiery hair, wild now that he'd tugged it free, had at first been pulled tight to the back of her head as if in an attempt to tame the unruly waves.

  In fact, her very mannerisms seemed to have changed. Adrianna had always dressed provocatively and moved with a sensual grace designed to tease and entice men. Her eyes forever threw sparks to her admirers, and her lingering gazes and sidelong glances had been perfected to an art.

  She was different, obviously troubled about something, seemingly oblivious to her own charms. She wore strange, loose-fitting leggings and a simple white shirt without adornment or sashes. She hadn't even bothered to scent her hair with henna, though it did carry a scent all its own.

  And there was more. She was treating him oddly. There was such uncommon softness in her voice, and a hesitancy in her slightest touch. She looked at him with an awe visible in her eyes, even beyond the unrest he saw there.

  The strangeness of this place puzzled him, as well. Rolf rose now to examine it. Already the food seemed to be restoring his strength. He began with the water-spurting device, which he recognized, though it differed slightly from the one below. This one had a wooden box built around it to conceal the pipes beneath, with swinging doors and shelves within for storage. Other wooden storage boxes were fastened to the walls. He opened these, one after another, and found strange vessels that appeared to hold foodstuffs, and stacks of dishes made of a shiny, hard substance.

  A tall metal box held more food, but this one was cold inside. There was a niche cut into its door and a lever within. Rolf closed the door and touched the lever. At once several small bits of ice spilled over his hand and onto the floor. He jumped in surprise, then swung his head around at the sound of a feminine laugh.

  She hurriedly clapped a hand to her lips, but her eyes sparkled with mirth. Rolf felt a warm spiral of ang
er begin to curl within him. So she found him amusing, did she? As he glared at her, she rose and moved to stand beside a wall. She pointed to a small protrusion fastened to it. She moved a little appendage, and said something. The small lamps suspended above the table went out. Rolf stared in wonder, for when she moved the thing again, they lit once more. He frowned and stepped nearer the lamps. Their flames, he'd first thought, were only concealed beneath the painted shades of glass. Now he saw there were no flames at all, only oddly shaped globes which emitted a blinding white glow.

  "How is such a thing accomplished?"

  She only shrugged, again feigning near ignorance of the tongue he spoke. How long would she persist in this game?

  He sighed in disgust and returned to the food. He needed every bit of it. He felt weaker than he could ever remember feeling. Mayhap he had been ill. Might Adrianna have nursed him through some long sickness? He glanced up at her quickly. Nei. Such selflessness was not in her.

  There had been a moment in the rooms below when he'd forgotten her black soul. When he'd seen the ugly bruise marring her perfect, lily skin, an anger had risen within him. He'd wished to discern the name of the one responsible, and to make him pay for such cruelty. It made no sense. She'd done worse to him by far than bruise his flesh. She'd borne false witness against him, accused him of murder. She'd stood by and seen him banished from Norge, and as a result he'd—

  Rolf dropped the leg of fowl he'd been eating. His head came up fast as he fought for the memory. A sudden shiver raced through him and he felt again the sting of ice lashing his face, but only for a moment. The sensations faded fast and he was left wondering what had become of his vaunted memory.

  Then there was softness, her hand covering his, her eyes filling with concern. Her voice was plaintive as she spoke his name and asked a question. Did she wish to know what troubled him? He searched his mind again, but found only a deep well of darkness. The journey from Norge across the North Atlantic was nearly forgotten. He knew he'd embarked on that journey, but its memory was as elusive as that of a dream one tries in vain to recall.