She was surprised. She hadn't believed she could ever want a man's kiss again. She'd wanted his, she realized slowly. She'd wanted it very much. Maybe she still did. Recalling the reason for the experiment in the first place, she cleared her throat. "You see? I'm not afraid of you."
His lips curved slightly upward at the corners. "No, you are not, are you?"
She smiled her answer. "So will you stay?"
"I cannot leave now, Miranda, even do you ask me to go"
She was taken aback. He was being utterly ridiculous, of course, offering her a compliment as he no doubt thought she would expect after such a tender encounter. "You d-don't—" My God, she was stammering like an idiot! She drew a calming breath and ordered herself to be sensible. "You don't have to say things like that."
He reached out to thread his fingers through her hair. "Pu ert unaŏsfögur."
A tiny chill ran up the back of her neck at the depth and resonance of his voice as it caressed her with those foreign words.
"Wh-what?"
"You are beautiful, Miranda."
She shook her head automatically. When she did, her cheek touched his fingertips as they moved through her hair. She chided herself because she wasn't altogether certain she hadn't done it deliberately.
He responded by stroking the side of her face. "Adrianna was the most beautiful woman in Norge. Never did she doubt it, though she had only a precious disk of polished steel in which to see her reflection. You have a houseful of glass mirrors, and yet you fail to see what is there."
Again she shook her head. "If your Adrianna knew how beautiful she was, it was probably because people were constantly telling her so."
Rolf disagreed. "Might men have noted her beauty less, had she any other virtue? Might they not fail to note yours only because there is so much more in you to praise than mere beauty?" She frowned up at him, unsure what he meant. His seawater eyes narrowed. "So much more. I believe I've only begun to see it."
Rolf took a seat in the rear of the large, crowded room, leaving Miranda to move forward alone. The body of her faŏir lay within a box of polished hardwood. He wore fine garments, though to Rolf the colors appeared dull and the fabric plain. In his time brilliant crimson and scarlet or bright blues, threaded with gold, had been favored for such solemn occasions. Cloaks of wonderful, shimmering cloth from the East were not uncommon among those able to afford them. But times had changed, he thought as he regarded the people crowded into the room, filling every chair. All of them wore somber colors—black, brown, gray, midnight blue.
Miranda was dressed in a black skirt that hugged her hips and legs, stopping just below her knees. Her legs were encased in a whisper-thin fabric she called nylon, and on her feet she wore shoes with pointed toes and spikes poking from the heels. Her shirt—blouse, she'd called it—was white, with tiny buttons of pearl and a thin border of lace at her throat and wrists. The blouse's neck was high, and she'd fastened a brooch at its center, an oval of onyx with a female face silhouetted in white. Her hair she'd gathered high and loose, so that her auburn curls spilled freely in a coppery cascade.
She was beautiful. Even with her eyes red rimmed and swollen behind their shields of glass, and her nose shiny, she was beautiful. Rolf glanced at the other women in the room and found none to compare. His glimpses were fleeting, though, for he did not wish to have his attention diverted for too long. Though he'd broken away from her side, he'd done so only to allow her to grieve privately as seemed the custom of her people. She would have the seat of honor near the finely crafted box, as was fitting. He would allow her the time to bid her father farewell in her own way. He knew well the import of the occasion.
In his time, all would gather around a pyre. The fallen warrior would be dressed in his finery and laid upon satin carpets and cushions. A great leader was ofttimes laid within his drakkar, and the ship itself placed upon the pyre. His weapons would be placed at his side, along with offerings of meat and fruits and mead. If a slave girl, or even a wife, wished to go with the fallen one on this final journey, she would drink the nabid, and submit to the ceremonial murder.
When all stood in readiness, the warriors surrounding the pyre would begin to beat their shields with clubs, as the eldest son of the fallen, stripped to his bare flesh, walked backward to the pyre to toss a torch over his shoulder upon it. As the blaze took hold, the others would light smaller torches and toss them in, as well. Even after Christianity forbade cremation, the ritual was kept by many Norsemen. In burning, the spirit of the dead man was freed at once to journey toward Valhalla and receive its final reward. Rolf had never understood the Christians' preference for tossing their dead into the earth to rot slowly.
Rolf shook off the memories, though for a moment he could smell the acrid smoke, see before his eyes the fire lighting the night, hear the pounding of the shields. He felt a pang of homesickness, but forced it away and resumed his observation of the burial customs of Miranda's people. A somber, quiet occasion, he thought. They would all die of shock to see the boisterous funerals of his time.
Miranda stood for a long time beside the body of her father. Rolf wondered at the look of the man in the box. His skin color had not altered in the least, nor had he swelled as the dead are wont to do, especially in warm weather. The man looked to be in better health now than he had upon his deathbed in the hospital.
Miranda leaned over, and her soft hand covered the still one within the box. She whispered something no one else could hear, then pressed a kiss to her fingertips, and her fingertips to his unmoving lips. Rolf felt a hard blockage take form in his throat and a hot stinging at the back of his eyes. She straightened and moved toward the chair that had been placed near the box. Before she sat, though, she turned and quickly scanned the room. In a moment her gaze found his and she came toward him.
She said not a word as she reached him, only extended her hand. Rolf took it, rising and following where she led. She drew a chair from the rest and placed it beside hers. She sat down now, still clutching his hand so that Rolf had no alternative but to sit beside her.
As Erwin Saunders took his spot near the front and began to speak in slow, measured tones about the fallen man, Rolf felt Miranda's grip on him tighten. He squeezed her hand in return, glancing down to see the fresh moisture gathering on her lashes. The lump returned to Rolf's throat. Truly she honored him, by allowing him to sit beside her, to be the one with whom she shared her grief.
The only one, he noted a short time later, as the ceremony ended and the mourners filed past her. Each one touched her, either pressing a hand to her shoulder, hugging her, kissing her or simply taking her hand. She dried her eyes for them. For them she forced a false smile and spoke brave words. Even for Fletcher Travis, though he hugged her harder and longer than most others, she kept her sadness hidden.
Only when they were alone, in her small car, did she succumb to her grief. Rolf sensed it building inside her as she drove. When she pulled the machine to a stop on the path that led to her home, she trembled visibly, then lowered her head onto her arms, resting across the steering device.
He touched her shoulder. "Miranda—"
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice shaking and weak. "I don't know what's the matter with me. I never cried like this when my mother died."
"Because you sensed your father needed your strength." She lifted her head, looking at him through rivers of tears. "You cry now, perhaps, for both of them. You cry because you know you can."
She sniffed and nodded. "You see so much." She wiped her tears away. "I'm just sorry you had to see me like this."
"Do not be sorry, Miranda. Perhaps it is you who are in need of strength now. Do you wish it, I would give of my own."
She glanced at him through dewy lashes, her lips trembling. "Didn't you know? You already have. I couldn't have survived this day without you."
He slipped his arms around her slender frame, pulling her across the seat and against his chest. He held her hard, willing her pain
to leave her. "The day has not yet ended, astín mín. Give your grief to me."
Her arms curled around his neck and she clung. Her tears soon soaked the front of his shirt, but he cared not. He would cry them for her, were it possible. His body absorbed the trembling of hers as she wept. And it seemed only natural, when he cupped her head in his hand to tilt it back and lowered his mouth to hers, to capture her sobs, as well.
She didn't compress her lips when his mouth covered hers. She let them remain parted, as if she wanted his gentle invasion. Her hot tears dampened his face as Rolf complied. He drank from her lips and then from the honeyed recesses beyond. He tasted her tongue hungrily as his compassion became only passion. The flames ignited within him, and he forgot that he'd been holding her to give comfort. He licked at the silken interior of her mouth, and with a low groan, he tightened his hold on her body. He shifted slightly in his seat, pressing her backward and leaning over her in his eagerness to quench the thirst raging within.
Miranda's eyes flew open. She drew a ragged breath and twisted her head from beneath his demanding mouth. Her hands, formerly clutched around his neck, became fists that pummeled his chest. "Get off me!" she cried in a hoarse, panic-filled voice. "I can't… breathe. Get off me!"
Frustrated and confused, but seeing the sudden fear in her eyes, Rolf quickly straightened. She flew from his arms, collapsing against the opposite door, breathing as rapidly as he was, though he doubted hers was a result of arousal.
He watched her for a moment. Her shoulders were trembling uncontrollably. "Forgive me, Miranda. I did not mean…" He groaned. "I am sorry."
"No." She faced forward as if forcing herself to do so. She drew several deep breaths and it was as if she measured them, forced them to calm her. "I'm the one who should be apologizing. I'm a fool to think you would ever…" She shook her head, not finishing the thought. Instead she said simply, "Thank you… for stopping when I asked you to."
Rolf felt a fury slowly begin to stir to life deep within him. So, she had been afraid he wouldn't. She'd suddenly realized she was in the arms of a murdering, raping villain and she'd panicked, thinking her fate sealed. No doubt his restraint surprised her. She hadn't expected the Plague of the North to respect a woman's wishes when she said no.
She turned her back on him and shoved the door open. Her unsteady steps took her away from the car, but she did not go into the house. Instead she veered around it and vanished from his sight.
Rolf swore loudly, slamming a fist into the seat. He'd been a fool yet again. He'd begun to allow himself tender feelings toward another beauty with a heart of stone. He'd let himself believe her lies, when she'd so cleverly convinced him she had no fear of him. In truth, she wished only to use him to find what she sought.
He wrenched his door open and took the same path she had. She would soon learn that Rolf Magnusson was not a man to be used. His steps broad and quick with his anger, he followed the path to the rocky bluff above the sea. And there he found her, seated upon the ground, her knees drawn to her chest. She faced the sea, and the sun was slowly sinking behind her. He heard her sobs as he drew closer, and in spite of his anger, his heart twisted in his chest. Seabirds sang in loud discord as he approached her. But when he parted his lips to condemn her, he found no sound would emerge.
"I'm sorry, Rolf."
He grated his teeth. Sorry, was she? For lying to him? For using him to reach her own goals? Or for her frightened reactions to his touch? "You needn't fear I will kiss you again, Miranda. You've made your feelings known to me, though you deny them with your lips."
She shook her head, not turning to face him. "You're wrong about that. It wasn't you—"
"No more lies."
She did face him then. "Rolf, it isn't—"
"Stodva. You need not continue in your charade. You fear me. It is clear. I will find your precious treasure for you, since I have given my word. And when it is found, I will take my leave of you, your house, your very life. I will make my own way in this world of yours. Have no doubt, Miranda."
She rose to her feet. "It was the car, Rolf. That damned tiny car, and—"
"Do you continue to speak falsely, my leave will come sooner."
She closed her eyes slowly. "You're not going to believe me, no matter what I say, are you?"
He said nothing. It pained him to know her heart, when he'd wished so much to believe she found solace in his arms. A small sound from far above drew his gaze upward, and he saw a silvery bird, the likes of which he'd never seen.
Her voice was hoarse when she spoke. "It's an airplane. A ship that sails in the skies."
Rolf shook his head in wonder. "Your people travel by such ships?"
"Yes. It is faster than any other way. And safer than the car, believe it or not."
Rolf lowered his gaze to hers as the bird ship vanished from sight. "Your world is filled with wonders, lady. Still, I believe I would rather sail in my own sort of ship." As he spoke, he looked out toward the sea.
"You love it, don't you?"
He nodded. Then stiffened as her hand closed on his upper arm.
"You have to let me explain, Rolf."
"Nei. I do not." He allowed his gaze to travel once more over her lovely, tear-stained face before he turned and walked to the house alone.
Two days after the funeral, Miranda sat beside Rolf in front of Erwin Saunders's desk at Beaumont.
She leaned forward in her seat, forgetting for the moment the things that had been troubling her. Rolf had treated her coldly, had been distant toward her, since her stupid reactions to him in the car. He honestly believed she was afraid of him, and he refused to allow her to explain. But she had to push those thoughts aside. She needed to make her points clearly and forcibly. "Don't you get it, Erwin? That is what the person who broke in was after. Not the Ice Man, but whatever clues we might have gleaned from him. He must have known what Russell knew, who the man was, what he was accused of doing. He knew there was a massive treasure involved, and he wants it."
Saunders shook his head. "How could anyone have known? You said the information was in a coded file in the computer. Russell was obviously keeping it to himself."
"Anyone could have figured it out the same way my father did, by following leads and tracking down records. And the very fact that he had the information so well hidden proves to me that he suspected someone else might be after it."
Saunders stroked his goatee thoughtfully. "You might very well be right."
"I know I'm right. Furthermore, we don't have any idea how much more this person knows. We have to locate the two sites involved before he does, or we'll lose any chance we ever had to complete the work my father began."
"Miranda, what makes you think we can find either the shipwreck, or the missing booty? We don't have a clue… unless there was something in that hidden file." He stood quickly, coming around the desk with a light in his eyes. "Miranda, did your father think he knew where—"
"No." The man seemed to sag before her eyes, but he straightened quickly when Miranda added, "But Rolf thinks he can locate both of them."
Saunders's gaze met Rolf's, and there was no doubting the skepticism there, or the hope. "How?"
"I am not certain of finding the lost treasure," Rolf said slowly. "Landscapes change." Saunders opened his mouth to interrupt, but Rolf quickly continued, "Of the drakkar, I have no doubt I can show you precisely where she rests, though I wonder whether anything remains."
Again, Saunders uttered the one-word question. "How?"
Rolf shrugged. "It is only a matter of being familiar with the old methods of navigation, of knowing the most likely landings, of studying the currents, the winds."
"It would be best if you could simply show me the site, mark it on a map or—"
"Impossible. I will not know it until we are there."
"We'll have to go by ship," Miranda observed. "It doesn't have to be a large one. But we are going to need a RCV and sonar equipment. It isn't going to come
cheaply."
"That's an understatement, Miranda. Do you know what a submersible remote cam-video costs?" Saunders drummed his fingers on the desk thoughtfully. "Of course, we might be able to borrow one from another university. I hate to, though. The fewer people who know about this the better."
"Do you think the board will approve funding?" Miranda sounded apprehensive.
"The board." Saunders breathed the words on a rush of air. "Time is of the essence here, isn't it? No, I don't think we can wait for Harry Kirk and his board to mull this over. We need to act now, before the agreement with Canada expires in August and we're forced to get permission all over again."
"Does that agreement cover offshore explorations, Erwin?"
Saunders shrugged. "It doesn't say 'land only.' That's as good as an okay in my book. I could get outside backing. Just proceed with the project and get permission later."
Miranda stood slowly, shaking her head. "Erwin, you could get into a lot of trouble—"
"You think they're going to care, once we find it?" Saunders's face glowed with heightened color. "Are you sure you can do this, Magnusson? What experience do you have? I don't even know your credentials."
Miranda spoke before Rolf could so much as part his lips. "Rolf's an expert, Erwin. He's mostly self-taught, but there is no denying his abilities, I guarantee it. If you want to waste time checking his background, I suppose—"
"No. We need to act right away. If you vouch for him, Miranda, then I'm sure he's legitimate." Saunders rose, again stroking his beard, apparently lost in his own thoughts. "You go on now. I'll take care of everything." He seemed to snap out of his reverie for a moment as they moved toward the door. "Remember, not a word to anyone. We have no way of knowing whom we can trust."
Miranda looked at him doubtfully. "Erwin, I don't know about doing this without consulting Harrison. He's the dean, after all, and I don't want—"
Miranda's Viking Page 14