The Marriage Medallion

by Christine Rimmer

  She rolled her eyes. "Fearless. Right." She met his eyes. "No, really. I'm far from fearless."

  "Yet you never let your fear rule you."

  "That's right. Hey. Talk to my mother. She claims I actually seek out the things that scare me."

  "And you would do this because…?"

  "Well, my mother would say, for the dangerous thrill of confronting my own fear."

  "And does your mother have it right?"

  She sighed. "Maybe. Sometimes. I've always felt … out of place, I guess. As if I'm looking for something and it's never there." She swallowed, though her mouth was empty.

  He asked, his voice gentle, "What things truly frighten you?"

  She thought for a moment. "Oh, dying. Original, huh? I guess I'm like most people—not up for that yet."

  "Yet you could face it. You have faced it. Recently."

  Her hand went automatically to her shoulder. He nodded and she found herself nodding in response.

  He said, "You will face death again, there is no escaping that."

  "Yeah. But I'd seriously prefer if I didn't have to do it anytime soon."

  "Your mother might say otherwise."

  "She would definitely say otherwise."

  "Mothers can be so irritating—they are too often right."

  She made a humphing sound. "Unfortunately."

  He shrugged. "The time will come, for all of us, when death will win the day. Our forefathers understood this. They asked only for the chance to die fighting."

  Our forefathers. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see them. The bold Norsemen of old in their serpent-thin ships, brutal men bound only by their warrior code, eyes on the far horizon, rowing hard and steady toward the next settled, prosperous, ripe-for-the-picking coastal town.

  Eric said, "Death is the one constant, the thing to which we all ultimately surrender, even as we spend our lives denying that death will have us in the end."

  What was there to say to that? Nothing—which was exactly what she said.

  He asked, "And my original question—to whom are you bound?"

  That was a fairly easy one. "My family. My mother, my sisters. My father. Strange. I never knew him for all those years. But the moment I met him, I felt that I'd known him all of my life." She glanced away. She was thinking that she felt the same way about the man who sat beside her. But she didn't want to say it. It would be way unwise, given the circumstances—the two of them, alone by the fire until the storm passed, wearing blankets instead of their clothes.

  "Who else?" he prompted.

  She did look at him then, chin high, defiant. "My brother." It came out sounding like a taunt.

  He didn't rise to the bait. "And…?"

  One more person came to mind. "A friend. She lives in Los Angeles. Her name is Dulcie Samples. I met her at a writers' workshop. She has red hair and honest hazel eyes and the biggest heart in California."

  "A friend and a true one."

  "You got it."

  "A friend found at … a writers' workshop?"

  "That's right."

  "You are an author?"

  "Wannabe."

  "Wanna—"

  "Want to be," she clarified. "I've started ten novels. Haven't finished a one."

  "You say that with such bravado. Why?"

  "I didn't finish college, either. Some have remarked that there seems to be a pattern here."

  If there was a pattern, Eric didn't seem particularly concerned about it. He asked, "And your friend, Dulcie?"

  "She's written three, I think—all the way through to the end. Hasn't sold one yet, but I really believe, for her, that day will come."

  "For her—yet not for you?"

  She waved a hand. "I gotta be honest. All that sitting, I just can't stick with it."

  "A woman of action."

  "Well, yeah. I guess so." A few feet away, Svald shook her head and snorted. "See? I get no respect. Not even from my horse."

  "I respect you." He was looking at her teasingly, but it didn't matter. She knew he meant what he said. His expression changed, turned more serious. "And what about men? Other than your father … and your brother. Is there a man to whom you feel bound?"

  "Not … at the moment." Was that a lie? Maybe. Maybe she did feel bound. Just a little bit—to Eric.

  Did he sense she felt that way? If he did, he let it pass. "But there have been men you have … cared for?"

  Was this somewhere they ought to be going? Probably not. Still, she heard herself answering, "A few. Somehow, it just never seemed to work out."

  "Good," he said.

  She couldn't resist. "Fair's fair. What about you?"

  "A dalliance or two. Foolish. Long over. For the past seven years, I've been waiting for you."

  Oops. No doubt about it now. Time to change the subject.

  But she didn't. "Eric. Come on…"

  His grin was slow and lazy. "Lead the way."

  "Oh, puh-lease. Seven years is pretty close to a decade—and you're how old?"

  "I am thirty."

  "That's … wild."

  "No. It is simply the truth."

  "I gotta ask, when you say you were waiting for me, you don't really mean me, specifically?"

  "That is exactly what I meant. You. Specifically."

  "Get outta town."

  "Since we are not in town, I will assume that is simply one of your American expressions."

  "Good thinking. But seriously, at the age of twenty-three, you suddenly decided, 'Hey, enough of this dallying. I'm waiting for Brit.' Is that what you're telling me?"

  "Ah. I understand your question now. The truth is that I was waiting for you, specifically. But I didn't know who you would be until you came here, to the Vildelund, in search of me. Until I saw that you wore my medallion."

  She found she was staring at his chest again. Staring at the medallion, she told herself.

  Yeah, right.

  Their saddles almost touched. It was way too easy for him to slide over next to her. He cupped the back of her neck, his warm fingers gliding up into her almost-dry hair.

  She gulped. "Get back to your own saddle."

  He whispered, "You say that with no conviction."

  Well, and how was she supposed to say anything with conviction? When his warm, strong body was brushing against hers, when the scent of him was all around her, when she gloried in the feel of his fingers in her hair. "This is so not fair…"

  "Ah, but it is fair. It is fair and right. And exactly as it was meant to be."

  "Can we just stay away from the meant-to-bes?"

  One sable eyebrow lifted. "If you insist. For now." His fingers stroked down through her hair.

  She whispered, suddenly breathless, "When you get so close like this…"

  "Yes?"

  "I can't…"

  "What?"

  "Damn you, you'd better just go ahead and kiss me."

  "As you wish, so shall it be." He said that—and then that tempting mouth of his stayed right where it was. The medallion was touching her, the weight of it pressing through her sweater and her shirt, to a spot right above her breast.

  The other night, in Rinda's tent, the sight of that medallion had been enough to make her put a stop to the magic between them.

  Not tonight, though.

  Tonight she felt the warm weight of it and it was good. Right.

  The only problem? His mouth was three whole inches away.

  She slid her hand around his neck. It took just one small tug and—at last—his lips met hers.

  * * *

  Chapter Eleven

  « ^ »

  A kiss. His kiss.

  How did he do it? He kissed her as if he would never kiss another. As if this kiss was the only kiss that had ever been.

  Or would ever be.

  The thing was, when he kissed her, she could almost believe that "meant to be" was exactly right. Exactly what they were, the two of them.

  Meant to be. And together
at last. After all the long, lonely years spent waiting. For this moment.

  For all their moments to come…

  When he kissed her, she could almost forget her quest to bring her brother home, almost accept his lie that Valbrand was no more. When he kissed her she heard violins, saw sparks leaping, showering down.

  When he kissed her, she was certain that this man and this kiss would last forevermore…

  He lifted his head, just a little, enough that he could look down at her.

  Oh, his eyes…

  Nobody had eyes like that. Eyes the color of spruce. Or maybe jade. Eyes that looked into hers so deeply.

  Way, way deep. Deeper than anyone had dared—or even cared—to look before.

  "Come back here, please," she whispered. "Kiss me some more…"

  He answered by again lowering his mouth to hers.

  She held his mouth with hers and she slipped a hand up, her fingers brushing the medallion.

  Oh, the wonderful smooth, hard skin of his chest, so marvelous to touch. The heat of him. She laid her palm flat against his left breast—there. She felt it. The strong, steady beat of his heart.

  It was glorious. Impossible. Right.

  She could feel how he wanted her—in the way his tender hands stroked her nape and caressed her shoulders, in the needful rhythm of his heartbeat, in the hardness that was pressed against her thigh.

  He pulled back again.

  She frowned at him. "Don't do that."

  "What?"

  "Don't pull back."

  He bent close again—but only for a fleeting moment, only long enough to quickly brush his lips across hers. Then again he pulled away. He shook his head. Slowly. "I regret that now is not the time."

  She felt a stab of irritation. "Night before last you didn't say that. Night before last you thought it was very much the time."

  He retreated to his own saddle.

  She sat up. "Okay, what's going on? What did I do?"

  "Nothing. I could kiss you forever…"

  She wrinkled her nose at him. "Well, hey. That clarifies it for me."

  He found a twig on the blanket, tossed it into the fire. They watched the flames lick around it, claim it, consume it.

  Finally he said, "The other night, I knew you wouldn't have me. I knew you weren't ready. But you would give me kisses. A few sweet embraces. So I took them. I understood that in the end you would push me away. Tonight … I don't want you to do what you might later regret."

  She really wanted to argue. But that was only pure pettiness talking. What he said was the truth. She wasn't ready to get naked with him.

  And she might never be. Certainly she wouldn't be until he told her the truth that mattered most—the truth that, for whatever reason, he kept choosing to deny her.

  She settled back against her saddle with a sigh. "So, how long do you figure we're going to be stuck here?"

  "Until the storm plays out. Tomorrow, at the earliest. That would be my guess."

  She looked at her watch. Barely noon. Whoopee. "Got a deck of cards with you?"

  "I regret to say I don't."

  "So, then. What shall we talk about now?"

  "Is it necessary that we talk?"

  "Not in the least." However, at that moment silence seemed a bad choice. She slanted him a look. "Read any good books lately?"

  He played along. "A few. I recently finished Hawking's A Brief History of Time."

  "No kidding. I didn't know anyone had actually read that one."

  "Black holes. Fascinating."

  "Oh, yeah, I'd imagine. What about music?"

  He put up a hand. "Your turn."

  "Okay. Eminem."

  "Isn't that a candy?"

  "No. I mean the rapper." She fully expected him to think she'd said wrapper.

  But he surprised her. "Ah, rap—talking in rhythm to music. So distinctly American. And I remember. This rapper you mention spells Eminem phonetically. But it means 'M and M,' for his full name, which is Marshall Mathers."

  "Hey. Right on the money."

  Eric was frowning. "This Eminem is controversial. I have heard his songs are disrespectful to women—and yet he's a favorite of yours?"

  She shrugged. "He's got a bad attitude and problems with his mother. Let's just say I can relate." She picked up the bag of candy beside her, tore off the top and held it his way. "M&M?"

  "I believe I will, thank you."

  "Go ahead, take five or six."

  "I see you are feeling generous."

  "Yes, I am."

  He looked right at her. "I'd rather have them one at a time." He grinned at her nod of approval and popped the candy into his mouth.

  She took one for herself. They sat back on their saddles and stared into the fire. Sucking. Slowly.

  * * *

  The sound was very faint. It came from the far tunnel, beyond the gleaming underground pool. A sound like a pebble tossed against a rock. Eric recognized it for the signal it was.

  Careful to be absolutely silent, he pushed back the blanket beneath which, but for his boots, he was fully dressed. Their clothes had dried by midafternoon. They'd wasted no time in putting them on. For both of them, too much bare skin presented way too much temptation.

  His boots waited where he'd left them, near his bedding. He reached for them, pulled them on and tied up the laces.

  The fire had burned low. Quietly he rose, got more wood and set the heavy logs gently on the glowing coals. There was rustling behind him, followed by a long, soft sigh. And then a groan. He turned from the fire to look at his woman.

  She lay on her back, both arms flung out on the blanket beneath her spread bedroll. Her tangled pale hair fell across the down coat she had used for a pillow. She was scowling. "Ugh," she grumbled. And then she smiled.

  He felt his own smile taking form from hers. She slept as she did everything else. Restlessly. With enthusiasm.

  Her foot in its heavy wool sock appeared from beneath the covers. She grumbled some more, gave a kick—and her slim denim-clad leg was exposed all the way to the thigh. He resisted the urge to go to her and straighten her blankets, to cover her again. The logs behind him were already catching. If she was chilly now, the freshly stoked fire would warm her soon enough.

  He waited, watching to see if she might wake. Though she constantly mumbled and sighed and tossed and turned, after a time he became certain she was deeply asleep.

  Only then did he dare to snatch his coat from the rock where he'd left it and move stealthily past her, donning the coat as he went. He crossed the dirt floor of the cavern, went past the small pool formed from an underground spring and on into the pitch black of the far tunnel.

  He didn't need light. He knew the way. The tunnel first took him deeper into the hillside. But then, about twenty meters along, it turned sharply to the right.

  Within minutes of leaving Brit by the fire, he emerged from the tunnel onto a ledge quite similar to the one through which they'd first entered the cave.

  The storm was over, the still night air bracing. His breath came out as mist. The rain had become snow at some point. But it must have stayed a slushy mix almost through to the end; the ground was white, but not to any depth. It wouldn't last. Tomorrow, if the sun came out, the thin layer of snow would melt away to nothing by noon.

  In the hush, the trees made faint crackling noises. He waited, every sense attuned.

  There he heard it: the slightest movement on the hillside, above him to the left, the sound so small it might have been only the scrabbling of some foolish night-foraging squirrel.

  But the sound, Eric knew, was intentional. And not made by a squirrel.

  It was made by something much larger, something that walked on two legs, a creature feared throughout the Vildelund by youthful renegades—by all men of flawed character and evil intent.

  Eric turned. Saw.

  Deep in shadow, beneath the thick branches of a spruce tree, invisible to anyone who didn't know what to look for:
black boots.

  The boots were attached to a pair of black-clad legs. At about hip height, the rest of the dark figure melted into the tree.

  Eric cupped his hands around his mouth and blew. The sound was part whistle, part an echo of wind in the trees. It was their signal from when they were boys.

  It meant all clear—no need to hide.

  At the signal, Valbrand ducked free of the sheltering tree branches. Sure-footed as a mountain cat, he descended, moving sideways for easy balance, jumping at last to Eric's side at the mouth of the cave.

  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  « ^ »

  The black leather mask had been stitched by Asta's talented hands. The seams were almost invisible. It fit the ravaged face beneath like a second skin, the holes at the eyes carefully crafted to a catlike slant.

  At the mouth there was little more than a slit. Valbrand's voice came out low, slightly muffled, on a thin cloud of mist. "You are certain she won't wake?"

  Eric almost smiled. "As certain as one can be about anything that concerns your contrary youngest sister."

  Dark eyes gleamed behind the mask. "I think you are positive now of one thing—that she is yours."

  Eric lost the urge to smile. "She knows the truth. Though I tell your lie for you at every turn, she remains certain that she saw you—at the crash site, and in my aunt's longhouse. Nothing will shake her belief."

  Valbrand backed away a step. "Must you look at me like that? Yes, I should have heeded your warning and worn the mask when she was so ill. But I was confident that she wouldn't recall what she'd seen."

  Eric couldn't let that pass. "Why take such a chance? Unless, in some part of your heart, you wanted her to see you—to know that you still live."

  The dark gaze shifted away. "The answer is no."

  Eric cast his own glance upward toward the star-scattered sky. Somewhere out there in the limitless night, black holes waited to suck down unknowing universes into swirling oblivion. Sometimes he felt it was the same here on earth.

  He wondered at his own choices. He had been born to follow the man who stood beside him, conditioned all the years of his life to forge onward at all cost toward a shared central goal: Valbrand would be king, Eric his grand counselor. One to lead and one to provide balance and the objective view, as it was with their fathers before them.