It was a warm day, and sometimes bears would come out of their winter dens. As one did this day.
The beast was huge, and he stopped fifty feet or so away from them, sniffing the air, without any sign of aggression.
“The gods are smiling!” the king said to Jarl Bjorn. “I think a bear stew tonight and a bear fur cloak would do just fine. If you kill him, Bjorn, I will help you become a king by next Jul.”
Kolbjorn glanced, worried, at the drunken smile that spread on his father’s face.
“I think I would like that bear stew as well, Eirik. And being a king next year. Kolbjorn, Son, give me that spear.”
Kolbjorn did not move a finger.
“Father, is this wise? Let the beast go.”
“What? Kolbjorn, where did you lose your balls?”
“You are drunk.”
“So? My hand is just as steady. Give me the spear.”
Kolbjorn clenched his jaw. Fear for his father chilled his skin like a winter draft. He had to keep his father from being injured.
“Better I kill him for you.”
Bjorn’s face lost all amusement. “No.”
“Looks like your new son thinks you are too old to handle a bear,” Eirik said.
Bjorn snorted and took out his long hunting knife.
“Then I’ll kill him with my own hands.”
Before Kolbjorn could make a move to stop him, Bjorn growled, and with a roar, he darted towards the bear.
It ran at first, but it was slow from the snow and sleepy and weak from the long sleep and lack of food for weeks, and Bjorn reached it, sinking his knife right in between the shoulder blades. Kolbjorn was already on his way towards his father, his heart racing.
The bear, now enraged and fully awake, turned to Bjorn, roaring, biting, jaws flashing, claws slicing. The jarl was surprisingly quick for the amount of mead he had consumed during Jul. His knife slashed and sank.
But not fast enough.
Kolbjorn was already there when his father fell clutching at his side, a scarlet bloom spreading on the snow around him.
The bear rose, its pained, furious roar hurting Kolbjorn’s ears. It was about to jump on Bjorn for the final deadly attack when Kolbjorn threw the spear. It pierced the mighty animal right in the chest, kicking it back a little, and its roar trailed off. It sank into the snow right at the jarl’s feet.
When they brought Jarl Bjorn home, Kolbjorn, remembering Rachel’s advice, wanted to tell the healers to wash and boil the linen before applying it to his father’s wound. But it was too late; they’d already used the dirty rags.
After that, the jarl got rot-wound. Kolbjorn wished then that there was a necklace or a treasure or anything else that he could have stolen, fought for—died for, if necessary—that would make his father healthy again. He understood Rachel then like never before.
His father fought against the rot-wound, but it won.
In two weeks, he was dying. At his death bed stood Alfarr and Ebbe and Kolbjorn. Out of the three of them, he locked his eyes with Kolbjorn, and said, right in front of everyone, “There is no father more proud of his son. Be the best jarl this land can have.”
Kolbjorn’s eyes burned. He wished Rachel was by his side. She had been right all along. When he’d stopped caring what his father thought and started living by his own rules, he’d gotten everything he had wanted—except that he had no father now.
Nor the woman he loved more than life itself.
* * *
Buskeland, Norway, June 875 AD
Kolbjorn threw the sack with oats onto the longship, the breeze cooling his bare chest pleasantly. It was not a jarl’s job, but he hated the idea of putting himself above his warrior brothers, who had always protected his back in the raids and always would. Kolbjorn had learned that besides Ulf, Garpr and Haki, the rest of the warriors from the village had remained loyal to him, refusing to hunt him down with his brothers.
His muscles sang from the physical exercise, and he was looking forward to the satisfying burn he’d feel in his shoulders after rowing for a long time. A breeze brought the scent of the sea from beyond the curve of the fjord, enticing him.
Kolbjorn hoped the adventure would be a pleasant distraction that would stop him thinking about Rachel every moment of his life.
They were setting sail later today, after all the ships were loaded with necessary cargo and they had made a sacrifice to the gods for a successful journey.
This would be his first raid as jarl.
Jarl Kolbjorn Bjornsson.
But now he wanted other things.
What he wanted most was Rachel. Kolbjorn, a bastard just a few moons ago, was the new jarl. But it did not matter. Not one bit.
Because now he had no father. And he had no Rachel.
The world around Kolbjorn faded as he remembered standing on this pier a few moons earlier, his heart bleeding...
The burning ship bearing Jarl Bjorn’s body sailed slowly down the fjord between the mountains. The world would never be the same. He wished Rachel was standing next to him. He wanted to feel her soft hand in his, to feel her reassurance and understanding. Her love.
“I love you,” she had said.
He was still watching the ship when snow started falling quietly, the breeze whispering, and he thought that in between the snowflakes brushing his ears, he felt the cold, wet kisses of the Valkyries who had come to take his father to Valhalla, and they promised Kolbjorn he’d meet his father there one day.
His brothers had left the jarldom after the burial, even though Kolbjorn had promised them places on the raiding ships. Alfarr was a cripple now and could not fight well. Ebbe was a coward who had always been at the back of the battle.
Kolbjorn returned to the here and now with a jolt, then threw another sack of oats grown by his people at his village. His home.
Thanks to the alliance with King Eirik, the Swedes were not a threat anymore, and Kolbjorn was building a peaceful and prosperous new home. And he missed Rachel so much that his very bones hurt. If he could trade the jarldom, his name, all his silver and gold, for just one night with her, he would.
He had gone often to the sacred grove, praying, making sacrifices, demanding that the Norns give Rachel back to him. Once or twice he thought he saw a movement behind the trees, her cloak, a swish of auburn hair, but when he looked, she was not there.
And he bled inside, the pain so strong, as if a hammer pounded at his bones making them crack and crumble like rocks.
He straightened up after throwing the last sack onto the ship, the warm early summer breeze tickling his sweat-slicked skin. Strangely, the breeze brought the scent of sweet apples that was forever linked to her, and his chest ached as if pierced by a blade. He needed to forget her. But he knew that even on his death bed, she’d be the only one in his thoughts.
He turned to walk to the village and saw an auburn-haired figure in a woolen cloak standing on the pier.
His heart stopped, his very bone marrow buzzing.
He wiped his eyes, then squinted to be sure he was not dreaming.
She smiled.
Rachel.
Chapter Eighteen
Rachel thought her heart would stop at the sight of him. Her pulse tapped in her temples, her stomach flipping, her mouth dry.
Kolbjorn looked even more gorgeous than she remembered. The muscles of his chest and shoulders rolled like waves, and his skin glistened with sweat as he threw the sacks into the ship, his ripped stomach tensing and relaxing. Rachel could almost smell his masculine scent, almost taste the salt of his skin, and her knees grew weak.
But then he saw her, their eyes connecting, and the world stopped spinning. He was breathing heavily. Undoubtedly from the exercise, not from seeing her.
She could sense that there was something different about him. It was as if he had grown taller, his shoulders straight, his head high.
And he was going away.
She shivered despite the sun’s heat.
&nbs
p; “Are you going somewhere?” she said.
How dumb. Out of all things she could say, she said that?
He watched her with an expression of disbelief, as if he thought exactly the same. She blushed.
“Yes,” he said. “I am.”
Rachel’s hands shook. She’d hoped they’d connect again like before once they saw each other, as if nothing existed but them.
But something was wrong.
She walked towards him, her thick-soled winter boots thumping softly against the wood of the pier.
He watched her with a frown, his chest rising and falling, but did not move. No sign of joy, no movement towards her.
Had he forgotten her? Had he met someone else?
The thought stabbed her like a blade to the stomach, and she almost doubled up.
“Where are you going?” she asked, stopping in front of him. She slid the heavy backpack she was carrying from her shoulder. It held all the treasure she had promised, and more.
His warmth radiated and tickled her skin. Her lips itched to kiss him, her hands almost lifting to touch his beard, to feel his strong body under her fingertips. Her body swung slightly towards him, as if drawn by an invisible magnet, anxious to feel his arms pulling her into his warm embrace.
But he stood still as a mountain, piercing her with his hazel eyes.
“On a raid. To Pictland.”
“Oh. Scotland. For how long?”
“Until the ships are full with treasure.”
“Won’t your wife miss you?” The word “wife” broke in half like a dry twig.
He blinked. “No.”
Rachel nodded. “Do you have a wife?”
“No.”
She let out a laugh, relief slipping through the nervous smile on her face.
“How long have I been gone?”
“Half a year,” he said, then added so softly, almost in a whisper, “Are you really here?”
Tension evaporated from Rachel’s forehead. “Yes,” she said. “I really am.”
She reached out and took his left hand in both of hers. She was afraid he’d jerk it away or reject her in some other way. But once her palms reached his, he squeezed her fingers and looked down. Then he slowly drew her hands towards his face and studied them carefully, and her skin burned.
His palm was warm and dry, his skin calloused and rough, and pleasant heat spread through her.
Then he pressed them against his lips, his wet touch sending tingles through her, his eyes closing, the skin around them wrinkling. He held her hands like this for a long while, and Rachel’s worry started melting away, her stomach unclenching, her lungs expanding.
He was not indifferent. A tear rolled down her cheek.
“It’s really you,” he whispered against her fingers, warming them with his breath. “I can feel your hand. It’s as soft as I remember. I thought I’d never see you again.”
Rachel could not stand a second more of not being in his arms. She stepped towards him, and he opened himself to her. And once she was in his arms, the world stood still again.
Her hands closed behind his back. His smell enveloped her: the sea, the sun, his fresh sweat. She inhaled it as if it were oxygen she needed to stay alive. She heard his heartbeat under her ear, beating as fast as her own.
“Why are you here?” She felt Kolbjorn’s words warm against her ear, the very sound of his voice making her knees weak.
“I’m back,” she said, still not letting him go. But he leaned back and studied her.
“Back?”
She swallowed. This was the hard part. To tell him that she had no intention of returning to her own time. To open her heart to him, to put it at his mercy.
“Yeah. For good. If you’ll have me,” she added.
Kolbjorn’s eyes widened. “What of your mother?”
Rachel smiled broadly. “She’s well, thanks to you. Thanks to the necklace.”
Kolbjorn’s shoulders relaxed. “That is good news. How did you come back?”
“Well. I did not have the golden spindle anymore. So I had to look for the Norn. It was not easy, mind you. In Chicago, those who follow pagan culture celebrate the Jul festival, and that was where I found her. She said she enjoyed our story the most and thought that I’d come find her earlier. You were right—she knew everything. And she said I should get my things and she’d send me back, but for the last time. I wouldn’t be able to return to my time anymore.”
Kolbjorn eyes widened. “You won’t?”
“No, I’m stuck here. I came here to redeem myself, and I brought this wergild, I suppose.” She lifted the backpack. “There’s wine and hot dogs, painkillers and medicine that kills infections—rot-wounds. And there are more gemstones—synthetic ones, like the sapphires. Will you accept this as wergild for my theft?”
“No.”
Rachel’s heart sank. “Why not? I can also assist the jewelry master until my debt is paid.”
He shook his head. “This is not good enough, Rachel.”
“What else can I do?”
“I’ll accept you here, allow you to work with the jewelry master and accept your wergild”—he nodded towards the backpack—“under one condition.”
“What?”
“That you’ll be my wife.”
Rachel opened her mouth but not a word came out. Had she heard him right? Had he just proposed? Her mouth went dry.
She slapped his chest slightly with her hand and smiled. “So you do have a trickster inside of you.”
He only cocked his head. “What do you say? Do you want to be a jarl’s wife?”
“A jarl’s wife? Are you a jarl now?”
“I am.”
“That means he accepted you?”
He nodded.
“He would be a fool if he hadn’t. Wait. If you are a jarl, where is your father?”
“He died this winter.”
Her heart squeezed for him. He had now lost both of his parents. Rachel pressed her face against his chest. “I am so sorry, Kolbjorn!”
She looked up and studied his face, and, as usual, he looked stoically at her.
“Will you not need an honorable wife as a jarl?”
“I no longer care what anyone thinks. You were right. I needed to live by my own rules. And as soon as I started, I got everything I had ever wanted. Except the thing I wanted most. You.”
Rachel smiled softly, feeling their souls connect on some level she could not grasp.
“You will be a good partner. You brought treasures and medicine, and you are ready to redeem yourself. Which you will do, don’t get me wrong. You must return what you stole in some way or another. The love and dedication that you showed to your mother, that you showed to me, by coming back here—with the wergild—tells me that you will be the best partner any man could hope for. What do you say?”
There was one thing she had to know before she’d commit to him.
“I said something before I left. Do you remember?”
“I remember.”
He traced his fingers down her cheek gently, the caress sending waves of sweet anticipation through her skin. She leaned into his touch slightly.
“What did I say?”
“That you loved me.” His thumb slid down to her mouth and he traced her lip gently, igniting her skin.
“So before I give my answer to you,” she said, seeing his pupils dilate while he watched her lip move under his thumb. “I need to know. Do you love me?”
He brought his gaze back to hers, their eyes locking as they had the first time they met. His hands went to his neck, and he removed something from under his tunic. It was the necklace that Rachel’s mother made for her, that she had left with Jarl Bjorn. She touched it with her fingers and noticed it held the warmth of his body. Tears welled in her eyes. He’d kept it with him, next to his heart, all along.
“I do. With every drop of my blood, with every part of my soul, with every corner of my heart. I love you, my time traveler.”
&n
bsp; His words melted the last bits of tension within Rachel like fire melted snow, and she allowed herself the broadest, happiest smile of her life.
“Then I will marry you, my Viking.”
She reached up for him and finally claimed the lips she had been craving to kiss for so long. He took her mouth hungrily, as if he feared that the next second she’d be gone, and he needed to take everything he could get. He lifted her with his hands, her legs wrapping around his thighs, her sex pressed against his rock-hard erection, sending waves of pleasure through her as he began walking.
“I must have you,” he growled against her mouth. “Life robbed me of you, and I must replenish all the time I have lost.”
Rachel looked down as he stepped over the hull of the longship. “What? Right here?”
He walked to the furthest corner of the ship, where the piles of sacks and barrels stood. The bottom shifted, making Rachel’s head spin even more and adding to the burning through her whole body. He sank to his knees together with her right behind a little hill of goods.
“Yes. Here. Anywhere.”
They sank to the bottom, shielded now from any prying eyes from the village, and as Kolbjorn’s lips found Rachel’s again, she melted in his strong arms and they breathed and moved as one. Finally, Rachel felt complete, and as she gazed into Kolbjorn’s warm eyes, she knew he felt it, too.
Epilogue
Buskeland, Norway, five years later
Kolbjorn looked over his mead hall, which swarmed with people. Eruptions of laughter, drunken stories, the friendly and unfriendly banter of men who had drunk too much rang around it. The giant, dim room was warm and smelled like a feast: fermented honey, roasted meat, cooked vegetables.
He, as always, had a clear head—clear of alcohol, anyway.
But it was pleasantly full with thoughts of his family, who were near him. His wife sat by his great chair, the auburn-haired witch from the future who had brought him more happiness than he could ever grasp, ever take in. Her hand hung from the chair arm as did his, and they touched ever so slightly, barely noticeable to anyone, the connection of their skin slight but the invisible connection of their souls unbreakable.
The Jewel of Time: Called by a Viking Page 10