My Lord Viking (10 page)

     
Nils raised his head.
 
“Why are you sorry?”

     
“I just said why.
 
I did not want to hurt you more.”

     
“Why not?
 
You are my enemy, too.”

     
“You are mistaken.
 
I have no reason to be your enemy.
 
You should concentrate on finding your true blood-enemy.”

     
He flinched, then moaned.
 

     
“Do not worry about your enemies,” she continued as he looked away.
 
“I shall make certain that you are not left alone again until you can defend yourself.
 
If you would agree to go to the house...”

     
“You see the damage here.
 
Think what Kortsson would do in your father’s house where there are no warriors.
 
The blood I drew from him before he fled would become a river as he slew your family.
 
At least he knows I am here and not within your father’s house.”

     
“I shall make every effort to see that you are safe.
 
There will be someone with you always, and I shall make sure that Jack has a gun.”

     
“A what?”

     
“A weapon that expels a ball of lead at a high speed.”

     
He smiled grimly.
 
“I would like to see this weapon, but I doubt you will trust me enough to do that before you turn me over to your king.”

     
“Why would I do that?”

     
He locked eyes with her, and she nearly recoiled from his fury.
 
“Because I am of the
Norrfoolk
and you are of Britannia.”

     
“
Norfolk
is part of
England
.
 
It is—”

     
“Not
Norfolk
.
 
Norrfoolk
.”

     
Linnea frowned.
 
His pronunciation of the two words was just about the same, but by straining she heard the slight difference.
 
“What is
Norrfoolk
?”

     
“You don’t know?”
 
His laugh was taut.
 
“Do you think me a
daari
that I would believe that?”

     
“What is a
daari
?”

     
“I told you before.
 
It means a fool.”

     
“Would you speak English, for heaven’s sake?”

     
“I do not intend to make your interrogation of me simple, my lady.
 
I will not be your way of gaining favor with your king.”
 
He arched one tawny brow.
 
“Now I understand why you wish to safeguard me from my blood-enemy.
 
The prestige you gain your clan by turning me over to the king will be great.”

     
She laughed as icily as he had.
 
“Keep talking like that, and I will believe you are as mad as the king.”

     
“Do not compare me to that cur.”
 
He pushed himself up to sit, although his bronzed face became even grayer with pain.
 
“Ask me what you will, my lady, but know that, as a
Norrfoolk
, I shall never bow my head to King Ethelred.”

     
“Ethelred?”
 
She gulped, for the first time believing he might be suffering from damage to his mind.
 
“Mr. Bjornsson, the king’s name is George, although his son, the Prince Regent, oversees
England
now.”

     
“Do not attempt to baffle me with lies.”
 
His eyes narrowed.
 
“I should have guessed no Englishman or woman would hold fast to a pledge to be honest.
 
But I had guessed you would choose to lie about something that is harder to prove than who claims
England
’s throne.”

     
“I am not lying!”

     
“Ethelred has no son named George.”

     
“No, of course not.
 
Ethelred was king nearly a thousand years ago.”

     
“Ethelred is king now.”

     
“You are mistaken.”

     
He tore back the sleeve on his left arm to reveal a gold amulet on the firm muscles above his bandaged elbow.
 
“I swear by Thor’s hammer that I speak the truth.”

     
“Thor’s hammer?” she whispered as she looked from his steady gaze to the amulet that was as broad as her palm.
 
Swallowing hard, she reached out a trembling finger to touch the intricately carved gold band that must be worth as much as one of the fine race horses her brother Kenneth bred.
 

     
His hand clamped her finger against the gold.
 
Although his face twisted with pain, he did not let her draw away from his splinted arm.
 

     
“Release me,” she ordered.

     
“By Thor’s hammer, I vow that I shall not until you tell me why you are being false about the truth you know as well as I do.
 
Ethelred is Britannia’s king.”

     
She stared into his eyes.
 
In horror, she realized he wholeheartedly believed what he was saying.
 
Again she tore her gaze from his to look at the band on his arm and the embroidery on his bloodstained tunic.
 

     
She had seen such needlework in the oldest of the portraits of the family ancestors.
 
That woman had a similar pattern on her otherwise simple gown.
 
Intrigued by it, Linnea had read about medieval embroidery in one of her father’s favorite books, which told the tales of the Norsemen who had been the terror of
England
.

     
When Ethelred was king.
 

     
No, there must be some other explanation!
 
Nils might believe what he was saying, but it was impossible.
 
Or was it?
 
She stared at his tawny hair, his wind-scored face, his clothes, his words about a blood-enemy who had tracked him here and whom he had fought off with this knife with odd engraving, this spectacular gold band...

     
They all pointed to the same truth.
 
It was a truth she could not believe, but how could she accept that Nils Bjornsson was a Viking who had somehow slipped from his century to hers?
 
He must be mad.
 
Or mayhap she had been right when she feared that
 
his head had been so badly hurt by his attackers that he saw truth in what he was saying.

     
But she had not been hit upon the head.
 
No one could jump through time, but the undeniable facts were in front of her.
 
He was not like any man she had ever met.
 

     
“Can it be true?” she asked, unsure of every word she spoke.
 
“Have you traveled nearly one thousand years from the past?”

Five

     
“A thousand years?”
 
Nils tried to ignore the memory of Loki’s laugh that was playing through his head.
 
Even this jest was too grand for the lying wizard.
 
Lies!
 
Had Loki put these words in Linnea’s mouth?
 
That made no sense.
 
She was not of the
Norrfoolk
.
 
The people of this island denounced the gods as myths which had no substance.
 
“Why are you trying to fill my head with such a
lygi
?”

     
“A what?”
 

     
“A falsehood.”
 

     
She rose.
 
“I can see this conversation is going nowhere, and I wish to return to the house before the mist becomes rain.
 
I need to discuss this with my father.
 
I bid you a good afternoon, Mr. Bjornsson.”

     
“Wait!”

     
She did not turn.
 
By the straight line of her shoulders, he knew that she was furious.
 
That was confirmed when she said, “I trust, by the time I return, you will have rid yourself of this outrageous assumption that you can order me around as if I am your slave.”
 

     
“Lady Linnea, wait!
 
Please.”

     
“Please?”
 
She paused as her honed laugh struck him like the blow that had landed him in the sand.
 
“I did not guess you knew that word in English.
 
Or even in your own language, whatever it might be.”

     
She vanished down the stairs before he could find the words to answer.
 
He wanted to push himself to his feet and follow, demanding answers to the questions taunting him, but he could not as much as sit.
 
Blinking, he sought to clear eyes that blurred abruptly.
 
Whatever had been in that cup of water still held him captive.

     
“Keep thrashing about,” grumbled a voice behind him, “and you shall finish what your foe started.”

     
Nils looked up at Olive.
 
She was wearing the frown that never seemed far from her lips when Linnea was not here.
 
Olive clearly wished him gone.
 
Tempted to tell her that he would gladly be gone, he closed his eyes and ceded himself to sleep.

     
His dreams were formless, scattered images that made no sense.
 
Yet, there was a sense of desperation, an unrelenting need that stalked him within that gray fog.
 
Questions filled his head, repeating over and over.
 
What had happened to him, and what shape would Loki’s ultimate revenge take on him?
 
And why was that wizard plaguing him?

* * * *

     
“Give him this when he wakes.”

     
Nils recognized that voice even through the pain that clouded his head as he came back to his senses.
 
Linnea Sutherland’s voice had the strength of wind against a sail, but was as light as a landlocked breeze.
 
Never had he guessed that any Englishwoman would possess the powerful will that she did.
 
She was uneasy around him, but she did not shrink with fear as others had on this island when he came here to serve his chieftain and his king.

     
His chieftain!

     
The thought of the vow he had made brought his eyes open like bed curtains thrown back on a new day.
 
He had been asleep long enough for the sunshine to return.
 
Was it another day, or the same one?
 
A caustic laugh seared his throat.
 
Why was he fretting about what day it was when he was not certain what year it was...or century.
 
A shudder raced through him, and he moaned.
 

     
The hushed sound of silk came toward him, and he turned his head to see Linnea dropping to her knees beside him.
 
Too often he had seen her thus, leaning over him, her eyes dim with worry and her lips ready to be kissed.
 
He must be out of his mind, lost in some
saga
that had no basis in truth.
 
No matter the year, she was an Englishwoman, and he was of the
Norrfoolk
.
 
They were enemies.
 
Even if she was helping him, Kortsson lurked not far from here, ready to strike again.

     
Her hand against his forehead was a sweet enchantment.
 
Shutting his eyes again, he savored the delicious sensation of her touch.
 
It offered a connection to something other than pain and the endless repetition of the questions he had no answers for.

     
“How do you feel?” she whispered.

     
He looked up at her, glad that she understood that the ache in his head leapt like a great fish from the sea at every sound.
 
“Better.”

     
“Really?”
 
She smiled.
 
“To own the truth, you look worse.
 
Your bruises are becoming a very unflattering shade of dark blue.”

     
Awkwardly, he pushed himself up to sit.
 
She balanced back on her heels and watched him.
 
That she said nothing pleased him, for she must understand that he had to test his limited strength.
 
Smiling back at her, he needed to keep her from suspecting as well that he must know how much he could do so that he might flee this place and the unexpectedly kind captivity of his enemies.
 

     
“My arm may be broken, but my head aches nearly as much,” he replied, watching her face closely.

     
“It appears someone was determined to knock some sense into your head, Mr. Bjornsson, but it appears that they have failed.”
 

     
“Kortsson is the name of my blood-enemy.”

     
“The name does not matter.”
 
She rested her hands on her knees.
 
“You seem determined to risk your recovery with your impatience.”

     
“I will risk whatever I must to do as I vowed.”

     
“And what is that?”

     
He did not reply.

     
Her shoulders sagged as she sighed.
 
“Mr. Bjornsson, you have no reason to distrust anyone at
Sutherland
Park
.
 
We have given you a haven here and excellent care.”

     
“Yes.”

     
“Very well.”
 
Her lips tightened as her eyes sparked with fury.
 
“I will not intrude on your time any longer.
 
Olive has a tray with your luncheon.”

     
“Luncheon?”

     
“Your midday meal.”
 
She rose and went to get the tray she had left with her servant.

     
He looked past her to the window, ignoring the rumbles in his gut as his body reminded him how long he had been without food.
 
Had it been three days, or more?
 
He could not recall how long he had been lying on the beach waiting for death.
 
If it had been so long, why was Kortsson here, too?
 
His blood-enemy should have gone seeking other prey.

     
More immediate matters caught his attention when Linnea brought the tray to him.
 
Grabbing an oddly-shaped piece of bread off the shining plate, he took a bite.
 
It was almost tasteless and as pale as the foam on top of a wave.
 
Although he had to struggle to swallow, he did.
 
He dipped his finger into the bowl and sampled the broth.
 
His eyes widened.
 
Never had he heard that spices from beyond the land of the Rus were used here in Britannia.
 

     
Instead of giving voice to the questions, he tipped back the bowl and drank deeply of the beef broth.
 
He set the bowl back on the tray.
 
Wiping his mouth on his tattered sleeve, he smiled.
 
“Is there more?”

     
“If you wish...”
 
Linnea motioned to her servant.
 
“Send Jack to the kitchen to bring more soup for Mr. Bjornsson.”

     
As the woman rushed down the steps, Nils put his finger against Linnea’s cheek.
 
Her dark eyes were wide when he tilted her face back toward him.
 
Although he wished he could look deeply into them as he brought her mouth to his, he said, “I have many questions.”

     
“So do I.”

     
Her soft voice was an invitation to give life to his fantasies, but he must focus on finding out where the line was drawn between the truth and his battered brain’s images.
 
Shaking aside the longing to sample her lips, he said, “You tell me that Ethelred no longer reigns in
England
.”

     
“Of course he doesn’t.
 
I told you.
 
He died almost a thousand years ago.”

     
“That is impossible.
 
He was the king of Britannia when I sailed from the land of the
Norrfoolk
.”

     
“That is impossible,” she repeated back to him.
 
“I told you that King George is our sovereign king, although his son serves as his Regent while he is ill.”

     
He gauged her face.
 
Her eyes met his evenly, and her voice was steadier than when he had touched her.
 
She was speaking the truth.
 
At least,
she
believed she was speaking the truth.
 
There were no signs of madness about her.
 
She seemed quite at ease here, as her servants did.
 

     
A pain throbbed through his head.
 
Linnea Sutherland belonged here.
 
Nils Bjornsson did not.
 
Gazing up at the stone ceiling and along the walls, he noted as he should have from the beginning that this building was not made for withstanding an attack.
 
The walls were of stone as few buildings were in Britannia.
 
A lady should live within the wooden walls of a
burgh
, her bedchamber high in the tower on the hill within the walls.
 
From the hushed sound of water below, he knew this building was set above a pond that would provide water in a siege.
 
He could not recall if there were walls surrounding it.

     
He put his hand to his forehead.
 
“Linnea, I am being honest with you when I say to you that when I set foot on these shores, Ethelred was the proclaimed king of this island. If this is not a dream, then...”

     
Her astonishment widened her dark eyes again.
 
“Is that what you believe?” she whispered.
 
“That this is a dream?”

     
“How can it be anything else?”
 
He pushed himself to his feet.
 
When he wobbled as he shifted all his weight to his right foot, she jumped up and stepped forward to steady him.
 
He waved her away.
 
It was time that she realized his pride allowed him to ask for no help, even when he desperately needed it.
 
“I have never seen a building like this one nor clothes like you wear, in Britannia or anywhere else.”