A Twist in Time (27 page)

As he watched her silhouette, he saw her nipples peak again. She was aware of him. Her eyes slid to his. He saw both lust and fear there, echoes of the unfamiliar emotions circling inside him. She stared at him, and he could not look away.

He sucked in a breath, almost a gasp. A thought chased itself around inside his head. This was no ordinary lust. It felt like a force on its own, apart from him. Was she a
wicce
indeed? Did she bespell him? He barely suppressed an outraged laugh. Not what his mother wanted for him when she named him Galen, meaning “bespelled one.”

This spell was making him lose his way. He belonged in another time. Lucy was only a means to an end. Contentment was a trap. He must go back as soon as he could to a time when he had value that he might fulfill whatever destiny he had left.

Or maybe he had a new destiny. To be imprisoned by this Brad and his friends, tortured as in Kiev. Only a fearful outline of Galen’s destiny was visible, as though a beast approached through mist. The threads of the Norns, who wove men’s destiny, had been broken by Lucy’s time machine and might never be put right again.

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He shook himself. All men had fear. But men of value pushed down their fear and acted. His action now was to learn the language and get back to strength.

He jerked his gaze away from her witch green eyes. He mustn’t lose his soul to her.

He stood abruptly. “I must sleep.”

She blinked, as though coming to herself. “Yes. Of course. Rest well.” She turned away, her blush creeping up her throat into her face. It made him want to kiss away her embarrassment.

And mayhaps to lose himself forever.

He stumbled aft and shut the cabin door, fumbled at his jeans, pulled his shirt over his head with his left hand and down his injured shoulder, and struggled out of his jeans and boxers. His erection, hard as an oak staff, sprang free. He eased himself down, naked on the bed, on his back so not even the blankets could touch his rod and aggravate his condition. The throb in his shoulder and thigh was pale in comparison to the tight beat of need in his loins. He was sweating, Loki take him, just at the thought of Lucy in the next room, practically outside the door, blushing, wanting him.

He thought of other things. Guthrum’s son. The battle. It didn’t matter. Lucy fought her way into his brain—the way her naked breasts moved beneath the green shirt this morning, the way her lips opened to his on the deck in the wind for all to see.

He groaned.

There was nothing for it. He grabbed his rod and jerked at himself without mercy until his loins contracted and he spurted hot semen across his belly. That would keep him from losing his soul to the green-eyed witch.

But all it did was make him miserable. An emptiness crept into his belly as though he had desecrated his destiny.

Saturday

Lucy was out of the shower and dressed by the time Galen got up. She’d been so relieved last night when he went to bed early and removed the temptation to march over to where he sat and kiss him again that she hadn’t even tried to disinfect his wounds.

And if relief left her feeling bereft, well, at least she’d won the battle with herself. She
had
won, hadn’t she? Then why did it feel like a devastating loss? She’d tossed her pepper spray into the nightstand drawer in disgust. Not only would she probably not resist if he came into her bed, but he obviously wasn’t going to come. And he didn’t.

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Now he came out of the aft cabin like a tousled Norse god, naked and glowering, and marched into the head with a grunt of “good morning.” He carried a batch of clothes under one arm. His genitals were full, if not fully erect.

Lucy blew out a breath and tried turning her attention to the sizzling bacon whose smell was no doubt what had brought him out of his lair. That probably didn’t conceal her blush. Damn her fair coloring. And damn the feeling that seeing him naked and rising put between her legs. She was almost in pain, so suddenly that it seemed that someone had just flipped a switch.
Great.

How was she going to deal with this constant response to him?

The head flushed. The shower started. Her imagination kicked into high gear. This was just untenable.

She realized that the stitches on his thigh had been slightly red. Probably from the irritation of rubbing on his jeans. She sighed.
Okay.
She’d cut some bandages for his thigh and give him the Betadine and the hydrogen peroxide solution. He was well enough to take care of himself at this point. She gathered materials, waited until she heard the shower shut off, then opened the door a crack and thrust the supplies into the steam.

“Bandages for your thigh.” She cleared her throat to get the gravel out of her voice. “You can tend your wounds yourself today.”

Did his hands have to brush against hers as he took the supplies?

“
Thonc
. . . Thanks, Lucy,” he growled, then cleared his throat. They seemed to be afflicted with the same problem this morning.

Lucy snatched back her hand and shut the door with a bang. A month until she heard from Jake? Well, more than three weeks. She was stuck here with Galen until then.
And after? There
must be some way out of this predicament.

Galen’s progress was truly amazing. Agatha Christie’s phrase “mind like a bacon slicer” occurred to Lucy. He remembered all the words she had taught him with very little repetition. He seemed to be able to use them almost immediately in sentences. He had gotten the hang of using Latin roots to understand the meaning of many English words. His accent was still pronounced, but he was pretty much talking in whole sentences without a lot of stopping to figure out words anymore. She swept the crumbs from their sandwiches off the chart and rolled it up. They had hardly used it all morning as he progressed faster and faster.

“Enough for now.”

He sat back. The ports had condensation on the inside. Probably from the heat he and Lucy generated between them. If only her attraction to him would fade as fast as his language progressed. She kept what distance she could in the close quarters, but she couldn’t stop her blushes, or the feeling between her legs. She couldn’t not look at him, or smell his sweet, clean man-scent after his shower. And the cords and blue sweater he’d put on were . . .

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Well, she wasn’t going to think about how they made him look.

And he wasn’t helping, either. The heat in his blue eyes when he looked at her, the fact that he couldn’t keep them off her as he repeated her words . . . Well, the whole lesson had been torture. Breakfast was torture. Lunch was torture. She was practically squirming in her seat with the desire to kiss him, feel his soft lips and his hard muscle. Squirming only made things worse.

“Do you feel up to a walk?” she asked.

He looked as relieved as she felt when he answered “
Ja.
Walk is good.”

Jackets were taken from lockers. She got her bag, just in case. “I saw a trail along the bay when we drove out yesterday.” He wrote “yesterday” with lots of
g
’s.

Then they were out into the brisk air. Clouds piled over the coastal mountain range to the west, but for now the day was crisp and clear. No one seemed to be about on the other boats. Only one car in the lot besides hers. Just as well. She locked the hatch. After all, there was a great big diamond behind the trash compactor and a book she’d been offered a fortune for on the shelf over her bed. Her hair whipped around her. She stopped to twist it into a knot while Galen surveyed the top of the bay. About halfway across you could see where the Petaluma River came in, bringing with it a brown fan of silt from the Sonoma Valley after the storm. Small on the horizon, the San Rafael Bridge arched toward the shipyards of Richmond.

“Storm tonight,” Galen remarked as he swiveled to watch the clouds grow. “We listen to your voices wise in weather later.”

“Radio. It’s a radio.”

“Radio.” He looked as though he was going to hold out a hand to her. But he thought better of it and shoved both of them in the pockets of his leather jacket.

Disappointment again swirled with relief. Did she want him to touch her or not?

They walked up the dock, out the marina gate, and across the parking lot before picking up the little raised trail through the squishy marsh. As they walked single file, Lucy in front, there wasn’t much chance for conversation. That was a relief, too. Too much talking this morning.

Galen’s presence tugged at her, but it seemed all wound up in the lucid day, the wind pinking her cheeks, the sky a blue that made you hurt, the wetlands teeming with tiny flowers of white and pale yellow, rough saw grass, and taller reeds where the water was deeper. Herons stalked among them, and smaller birds swam and flew and fluffed their wings. The marsh smelled like the salt water of the bay and the rich rot of plants giving their nutrients back to the earth. It wasn’t a bad smell. As her limbs loosened, her gait swung more freely. Walking felt good. She’d missed it. As her body warmed, that right feeling returned, as if she and Galen and the day were all in tune.

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They’d walked for a while when a rough plank bench appeared, set on an earthen platform encouraged by railroad ties fitted together into a square like Lincoln Logs. She’d felt Galen’s strength flagging even though she hadn’t turned to look at him. She glanced back now to see that his expression was determined and a little grim. She’d been so enjoying the walk she’d allowed him to overtax himself.

Chagrined, she sat on the bench, patting the seat beside her. “Let’s rest here.”

He did not resist but sat at the opposite end of the bench. That was good. As far away as possible. A small disappointment flashed inside her. He’d obviously thought better of his attraction for her. He didn’t want to kiss her now. While kissing him was almost all she thought about. And the rest of her thoughts were filled with more than kissing. He eased his shoulder against the back of the bench. His pills with breakfast were obviously wearing off.

“How do you feel?” He wasn’t getting that. “How are your wounds?”

“Wounds are enough good,” he grunted in that baritone voice that seemed to rumble in her chest as well as his.

Yeah, right. But what is a Viking warrior going to say? He’ll never admit he hurts.

Either inside or outside,
she thought with some surprise. Which meant he would never want to tell her why he looked ashamed sometimes.
God knows Vikings probably have enough to be
ashamed of. Raping and killing and pillaging and all.

But a Viking wouldn’t be ashamed of that.

So what was it that so hurt him? She wanted to know. She rolled her lip between her teeth as she gazed out over the marsh. Some would call this desolate, but it was quint-essentially alive.

He called it quick. Okay. He wouldn’t tell her all at once. So she’d start obliquely.

“The battle . . . the one you were fighting when I first saw you . . . why did you fight?” Was it for home and family? She’d always assumed he had many women, but maybe he was married with children. Just because a Viking made a pass at her didn’t mean he wasn’t married.

He looked out over the marsh as well, not at her. “I fight for Guthrum, king of the Danelaw, against Egil and his men.”

“Egil seems like a Danish name. I thought the Vikings were fighting Alfred the Great and the Saxons about that time, not each other.”

He glanced to her sharply. “Alfred called is the great king?”

She nodded. “Is called,” she corrected. “The only English king given that honor.”

“He was dead many years by my time. His son Edward the Elder is king of Saxons now.”

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“So weren’t the Danes fighting Edward?”

He looked back out over the sea of reeds and saw grass. “I told my king that Edward would make a good friend to the Danes. Friend who fights together?”

“Ally.”

“Yes. Ally.” He let out a breath. “I thought when the Northmen come from Gaul, Edward and my king, the second Guthrum, could fight together to save their island. But to do that, the Danelaw must remain strong, or all is lost. Egil—he was just a
wearg.
Galen glanced to her.

“
Wearg
?”

“Probably traitor.” She couldn’t remember “traitor” in Latin so she tried, “Betrayer?”

He nodded. “Traitor. I led an army to stop him. To keep the Danelaw whole.” He frowned out over the marsh to the bay beyond. The water was perhaps thirty yards away. There was a little chop from the wind but no waves to speak of this far north.

“You . . . you have a woman there,
lytlings
?” Lucy tried to make it sound casual.

He glanced back to her. His eyes gleamed a little. “Nay, Lucy. Not a woman. Many women, but not
a
woman. No
lytlings.
”

She shrugged, hiding her relief. “Just wondering.” Why was she relieved? He’d just told her he slept around. As she suspected. Of course, to put it in perspective, what man who looked like Galen wouldn’t sow wild oats? These days they called themselves “not the marrying kind.”

He looked back out over the bay. “You know the name of Alfred. Know you Guthrum?”

“No,” she had to answer. “I know the Danelaw, though, and that England was ruled by a Danish king.” His head lifted sharply at that. “Cnut the First.”

He nodded, thinking. “Only one?”

She nodded in her turn.

He shrugged. “The people of my mother prevailed. This is why you remember Alfred.”

“It must have been hard, being a son of both Saxon and Dane.”

He shook his head. “Not so hard. There were many and many. Danes took Saxon wives. We made villages beside the Saxon villages. We traded and spoke. Had sons and daughters.”