A Twist in Time

Chapter 14

“Well, look who’s up and about,” Lucy said, looking over her shoulder at Galen. He looked tousled and soft with sleep. He’d been out like a light for several hours. Now, in the fading light, barefoot in jeans and a Henley pullover, he looked good enough to eat.

“No wind,” he remarked, easing himself carefully onto the bench around the table.

The boat rocked gently in its slip. “Fog tonight.” She glanced her question to him. He shook his head. “Mist?” she tried.

He quirked his lips and nodded. “Ja. Mist.”

“New storm . . .” She raised her brows. “Storm?”

“It is ilca in my words. Storm.”

“The word is ‘same,’ ” she said automatically. “New storm comes tomorrow night.” Of course the basic words for weather were the same. Weather endured. The Earth endured, though it might be embattled just now.

“How do you know this?” he asked.

Uh-oh. That was a tough one. He’d think she was a witch again. She bent to the refrigerator and opened the door while she thought. Pulling out the sour cream, she scooped out a cup for her dill sauce. “Wise men can learn to know what weather will come. They tell us.”

“They know weder? Storm? Wind?”

“Weather,” she corrected. “They are not always right.” Galen gave a look of frustration that he didn’t know all the English words. He’s been at it what, two days? He pushes himself so hard.

He frowned. “Were they here that they tell you of this?” He obviously didn’t like to think others had been on the boat while he had slept.

Well, she might as well show him now as later. She reached over to the radio on the bar and turned the knob.

“And now, the marine forecast,” the announcer’s voice said, right on cue, sounding slightly tinny. Galen lurched to his feet in a crouch.

“It’s okay.” She raised her hands, palms out. “It’s okay. It’s like the far-seer.” She pointed to the small flat screen mounted on the wall in the salon. “Men in other places speak. We hear them through this.” She pointed to the radio and turned it off.

He heaved a breath and sat back down. She could see he was troubled. “Your time is not the same as mine. I do not belimp here.”

Belimp . . . belimp. Limp? Context was wrong. “Belong?” He looked away. What could she say to that? He so did not belong here, no matter that he looked the part now.

“I am like a bearn . . . a lytling.” He looked disgusted with himself. “Not like a man.”

Those words she understood. She turned down her sauce and went to sit beside him. His analogy was pretty good. He was like a child learning a new environment. But that meant the problem was temporary. “We all learn about radios and TVs and cars. You will learn, Galen.” She knew the word for learn was the same—they had been through that this morning. He turned his head away. He must not want her to see the pain in his eyes. And why wouldn’t he be in pain? Far from all he knew, all those he cared about. Not sure whether he would ever get back. “I do not belong in your time, either. I was there only a moment, and I almost died.”

He was silent for a moment. “You are not a duguth, Lucy.”

She shook her head, signifying she didn’t understand.

“Wigend?” He sighed and used the Latin.

“Warrior,” she supplied. “I understand. But there are many ways to fight. Fight?”

He nodded.

“You fight to learn the words. You fight to heal your wounds. That is enough for now.”

“It is not enough.” Before he turned his head away, she saw the look of shame flicker across his eyes.

That right there was what she wanted to know about him. Why he got that look in his eyes. He had opened the door. She could ask him why he said that. But wanting a tit-for-tat revelation because she’d said things about herself she hadn’t meant to say was petty revenge. She patted his forearm instead. The contact made her thrill even through his shirt.

“You are too hard on yourself.” He looked up, a puzzle in his eyes. They seemed to see right into her. She broke the moment by standing. “What you need is food. Yes?”

“Ja, Lucy. I am hungry. Like hors. You have horses?”

“Ahhh. Beautiful horses. I rode as a child. Lytling.” She liked that word.

“I have a strong horse. No, had a strong horse. He is long dead.” Galen sighed. “His hide was frfaexen.”

“We would call him a chestnut.”

“You have horse now?”

“No. No horses in the city.” She got up and went back to the tiny galley.

“Hund?”

“No. No dog.”

“Mother?”

She shook her head. “Dead when I was lytling.”

“You have women who are friends?”

“I have kept much to myself since my father died.”

“Only Jake and this Brad.” Her lips would not behave. Galen said Brad’s name with such disdain. “You need more friends, Lucy.”

He probably had lots of friends. Female friends. She didn’t like the feeling that brought on. “Perhaps you’re right.” She had thought just this afternoon that he might become a friend.

“Oh, I have the right of it? You besyrwast me.”

She could tell by the sarcastic tone of his voice he probably meant “surprise.” She checked with him in Latin. Yep. “The word is ‘surprise.’ ”

She was surprised herself. Who knew Vikings could be sarcastic? She couldn’t help the crinkle in her eyes as she bent to take out the salmon. As she moved around the galley, he kept it light, asking the words for food, for the actions she took. She turned on the lights, and the gently rocking boat was bathed in a soft glow. The feeling of rightness washed over her again, unrelated to kisses and the almost constant pull she felt to his body. It was a deeper, more satisfying rightness, comfortable, certain. Lucy had never felt anything like it, not even when her mother was alive. It was as if this was where Lucy belonged, talking softly to a half-Saxon, half-Viking warrior as she made him salmon for dinner. Brad and Colonel Casey were far away. Her fears and doubts seemed almost foolish.

Sated, Galen watched her wash up the dishes. She had made him a fine dinner. Beef and a bowl of lettuces and a roasted wyrt she called potatoes. It was a woman’s place to cook, but she had provided even the food, much to his shame. Her red hair glowed in the light of the lamps, the movements of her body endlessly fascinating. What a kind woman she was, generous. In other times, if he were another man, he would have felt . . . content.

He puzzled over the thrumming rightness he had felt sometimes in the last days. Was it some kind of a call? He had felt it when he kissed Lucy today. Her mouth was sweet, yielding. He had felt her nipples peak against his ribs. She was a tiny thing but strong of spirit. Still, she had trembled as they walked down the dock. She was not afraid of him physically, in spite of the differences in their strength. Was she afraid of what she felt for him?

He understood that. He was drawn to her. He wanted her as he had never wanted a woman, not because he had not spilled his seed of late, not because he was dependent on her. That was abhorrent to him still. He needed Lucy in such a deep way that . . .

It was if some foreign thing possessed him, growing inside him and straightening his cock. Even now, as he watched her reach to place a dish in a high cupboard, the curve of her breast made a drumbeat in his loins. He had desired many women in his life. But this was something else, growing more urgent, more insistent every moment. He needed to make love to Lucy. He needed to protect her. Claim her. Something inside him said that if he did, everything would be all right.

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.

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.

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 . . .

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.

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.”

“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.”

“I thought you just burned the Saxon villages and raped the women.” At his incensed look she said hastily, “Sorry, but I did.”

She saw him working at the thought a minute. “Sometimes, what you say is sooth. Good men there were and yful or stupid. That is a way to take the land, if there is no choosing of another way. But it is not the way to hold the land. My father did not take land thus.”

“And the women were wives, not concubines?” She used the Latin word for “concubines.”

Now he looked really insulted. “Saxon women come to the bed of Danir men freely. Why not? We bathe many more times than Saxon men.”

She tried not to smile. “Well, that would do it.” Yeah. What was she thinking? Like any Saxon woman with half a hormone wouldn’t jump into bed with Galen. Sitting there, all glowery, with his hair blowing back from his face and his blue eyes burning, he was making Lucy’s body react in its usual way. She had to think of something else. Anything else. But she couldn’t think of anything else but Saxon women coming to his bed. He’d be naked, because he seemed to like to be naked. . . .

He cleared his throat. “You say there were many English kings?”

“There is one today. Well, a queen.”

He looked astonished at that.

“And her husband,” Lucy hastened to add. “But she is the queen. Elizabeth.”

“She rules, and not her husband?”

“Oh yeah,” Lucy chuckled. “No question about that.”

He nodded after a minute. “This is good. King or queen, it is good that they are Englisc. The kingdom is still there. I . . . what is action word for ‘fright?’ ”

“ ‘Fear.’ ”

“I feared the kingdom would fall to the North-men who settled in Gaul.”

“North-men?”

“From Northway.”

She blinked. Norway, settled in Gaul. North-men . . . could he mean . . . ? “Normans? Normans were actually from Norway? ”

“Ja. They have that name. But they did not take the island. This is good.”

She raised her brows in apology. “But they did. Normans conquered England in 1066.”

His jaw worked and he looked away. “All I fight for is like nothing.”

He must love his island much. He had certainly sacrificed for it. He was not only a brave warrior but also a principled one. She had to give him comfort. “You kept them away for a hundred and fifty years.” That wasn’t doing the trick. There it was again, that look. Was he ashamed that he had not single-handedly staved off the Norman invasion? “It was bad to be Saxon for a time. But . . . but England just . . . absorbed them.” She looked to see if he understood. “Ate them? They became English just like Danir. Their words are in our language just as Danish words are today.”

“What Danish words do you have today?”

“ ‘Skirt’? ‘Skill’? ‘Gate’? ‘Law’?”

His expression grew thoughtful and not quite so bleak. “Ja. Danish words.”

“Same with Norman words. But now it is all English. Just a bigger English.”

He thought about that. “Same here in America,” she continued. “Men and women of many lands are here. But all are American. And we all speak English. Well, most of us sooner or later. We were once in thrall to English kings. We fought many battles to be free. But we still speak English.”

“The words are quick.”

He meant “alive.” She nodded.

“They wefan us together.”

Did he mean weave? He must.

“Is this a big kingdom?” he asked.

“Very big. Not a kingdom, though. The people here choose who leads them. We call the king a president. Every man and every woman has a choice who will rule. We call it a vote.”

“This is a strange time. Choosing kings.” He looked bleak. He must be feeling lost.

“Not so strange. Men and women haven’t changed. We still want the same things.”

Oh, that was a bad subject to raise. His eyes grew heated, if blue could burn. But instead of sliding closer to her, he actually pushed himself farther into the corner of the bench. She didn’t understand. One minute he seemed to lust after her, and the next he was acting like she had the plague. Or maybe he was trying to keep his promise.

Like she could be attractive to a man like Galen. But he was a Viking. He’d been in a war. Probably hadn’t . . . hadn’t fucked anybody for a while. She cringed at the word. But that would be all it was to him. She was just available.

That made her feel small. Before she knew what she was doing she had risen, just because she’d become uncomfortable in her skin. “Are you rested?”

“Nay, Lucy. Sit.” She sat with some anxiety on the edge of the bench. He swallowed, trying to work up to something. “What will be . . . what happens here, Lucy? We hide. I heal. Then . . . what? Do you know where is this Brad? Will he make the machine work again?”

This was what she hadn’t wanted to think about for the last days. She took a breath. “I know where he is. He will fix the machine if he can. He will understand that you must go back to your year to make time right. But the others who are with him . . . they are unknown.” Again she looked out over the marshes, as though to absorb some of their peace and vitality. “They took all I have. Had. They are looking for me. I don’t know what is in their hearts.”

“They are yful?”

“Maybe not evil. Just angry at me.”

He looked a question at her. “Wrathful?”

She nodded, feeling a little forlorn. “Maybe they think I stole the machine.”

“You did not steal this machine. It was the Norns who set your course and mine.”

“Maybe I should go to Brad and his friends and tell them what happened. Maybe then you could go home.” Something almost like pain snaked its way from her belly to her heart at that. “It is not good for you to stay here.” Was it? Confusion rolled around in her stomach.

“Jake is wise man. He thinks you should hide from Brad.”

“Jake is mad.” She tapped her temple. “He sees enemies everywhere.” She had to use the Latin for “enemy” before Galen understood.

Galen shook his head, thinking. “Jake is not mad. Our way is not yet clear, Lucy. For now we will not seek this Brad. Or his friends.”

“I wish I knew what to do. How will we get the machine? If Brad’s friends want to imprison you, then you can’t get back to your time, and who knows what will happen when you are not where you were meant to be?”

He pushed himself up from the bench. She could feel the fear in him. They had that in common. But he straightened his shoulders gingerly and set his jaw.

“The Norns have not yet shown us their threads. But we will know them, soon or late.”

That was hardly comforting. She wished she had his courage.