My Lord Viking Read online

  “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 an
yone 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.”

  “You should not be standing. You will injure yourself more.”

  “I refuse to wait here for my blood-enemy to put an end to me.”

  When Linnea laughed tightly, he was astonished. She fisted her hands on her hips, giving him an enticing view of the splendid curves of her very feminine form. He pulled his eyes from that tantalizing sight to meet her gaze when she said, “Your enemies will have no need to put an end to you if you do them a favor and kill yourself by trying to do too much too soon. Yesterday, you were senseless, except for an apparent brain fever that drove you mad, and you...”

  “I could not have destroyed that bench when I am bandaged like this.” He frowned at his arm. “I could not raise an ax from the floor.”

  “And you shall not be able to for a long time when you risk your recovery by trying to walk across the room as if nothing had happened to you.”

  “Do not treat me like a witless child.”

  “Only a witless child would act so and risk recovery simply for pride’s sake.” She turned away when her servant rushed back up the stairs and to her side, an expression of anxiety and disbelief on her face.

  Nils muttered a curse under his breath. Loki must be enjoying Linnea’s arrogance when she treated him like a witless babe.

  “It is fine, Olive,” Linnea said. “I am fine.”

  “But he—”

  Linnea glanced back at him, her face blank of any emotion. “He is excitable. Once he realizes where he is and that he is safe from his attacker, he will calm down.”

  “Attackers,” Nils interjected quietly. “Kortsson was the last.”

  “More than one?” the woman named Olive asked. Her face became as gray as his must be beneath his bruises. “What if they come to the house, my lady? What if—?”

  Firing him a furious scowl, Linnea steered her maid back to a chair next to the window by the stairs. “Sit here and watch for Jack to return with Mr. Bjornsson’s soup.”

  “I would rather look out the window and see if anyone is approaching.”

  “I doubt they will come up the road.”

  Nils was surprised when a laugh tickled the back of his throat. Linnea Sutherland had the clear eyes of a warrior, seeing the truth that others might choose to ignore in the midst of their panic. Keeping the laugh from escaping, he wore no expression as Linnea walked back to him. He struggled to focus his eyes on her face and not on the gentle sway of her hips.

  “You should sit,” she said, her tone still taut.

  “How can I sit when I am filled with questions about what has happened to me?”

  “You should sit, so you can recover from what happened to you.” She motioned toward an iron bench by an open window.

  When had that been brought here? Linnea and her servants were determined that no other bench would be shattered to kindling.

  Nils hopped on his good leg to it. When he glanced at her, she was not smiling. Was she sympathetic or hiding another emotion? He did not ask as he eased himself back onto the bench.

  When she poured something into a goblet and brought it to him, he was pleased to sip the fragrant wine. He never had sampled anything so dulcet. Letting his shoulders ease back against the wall behind him, he watched as Linnea sat on a stool in front of him. She might be sitting below him, but there was nothing subservient in her pose.

  “Thank you.” He chuckled. “I assume that is another phrase you did not guess I knew in my language or yours.”

  A lovely color brightened her cheeks. “That was rude of me to say.”

  “When did the truth become considered rude?”

  “You are a guest here at Sutherland Park, and it was inappropriate for me to say.”

  Swirling the wine in the bright blue glass, Nils regarded her closely as he lowered his voice. “I also recall you saying that Ethelred is no longer king of England.”

  “Not for almost a thousand years.” She stiffened, and he knew she was as uneasy with this turn of the conversation as he was. “It is 1817.”

  “That term means nothing to me.” Nils looked away from the abrupt compassion on her face. He did not w
ant to be pitied. He was a warrior. Draining the goblet, he set it on the windowsill beside him.

  “Ethelred was king of England around the year we would have called 990.”

  He clenched the fingers on his right hand into a fist. Slamming them into the arm of the bench, he ignored the shock on Linnea’s face and how her servant whirled in her seat to stare at him, her eyes wide with terror. How could he have been so foolish? He had spoken of his need, hoping that Freya would heed his request to be left behind to finish his search when she had taken the other fallen warriors to Valhalla. She had heard him, but, for some reason he had yet to discover, had sent his plea to Loki. That wizard of mischief must have contrived this plan to keep him from both his reward in death and his hopes in life... and sent Kortsson with him into this time.

  Slowly he glanced at the window. The very window where Loki had perched in his dream. But had that been as real as what was around him now? He resisted the taunting laugh that throbbed through his head. His voice or Loki’s? The dream may have been real, and this truly might be the nightmare he could not flee. But he could not imagine that even a fevered dream brought on by the festering of his wounds would create such a journey to the future.

  “Mr. Bjornsson, I am so sorry,” Linnea whispered. “I know it makes no sense to you. It makes no sense to me, but I know what year it is. It is 1817. Search your mind. You will see that you know that, too.”

  “I know Ethelred is king of England.”

  “But I told you—”

  He snarled a curse at her. Heaving himself again to his feet, he hopped to where a window opened on the sea side of this building. Ignoring the pain raging in his head, he fumbled as he tried to open the shutters on the window with a single hand. Several of the slats hung broken. When Linnea’s slender fingers reached to unhook the stubborn latch, he caught her wrist.

  Her servant shouted a warning, but Linnea did not make a sound as he tugged her closer, keeping her from undoing the latch. Had Olive’s warning been for Linnea or for him? he wondered when the soft scent of whatever she used to clean her hair drifted toward him, as luscious as the first blossoms after a long winter. Her curves pressed against him were as seductive as the allure of the sea.