Undercurrent (17 page)

“
My lord.”

“
Think, man!” Temptation to knock Alarik back to the ground twitched Ragnar’s foot inside his boot. What was happening to him? Anger, envy, desire—scorched his conscience like an untamed wildfire. “Alarik, I am sorry, truly, but your choice to return to Rogaland so soon is ill thought.”

“
Have I not said I release you from coming with me?” His cousin’s easy grin faded, and he looked past Ragnar to where a drove of pigs snuffled and rolled in the river bank’s mud. “I should never have left Signy behind. Not a moment passes that I don’t think of her. What kind of man am I to leave her to Torolf’s devices?”

“
Steinn watches over her. He will be true to his word. Was he not a fearsome foe against those marauders last winter’s melt?”

A gleam flickered in Alarik’s eyes, but as quickly died. “And what of my ailing father?” He pulled his gaze from the wallowing swine. “What kind of son would be slow to attend his bedside? My name is stained with enough blame. Nay, I must go back.”

Pig stench, strong and determined as Alarik’s words, wafted up from the river. Ragnar exhaled, wishing he wouldn’t have to, but knowing he would breathe in again—just as he would once more lay aside his desires for the wants of another. This time, though, the wound would not be visible. “Hermod bears the strength of Magnus plus more. He will not tarry overlong on a sickbed. He is strong. Signy is well tended. Your life will be forfeit if you return before the assembly convenes. I would that you think on what I am saying before you give your final word.

“
But know this, cousin,” he rested a hand on Alarik’s shoulder and squeezed, as much for reassurance as for strength to force out his next words. “I will not forsake you now. If you leave at first light, it shall be with me at your side.”

SIXTEEN

Cassie thumped her heel against the side of the raised wooden platform where she sat. If she could land a good jab on the shin of the big man who sat across the game board from her, she would. “Hey, fella, it’s your turn.”

He didn’t move. Not even a twitch. Slack-jawed, he kept his eyes fixed on Gwenn, who busied herself with carding wool on a stool near the loom.

Thump, thump, thump. Cassie’s kicking had no effect, either. “Magnus!”

His head swiveled like a barn owl. What a pair he and Tammy would make. They deserved each other. She almost lit a smile, but crankiness snuffed it out.

“
It Magnus turn?”

“
Yes, or ja…whatever.”

His hairy-knuckled hand hovered over the game board. “Whatever? What mean whatever?”

She should probably don her instructor tone and explain. Or at the very least, be grateful this simple man had spent the past week unknowingly teaching her much about Old Norse and the improper usage of verbs and pronouns. Instead, she resumed her thumping, the rhythmic tapping strangely soothing. “It means move your game piece.”

“
Ahh.” He nodded and slid a wooden token across the board much farther than he should have. “Whatever, Cass-ee.”

“
Magnus, you can’t, that’s not…” No good. He’d already turned his attention back to Gwenn. Cassie picked up one end of the board and flipped it, sending round discs skittering in all directions. The slab of polished mahogany hit the ground with a satisfying smack.

Gwenn flinched at the sound, and finally Magnus focused on Cassie. “Cass-ee have trouble?”

“
Ja, Cassie have trouble. You betcha Cassie have trouble. I’m stuck in this dreary, third-world shack playing mindless games with a Viking who cheats. My ankle is purple, my toes yellow, all of which are the size of Detroit, not to mention there’s no ibuprofen in sight. I haven’t decided which is worse, the pain or Anna’s nasty teas. And it’s so filthy around here, I’m probably incubating some kind of dreaded disease even as I speak. I’m bored. I’m crabby. I’m tired of going nowhere but the stupid backyard with the putrid outhouse, and now I’m raving like a medieval lunatic!”

Magnus blinked, Gwenn gasped, but neither said a word. Cassie leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. Of course they didn’t understand her. She’d blended in more English than anything. She used to be able to control her tongue, to actually think analytically before she spoke, but now…foreign words and unleashed thoughts funneled directly from her brain through her mouth. As she blew out a long, slow breath, irritation gave way to despair. “I just want to get out of here.”

“
I will take you, Cassie.”

Her lids popped open. Ragnar stood before her, his usual swath of paperbag brown hair covering half his face so she couldn’t tell what his expression meant.

Brushing back her own bangs, she considered his offer. Though he’d given her no cause for distrust, she still wasn’t sure of him. That first day he’d come, he’d had a rather heated discussion with Alarik—several times. Some kind of strange tension kept them here at Kier’s house, and she sensed Alarik would’ve left by now if it weren’t for Ragnar. Alarik appeared to trust him, though. And she was dying to escape her ankle-enforced house arrest. She scooted to the edge of her seat. “That would be good. Thank you.”

Before she could reach for the crutches Kier had fashioned, Ragnar grabbed them away and removed a generous amount of wool fluff from Gwenn’s basket. He rifled through a few more baskets before retrieving a strip of cloth, then set about cushioning the top braces. Cassie’s chafed armpits felt better just watching him.

Ragnar offered his arm, and she pulled herself up. She put her full weight on the crutches, bypassing her sore foot as she moved around. Oh yeah, the stuffing worked a mini miracle all right. “Wow. That’s great. Thanks.”

He shrugged and headed toward the door. “Køm.”

The pace he set suited her well. Jorvik bustled in the early afternoon, and it was wonderful to be out among the living instead of cooped up with a cheating giant. “Seems like I’m always telling you thanks, but really, thanks. The walls were starting to close in on me.”

“
Give your thanks to Jesu. I am but a servant.”

Right—not that she had overmuch experience with servants, but he wasn’t like any servant she’d ever seen. With nothing better to do this past week, she’d spent her time under Kier’s roof studying these people’s dynamics. Ragnar radiated an aura of power, not servitude. In the real world, he’d be sporting an Armani in a corner office and driving a Porsche. “So how do you know Alarik?”

“
He is my cousin.” He glanced sideways at her before answering. “You did not know?”

“
There’re a lot of things I don’t know. Alarik’s a nice guy and all, but he’s not real big on talking. To me, anyway.”

He nodded, half a grin lighting his face. “Your speech is uncommon, but ask your questions. I will answer what I can.”

“
All right.” She waited until a rattling cart passed by, fighting the tickle in her throat from the kicked up dust. “First off, I’m wondering where my brooch is and where you got it.”

“
Alarik holds the brooch for now, but I think you are mistaken in its ownership.”

“
I spent four hundred dollars on that pin. Believe me, buddy, it’s mine.”

He stopped and turned to her, searching her face for…what? Truth? She lifted her chin and stared him down.

The half of his face not covered by his perpetually shaggy hair revealed a grimace. “Then I pray to Jesu for mercy on your soul.”

His intent look caught her off guard. What in the world did that mean? A nervous laugh escaped her lips. “You make it sound like I’m a murderer or something.”

Beneath his tan, he paled visibly. “What do you know of murder?”

“
What?” She didn’t need to be a linguist to see they were operating on different wave lengths. “You’re the one with the uncommon speech now.”

He studied her a moment more before a smile peeked through his closely shorn beard. “Well said.” With a nod, he indicated their walk should resume.

They didn’t go far before he swept his arm toward an open shop door. He needn’t have. The scent of baking bread wafted out, hooked her nose, and reeled her in.

Golden loaves. Glazed cakelike mounds. Thick, flat pastries, larger than cookies, lined two shelves above bags of different grains. Her mouth watered. Anna never made anything like these.

“
Choose, Cassie.” Ragnar flipped a coin into the air. Scurrying from a backroom, the shopkeeper snatched it as he might a fly.

She nodded toward a plate-sized pastry dotted with what she hoped were currants. “That looks good.”

Ragnar retrieved her treat, and she followed him out the door. He paused beside a bench planted against the bakery.

“
Here.”

Juggling her crutches, she sat, leaning them on one end of the bench while Ragnar settled at the other. When he placed the cookie-thing in her lap, she couldn’t help but feel like a fifteen-year-old out on a date—and that felt as comfortable as her sore foot. This was more humbling than vying for department grant money.

After breaking the pastry in half to share, she took a bite. It was a bit grainy, probably high in fiber, but sweet and surprisingly tender on the inside. “Mmm, this is really good. What is it?”

He stopped chewing. “You have not had sweetmeats before?” His brow furrowed. “To whom did you belong before Alarik?”

“
What are you talking about? I don’t belong to Alarik.”

A grimace flattened his lips. “I know. It is that which I must speak of. If I free you, Cassie, I fear for your safety, for you will have no protector. Yet it is against my beliefs to own a thrall—”

“
Thrall! You’re calling me a thrall?” She lowered her voice and her pastry. “Listen, buddy, I might be stuck here, but I’m no slave. I’ve got more knowledge, more education, than Jorvik’s population combined. A thrall. Hah. That’s a good one.”

He looked away, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand before speaking. “I will say no more of it for now, for I see I have angered you. I am sorry.”

Sorry? Wow. This guy was night-and-day different from Alarik. How many times had he made her angry and never once apologized?

She glanced at the half-eaten pastry in her lap, shame leaving a bitter aftertaste. Whether he thought he owned her or not, he couldn’t have been more considerate. A sigh deflated her. “It’s not you. I’m angry in general, I guess. I miss my home. My job. Shoot, I even miss Tammy in a psychotic kind of way.”

He frowned and shook his head. “Your words, I cannot—”

“
I know. You can’t understand.” Why should he? Drew hadn’t understood her either, and they spoke the same language. The familiar pang of loneliness that dogged her at home had followed her here. Really, all she had left at home was a job, and maybe not even that thanks to this unexplained leave-of-absence. Though Ragnar was a good listener, she didn’t feel like talking anymore. She filled her mouth with pastry and chewed, thankful for the diversion.

“
You hide much pain, I think.”

His tone sent a shiver through her, not unlike the disappearing shopkeeper, and she jerked up her head. His one-eyed gaze searched hers, solemn and sincere. And very unnerving.

She brushed the crumbs from her lap and fumbled with the crutches. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Thanks for the treat and the walk. It’s been great.”

“
Truly. My pleasure.”

He probably smiled but it was hard to tell since she refused to look at him. What kind of gallant Viking was this? He even made sure to walk on the traffic side—even if traffic consisted of only wagons, horses, and people.

By the time they neared Kier’s house, the exercise made her a little lightheaded, and her ankle throbbed. Propping it up on that platform would feel mighty—

“
Magnus sorry. Magnus sorry!”

Magnus burst out the front door. Kier followed, brandishing a lethal scowl and a sharp knife. “You are a dead man!”

Ragnar sprang, knocking Kier face-first into the dirt. They rolled, and Ragnar put all his effort into keeping the blade at arm’s length. Even with his youthful advantage, his smaller size could not match Kier’s brawn. Mayhap he should’ve let Magnus take his own blows, though the big man was long gone by now.

Kier shrugged him aside, but before he could gain solid footing, Ragnar grasped his lower leg and twisted. Kier whumped back in the dirt. The man growled, then flipped, jabbing a sharp kick into Ragnar’s abdomen. Pain stabbed as sharp as if Kier had used his knife. Ragnar stumbled to his feet, doubled over, and gasped.

“
Stop it!”

Cassie’s voice cut through the hurt as sharp and clear as the shame in knowing that she’d watched Kier best him. If his face wasn’t enough to keep him from gaining her affection, this humiliation surely would drive her away. Please, Jesu, no.

“
You gave your word that my Gwenn would meet no harm. A lying tongue will not be kept.” Kier charged forward.

Ragnar forced his body upright, pivoting as Kier’s blade plunged. The swift movement stole Kier’s balance, and using all his strength, Ragnar struck the big man’s forearm. The knife fell. Both men pitched forward, reaching, fingers splayed. The space of a breath would determine the weapon’s new owner.

Though his gut burned, Ragnar strained, his fingertips barely a knuckle ahead of Kier’s. Close now. He could almost feel the carved haft clenched in his palm. His arm became a taut bowstring ready to snap. Closer, ever closer, until his hand clenched the prize—