Undercurrent (5 page)

Ragnar would not even blink.

“
Come, come.” His father’s voice lowered to a whisper. “This God of yours, this Christ. He would not want you to lie. Is that not against His law?”

With the back of his hand, Ragnar wiped the blood from his mouth, then set his jaw.

His father’s eyes hardened. “To Niflheim with you, then. Valhalla will not have you.” His cheeks worked, and a wad of spittle splattered onto Ragnar’s face.

Gerlaich rose to full height and snatched Signy’s wrist, slamming her up against him. “Has he told you?”

There was nothing Ragnar could do to protect her, and he nearly cursed aloud his helpless body. “Let her go, Father. She knows nothing.”

His father searched Signy’s face, then looked down at Ragnar. With a growl, he released the girl and spun away. As he stomped toward the door, his last words hovered on the air with the hearth smoke. “Hermod the Black will not be disgraced by the unavenged death of his heir. A jarl deserves better than that, and I will see to it by right of einvigi.”

Ragnar sagged against the mattress. Einvigi, an unrestrained duel of honor between Gerlaich and Alarik, would leave either his father or his friend dead.

FOUR

Cassie’s head throbbed, pain beating a staccato with each heartbeat. Even her eyelids hurt. Not a migraine. Please don’t be a migraine.

She shifted in her warm bed. No, not a bed. Hard. Lumpy. But definitely warm. Groggy as if she had slept for days, she fluttered her eyes open to streams of light peeking in from under a cloth ceiling, then froze. Steady breathing lifted and lowered the broad chest of a man lying next to her. His body heat radiated out to embrace her, and his hand draped casually across her thigh.

Rocketing to her feet, she hurdled the man and staggered outside. Dizziness swirled greens and browns into a blur. Daylight shocked her pupils, and she flattened both hands against her temples until her vision sharpened.

The big man gave a sleepy groan and rolled over, squinting at her from beneath a dirty canvas tarp. Wow. She’d never had a headache cause hallucinations before.

Or was she dreaming? Her pulse quickened as she studied him. He wore his dark hair pulled back, but stray wisps framed even darker eyes, eyes that spoke of kindness but not necessarily safety. Skin tanned to burnished gold highlighted his face above a trimmed beard. Gym junkie muscles defined his clothes.

And what about those clothes? He looked like some kind of medieval actor fresh off a Hollywood set.

She glanced around, disoriented. Trees. Oak. No, monster oaks. She stood in a gigantic old-growth forest. Impossible yet undeniably real. Pressing her fingertips to her forehead, she tried to regroup. Maybe she simply stood in some pocket of virgin forest protected inside a national park or something.

“
Beztr?”

The man spoke with a resonant voice, one she might’ve heard in concert at King’s College. She leaned closer, hoping to detect his dialect. “Sorry. What did you say?”

Like a lion’s stretch after a long nap, his languid motion mesmerized as he slid from beneath the tarp and stood, a good head taller than her. His gaze traveled the length of her body, and he stepped close—too close for a stranger. She must know him, but who? From where?

He passed her by, strolled ten or so yards, then stopped and fumbled with the hem of his long shirt. When the sound of plants being watered met her ears, she jerked her head away. Her cheeks burned, and a rush of blood echoed in her ears, compounding the unrelenting headache.

She would not stay with this rude man, whoever he was. But where to go? Nothing looked familiar.

A trampled-down path led away from the tarp-tent. As she followed it, twigs bit the exposed flesh unprotected by her sandals, and an occasional nettle reached out to snag her skirt.

The short trail ended at a steep, jagged bank. Grasping a small tree trunk, she leaned out far enough to see the bottom. Slimy green boulders hugged the edges of the wandering river. To her left, a scattering of rocks reached into the water, and a boat rested halfway into the lazy current. Though the hull was shallow, the water must’ve been deep enough to allow it access up the river this far. A tide perhaps. Was she near the ocean then?

Questions cycloned in her head. Darkness edged in from the periphery of her vision while sparkles glittered at the center. Dizziness returned, and the world swayed. She flailed for the sapling to hold her upright, but the ground gave way beneath her.

Strong arms encircled her from behind and pulled her up, snuggling her against a solid chest. She should probably not let the man tote her around like this, but her head hurt too much to really care about impropriety.

He set her down in a nest of ferns near the tent, then rummaged in a big canvas sack she hadn’t noticed before. He returned to her side and squatted, holding out a skin canteen that looked like a Renaissance relic.

“
Slökkva.”

The velvet brown of his eyes and the softness of his voice implied that he meant her no harm. Her traitorous tongue darted out over dry lips. Maybe just a sip. She reached for the canteen, hesitant. Who knew how many viruses lurked on the rim—but thirst trumped caution, and she lifted the stained container to her lips. Fresh, wonderful water spilled into her mouth and down her chin as she drank. When she couldn’t hold another drop, she returned it and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Thanks.”

A broad grin lit the man’s face, and he closed the top.

The pain in her head lessened, and she leaned back into the ferns. “I think I’ll just rest here for a minute, if you don’t mind.”

The man said no more. Though her eyes were closed, she couldn’t fully relax with the way he rustled about the campsite. The sound grated, almost as annoying as one of her college students during—

Leaning forward, she wrapped her arms about her knees, a favorite thinking position since kindergarten. In this tight ball she’d solved calculus in high school, deciphered Beowulf in college, even mapped out her thesis for her Masters in linguistics. Is that why she thought of college students? But she’d finished college…

A breeze danced through the leaves and reached down to chase her hair from her neck. One strand refused to comply and tangled in her earring. As she freed the wayward lock, a gear shifted in her mind. Déjà vu tingled down her backbone. She’d had the same snarling problem when she’d last stood on a dock.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Drew.

She’d been talking to Drew on a dock. Talking about something she didn’t want to remember.

Fast forward. Just fast forward. She hugged her knees tighter. A vague guilt, like the shirking of some kind of responsibility nagged her, but nothing else.

Okay, then rewind. A few disconnected snippets of co-eds and phone calls played tag around the edge of her thoughts, but nothing firm enough to grab. She sighed, frustrated. Maybe if she slept off the headache, everything would make sense. She stretched out her legs and rested her head against the tree.

“
Minna.” The man’s voice brought an abrupt end to that plan.

She debated whether to answer but finally opened her eyes. The man hunched near, holding out a handful of some kind of granola. The water had been good, but just looking at the berry-nut mixture brought acid to the back of her throat. “No. No, thanks.”

He nodded and inched his hand closer. Cassie sealed her lips and exaggerated a slow-motion head shake. The man frowned but stood, then downed the snack in one big bite. He wiped his palm on the edge of his tunic and reached for her.

She let him pull her up, unsure how steady her balance would be, and waited for the dizzy feeling to swirl in again. Nope. Nothing started spinning. So why did he keep ahold of her?

He lifted her wrist to eye level, squinting at the gold chain she wore. She jerked back her hand, the swift movement resuming the sharp pounding in her head. So be it. That bracelet meant too much to her for him to be getting any ideas about swiping it.

Shrugging, he slung his big bag over one shoulder, then turned and stalked off.

Cassie looked at the empty campsite and nibbled her lower lip. She couldn’t stay here. She didn’t know the first thing about surviving in the wild. If she took the trail to the boat, she wouldn’t have a clue how to work the dumb thing. And where would she go?

She turned toward her retreating companion. Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Unknown paused long enough to glance at her. Her brain told her to follow, but fear kept her feet rooted in the forest soil.

Relief filled Alarik even as amusement at the strange woman’s behavior nearly crowded it out. He’d fretted more than once during the past two days as she’d slept and slept, then slept some more. Perhaps the sailing rhythm of the faering had induced her slumber, for she seemed wide awake enough now.

Her straight white teeth toyed with her pretty mouth. Short hair, amber as a mugful of mead, branded her a thrall. A beauty to be sure, nearly one to rival his own Signy, but not quite. And in all his travels, he’d never encountered such a tongue. She was an odd one, this woman, but he didn’t have the time to ponder over her now. He reached, offering his hand.

She stood like a doe, luminous hazel eyes fixed on his. He grinned, knowing the effect this would have to soften his dark features. Not many men his age could claim such a perfect smile, with its lack of missing teeth. The same look had bedded him many a wench. Hesitant steps brought the woman near, but she did not accept his hand. It would do. He turned and surveyed the maze of ivy-mantled beech and oak, then set a course as sure as any journey he’d navigated.

Nuthatches and chiff-chaffs squabbled overhead as he cut a southwesterly path through scrub brush and fallen timbers. The woman lagged. He adjusted his pace but kept moving. Perhaps he’d have to rethink reaching Jorvik in two days.

By noontide, she’d tumbled down two ravines, ripped her underdress with the foreign stitching, and scratched her forearms red and raw. At this rate, Jorvik would take a fortnight. A frustrated growl rumbled through him.

Signy could have a brooch instead.

He stopped. By the time the woman caught up, he’d unpacked his water skin and a small pouch of food. He held them out, but she only blinked.

“
I know you don’t understand, woman, but here. Take these provisions.” He shoved them against her chest and let go. She clutched the bags before they fell, and he gestured toward the woods. “Much as I’d like, I cannot keep you. Find someone who can.”

She tipped her chin, wrinkling her brow. He’d seen that same curious expression on village lads trying to understand the ways of men. But this was no lad.

He reached out, brushing back her loose hair, which should’ve been braided instead of inviting his touch. She spoke, and his gaze lingered on the pretty lips forming her unknown language. Listening hard, he still could not decipher one of her words.

“
I am sorry, woman. I cannot keep you.” His voice came out rougher than he intended, and she quieted with a pout and wide eyes.

Frustrated, he exhaled, then strode away. The sound of a swishing skirt trailed after him. That would fade soon enough as his own leather-clad feet ate the ground. But it didn’t. Now and again, he looked back to see the woman swatting at branches and stumbling over roots, doggedly tracking him.

He quirked an eyebrow. Determination. A good trait for a slave to possess. If she lasted the day, he’d let her stay.

Hours later, he slung off his pack near the bank of a creek wide enough to easily leap across, then bent to drink his fill. Plenty of light remained before night would come in full, but this site would serve as a comfortable camp. His stomach growled, reminding him it’d been days since he’d eaten fresh meat.

He had a small fire burning and an assortment of wood gathered in a pile when the woman finally trudged up to him and scowled in his face. Her fervent speech likely wasn’t meant to be humorous, but he laughed long and hard—especially when she pointed a finger at him.

“
So you are none too pleased with me, ja, woman?” He sidestepped her and retrieved a sling from his pack, then went to collect a pouchful of rocks near the water’s edge. The woman followed, jabbering all the way, but he paid her little mind until she fell silent.

She sat on a large rock, cast off her shoes, and put her bare toes into the clear water. A stream of red flowed from her feet. Alarik frowned. No wonder she hadn’t kept up.

He secured the pouch of shot onto his belt then tugged his linen undershirt to hang longer than his tunic. From years of practice, he slid the knife at his side from the sheath without a sound then slit a long strip from the hem of his shirt. To put her at ease, he hummed an old folk tune and knelt at her side, making eye contact and inclining his head toward her feet.

Her toes emerged, droplets of water raining from her flesh. She slowly turned toward him. With a gentle tug, he settled her legs in his lap. Her calves and shins wore angry scratches, but other than that, the skin looked more than naked—as if she’d scraped her legs with a blade the way a man might shave his face. He squinted, focusing on her feet. That hadn’t been only blood he’d noticed. Her toenails sported a glossy red dye that didn’t wash off. He glanced back at her face, opened his mouth, then thought better of it. Questioning her would be a waste of time.