Until Forever (8 page)

She stopped because he was no longer listening to her. Possibly there had been too many words that he didn’t understand, so what she’d just said made no sense to him. Or possibly something else interested him more, because he was, without permission, rummaging through her purse.

Her perfectly normal reaction was one of indignation, yet she had to clamp down on her lips to contain it. Whatever interested him could only be to her ultimate benefit. She had to keep that in mind too, and keep a lid on her temper.

Getting angry with a man who likely personified male chauvinism would be a pure waste of time. After all, his attitudes toward women would be as medieval as he was, and she knew exactly where women were placed in his day and age—right alongside the cattle and the stock of mead, as no more than property. Actually, women had had even less value than salable goods back then.

So would he care if he offended her? Would he care if she showed her temper? Not even a little. She almost smiled. Dealing with him was going to be a history lesson in itself. She supposed she should be grateful that she knew history so well, knew historical attitudes, so she could adjust her own thinking accordingly. Otherwise, she had no doubt that she’d spend all her time with this Viking be
ing outraged, and that would get her nowhere.

So she held her tongue and waited to see what would gain his interest. Her purse-size perfume spray? Her tiny solar-powered calculator? Maybe the little packet of tissues she’d picked up at the airport?

What came up in his hand was her lipstick, and he examined the white metal tube thoroughly, from every angle. Of course, that would interest him, since metal was related to weapons. He even flicked it with the nail of his forefinger to assure himself it was metal. And then the top separated slightly, enough for him to notice, and his eyes widened as he pulled it off the rest of the way.

He was fascinated all right, and she found out why immediately as he stared into the empty well of the top and tried to get his large finger inside it. He couldn’t manage that, of course.

“So thin, this metal, and perfect in its roundness and texture,” he said in an excited voice. “Your blacksmiths are ingenious, lady!”

She couldn’t help smiling at that. If a little thing like a lipstick could amaze him, he was going to go into shock when he saw his first television, or—God help him, an airplane would blow his mind.

“You’d have a hard time finding a blacksmith these days, Thorn. They kind of lost their importance when the horse did—never mind, you’ll find out about
that
on the way back to the cottage.”

And she was suddenly looking forward to getting him into her car. Would it frighten him, or simply awe him? Or would he relate to it instead as transportation to get him into a battle more quickly? She was going to start laughing if she didn’t stop imagining how he was going to react next, and get the image out of her mind of him wildly waving a sword out of an open window as he raced past tanks and mobile rocket launchers.

“As for metal,” she continued, “it can be made into just about any shape or size now, just like plastic and fiberglass and—anyway, factories produce the parts, other factories put them together, and the results are the conveniences of the modern age, which we who live here pretty much take for granted. You’ll be seeing many of these modern wonders for yourself. Just don’t ask me to explain how things work. Technology is not my field of expertise.”

To that he merely snorted, and she had to allow that she might not be making much sense to him again. He was back to examining what he was holding, and only now did he notice what was inside the base tube.

Roseleen grinned and suggested, pointing, “Hold this part, and turn the bottom.”

He did, and his eyes flared as the colored stick shot out of the tube, then disappeared back into it again when he turned the base in the opposite direction. In and out it went for nearly a full minute as he played with it just as a child would with a new discovery.

But finally he got around to asking, “What is this used for?”

At least this was an explanation she could handle, and on a simple level that he could easily grasp. “To give color to the lips, women’s lips that is.”

“Why?”

Her smile was self-directed. “I’ve often wondered that myself. It’s just one of the many cosmetics women use to enhance their looks.”

He glanced at her lips then, and stared at them for so long that the heat started generating in her belly again. She couldn’t believe how easily he could turn her on, but that’s just what his eyes were doing to her.

She was about to turn away in the interest of sheer self-preservation when his gaze returned to the mauve lipstick, and he remarked, “You have not used this.”

Somehow, she got her voice to respond, breathless as it was, “No, I rarely do.”

He handed it to her. “Show me.”

It was a command. He actually expected to be obeyed without an argument. She didn’t care at the moment. She’d do anything to get her mind off how tempted she was to throw herself at him.

Briskly and efficiently, she smoothed the lipstick over her lips, rubbed them together, then, because she’d done it without a mirror for guidance, automatically ran a finger down the center of her top lip to erase any color that might have strayed from the lip line.

When she glanced back at him, she was met with the pointed question, “What does it taste like?” and she knew in what direction his own thoughts had just gone—if they hadn’t been there already.

“You’re not finding out,” she replied, her voice sharp with warning.

He responded by taking the lipstick from her again and slowly, too slowly, running it down the center of his tongue. All the while, he watched her staring spellbound at his mouth.

Finally, his lips curled, and as her eyes jumped up to his, she heard him say, “’Tis not—distasteful, but I would rather taste you.”

She groaned and in desperation dragged the picnic basket over to him. “Here, eat!” she fairly shouted. “I’m going for a walk.”

Walk, hell, she practically ran in the opposite direction, deeper into the meadow, and his laughter followed her every step of the way.

T
horn watched her while she wandered about the meadow. He wanted to see her hair loose and blowing in the breeze. He wanted to see her lips parted for him again, and that sensual heat in her eyes that she could not hide. He wanted to feel her softness beneath him again, and to know that she very much liked being there.

She fascinated him with her desire and her denial of it. None of the other women who had possessed his sword had ever denied themselves the use of his body. They had either wanted him or not, but they’d never said nay when they had.

Gunnhilda would be turning over in her grave if she knew just how much he wanted this woman who was now in possession of his sword. His pleasure was not what the old witch had intended when she had cursed him and bound him forevermore to his own weapon.

Her curse had placed him in the power of women, at the mercy of women, subject to their whims. Gunnhilda had known he would hate that above all else, and in that she had been correct.

He still hated it, yet was there now a compensation for all those years of fury—this woman, with her strange words and her strange name, Professor. He had fought what she made him feel, because he liked it not, her control over him, no more than that of the others. But he was through with fighting it. He’d been able to think of nothing but her since he’d first tasted her. He had no intention of leaving her this time, did she bid him to or not.

She was different from the others, there was no denying that. She did not want the use of his sword arm to kill her enemies. She did not insist that he pleasure her, just the opposite. She did not treat him as her personal slave. But then, she did not know yet that part of the curse compelled him to do her bidding. That it would not let him lie to her or harm her. That she had much more power over him than she realized if she would not release him. Once he was released, however, the power was his to command.

The others had known, and he had despised all of them, for they had made full use of the curse’s power. Even those few who had been timid at first soon gained confidence and became avaricious when they realized what he could do for them.

But most of them had been rich, and spoiled, and corrupt before they’d gained possession of the sword. One had even killed to possess it, knowing its secret. She had herself died when her husband found out she meant to replace him with a younger noble of higher rank. But then, she had made the mistake of not commanding Thorn’s silence when she’d ordered him to kill her husband.

Unfortunately, Thorn would have killed the man. The curse would allow him no other option, since he had been directly commanded to do so. ’Twas not that he minded killing. In fact, he much enjoyed a good fight, whether for a noble cause or simply to test his skill against others. But he despised murder, and fighting a man as old as that woman’s husband had been would have been naught but murder.

He liked to think Odin had intervened that time because it had not come to that. He’d enlightened the man with the truth first, and since the greedy, foolish woman had been there, wanting to witness her husband’s death firsthand, she had died instead, which immediately had ended her power over Thorn, and that, fortunately, had saved the husband. And Blooddrinker’s Curse had not come into the hands of another woman for nearly four hundred of these mortal years after that summoning, not until the last time, in 1723.

He did not care to remember that time. None of the times were worth remembering, except perhaps Blythe’s summoning. The
cause she had embroiled him in had been just, and she’d wanted no more from him than his fighting alongside her liege lord in order to protect him. Thorn had been sorry to leave that time and the friends he had made there.

Each summoning thereafter, he had tried to return to that time. Odin had assured him ’twas possible. But the women who controlled him would not oblige him that luxury, since they would have to accompany him. They were too fearful that they would become lost to their own time. And giving him what he wanted had never been their priority.

With this woman, he was hesitant even to broach the subject. She was too quick with her denials of what he wanted, of what even she herself wanted. And she was disbelieving of the curse, and of where he resided when he was not with her, so how could he convince her of the one benefit, as he saw it, that the sword was capable of? And even if he could convince her, why would she grant him that benefit?

’Twas the first time he had ever been doubted. After all, everyone knew of the existence of witches, and a witch’s curse was a fearful thing indeed. All and sundry knew that—at least, everyone in the past knew such simple things. He had to wonder why this woman did not. Did witches no longer exist in this time? Had they finally been destroyed? Or were they merely more secretive these days?

Whether they still existed did not really in
terest him. He had already tried to have the curse broken by another witch, one reputed to be more powerful than Gunnhilda, and had been told how foolish he was to suppose that another witch would help him, even if she could. ’Twas only the woman who interested him now.

The curse
could
be broken, however, yet its power kept him from saying so. Gunnhilda herself had taunted him with that knowledge. Only if he were asked could he explain how ’twas possible to give him back control of his own destiny. And none of the women who had ever controlled him had bothered to ask if the curse was breakable. Releasing him from this bondage had been the last thing on their minds. Only using him had interested them.

Thorn noticed that every so often, the woman bent to pick a wildflower. Not once had she looked his way. But Thorn still could not take his eyes from her.

He ate the food she had brought, but he knew not what he was eating. He would merely reach into the basket and take whatever came to hand. If he occasionally found himself chewing something that was, in fact, unchewable, he would simply spit it out. ’Twas not worth the effort to examine it, when he would much rather be watching her.

He would have her. He had not the least doubt of that, was doubtful only of when it was going to happen. He knew not yet what she wanted from him, what her “curiosity”
would entail, yet was she determined to keep him here until she had it, whatever it was.

She had called his bluff right handily in that. Courage she had in abundance. Even fearful of him, she had stood her ground, even without knowing that he couldn’t hurt her.

From the sword, she had full power over him at the moment. But she also held him in her own power because he wanted her. He never thought it could happen, but just now, he did not mind in the least being so completely bound, as long as it was by her.

R
oseleen couldn’t believe it. She’d actually left Thorn Blooddrinker behind with his sword. If he had possession of it now, she couldn’t imagine how she’d get it back. And what if his possession of the sword ended her control over him? Could he just leave then, and take the sword with him?

The moment she realized what she had so foolishly done by putting some distance between them so she could cool off, she ran all the way back to him. She wasn’t expecting to find the sword still in its case, the blanket and the surrounding area littered with discarded food, and Thorn looking up at her as if he were starving, when she could see very well that he’d gone through every bit of the food she’d brought along.

It was his hungry expression that twisted her tongue and had her saying in a rushed garble, “I thought you might have…Don’t
you know better than to…Stop looking at me like that.”

When he dropped his gaze, her urge was to have it back. Oh, God, she didn’t know what she wanted. Yes, she did. She wanted to share his knowledge of the past. She had to concentrate on that, and to stop getting fried by his glances.

To help accomplish the latter, she focused on the mess that he’d made, clicking her tongue as she started picking up what he’d tossed into the grass. “I know perfectly well that cleanliness wasn’t on anyone’s high-priority list in your day, and you’ve never heard of litter control or five-hundred-dollar fines, but really, Thorn, you’re going to have to become acquainted with rubbish cans while you’re here. Today, we like to leave our environment the same way we found it, and that means picking up after ourselves.”

“Are you chastising me, lady?”

She glanced at him sharply, but his expression was now only curious, the blatant need of a moment ago gone, or—hidden. “I wouldn’t dream of—” she started, but suddenly changed her mind. If she was going to spend time with him, she couldn’t be worrying about offending him over small matters, when she had so many other worries to deal with. “Yes, I believe I am chastising you. No more tossing things over your shoulder when you’re done with them. You put them back, give them back, or throw them away, whichever is appropriate.”

“Throw away is just what I did, as you can plainly see.”

He did sound indignant, not because she was scolding him, but because she hadn’t explained properly, so he must have felt he’d been unjustly scolded. She sighed. Was she going to have to think about everything she said before she said it? That was going to be an impossible task.

“I’m sorry, ‘throw away’ today is just a shortened way of saying toss it in the nearest rubbish can. And since there isn’t one handy, for now we’ll just put everything back in the basket and take it with us, so we leave this place as we found it.”

“The creatures of the wild will not thank you, lady.”

She heard the scolding tone in his own voice, and sat back on her heals, shaking her head. So there was a reason for his slovenliness? He liked to feed wild animals. That was so sweet and generous, traits she would never have associated with a Viking, that it disconcerted her for a moment.

And she almost hated to admit, “I don’t believe England has any more wild animals, Thorn, at least, not the kind you’re probably used to. So let’s humor me and clean up here, all right? You can just gather up the blanket with whatever’s on it and jam the whole thing in the basket, while I get the rest of this stuff.”

She snatched the sword case off the blanket first, in case he took her literally. But with it in
hand, she owned up to what had made her run back to him.

“I thought you might have taken the sword, but you didn’t even touch it, did you?”

He had already risen to gather up the blanket, so he wasn’t looking at her when he answered, “’Tis my greatest wish, to have the sword returned to me, yet I cannot touch it without your leave.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

“The curse will not allow it. Only you can place the sword in my hand.”

She hoped he was telling the truth. That would certainly relieve one of her worries.

“And if I let you hold it?”

He was looking at her now, and so intensely that she caught her breath. “Then the power would be mine to control. Would you do this for me?”

“If it would let you disappear on me again, no way,” she said with several shakes of her head. “The sword belongs to me now, Thorn. I’m not giving it up.”

He looked so crestfallen, she almost said, “Here, take it.” She had to will away the urge to do so, unable to understand why she even had the urge.

“
Would
you be able to disappear?”

“If you gave complete power to me by relinquishing your claim on the sword, aye. If you merely give me the use of it, nay, I still could not depart, do you not give me the words to allow it.”

He’d made her curious once again about
the intricacies of the strange curse. “What if I did just
lend
you the sword temporarily, not to keep, mind you, but then inadvertently released you? Would you take my sword with you, so I could never summon you back?”

“’Tis not possible, lady. I could go, but the sword would not go with me. Only if
you
agree to go with me would the sword stay in my hand.”

Her, go to Valhalla? she mused. Be surrounded by brawling, drunken Vikings in Odin’s mythical feasting hall? Not in this lifetime or any other, thank you.

She realized he could just be telling her what she wanted to hear. He could be lying. She had no way of determining the truth until it was too late, and he and her sword were gone. But, of course, that’s if she was willing to believe that his home was Valhalla, that he was exactly who he said he was.
How
could she believe that?
How
could she believe what was happening? She pinched herself hard and definitely felt it. There had to be some logical explanation for all of this.

Facts. She needed facts, proof, and she intended to get it. The information she was going to get from him about the past could be verified, at least most of it could, and he would have to pull that information from his memory. That would prove, or at least support his claim that he’d really lived in those times, or been summoned to them.

“That’s enough of that subject for now,” she said as she tossed her first handful of scraps
into the basket, then went back for more. “And by the way, I’m not comfortable with the ‘lady’ you keep calling me. I know it’s a title of complete respect where you come from, but some Americans tend to give it a different meaning, especially in moments of frustration, and anyway, my name is Roseleen. You may call me—”

“Rose?”

He laughed as soon as he said it. She blushed profusely. That even a thousand-year-old—whatever he was, could see the connection between their names…Or was that what was amusing him? She decided to find out.

“Care to share the joke?”

“Joke? Nay, ’tis only that I thought ‘professor’ was your name. What then, do you profess to, that you are called professor?”

She grinned now at herself for drawing the wrong conclusion. He didn’t see the connection between their names, and she wasn’t about to mention it herself.

“History,” she answered. “I went to college to study it, now I teach it.”

“All history?”

“I’m most familiar with the Middle Ages, particularly the eleventh century.”

He was still grinning himself. “Aye, I know that time well. I much enjoyed their wars.”

Hearing that was nearly as thrilling as—well, not quite
that
thrilling, but damn close, and Roseleen was filled with excitement. She had a thousand questions for him. But some
how she was going to contain them until they got back to the cottage and she had a notebook in hand.

Yet her smile was generous when she said, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that, Thorn, and I’m going to want to hear much, much more about it later.”

“I could show you—”

Misunderstanding, she cut in, “Demonstrations won’t be necessary, just facts.”

She didn’t see the disappointment on his face because she was staring at what she’d just picked up, a sandwich wrapped in cellophane with a single bite taken out of it. That the bite went right through the cellophane had her turning back to him to ask, “You couldn’t figure out that the wrapping had to come off of this before you ate it?”

He was standing there watching her complete her task, having just completed his. He spared only a brief glance at what she was holding, though, before his blue eyes came back to meet hers and stayed there. His shrug was so slight it was barely noticeable.

“I was looking at you, not at what I was eating,” he told her. “And be warned, Roseleen. I like looking at you.”

The heat came flooding back, and she groaned inwardly. How could she get him to stop saying things like that, and stop looking at her like that? She knew she couldn’t. She’d already stated her demands. No touching. She had nothing more to bargain with now.

And besides, she was the one insisting that
he stay, keeping him here against his will, more or less. She couldn’t deny him
everything
that he liked. So how was she going to survive what he was doing to her?

She probably wasn’t going to survive it at all.