Timeless (25 page)

H
auk kicked the door shut behind him and carried Avril across his darkened
vaningshus
, pain stabbing his side in sharp bursts that made spots dance before his eyes. Every breath he gulped burned his lungs like fire, and a savage headache pounded between his temples with the force of Odin throwing angry thunderbolts. But he managed to reach the bed, lay her down gently before he sank onto the mattress beside her, gripping one of the bedposts to keep himself from lying down.

Grimacing, he gingerly probed his ribs, could not understand why or how he had awakened from the
langvarig sovn
trance before his injuries were fully healed.

But there was no time to question it. His heart pounding, he rose unsteadily to start a fire on the hearth. He had to care for Avril’s wounds before seeing to his own. He would recover.

She might not.

When the flames glowed bright enough for him to see in the night-blackened chamber, he returned to her side.

He could not tell how badly she was hurt, did not know if she had fainted from her injuries—or from shock. Quickly he worked the soaked, bloodied gown downward from her shoulders, tugging at the sodden laces. In truth, he felt grateful that she was unconscious at the moment. Not only because she would object to his disrobing her.

But because he did not look forward to persuading her that she had not witnessed what she had witnessed.

Anger crowded in on the pain that ravaged his senses. Anger at her—and at himself. He had had no choice, out in that freezing water, had not possessed strength enough to save her
and
himself. But the shock of seeing his miraculous recovery had been too much for her.

It was too soon to entrust her with the truth about Asgard and its people. She had been here only a few days. Had not yet had time to adjust. She was still determined to escape the island. To escape him.

So determined that she had taken an insane risk and almost gotten herself killed.

For that, he could only blame himself, he thought blackly, pulling her ruined garment down her body and tossing it to the floor. He never should have allowed her to leave his side. Not for a moment.

Seeing her flawless, pale skin in the firelight—now bruised and cut and bloodied—brought a sharp pain to his chest, far worse than the throbbing in his side and his head. It hit him like a battering ram, this brutal reminder of how fragile, how tenuous her life was.

How inevitable it was that he would lose her.

He turned away, his throat burning. Not only from the seawater he had swallowed, but from unwelcome emotions that choked him. Feelings he did not want to name.

Damn
her for putting her life in danger.

He moved to a nearby trunk, dug out a thick linen towel, then sat beside her once more. Careful not to wake her, he gently brushed the soft fabric over her skin, trying to dry and warm her while he checked for broken bones.

To his relief, he found none. Some of the scrapes and cuts were deep, and he found several large, angry bruises, but her injuries did not appear life-threatening. She had been fortunate. This time.

Cold fear slid through him at the thought of what
could
have happened when the ship went down.

Forcing aside the gut-churning image, he pulled the bedcovers over her to keep her warm and then stood up—too fast.

Stabs of agony stole his breath. He grabbed the nearest bedpost, swaying on his feet. He pressed one hand to his rib cage and crossed to the far side of the chamber, to a chest near the corner where he kept his foodstuffs. Shoving aside the wedding gifts piled on top, he hunted inside until he found a bag of dried herbs and an earthen jar of salve.

As he made his way back through the darkness, he heard her stir, heard her moan in pain.

The sound went through him like a blade. His own injuries forgotten, he returned to the bed quickly.

“Lie still,” he ordered as he sat next to her, his voice rough. “You are hurt. Lie still and let me help you.”

Still asleep, she kept moving her head restlessly, her wet hair almost black against the pillow. Then her lashes fluttered open.

When she looked up and saw him, her pupils constricted to black pinpricks in the firelight. She started to sit up, only to gasp in pain—then she abruptly seemed to realize she was naked beneath the blankets.

He resisted the urge to hold her still, knowing his touch might upset her further. “Avril, calm yourself. You are all right—”

“W-what happened?” She lay back down, staring at him. “You were—”

“What?” he asked innocently. “Will you please cease looking at me as if I were a ghost?”

“I-I thought you were
dead
.”

Hauk uttered a scoffing sound, and at the same time he felt relief. Her voice was clear and steady, which helped reassure him that her injuries were not serious—and she seemed more worried for him than afraid of him.

“Obviously I was not,” he said dryly, setting the bandages and herbs on the bedside table and opening the jar of salve, “or I would not be sitting here beside you, would I?”

Her brow furrowed.

For once, he felt grateful that Avril was a woman of keen intelligence. She could not argue with simple logic.

He only wished he knew what she was thinking—and he wondered what in the name of Loki had happened to the connection he had felt between them earlier. When her life had been in danger, he had experienced her thoughts, her emotions.

Now he could not tell what she was feeling.

“I could not find your pulse,” she said a bit uncertainly. “I listened for your heartbeat—”

“And you were distraught from your ordeal. And in pain. Mayhap you had seawater in your ears.” He shrugged as if it were all nonsense, took her hand, and gently started applying the salve to her cuts and scrapes. “With the surf so loud, I am surprised you could hear at all. Avril, you need to sleep now.”

He met her gaze, silently willing her to stop asking questions and get the rest she urgently needed.

Blinking up at him with those keen emerald eyes, she was the picture of abject confusion.

And stubbornness. She kept trying to sort out the conflicting evidence. “I tried shaking you,” she said slowly. “I even slapped you.”

He glanced away. So
that
was why he had roused too soon. “We both blacked out. You awoke first.” He took her other hand, applying the salve lightly, gently to her palm, her arm, her shoulder. “And your manhandling succeeded in waking me.”

Setting the salve down, he wove his fingers through hers, entwining their hands. “Could a dead man touch you like this?” he asked in a deep, soft voice.

Spots of bright pink colored her pale cheeks, and a more familiar wariness replaced the bewilderment in her eyes.

She pulled her hand from his, turning her face away, toward the closed shutters.

“I am... grateful that you are all right,” she said haltingly. “Thank you for saving my life, Hauk.” She gathered the covers to her chin. “How did you find me? How did you know where I was, out there in the fog?”

“I heard you calling for help.” His heart thudded at the memory, and he quickly changed the subject before either of them could further examine
that
strange facet of their ordeal. “It is not important now. I need you to tell me if this hurts.” He lifted the blanket, lightly touched a particularly angry bruise on her stomach.

She flinched away and squeezed her eyes shut.

Her pain at the gentle brush of his fingertips made his gut wrench tight. “You will be all right, Avril, I promise. All you need is to sleep and let yourself heal.” He picked up the jar of salve. “I will take care of you.”

Her lashes fluttered open, but she kept her face turned away. Her lower lip quivered. “I do not want you to take care of me. I can—”

“Take care of yourself?” he asked tightly. “So you have said. But I believe your ill-advised adventure tonight proves you wrong.” His anger simmered again. “What were you
thinking
, woman? What made you believe you could sail through that maze of rocks and fog by yourself? You could have—”

“Escaped,” she whispered, her voice wavering.

He swallowed the rest of his rebuke, equally maddened and impressed by her courage. Her determination.

Her unwavering devotion to her plan to leave him.

“You cannot do everything alone,” he said gruffly. Looking down at his headstrong bride, snuggled safely in his bed, he felt a wave of protectiveness. She needed someone to take care of her, this tempestuous, vulnerable, reckless lady.

She needed him.

Whether she wanted to admit it or not.

Gently, being careful of her modesty, he pulled the blankets aside a bit further, so he could continue applying the healing salve. She flinched, then remained absolutely still. And silent.

He touched her without speaking, not even allowing himself to think as he treated her cuts and scrapes. Working briskly, he finished in a matter of moments.

And felt as if every beautiful inch of her had been branded onto his hands.

After drawing the covers back over her, he set the jar down on the table—a bit too sharply—and stood up, fighting another wave of dizziness. Biting back a pained curse, he stepped toward the hearth and reached for a small copper cookpot.

He filled it with fresh rainwater from the barrel and then suspended it from a hook over the fire.

“Tell me, Avril,” he said when he trusted himself to speak evenly, “how did you come to be in possession of a boat?”

For a moment, he did not think she would answer.

“I found it,” she said evasively.

Hauk picked up the bag of herbs and took a cup from its place on the shelf. “And how did you happen to
find
a boat?”

She remained silent.

“Avril, I saw two sets of footprints. Who helped you?” He glanced over his shoulder at her.

She regarded him with a familiar, mutinous spark in her eyes. “I am not going to tell you. I do not think the person who helped me deserves to be punished for it.”

“I beg to differ,” he said with a growl. “Whoever was trying to help the
vokter’s
bride leave Asgard needs to have a few of our laws explained to him. By the
vokter
.”

Her gaze shifted to the weapons displayed behind him on the wall. “Now I am definitely not going to tell you.”

He muttered an oath but decided not to press her further until she was well. Turning back to the hearth, he used an iron poker to tip the steaming cookpot and pour hot water into the cup. Then he scooped a spoonful of herbs into it and sat on the edge of the bed.

He slid a hand beneath Avril’s pillow to support her head, holding the cup to her lips. “Drink this.”

Sniffing at it, she made a face and hesitated.

“I hardly intend to poison you,” he said dryly, “after spending half this night in freezing water trying to save your life and earning a few broken ribs for my trouble. Drink.”

Eyes narrowing at his scolding, she took a sip. She wrinkled her nose at the taste but drained the cup without protest.

He let her head down gently, then moved back to the hearth, where he made a second cup of the brew for himself, sighing. “Avril, you are my wife—”

“Your captive,” she corrected quietly.

“On second thought, poisoning you does possess a certain appeal.” He gulped a mouthful of the tea, felt it burn down his throat. “You are the most stubborn, most troublesome female I have ever—”

“If you find me disagreeable,” she suggested lightly, “you could let me go.”

“Nay. That I can never do.” He scowled at her. “Do you understand what that word means?
Never
.” He set the cup on the table with a crack that echoed through the dark chamber.

Stalking away from her, into a far corner, he peeled off his still-damp leggings, toweled dry, and changed into a fresh pair.

Then he returned to the bed.

And lay down on the other side.

It was mayhap a measure of how tired she was or how much pain she was in that she did not object.

Even if she had, he thought in annoyance, he was not going to spend the night on the floor. Not when he had broken ribs. He remained atop the covers. And it was a large bed. There was ample distance between them.

“I have been too lenient with you,” he said, half to himself. “It is time to cease this foolishness about escape, once and for all. You are my wife, you will not be leaving, and you must accept that.”

“I will never stop trying to get home,” she whispered fiercely. “I cannot stay here. And I do not
want
to be your wife.”

“Indeed, milady?” he asked mockingly, turning his head to stare at her across the pillows. “Were those not tears I saw in your eyes, tonight on the beach, when you thought I was dead?”

She looked away, toward the hearth. “
Nei
.”

He grimaced up at the rafters. “I should have known that would be the first word of Norse you learned to use.”

“If you thought you saw tears,” she said stiffly, “it must have been seawater. Mayhap it affected my
eyes
as well as my hearing.”

Hauk responded only with an irritated grumble, too tired to argue with her any more. Too tired even to feel any stirrings at sharing a bed with his wife for the first time, lying so close to her lush, naked body. Separated from her only by the covers.

Which was a sign of just how badly he needed sleep, he thought blackly. He closed his eyes and lay still, drifting downward into soothing darkness.

Until he heard quiet, snuffling sounds from her side of the bed.

He opened his eyes, glanced toward her. Her whole body was trembling.

“Avril?” Alarm shot through him. “What is wrong?”

She kept her face turned away, lifted a hand to cover her eyes.

And he realized she was not suffering a spasm of pain.

She was crying. Struggling to hold back tears.

“Y-you are... right,” she said hoarsely, a tortured breath escaping with each word. “I may never... be able to leave here. I may never see my home or... my daughter again.”

A single, deep sob slipped out.