“I do no ha’ the fever.” At least, not the kind Borald meant.
“Good, for ye do no’ want to end up like the chief.”
Nay, he did not. Da still fought hard. Up on his feet one day, grim and determined, awash in sweat the next night.
“Take the rest o’ the day,” Borald suggested. It was already late afternoon. “Ha’ a few drinks, get some sleep. Eat somewhat, for God’s sake. I do no’ want to see ye up on the walls before morning.”
Quarrie grunted. If he rested, the thoughts would pounce upon him. He would think of her.
But aye, Borald had a point. He hurt, he did constantly. He did not want to end up like his da.
He collected a jug of heather ale on his way home, not favoring the company to be had in the hall, and once in his quiet quarters drank more than he should, considering he did not remember what he’d had to eat that day.
He could not—absolutely could not—be sickening for want of a Norsewoman. One clad in men’s clothing and armor, who fought with a sword. Madness.
Yet her pale-gray gaze haunted him. The flicker of light there when she looked at him. The deeper meaning behind it all.
He lay on his bed with his arm bent over his eyes. He slept.
He dreamed of her. He felt sure itwasher, though once again, she was not Hulda Elvarsdottir. That is, she was and yet she wasn’t. More, she was not the woman of whom he’d dreamed before, who’d stood with him in the sun by the washing place.
This young woman was strong like Hulda, aye, and had a bold eye. A flame about her. Hair of rich honey-blonde and eyes deep blue, like the far sea between Alba and Erin.
Now, why should he make that comparison?
Bradana.The name sounded in his mind as the woman in the dream turned to face him, desire flaring in her eyes.His strong, Alban lass.
An ocean divided them. Distance. Time. Nothing love could not span.
He reached out for her.Adair,she whispered into his mind, and came to his arms.
The scent and the feel of her at once inflamed and also satisfied him. The expression in her eyes stole his breath. He lifted each of her hands in turn and dropped kisses into the palms. Leaned to kiss each corner of her mouth, her cheeks. Her brow.
He awoke and lay trembling. No light in his chamber, no light anywhere save in his mind, which was full of her.
What did it mean? Two women. He had dreamed of two women who were somehow one, and a love that—
But he had no words for it.
Lying there staring into the darkness, seeing only her face in his mind, the love felt like pain. The pain felt like life, the one thing for which he might reach in all these days and nights he’d been given.
He needed to see Hulda Elvarsdottir again.
An impossibility. He did not know where in the wide world her boat had sailed. If he saw her again, it would mean she returned of her own accord. And if she returned, it would be with score upon score of Norse warriors to destroy him.
He would have to fight against her then. It was his duty and his birthright.
She had gifted him with his life there aboard her longboat. Mayhap that meant she would not return. For why come back merely to destroy what you valued enough to spare? There were targets aplenty along this rocky coast for her and her kind, if she would spare him.
That did not mean other marauders would not come from other places to the north and east. Vikings not Hulda Elvarsdottir. He must still be vigilant and watch for dark sails on the horizon.
Which meant he must get himself in hand, and start with taking better care of himself. He could not fall apart for want of a Norsewoman he’d met only twice.
Kissed only once.
Nor could he let himself malinger for the sake of two women he’d glimpsed only in dreams—two women who pulled at his spirit, who were somehow also Hulda.
He must put it all behind him, thank his stars he still drew breath, and go out to fulfill the duties that belonged to him. Live for this place as he had always done. Forget Hulda Elvarsdottir if he could.
