As he continued swimming, he grew somber at the realization that there was no ship remaining—only floating bodies and shattered pieces of wood.
I’m alive,he thought. Somehow, he had survived this shipwreck, though his friends and shipmates had not.
If he didn’t reach land, the ocean would become his watery grave. Eric continued swimming, trying to conserve his remaining strength while he searched for something to hold on to.
There. A large piece of the ship floated nearby, and he swam as hard as he could to reach it. His fingers seized the wood, and he crawled upon it, his heart pounding. He held tight, praying that the tide would bring him to land.
His cheek rested against the wood, and he shivered violently against the cold. Yet, he clung to life, refusing to surrender. He floated for what seemed like hours, until a tiny light caught his attention.
Was it the flare of a torch or a fire? The crushing fears lifted, for it meant land was surely nearby. Eric closed his eyes with thankfulness. He let himself drift toward the shore…and when dawn broke, he saw the light more clearly. It was indeed a flickering torch, though he could not see who held it.
The ocean waves slid across the sand and a rocky beach, while behind it, taller gray hills dotted with limestone rose up. He didn’t know where he was but suspected Norway. They had been sailing near the country on the way to England when the storm had struck.
The view of land encouraged him to swim harder, still holding on to the makeshift raft. When his feet finally touched the ground, he lifted his face to the sky.Thank God.Today was not his day to die.
Eric trudged through the water until he reached the shore. He sank to his knees, digging his hands into the wet sand. For a moment, he steadied himself, so thankful to be alive. He longed for home, wishing he could see his father again and apologize for all that he’d said and done.
He’d been so angry at the legacy of his forebears closing in around him…of his obligation to sit in the House of Lords, debate laws and, of course, marry an heiress from a good family.
Now, he didn’t care.
He would bind himself to the life he didn’t want if it meant he could see his father sitting by the fire, reading his favorite book,Gulliver’s Travels.He could envision the older man seated in his wingback chair, a cup of cold tea on the table beside him. And he imagined the joy on Gregory’s face when his only son returned.
And he would return to England, as soon as he could hire a new ship and a crew.
The wind whipped at his skin, and Eric forced himself to stumble forward along the rocky shore. His first priority was to find shelter and get warm.
As he walked, the sense of familiarity grew stronger, almost as if he’d been here before. Which was impossible, since he’d never set foot in Norway…or wherever this was. But he couldn’t shake the premonition that he knew this place somehow. He’d dreamed of it.
A narrow pathway led north toward the open meadow, tempting him to follow the road. Yet he’d seen the torch flare on the west side. Through the rocky hills, he would find shelter—he was convinced of it.
He trudged through the sand, realizing that his shoes had fallen off during the shipwreck. His clothing was in tatters, soaked and torn. But strangely, his head no longer hurt. When he studied his palms, they had healed, with no trace of the rope burns. An uneasiness caught him, for he couldn’t understand it. Another injury plagued him—something upon his back. He didn’t even remember being cut, but his spine burned as if someone had stabbed him.
Eric climbed through the rocks, and beyond them, he saw green grass and trees covered in leaves. Again, the disquiet passed over him, for it was February. There should be no leaves on the trees, nor green grass. If they were in Norway, he expected to see snowy fields. Instead it seemed to be…summer.
He gripped his hands together, willing himself not to imagine the impossible. Either he was dead and this was his new existence…or he had somehow lost the memories of the past two seasons.
There were too many questions, and he felt a dizzying sense of apprehension. But if he allowed himself to think too much, he would lose his grasp on control.Find shelter,he reminded himself.And food.
Eric took another step forward, and a dark vision came over him, of being struck down with a battle-ax by a…Viking. His spine burned with agony, and he nearly dropped to the ground from the force of the phantom ache. And yet, no one had touched him. With effort, he caught his breath and steadied himself. What was happening?
Strange words mingled within his mind in a language he’d not heard before…but somehow he could understand them.
Svala betrayed me.
His skin tightened with fear. Who was Svala? Was he hearing voices now and had he gone mad? Or was he, in fact, dead? Eric knew that the seasons didn’t change within hours. And he most definitely should not be hearing voices in his head. He blinked a moment, forcing himself to continue walking through the rocky sand.
You hit your head on board the ship, he reminded himself. Perhaps he was unconscious right now and dreaming. Yes, that was it. He had to be imagining all of it. The thought calmed him, and he decided to continue on with the dream, letting it take him where it would.
But with each step, he felt the sense of foreboding heighten. He stopped a moment to touch his head, trying to force back memories that did not belong to him. God above, what was happening to him?
He was Eric Fielding, the Marquess of Thorgraham. And yet…he was not. Another name came into his consciousness, Arik Thorgrim.
That’s not who I am.
He wondered if the violent storm had caused him to see and hear things that weren’t there. It was as if his life had been unseated, torn apart at the seams.
Before he could question it further, a beautiful woman emerged from the shadows. Her golden hair hung unbound below her waist, and several braids were pinned like a coronet across her head. Never had he seen anyone like her. She was taller than most women, and she moved like a warrior goddess, a torch in one hand.
