Miranda's Viking Read online

  He was gone. She was alone now. Her gaze darted toward the still-closed door to the next room, where the Viking warrior rested. That the door remained undisturbed eased her mind. She moved clumsily nearer her father. She touched him, wincing when she tried to use her right arm. Then with her left she stroked his pale face, gently shook his shoulder. "Daddy. Wake up, Daddy, please!"

  He didn't stir and she felt a cold hand grip her soul. She struggled to her feet, holding her right arm tightly to her chest to avoid the stabbing pain in her shoulder whenever she moved it in the least. She made her way back through the darkened, ordinary-looking half of the basement and mounted the stairs. She hoped her assessment that the bandit had fled was an accurate one. And she hoped to God he wouldn't try to get between her and the telephone.

  Chapter 2

  A siren screamed and warbled, announcing the ambulance's arrival. Miranda rushed to let them in, then led two men and a woman down to the basement where her father lay unconscious. She stood aside to let them work. Her blood pounded in her temples and her entire body trembled. She could no longer see Russell's pale skin, or his blue-tinted eyelids. She could only see the forms bent over him and hear their urgent words, spoken in clipped, choppy sentences.

  "BP dropping… pulse erratic." "Get that IV set up." "Hustle. We need to transport stat." "We have V-fib. Get the paddles. Clear!" A percussion permeated the room. Her father's body stiffened and arced. Miranda forcibly held back the cry that leapt to her throat when he went limp once more. She should have heard her father get up and come downstairs, she thought. She should have been the one hit by the burglar.

  "Still V-fib. Give him another shot. Clear!"

  Miranda staggered backward, clinging to a control panel for support. "It's only a bump on the head… it isn't that bad… it can't be that bad—"

  "Again! Clear!"

  She knew, though, what was happening. It wasn't the blow to his head that threatened her father's life. It was his heart. She closed her eyes as hot tears oozed from between her lashes. She blinked them quickly away. She needed to keep her head now. Russell needed her, loath though she knew he would be to ever admit it. "He's been seeing Dr. Milton Fenmore."

  "We'll alert the hospital, miss. They'll call him."

  "He's been having chest pains, shortness of breath," she added, as the paramedics lifted her father's limp form onto a gurney and began to carry him away. "They told him to consider a transplant but he's… so damned stubborn." Her throat tightened and choked off her words. She would have followed them out, but several newcomers blocked her way. A man in a neat gray suit put one hand on her shoulder and she glanced into hard eyes that reminded her of her father's.

  "Miss O'Shea? I'm Lieutenant Hanlon. Can you tell me what happened here?"

  She shook her head, her gaze wandering past him toward the paramedics who were hurrying up the stairs. "I have to go—"

  "I know. Believe me, there's nothing you can do for him right now. He's in good hands."

  His words, while softly spoken, were firm. Miranda pulled herself up mentally and nodded.

  Miranda knew this had been the longest day of her life. First, the seemingly endless questioning by the police, then the interminable waiting at the hospital. She'd left the house in the chill hours of predawn. As time passed like putty through a sieve, the warm, late-July sun traveled its course through the sky. She'd dressed quickly, without thought, and regretted it now, for the hospital corridors were chilly despite the warmth outside. Her lightweight khaki trousers and thin white cotton blouse did little to warm her. She hadn't even grabbed a jacket.

  She'd left Lieutenant Hanlon at the house with Erwin Saunders, who'd rushed over at her phone call. As the head of Beaumont's archaeology department, he was frantic with worry over the well-being of the specimen. Miranda assured him she'd glanced at the monitors and found them all reading as they should. Hanlon wouldn't let anyone back downstairs until his men had finished. She'd taken care to firmly warn them both against opening the door to the cold room, where the specimen rested. Any contamination could spell ruin.

  Finally, when Miranda had nearly paced a rut in the tiled floor of the waiting area outside ICU, a man with steel-wool hair around a shiny pate approached her. She recognized Dr. Fenmore at once. "Is my father—"

  "He's alive, but I'm afraid that's the only good news I have for you. Why don't you sit down? Can I have someone bring you something? Coffee? A sandwich—"

  She stopped him with a brisk shake of her head. The pins holding her unruly carrot-colored hair were coming loose, and the move only made it worse. She supposed she looked like the farthest thing from a scientist at the moment. "Just tell me about Russell. Is he going to make it?"

  Dr. Fenmore sighed and slowly shook his head. "I wish I could tell you what you want to hear, but I can't. Miranda, we've discussed this before. You knew it was only a matter of time—" he paused, drew a breath "—his condition is critical. He's suffered a massive heart attack."

  For the first time since she'd arrived, Miranda sat down. Her suddenly weak knees had made the decision for her. "What are his chances?"

  "Not good. The next forty-eight hours will be crucial. If we can get him stabilized and keep him going, he might recover enough to go home, but this is going to happen again." He took a seat beside her. "You ought to go home, get some rest if you can."

  She looked up into sea green eyes and thought she saw genuine kindness beyond the requisite bedside manner. "Can I see him?"

  "It will have to be a brief visit. Be extremely careful what you say to him. Don't upset him in any way."

  She nodded and walked beside the doctor through the formidable doors with the crisscrossing of wire mesh between the double panes of glass. The trek through the corridor was a short one, and then she was led into a room with nearly as much equipment as Russell's control room at home. But these monitors produced spiking lines on their screens and the one that emitted a soft but steady bleat gave her a surge of reassurance, reassurance she knew to be false.

  Lying in the stark white bed, Russell looked thinner than he ever had. His skin differed little in color from the sheets. Tubes ran into his nostrils. An IV line was taped to his wrist. He had more electrode wires running under his gown to his chest than the Viking warrior had taped to his much larger one. Only he wasn't garbed in a thin, pale blue hospital gown.

  She pasted a smile on her face and approached the bed. She closed her hand over his. Even his skin felt different, she thought. Loose and tender. How could he have changed so thoroughly in a matter of hours? Or was it just her imagination?

  His eyes opened. The slate hardness was gone. They were dull now. "Miranda…"

  She squeezed. "Right here, Russell. You're going to be fine. Everything's going to be fine."

  He drew a weak breath and closed his eyes. "The specimen—"

  "Safe and sound. No one's going to get near him. Don't worry."

  He released a sigh and seemed to relax. "Be careful, Miranda. Someone wants—"

  "I left Professor Saunders and the police at home. They'll keep track of things and I'll be very careful. I don't want you worrying. You know I'll take care of everything. I want you to trust me. You trust me, don't you?"

  "What good… are you doing here? You can't… watch over it… if you're here."

  She blinked to battle the tears that gathered in her eyes, and leaned over to kiss his cheek. He stiffened. "They said I couldn't stay long, but if you need me, I'll insist. I'll stay right beside you all night, if you want."

  The way she had with her mother, she thought. She'd sat up all night, and they'd talked. Her mother had held her as if she'd never let go, and told her how much she loved her, and that she would always be with her. She longed for those comforting words from Russell.

  But he only shook his head. "I want you home… with the find."

  "I told you, it's safe. I can stay—"

  "Anything could go wrong!" The pace of the soft beeps picked up,
and Russell's face tensed.

  "Okay. Calm down. I'll go home right now if that's what you want."

  He sighed deeply, raggedly, and nodded. "Yes. Go home. I won't worry if I know you're there." His eyelids dropped, but popped open again. She could see he was exhausted by the simple act of talking to her. "Miranda, there's something… you don't know. About the specimen. I—" he paused to catch his breath "—my journal… it's all in there. Read it, Miranda. Tonight." He gasped, breathless from the exertion of speaking. "It's up to you now."

  Her eyes burned. She was glad his were closed so he wouldn't see the flood of tears that suddenly spilled over.

  He would have been furious. She hadn't shed a tear in front of her father since her mother died, since that awful dawn when she'd been only twelve. But those tears had dried the instant she'd seen his reaction to them. Somehow she'd sensed his anger was only a cover for his pain. He needed her to pretend everything was fine, in order for him to be able to do so. So she had.

  She'd seemed to stop being his daughter that morning. Instead she'd become his student, and then his colleague. All she'd done in her life, she'd done to please him, to gain his elusive approval… with that one brief, disastrous exception.

  She brought his hand to her lips to kiss it, then thought better of it. She wasn't supposed to upset him, and physical displays of tenderness tended to drive him nuts. A hand on her shoulder interrupted her, and she turned, still clutching Russell's hand.

  "He's asleep." Dr. Fenmore's voice was as soft as his touch. "It's the best thing for him right now. You ought to do as he asked and go home. I'll leave orders you're to be contacted if there's any change," he soothed. "Any change at all, or if he asks for you."

  But he wouldn't ask for her. Miranda knew that without a shadow of doubt.

  The house seemed abandoned, not the same one she'd left some sixteen hours ago. Her car's headlights moved over the brick exterior like trespassers violating some sacred spot. No welcoming light shone from the windows.

  She turned off the ignition and killed the headlights. She murmured meaningless greetings to the two officers who stood outside the house. Apparently Professor Saunders had convinced Lieutenant Hanlon that the find needed guarding before he'd gone home.

  She unlocked the house and went inside, flicking on lights as she went. Emptiness met her everywhere she looked. It was almost too much to bear. What if Russell didn't recover? What would her life be without him? She had very little except her work and her father, and the two had always gone hand in hand. They'd worked and lived together, except for that brief rebellious period, when she'd accepted Jeff Morsi's proposal of marriage just to prove to her father and herself that she could be a "normal" woman. Instead she'd only proven she couldn't be. Losing Jeff had been a narrow escape from a nightmare. Losing Russell would leave her bereft… utterly alone.

  She pushed the thought aside, tossed her purse on the sofa, and walked down the basement stairs and into the control room. Russell wouldn't die, not yet. It was too soon, and he was too stubborn to go in the midst of his greatest discovery. And when he came back home, his first concern would be for that discovery. She'd care for it diligently. If anything happened to the find, it would kill her father faster than any heart attack ever could.

  At first glance everything seemed just as she'd left it. Files on the floor and a small bloodstain where her father had fallen. She shivered and gave the monitors a cursory glance… then sucked in her breath.

  The digital temperature panel read ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Panic knocked the wind out of her as surely as a fist to the stomach would have done. The climate-control panel must have been knocked askew in the struggle. A quick glimpse at the setting confirmed her guess. Why hadn't she checked it before? Why had she satisfied herself with a glance at the readings, and not checked the settings? God, everything her father had worked for could be ruined!

  She punched numbers rapidly into the panel to release the lock, threw the door open wide, and hurried inside. Only the soft glow of the minimal lighting in the windowless room guided her. The stifling heat slammed into her like a living thing. But the Viking lay as he had before.

  His skin seemed less chalky, but it might be the lighting or her fear making it seem so. Maybe it wasn't too late.

  She turned to go back to the control panel and readjust the climate control to lower the temperature as rapidly as possible. She froze in the doorway when her gaze locked on the monitor directly opposite. The wavering white line across the screen sent her blood to her feet. She blinked and double-checked the label on the monitor. EEC Electroencephalogram. The meter of brain-wave activity. But it had to be malfunctioning. It couldn't be reading what was there. It wasn't possible for there to be—

  The sudden, strangled gasp was drawn with harsh desperation, and it came from behind her. Then silence.

  She whirled and saw the body on the table, every muscle tensed as it began to shake. The huge arms and legs trembled convulsively. The broad chest vibrated. The corded neck was arched and quivering.

  She stopped seeing a specimen at that moment. What she saw was a man on the brink of suffocation. A man straining to breathe, but unable to do so. A man about to die… again.

  She reacted instinctively, not taking time to dwell on the unthinkable thing that was happening. She was beside the table before she knew she'd moved. She gripped the solid shoulders, fighting to hold him still as she pressed her ear to his chest. She felt nothing there. She lifted her head, and then clasped her hands together in one balled fist. She brought them down hard on his sternum. He flinched.

  Frantically she caught his whiskered face between her palms and tipped up his chin. She pinched his nose and covered his mouth with her own and she blew life into him, once, twice, again. She blew hard to fill his massive lungs, then returned to the chest, positioning her hands over his sternum to massage a long-silent heart.

  A rapid thud tapped against her palm, and it seemed her own heart rate sped up until it echoed his. The fit of convulsions slowed and died. She watched in utter awe as the huge chest rose and fell, far too quickly, but regularly. Beneath her hands, now-supple flesh gradually warmed.

  He was breathing.

  His heart was beating.

  His brain was functioning.

  She stepped backward, away from him and turned in the doorway to scan the monitors. They confirmed the impossible. Not one flat line among them. Not one.

  An agonized moan, so hoarse it hurt her ears, brought her around once more. His eyes were blue… the pale, silvery blue of an icy sea, and they were staring right into hers. She saw many things in those piercing blue eyes—confusion, pain and an unfocused quality that told her he wasn't seeing clearly. He remained on his back, just staring at her, silently asking her a thousand questions, most of which she was certain she couldn't answer.

  She was in awe, in shock. Life's blood pulsed through the formerly dormant body, giving color to his skin. She took a step toward him, then another. Slowly, tentatively, she approached him. He moved only his eyes, keeping them locked with hers. Beside the table she stopped. In wonder, she lifted a trembling hand, and placed it with tender reverence upon his face. Her fingertips brushed over the small expanse of his cheek uncovered by beard. "You're alive." It was no more than a whisper.

  His response was to slowly lift one of his large hands and thread his fingers through her hair, pulling what few strands had remained pinned in place down to join the rest in what she knew must resemble a pumpkin orange disarray. "Valkyrie." The word came in a voice hoarse from disuse.

  Her words, she knew, were foreign to him. She understood his, though. It was almost laughable. If he thought her one of the legendary demigoddesses, the Valkyries, who in Norse mythology were said to greet fallen warriors at their deaths and lead them to Valhalla, he must be incredibly disappointed. Valkyries were supposed to be beautiful, strong, sensual creatures. She saw herself as none of the above.

  She stifled her amused
grin and met his wonder-filled gaze. "No." She shook her head. "Not Valkyrie. Miranda." She frowned hard, searching her memory for the Islensk words. "Eg heiti Miranda."

  She wished she had a more thorough knowledge of the language. Not that it mattered. She wouldn't be able to tell him anything, anyway. She had no idea how this had happened, but she was absurdly glad it had. Her eyes burned and she had the urge to laugh out loud. "You're alive." She said it softly, a sense of wonder in her voice. She stared down at him, wondering what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Was he in pain?

  His hand clasped the base of her neck to draw her nearer. He squinted, then blinked as if to focus his vision. Suddenly the curious, reverent gleam left his eyes and they narrowed in a way that made her heart jump in fear. His hand in her hair turned cruel, twisting a lock around it until she thought he'd rip it out. His mouth curled into a sneer and he gruffly ground out, "Adrianna." It was, she sensed, an accusation.

  He rose slightly and with a brutal thrust pushed her away from him. His shove was so forceful she found herself on the floor. Even as she fought panic and shock and began to get to her feet again, she saw him leap from the table. He loomed over her, spewing forth a stream of Norse words so filled with anger and bitterness she could barely believe the strength of it. How had she allowed herself to forget, even with all that had happened, who this man was? The Plague of the North. He reached down for her, his huge hand menacing.

  She cringed, terror-stricken, but then he stopped. His large body swayed slightly. One hand pressed to the side of his head and he wobbled on his feet like a tree about to fall. Miranda shot up, gripping his upper arm with all the strength she possessed and slipping an arm around his waist when that first effort was no longer sufficient.

  "Easy. Come on. Lie down," she said in a low, firm voice. He couldn't understand her words, but he might be able to sense her intent in her tone. She trembled with fear, but refused to give in to it. "I mean you no harm," she went on as she urged him toward the table. "Eg er… vinur pinn," she managed. "I'm your friend."