Miranda's Viking Page 6

  She looked down at her torn blouse and exposed skin, and felt her stomach heave once more. She fought the sensation and this time she won. She supposed she ought to be grateful for the birthmark she'd always hated. Apparently Adrianna, whoever the hell she was, didn't have one.

  Rolf bathed. Did the woman wish so badly for him to bathe, then bathe he would, no matter that it seemed a waste of his time. Bathing was the last thing he wanted to do. He was eager to learn more about this place, this land, the language… the woman.

  She was not Adrianna.

  At least, not the Adrianna he'd known. He imagined himself a fool to believe she might not be Adrianna at all. He suspected he might well be about to entangle himself in another web of her deceptions and lies. But even when she'd been trying to win his trust, Adrianna had never treated him as gently as this one had. She'd never looked at him as this one had.

  Miranda. Adrianna's twin? Or one of her plots? Her emotions showed clearly in her eyes. When she looked at him in awe, it was clear. Equally obvious when she felt concern or worry on his behalf. And then, just before he'd mauled her like an angry bear, she'd looked at him with desire so potent it had altered her stone gray eyes to the color of molten steel. A desire so real he could feel it emanating from her.

  He thought of the Adrianna he'd known, of her deceptively innocent eyes and ready supply of tears. Her true emotions, did she have any, had never been apparent. Never.

  But Miranda, or whoever she was, had desired him. Unlike the woman in his past, she'd been unable to hide or alter the feelings that showed in her eyes.

  No doubt he'd cured her of that malady. It wounded his pride that she would react to his kiss so violently. It stung to think he repulsed her to such a degree. But as he soaked in the hot water that eased the burning aches in all of his limbs, he gave the matter more thought.

  If she were repulsed by his kiss, he had only himself to blame. For at the time he'd been certain she was Adrianna. He'd been certain the longing so plain in her eyes was no more than another of her tricks. He'd been angrier still that his body had felt a response to her heated gaze and trembling touch. Would he never learn? He'd thought to teach her a lesson she would not soon forget. Oh, he guessed he'd done that and more. Only the lesson had, perchance, been taught to the wrong woman.

  He shook his head slowly and closed his eyes in disgust. He supposed it was well to know where he stood with the woman. She'd done nothing but show him kindness and patience, despite her fear and dislike of him. If she was Adrianna, perhaps this was her method of atoning for past wrongs. If she was not Adrianna, Rolf was deeply in her debt. True, he hadn't requested her hospitality, had no idea how he'd come to be in her house, and could not find the words to ask her.

  No, not any more than he could find the words to explain his actions. Or should he feel the need to explain? For even were she not the woman he had believed her to be, she had been the cause of his lust. Did she not desire to enflame his passions, why had she looked at him as she had? Why had her eyes moved scorchingly over his body?

  Rolf had never lifted a hand to a woman in his life. And now he'd done so. Twice, he reminded himself, whether she'd been deserving of it or not. He knew he'd been far more rough than was decent. Even were she Adrianna. He was far bigger than she was and had ten times her strength.

  Mayhap she would order him away now. Mayhap she would summon her man to defend her honor, did she have one. He'd seen no evidence of it thus far. Was she alone in this place, then? What of Steinholf, her faŏir? Of Kalf, her broŏir? Nei, the more Rolf pondered it, the less sense it made. He'd known those men, known them well. Never would they have allowed their cherished and spoiled Adrianna to travel alone to such a strange and remote place.

  For more than an hour he soaked and he considered. When the water became too cold to allow such laziness to continue, he put an end to it. He rose slowly from the water, stepped onto the floor and reached for the huge, soft "towels" she'd left for him. After a vigorous rubdown he conceded that he felt a good deal better. He glanced around in search of his clothes, disconcerted to find she'd taken them. What was he to wear?

  He anchored the towel around his hips and went in search of her, wondering how she would react to him now. How could he make his peace with her when he knew so few words of her language? Were he only able to locate some writings, or find his way into a room filled with talking people. He had endless questions and he must gain answers.

  He moved over the softly padded floor of the corridor and down the stairs. He found her in the largest room, the one with the overly stuffed seats all around and the curious box that seemed to be the focal point. She had several packages spread on the largest seat of all and was pulling garments from them. She looked up quickly when she sensed him standing there.

  Her eyes wavered beneath his gaze and he saw, for a moment, the fear within them. But she averted them quickly. She reached over to the small wooden stand in front of her and picked up a large knife with a long, curving blade. She studied the item for several moments then caught his gaze again as she slowly replaced it, at her side this time. She'd delivered her message without uttering a single word. Did he touch her again, she fully intended to run him through.

  Rolf glared at the blade and then at the woman. She thought to tame him with threats, did she? To frighten him? Him? The notion infuriated him. Not that he thought her capable of doing him harm. She could have no chance to outwit or outfight him.

  "Come here, Rolf."

  He heard the words and committed them to memory, yet still wondered at their meaning. She used her hands to explain, and repeated the words. Rolf moved nearer, spying his sword and sheath leaning against a small table. He made no move to pick them up. He could reach for them quickly enough should the need arise. That is, should some enemy burst in upon them. To deal with her, he'd need no more than his two hands. Possibly one.

  She handed him a small garment, colored like cranberries, but he only stared at it, frowning. Surely she did not intend that anything so small go anywhere on his body?

  Sighing, she bent over and demonstrated the way to slip one's feet through the two small openings. She handed him the garment once more, saying the word, "underwear." Rolf lifted his brows as he took them from her. She nodded. "Put them on, Rolf."

  He shrugged, hooked a finger beneath the knot in the towel and jerked it free. She turned her back to him at once. He awkwardly stepped into the underwear and pulled it up. The garment fitted like a second skin, and he supposed when she turned back to face him that she must not be pleased. She could see as much of him with the garment in place as she would have been able to without it. Her eyes wandered downward only briefly before she quickly adjusted her gaze and handed him something else.

  They reminded him of heavy, outdoor leggings. But they were blue and of a sturdy fabric he did not recognize. He pulled these on and learned they were called jeans. They had no string at the opening. There was only an odd metal contraption with countless tiny teeth. He peered at it.

  "Zipper," she told him. She hesitated, then finally squared her shoulders and stood very close to him. Too close, for her scent filled his nostrils at once. She grasped the little piece of metal on the zipper, her hands so near to him he fought the urge to cover them with his, and to press himself against them.

  Thor save him from his foolish notions! How could he continue to desire the one who'd so betrayed him?

  She pulled the zipper upward. He smiled, distracted for a moment from her charms by the cleverness of the device as he watched her fasten the button at the top. Her fingers seemed to burn him as she touched his skin. When he looked into her eyes once more he saw how it disturbed her to stand so near to him, to touch him. Truly, Adrianna or not, she feared him now.

  He walked away from her, trying to accustom himself to the odd feel of the snug-fitting jeans. He moved this way and that, bent at the knees and straightened. He finally came back to her, nodding. He liked them very much. But why, h
e wondered, was she showering him with gifts after threatening him with a blade?

  She gave him little time to wonder. She handed him a shirt made of a soft, pale blue fabric with buttons down the front. He put it on and fastened the buttons, discovering more at the wrists and fastening them, as well. She fixed the collar to her liking, her touch light and fleeting upon the skin of his neck, then she quickly stepped away. "Sit down."

  He did. He'd learned that particular phrase in the kitchen.

  She remained standing, obviously still not wishing herself too close to him. She handed him two soft white items, and after inspecting them, he deduced their use and pulled them onto his feet.

  Rolf was beginning to feel decidedly uncomfortable accepting not only food and shelter, but now bright new clothing from a woman he'd treated roughly, despite that she likely deserved it. Despite even that she'd brandished a blade large enough to eviscerate him.

  He thought it over and decided he ought to offer some form of payment. At the very least as a balm to his pride. He rose, ignoring her questioning glance, and crossed the room. Through the door and down the stairs he went, to the place where he'd first awakened to find her standing over him. He hurried into the room where he'd lain, knowing she was on his heels, no doubt wondering at his intent. Rolf snatched up the pouch that held his coins and turned. Miranda stared, curious and perhaps afraid. Rolf caught one of her hands in his and turned her palm upward. He dropped the pouch into her hand, met her gaze for one moment, then moved past her and back up the stairs.

  Chapter 4

  Miranda fully intended to tell him exactly what she thought of his manhandling… just as soon as she could communicate with him. She'd combed her father's library, and found a volume on runes with a page translating runic symbols to their equivalent English sounds. She also dug up an Old Norse, or Islensk/English dictionary. The language had changed little over the centuries since Rolf had spoken it.

  He used the brush she'd given him, while she gathered the necessary things from the study for his lessons. She tried not to notice that he looked like he'd stepped off the pages of some bodybuilder magazine. She fought with the fool inside her, who kept picturing him garbed in the finest red satin, or worse yet, bare-chested, astride a mighty black stallion, charging into battle, his muscled arms effortlessly wielding his broadsword, his golden hair flying behind him. She managed to dismiss the vivid image just before she groaned aloud.

  He no longer shot her suspicious, angry glances every few seconds. She thought his gesture—giving her his pouch of coins—might have been as much an apology as a payment for the clothes. But she didn't want to think about it. She didn't want to think about him at all, certainly not as a man. Only as an experiment. One she was selfishly keeping all to herself. After his assault upstairs, she thought she would have gladly dropped this entire idea, but she knew she couldn't. For her father's sake, she would see this through. He would no more want to see Rolf incarcerated in a government-funded lab than she did. She had started on this insane path and she would follow it to the end.

  She ardently denied that, on some primal, animal level, the memory of his tongue ravaging her mouth sent shivers up her spine.

  When Rolf saw the books, his expression changed completely. His eyes rounded and he very nearly smiled. Miranda stifled a feeling of shock as she watched him pick them up, one after another, riffling pages, scanning them. For a moment she was so enthralled watching his reactions that she forgot she was supposed to be afraid of him. If she had any sense, she would be. She wondered, briefly, why she wasn't.

  "Rolf?" He looked up reluctantly. She held out the book in her hand, opened to the rune chart. That would help him with pronunciations more than anything else. When he immediately sat down, carelessly sweeping boxes and tissue paper and the rest of his new wardrobe onto the floor to clear himself a space on the sofa, she almost laughed at his enthusiasm.

  She gave him time to study the chart while she busied herself writing the words for every object in the house that came to mind. She included all the words she'd taught him so far, and soon he was moving nearer to her on the sofa, peering over her shoulder, watching every stroke of her pen.

  She fought the sudden surge of awareness that made her want to move away and move closer, all at once. From the corner of her eye, she glanced up at him. He wasn't in a lecherous mood just now. He wanted to learn, wanted it desperately from what she could see. And slowly, tentatively, she began to teach him.

  She no longer worried about the police officers outside. If they came in and saw him, she could cover it. At least he looked more like an ordinary man now. No, she thought vaguely as he repeated the word he'd just painstakingly written down. Ordinary, he'll never be. Suffice it to say, he might pass for someone of this century—unless he reaches for his sword and starts offing with someone's head.

  She could handle the police. She knew she could. But what if they asked how he got in? What if someone wanted to see the dead Viking in the basement?

  I'll handle it. Whatever comes up, I'll simply have to handle it.

  He could no longer believe her language was one of her own creation.

  It was nearly dawn and Rolf saw that her eyelids were heavy. She must be very tired, yet she refused to rest. She seemed as eager to teach him as he was to learn. With each stride he made it seemed a little more of her dislike of him disappeared, to be replaced by a growing excitement. Each minor goal he reached filled her with delight. She seemed amazed at the amount he'd learned in a single night.

  He wished he could tell her that he'd learned many, many languages in his lifetime. Some called him the wisest man in Norge. He'd made it a point to study and learn the languages of every people he'd encountered and he'd encountered many. He hadn't been overly boastful of this knowledge. It wasn't that he was more intelligent than others that made learning new tongues come so easily to him, he knew. He'd always believed it had to do with his ability to remember things precisely after seeing or hearing them only once.

  His gift with languages was legend among his people. He'd been much admired for it… until the judgment and his subsequent exile. Despite his position, Adrianna's word had not been doubted. She was the daughter of a jarl, after all. The only thing that made his exile bearable, he recalled, had been his ambition to learn the ways and the words of the elusive Skraelingar of Helluland.

  That thought brought a flash of memory, men struggling with the broad-striped sails of a dragon ship. The feel of icy sea spray stinging his face. The riotous rocking of the vessel, and the hideous howl of the wind. The sudden snap of the mast, and the sound of tearing fabric. The water closing its frozen hands over his body, dragging him downward, covering his head, filling him—

  Thor, help him, he wished to recall that last voyage! He remembered clearly only what preceded it—Adrianna's treachery. He remembered hoisting the sails, and setting out across the North Atlantic. He remembered his thoughts about the Skraelingar, and his burning anger toward Adrianna for her betrayal. Had not Kalf been his friend, he'd have fought her before the council. He'd have found a way to prove his innocence did he have to fabricate it, as the wench had fabricated his guilt. But to do so would have only served to transfer his sentence to his friend, for Adrianna had accused Rolf only to free her broŏir. Besides, with Knut dead, and his sworn enemy, Magnus on the throne, proving Rolf's innocence would not have bettered Rolf's predicament. Knowing Rolf was loyal to Knut would only give Magnus more reason to banish him.

  Exile would have been Kalf's death. He was strong neither in body nor spirit. And knowing how he'd been used and made a fool of, Rolf had too much pride to make the knowledge public. So he'd set out in exile, seething with anger and bitterness, and his memory faded where the open sea began. Except for these puzzling glimpses.

  Her head fell softly upon his shoulder. Her hair touched his cheek, and he could smell its delicate scent. For an instant he stiffened, surprised by the intimate nature of the contact. Then her deep, st
eady breathing came to his ears and he knew she slept. He tilted his head slightly to the side so that he might brush his face over her satin hair, just once. Despite all of Adrianna's faults, she had been beautiful beyond compare. She still was, for surely, he thought, no woman could look so much like her and not be her. By Odin's justice, he wished her heart were as lovely as her body, her face.

  Gently, Rolf moved her from him, easing her down to the cushions even as he rose to make way for her. She continued her slumber undisturbed. He took the decorative blanket from the back of the large seat—sofa, he revised in silence—and placed it over her. For a long moment he studied her, the way her auburn lashes rested against ivory cheeks and the peculiar pouting lips, slightly parted and moist. He reached to the back of her head and silently, carefully, removed the pins she'd replaced in her hair, one by one. When he finished, he threaded his fingers through the fiery curls and shook them softly, until they framed her face and cloaked her shoulders.

  She made a very tempting offering this way, no animosity in her eyes, no fear. Rolf stood straighter and turned from her. He had much to accomplish while she slept and he would do none of it here. Did he remain in the presence of this sleeping temptress he would continue to stare at her until she woke, he knew he would… at the least. At most, he might bend nearer, gather her pliant body up to his and taste her sweet lips once again.