“You are very good at this.”
His smile could only be called smug. “I learn swift.”
“Swiftly.”
“Swiftly,” he repeated, frowning in annoyance. She had seen that several times tonight. He was smart but also driven. He demanded more of himself than anyone had a right to expect.
They resorted to Latin sometimes, but it wouldn’t be long before they could stick pretty much to English. What a relief that would be! There had been some surprises in how he spelled the words. His “cn” was like modern “kn” sounds. “G” sounded like her “y” sometimes. “Wh” sounds were spelled “hw” in his time. And there were two letters to indicate the “th” sound that didn’t exist at all anymore. But on the whole, it was starting to make sense to her, too.
“Bed now. It is late.” She rolled up the charts. “I will tend your wounds.”
In his cabin he pulled off his sweatpants and lay on the bed. She turned on the bedside lamp. It cast a golden glow over his body. Outside, the rain still beat on the deck and ports. The boat rocked in its slip. She had never felt so alone with a man. The world was far away beyond the darkness. Brad and Casey and Jake, even the convenience store guy, were all irrelevant. It was only she and Galen in the watertight cocoon of Jake’s boat, safe and dry, at least for now.
She got the hydrogen peroxide, the Betadine and bandages. She pulled the adhesive on his shoulder wound in toward the incision so she wouldn’t tug at the stitches (thanks to the book’s instructions). Then she pulled the sodden gauze away. He peered down at his shoulder.
She tossed the gauze and tape aside. The wound was still shocking, but it had pulled together and tightened. The drain in the lower end seemed even more a violation of his flesh than the black, uneven track of stitches. “It’s better.”
“Hit heth swift.” He was staring at her. “It heal swiftly,” he corrected.
Forget the dropped s on “heals”—no use overcorrecting him. “You are wonderful with words.” She turned to her disinfectants. He’d understand that. “Wonderful” was a word they shared.
“I was meant to be more,” he said in Latin.
She glanced up to him and saw a look of shame flicker across his exhausted face. She had seen that expression before. What had he to be ashamed of? A potent warrior, a man who could read and write several languages in a time when literacy was almost unheard of . . . why would he be ashamed? “What more? More than warrior? More than leader? More than intelligent?” She spoke in a mixture of English and Latin, whatever occurred.
His expression flattened. “You ne understandeth.”
Well, if he was going to retreat to being the strong, silent type, two could play that game. She focused on her dressings. As well as she could. Her hands on his body were sending signals to parts of her that shouldn’t be taking the call. In fact, she wasn’t sure the boxers helped much. They were bulging over his generously constructed male . . . area, which only drew her attention to what she knew was underneath. And the rest of him was bare, except for bandages of course, and so her hands touched hot skin at every turn. Was he fevered? Or maybe she was the one who was hot. Either way, the result was the same. Signals. Shuddering, tingling signals.
Focus, she thought. Not on that! On the wound. Just tend the wound. New bandage. Lay it out. But the crisp hair on his chest brushed her knuckles and his nipples were soft. They made her want to rub her thumbs over them until they peaked. How had his left hand gotten to her thigh? She looked up. His blue eyes were communicating in a language that didn’t need words. She got the message loud and clear.
And she was really afraid her eyes would be speaking just as clearly. What was the matter with her? This is a probably murderous Viking, remember? She’d bought pepper spray just to thwart unwelcome advances. Only her body was sending out signals that the advances weren’t unwelcome. And she was going to be cooped up on this boat with him for a while. At the moment it seemed like forever. So she had to deal with this whole attraction thing head-on.
She sat back and took his hand from her thigh. Her heart was thudding uncomfortably in her chest. “Look,” she said, then started again in Latin. She wanted no misunderstanding. “I am not interested . . .” She wasn’t sure that was the right word. More direct. “I do not want you.”
Those blue eyes blinked, slowly. Was there a hint of a smile around those lips? There’d better not be. “Thou haban . . .” He started again. “You have lust for me.”
“I . . . I do not . . . lust for you!” Why did “lust” have to be a word from Old English?
“Ja. You have lust for me.” He reached his good hand around her neck, under her braid.
And she let him. His calluses felt coarse against her skin. She was throbbing and wet between her thighs. What would it be like to let a man like this have his way with her? Would it be her way, too? Would she give in to him? The word “yield” sounded in her mind.
“Gield to me,” he said clearly, echoing her thoughts.
She started and sidled out from under his hand, to stand above him, panting. Yield was an Old English word? Oh, she hated that. “I will not yield to you.” Or to my feelings. She switched to Latin. That seemed more . . . impersonal. But she was so flustered it was difficult to find the words. “You will be . . . be . . . good.”
“I be good.” He smiled, slowly. He did not switch to Latin. “Very good for you, Lucy.”
“You will not touch me,” she continued firmly in Latin. “Or I will leave you.”
“You . . .” He searched for the right word. “You want to cyssan me.”
“I do not want to kiss you.” Much. At least her brain didn’t. She could no longer vouch for her body, betrayer that it was. She searched for purchase on a very slippery slope. She stuck firmly to Latin. “I do not want a lover.” Did she?
But this Viking didn’t love her. He was looking for an easy conquest. That thought gave her the purchase she needed. “Women now do not live only for the kiss of a man. We have our own lives. We choose our lovers.” She would have gone on, but the language barrier was just too tough. “Do you want help for your wounds or no?”
He searched her face. “Ja, Lucy. You heal mine wounds.”
“Okay then,” she muttered, losing her Latin entirely. “But you keep your hands to yourself.” She sat back down and made sure all her movements were extremely brisk as she taped the bandage over his shoulder.
Out of half-closed eyes Galen watched her secure the bandage. Why had she refused sex with him? Galen was not used to rejection. Women looking for a man thought themselves fortunate to attract his attention. But not this one. Perhaps he had mistaken her. Could she possibly be a virgin? He never trifled with maidens. She said she had male “friends.” Not possible. Women had male relatives who protected them, a husband or a betrothed, or lovers. Jake was more like a father or an uncle to her. Galen had seen that. But what about this Brad?
She said that women of her time chose their lovers, that they did not need a man. Danish women, too, were strong and independent. But, Galen had to admit, not until they were married and widowed. Their fathers chose husbands for them. And many were bought for their bride price and their comely bodies more than for lifelong companionship. When they were widowed, they could inherit land and run their own lives. If Lucy ran her own life, mayhaps she was a widow who had taken this Brad as a lover. That would explain much.
But what would keep her then from a little enthusiastic sex?
Ahhh. She was afraid she would want to deny this Brad after Galen had swived her well and thoroughly. That made sense. It would be hard for another to follow in his footsteps.