Great. Now he thought she was coming on to him. “I don’t want you to harm your wounds,” she muttered, not caring if he understood. She patted his shoulder dry. “Like this.” She was not going to do his thigh. That was way too close to . . . well, she just wasn’t. She handed the towel back to him and nodded toward his other stitches. “You now.”
He took it from her, his eyes fixed on her face. “Thonc to thu.”
“Yeah, well, it was nothing.” She turned away. Think about something else. Like his hair. And his beard. She was going to have to do something about those. She backtracked to the head and found the razor. Then, since she didn’t want to prolong her agony, she retrieved another set of boxers (the navy blue ones) and sweats from his closet in the bedroom, along with one of Jake’s shirts. When she emerged, Galen had finished drying his body and was toweling his hair, braids and all. He’d managed to lift his bad arm a little. The nursing book and said he ought to start moving it as soon as possible, so that was good.
“Here,” she said, shoving the boxers in his general direction.
He grinned at her. “These both for me othe for you, Lucy?”
She rolled her eyes and went to retrieve the toast. “The word is ‘or,’ as in ‘me or you.’ ” She slathered all four slices with butter and quartered some of the pears while the bacon sizzled. She saw him slide into the bench around the table out of the corner of her eye and chanced a glance. Whew. He’d managed to get Jake’s shirt on, though it wasn’t buttoned because it was too tight across the chest, and the sweatpants. Better for her sanity all the way around.
Galen seemed to like the food. He went through three slices of bread, four scrambled eggs, two pears, and all but two slices of the bacon. When she had cleared away the plates, she picked up the razor.
“Now. Your beard.” She pointed and held up the razor. She’d tackle one thing at a time.
He looked wary. “I like min beard.”
“We are hiding,” she said. “Yes?” She waited for his wary nod. “Then no beard.”
He thought about that. “I have no beard if . . . you . . . are not . . . wundenlocc.”
What?
He pointed to her braid. “Okay. Point taken. Braids are recognizable.” She handed him the razor and gestured toward the head. He glared at her. “Oh, all right,” She flipped her braid over her shoulder and pulled out the band that held the end. She ran her fingers through it to separate the strands.
A small smile tugged at his lips. “Better.”
“Now you,” she said firmly, handing him the razor. “Use soap.”
He took it, suppressing his smile, and retreated to the head, examining it carefully.
Did Vikings shave at all? If they did, it certainly wouldn’t be with a Gillette four-bladed Skin Saver. They probably use a knife the size of . . . well, a really big knife.
She busied herself washing up the dishes and putting things away. You couldn’t afford to be untidy living in so small a space. She got out the nail scissors she’d bought. They’d have to do to cut his hair. But her attention was all for the quiet in the head. What was taking so long? Could you accidentally cut your throat with a safety razor?
When the head door opened, she whirled around and was confronted by a stranger. Beneath that beard had lurked a chiseled chin that sported a cleft. And now that it wasn’t obscured, his mouth was fuller than she’d thought, his lips soft looking. He seemed younger than the hardened warrior who had gone into the head a few moments ago.
“Lucy likath . . . likes no beard?” His eyes were sly.
Oh, God, she was staring. She turned away and shrugged. “You look different.” She glanced to him. “Not the same.” Nope. That wasn’t getting it, either. “You are a new man.”
He rubbed his jaw. “Ja. New man.”
She brandished the small scissors. “Now for your hair.”
His head jerked in her direction, registered the scissors gesturing toward his locks. He stilled. “No. Not hair.” His lips were a grim line.
“No men have hair like you. We are hiding, remember?”
“No.” He drew himself up. He looked like the Rock of Gibraltar. “Not hair.”
She frowned. She couldn’t cut his hair if he didn’t want her to. Unless she pulled a Delilah and did it in his sleep. Right. She’d never believed that story. Samson would have wakened and just pitched Delilah across the room. Like this Viking had nearly done when Lucy had tried to wake him in the car the other day. Maybe the Samson/Delilah story applied in other ways, though. In Samson’s time men thought long hair was what made them a man.
“Okay. You can keep your hair.” She put the scissors in the head. “But no braids for you, either. They’re just too . . .” Well, just too everything if it came to that. She retrieved her brush from her bag and handed it to him. He was probably used to combs carved out of antlers, but he got the idea. He sat and pulled the leather ties from the narrow braid at each temple, glaring at her. She couldn’t help but grin. “Turnabout is fair play. Sauce for the goose?” She reverted to Latin and repeated the sentiment.
The corners of his lips tugged upward against his will. He dragged the brush through his hair. It got stuck. Too many tangles. She rolled her eyes.
“Silly.” She strode over, extracted the brush, and started from the bottom.
He went still. She worked at the tangles, trying not to break the strands. It was such beautiful hair, thick, a dozen colors of light brown and blond. Untangling it took a long time. She couldn’t help but touch his neck, his cheek, but at least Jake’s red and black plaid flannel shirt covered Galen’s upper body. Brushing his hair this way was strangely peaceful. When at last the brush ran through the strands freely, she stood back and put her hands on her hips.
“There.”
He pushed his hair behind his ears. It promptly fell across his cheeks, too thick for such confinement. Guess that was why he braided the temples, to keep it out of his eyes.
“Okay.” She took one of the leather thongs, gathered a piece from each temple at the back of his head, and tied them firmly. “Better.”
He nodded, examining her face. “Now you,” he said, standing.
“Me?”
“Sit,” he ordered. “Sauce.” The tiny smile appeared at the corners of his newly revealed mouth. He had a sense of humor. It made her think it might be okay to do as he said. To yield.
Don’t go there.
But she sat. He knelt beside her and took the brush. He started at the bottom of her hair and worked his way up until he could brush with long strokes from the crown to the ends. “Is good hair. You are frfeaxen.”
He probably wasn’t talking about faxing fire.
“Hair mid fr.”
It dawned on her. “Red-haired.” She smiled. How could she not? “You can write it for me.” She got up and got out their chart paper.
Shoulder to shoulder, heads bent over the chart, puzzling out a common language felt . . . natural. Mayhaps even right in a way Galen could not explain. He could smell her hair, the woman’s scent of her. Her breasts moved freely under the fine smooth green shirt she had slept in. When he first encountered her this morning, she had seemed self-conscious. But now she had forgotten herself in the task at hand. Her hair was thick and wavy from her braid. It cascaded down her back and over her shoulders like a molten river of lava. Was it the same in her time—that a woman’s hair was left unbound only in the presence of her family or her man? If so, then letting him comb it was for her the incredibly intimate gesture he’d intended. They had combed each other’s hair. He felt his manhood stir. It was as well she had brought him the baggy breeches that stretched. He didn’t want to frighten her and spoil this moment. He repeated the word she spoke.