“To your time?” She looked uncomfortable. “I had the book. Brad had the machine.” Galen didn’t understand the word “machine.” He signaled as much to her. Why could he not learn faster? She switched to Latin. Ahh. The bronze wheels were called a machine. She went back to English. “I thought it was . . . fate. You know fate. Destiny?”
He shook his head, and she had to resort to Latin again. Frustration made him want to stand and pace the room. But that would only take him away from her, and he didn’t want to lose their contact. “That was stupid.” She tried to laugh and resorted to Latin to explain the word “stupid” again. “Enough of this.” She tried to make her face hide her feelings. One of the best things about her was that she failed. Her eyes told her soul, like the color of the ocean that varied with the weather and the health of the sea. “We must work.”
He let her go back to their lessons. He needed language if he was ever to be independent.
“ ‘Sail,’ ” she said again, writing it in her column. “Like ‘sail a boat.’ ”
He nodded and wrote seglian on his side of the ledger. “I sail. You sail. He sails. They sail. Sailed. Sailing. Will sail.” He would learn her English if he had to work day and night.
She must know her vulnerability in angering Brad. Did she have any options at all? “Lucy . . . ,” Galen began.
She shook her head. “No more questions. Just the lesson. ‘Walk.’ ” She wrote it down. And then she suddenly said, “I have not yet had my bath.” She rose and hurried to her cabin.
The moment of intimacy had passed. He was sorry. But he was not sorry for what he had learned. He wanted to know more than action words. He wanted to know, for instance, why this Brad had let the woman he lusted after go into the middle of a battle alone and unprotected.
Chapter 12
Lucy let the hot water sluice over her head, trying to keep her balance as the boat rolled in the wind that had kicked up after the rainsqualls of the morning.
Why the hell had she answered Galen’s questions about Brad? And admitting that she slept with men? Waaaay too personal. Was she an idiot? She had blurted out her life story to a Viking she’d known for—what? Three days?
She poured a handful of shampoo and began scrubbing at her head. All she really knew about him was that he was insufferably sure of himself with women. He probably bedded everything in sight in his own time, whether they were attractive or not. Which was the only reason he’d come on to her. She wasn’t anybody’s idea of beautiful. She’d so forgotten herself she sat next to him clad in nothing but her sleep shirt for hours while they studied this morning. Was she out of her mind?
Or did she subconsciously want to provoke another attempt to kiss her?
Absolutely not. She’d just gotten carried away with teaching him. He was not her type. She liked a refined man. Brad was refined. Well educated, knew good wine. Liked to take her to the Exploratorium to try to change her into a woman who loved science as much as he did . . .
Enough. She rinsed her hair and soaped herself. There were other refined men besides Brad. It didn’t mean she’d fall for a guy who practically dragged women around by their hair.
She was at a fragile time in her life. That was how she’d let Leonardo’s book become such an obsession. That was why she felt such an attraction to Galen. And why she had dashed back in time for God’s sake, looking for answers about a life to which she no longer seemed connected? She should have told him she loved Brad and Brad loved her. That might have made her off-limits, even in his Dark Ages mind. Why hadn’t she?
Because he asked her for the truth.
As if that mattered when it came from a man like him. She pushed open the shower door and grabbed a towel. He’d just been looking for a chink in her armor. He wanted her to admit she was free and desired him so he could slake his lust without actually raping her. He must know he was dependent on her right now. He wasn’t unintelligent.
Far from it, actually.
She pulled on her clothes and dragged the brush ruthlessly through her hair. That brought back the moment of closeness they’d shared while he brushed her hair. Surprising in the extreme. She could still feel his big, calloused hands lifting her hair, his breath on her neck . . .
Get hold of yourself.
Right. Right. Well, it was good that his English would improve so rapidly. Two could play this game of eliciting uncomfortable admissions. Because he wasn’t the only one with questions. Why, for instance, did he look so ashamed of himself sometimes? That was so at odds with his insufferable sureness. Why had he been fighting Danes when he was half Dane himself? And did he have a woman back in 912? She snorted to herself. He probably had dozens, eager to welcome him to their beds. Why not, with that body and that smile?
But still there were things about himself he wouldn’t want to reveal.
She’d ask him, if for no other reason than to see him squirm. Sauce for the gander.
Lucy returned to the salon after bathing and dressing and found Galen with his boots on. “We walk out,” he said, standing. “We are on this boat too many days.”
He had cabin fever. Frankly, so did she. “Are you well enough?”
He nodded. “Ja. We walk now.”
She wrinkled her nose. “What is this smell?”
He didn’t have to ask what that word was. “Min scen . . . Nay . . . my boots. Blood.”
“Well then,” she said, pulling on a heavy knit sweater and grabbing her bag. “We will go find you new boots.”
“A quest?” He grinned at her.
“A quest.” She grabbed Galen’s pills and some more of Jake’s cash. Lucy’s bag was practically featherweight without Leonardo’s book. She felt lighter, too. Galen would probably collapse in the middle of the store. Or maybe not. The Viking seemed pretty hardy. Three days and already he was much better.
Maybe her blood donation had helped him.
Stupid. It had probably been one of many pints of blood he’d gotten. But the thought of her blood running in his veins and helping him to heal was strangely . . . intimate.
She pushed open the hatch and climbed out into the cockpit. The wind was brisk off the bay. It took her hair and whipped it around her face. She gathered it in both hands and twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck. Torn clouds raced across the blue of the sky. At least it wasn’t foggy. Movement caught her eye and she turned to see a heron lifting off the marsh, out of the reeds. It glided out over the bay, its passage causing other birds to whirl up in anxiety. She recognized some mallards among the confetti spiral of smaller birds.
Galen shoved up through the hatch and climbed up to the deck, looking up at the sky. Jake’s flannel shirt flapped away from his rock-hard body.
“Why is the sky brun?” he asked, pointing over to the industrial area of the east bay. “Is there a great fire?”
“No.” How to explain smog? “Many cars and . . . and . . . smithies?”
He frowned, but it wasn’t because he didn’t understand. “The sky is sick, Lucy. I feel it.” He peered over into the side, frowning. “Water sick, too.”
“Yeah. Too many people now.” But there was nothing you could do about it, short of wiping out enough of mankind to go back to the population level in Galen’s time.
He shook his head and began moving around the deck touching the halyards, the nylon lines the fiberglass, the metal I-bolts. How strange this must all be to him. Jake is out of his mind if he thinks Galen will be able to sail a modern boat. He might be able to crew for her and follow directions if she taught him words for everything. He’d really hate taking orders from her. He might just refuse. What would she do then?