Then they were out into the brisk air. Clouds piled over the coastal mountain range to the west, but for now the day was crisp and clear. No one seemed to be about on the other boats. Only one car in the lot besides hers. Just as well. She locked the hatch. After all, there was a great big diamond behind the trash compactor and a book she’d been offered a fortune for on the shelf over her bed. Her hair whipped around her. She stopped to twist it into a knot while Galen surveyed the top of the bay. About halfway across you could see where the Petaluma River came in, bringing with it a brown fan of silt from the Sonoma Valley after the storm. Small on the horizon, the San Rafael Bridge arched toward the shipyards of Richmond.
“Storm tonight,” Galen remarked as he swiveled to watch the clouds grow. “We listen to your voices wise in weather later.”
“Radio. It’s a radio.”
“Radio.” He looked as though he was going to hold out a hand to her. But he thought better of it and shoved both of them in the pockets of his leather jacket.
Disappointment again swirled with relief. Did she want him to touch her or not?
They walked up the dock, out the marina gate, and across the parking lot before picking up the little raised trail through the squishy marsh. As they walked single file, Lucy in front, there wasn’t much chance for conversation. That was a relief, too. Too much talking this morning. Galen’s presence tugged at her, but it seemed all wound up in the lucid day, the wind pinking her cheeks, the sky a blue that made you hurt, the wetlands teeming with tiny flowers of white and pale yellow, rough saw grass, and taller reeds where the water was deeper. Herons stalked among them, and smaller birds swam and flew and fluffed their wings. The marsh smelled like the salt water of the bay and the rich rot of plants giving their nutrients back to the earth. It wasn’t a bad smell. As her limbs loosened, her gait swung more freely. Walking felt good. She’d missed it. As her body warmed, that right feeling returned, as if she and Galen and the day were all in tune.
They’d walked for a while when a rough plank bench appeared, set on an earthen platform encouraged by railroad ties fitted together into a square like Lincoln Logs. She’d felt Galen’s strength flagging even though she hadn’t turned to look at him. She glanced back now to see that his expression was determined and a little grim. She’d been so enjoying the walk she’d allowed him to overtax himself.
Chagrined, she sat on the bench, patting the seat beside her. “Let’s rest here.”
He did not resist but sat at the opposite end of the bench. That was good. As far away as possible. A small disappointment flashed inside her. He’d obviously thought better of his attraction for her. He didn’t want to kiss her now. While kissing him was almost all she thought about. And the rest of her thoughts were filled with more than kissing. He eased his shoulder against the back of the bench. His pills with breakfast were obviously wearing off.
“How do you feel?” He wasn’t getting that. “How are your wounds?”
“Wounds are enough good,” he grunted in that baritone voice that seemed to rumble in her chest as well as his.
Yeah, right. But what is a Viking warrior going to say? He’ll never admit he hurts.
Either inside or outside, she thought with some surprise. Which meant he would never want to tell her why he looked ashamed sometimes. God knows Vikings probably have enough to be ashamed of. Raping and killing and pillaging and all.
But a Viking wouldn’t be ashamed of that.
So what was it that so hurt him? She wanted to know. She rolled her lip between her teeth as she gazed out over the marsh. Some would call this desolate, but it was quint-essentially alive. He called it quick. Okay. He wouldn’t tell her all at once. So she’d start obliquely.
“The battle . . . the one you were fighting when I first saw you . . . why did you fight?” Was it for home and family? She’d always assumed he had many women, but maybe he was married with children. Just because a Viking made a pass at her didn’t mean he wasn’t married.
He looked out over the marsh as well, not at her. “I fight for Guthrum, king of the Danelaw, against Egil and his men.”
“Egil seems like a Danish name. I thought the Vikings were fighting Alfred the Great and the Saxons about that time, not each other.”
He glanced to her sharply. “Alfred called is the great king?”
She nodded. “Is called,” she corrected. “The only English king given that honor.”
“He was dead many years by my time. His son Edward the Elder is king of Saxons now.”
“So weren’t the Danes fighting Edward?”
He looked back out over the sea of reeds and saw grass. “I told my king that Edward would make a good friend to the Danes. Friend who fights together?”
“Ally.”
“Yes. Ally.” He let out a breath. “I thought when the Northmen come from Gaul, Edward and my king, the second Guthrum, could fight together to save their island. But to do that, the Danelaw must remain strong, or all is lost. Egil—he was just a wearg.” Galen glanced to her. “Wearg?”
“Probably traitor.” She couldn’t remember “traitor” in Latin so she tried, “Betrayer?”
He nodded. “Traitor. I led an army to stop him. To keep the Danelaw whole.” He frowned out over the marsh to the bay beyond. The water was perhaps thirty yards away. There was a little chop from the wind but no waves to speak of this far north.
“You . . . you have a woman there, lytlings?” Lucy tried to make it sound casual.
He glanced back to her. His eyes gleamed a little. “Nay, Lucy. Not a woman. Many women, but not a woman. No lytlings.”
She shrugged, hiding her relief. “Just wondering.” Why was she relieved? He’d just told her he slept around. As she suspected. Of course, to put it in perspective, what man who looked like Galen wouldn’t sow wild oats? These days they called themselves “not the marrying kind.”
He looked back out over the bay. “You know the name of Alfred. Know you Guthrum?”
“No,” she had to answer. “I know the Danelaw, though, and that England was ruled by a Danish king.” His head lifted sharply at that. “Cnut the First.”
He nodded, thinking. “Only one?”
She nodded in her turn.
He shrugged. “The people of my mother prevailed. This is why you remember Alfred.”
“It must have been hard, being a son of both Saxon and Dane.”
He shook his head. “Not so hard. There were many and many. Danes took Saxon wives. We made villages beside the Saxon villages. We traded and spoke. Had sons and daughters.”
“I thought you just burned the Saxon villages and raped the women.” At his incensed look she said hastily, “Sorry, but I did.”
She saw him working at the thought a minute. “Sometimes, what you say is sooth. Good men there were and yful or stupid. That is a way to take the land, if there is no choosing of another way. But it is not the way to hold the land. My father did not take land thus.”
“And the women were wives, not concubines?” She used the Latin word for “concubines.”
Now he looked really insulted. “Saxon women come to the bed of Danir men freely. Why not? We bathe many more times than Saxon men.”
She tried not to smile. “Well, that would do it.” Yeah. What was she thinking? Like any Saxon woman with half a hormone wouldn’t jump into bed with Galen. Sitting there, all glowery, with his hair blowing back from his face and his blue eyes burning, he was making Lucy’s body react in its usual way. She had to think of something else. Anything else. But she couldn’t think of anything else but Saxon women coming to his bed. He’d be naked, because he seemed to like to be naked. . . .
He cleared his throat. “You say there were many English kings?”