The Island House (45 page)

Bear glared at Solwaer. Red danced in his eyes.

Solwaer sighed. “The problem with you is, you’re never satisfied. I freed you from those monks.”

Bear glared. “To become your slave.”

Solwaer continued, unperturbed. “Are you a slave now? No. I took you in, gave you a place of honor beside my fire.”

Bear stood straighter. “Honor? Night and day I work in your interest. Weapons, jewelry, carvings such as no one else makes on this coast.”

Solwaer waved a dismissive hand. “
And
what do you do? You frighten the children, and the women, and disturb the peace of my hall.”

Bear laughed derisively. “Listen to me, old man.”

The goad was successful. Now Solwaer glowered.

Bear raised his voice. “I know what you are, and I know what you want. You’re building this little empire very cleverly, but you’re a trader, not a fighter. Guile is your natural game, but your followers are fishers and farmers; war is not their calling. But, of course, you’re a Christian.” Bear smiled like a dog. “You don’t want to take the place yourself, though you’d like to have it. And this is not a lie.” Perhaps the truth was dangerous.

The Lord of Portsol smoothed all expression from his face. “Speak on, Bear, if you wish to seem more foolish than you are. But not for too long.” He looked Bear in the eyes and yawned.

“Given men who know what they’re doing, I’ll take that island for you. And I want a third of it.” Bear stared back at Solwaer, that unsettling look, wide and blank.

The older man’s scalp shifted. He’d spared this maniac’s life. In the end, might that prove to be a mistake? “So tell me. If you were me, would
you
trust a demon?”

A smile split Bear’s face. “If we come to terms, I will swear an oath, and I am not an oath breaker. If you will not do this, perhaps another may. I repeat. My price is a third.”

Solwaer grunted. “Girl!”

Skittish as a hare, the slave peered out from behind the skin of a large, black cow. “Yes, Lord?” It was almost a squeak.

“More.”

The slave hurried toward her master, cradling the swollen ale sack like a baby. She poured, trying not to look at the demon on the far side of the fire pit.

Solwaer pointed at the discarded horn. “Fill it.” As the slave scuttled from the room, he stared into the flames. “So, what is this other way you speak of?”

Bear grinned. “Terms first, Solwaer. When those are sworn, you will know.” He held up the horn, and Solwaer raised his own.

CHAPTER 32

T
URN IT
off.” Walter spoke into his son’s ear. Dan was planing timber, and the workshop rang with howling cacophony.

Dan took his time. Only when the board had gone the distance did he hit the Off button and pull the ear protectors from his head. “What did you say?”

“Time to lock up.” Walter pointed at his watch. “Fourteen-hour days are all very well, but you have to sleep sometime.”

Dan hoisted the plank and placed it on a small stack beside the bench.

Walter asked, “Have you heard from Freya?”

“Not expecting to.” Dan put the ear protectors on again.

As casually as he could, Walter said, “You still expecting to go to the island this weekend?” His words were obliterated by the scream of the planer. Walter rolled his eyes. For impenetrable, perfectly honed obstinacy, there was no one like Daniel Boyne—except himself.

He yelled, “Maybe you should call the girl. Confirm you’ll come.” The planer whined and died. Walter was suddenly conscious of the silence.

Dan slung chains around the bundle of planks. Moving them with an overhead gantry, he lined them up above a larger stack and released the slings. The timber dropped with a crack like a shot.

Walter gave up. He set off toward the office.

Dan called after him, “There’s no point ringing. She turns her phone off.”

Walter nodded. “Still and all, you said she needed help over there.” He tried to pretend there were no stakes in any of this.

Dan clambered into the forklift. The engine whirred. “She’s pretty self-sufficient, Dad.” He set off toward a stack of rough-sawn timber.

Was it an opening? Walter followed his son, waited until he hoisted another load of wood and dropped it near the bench. “This girl is different, Dan.”

Patiently Dan said, “I’m not thirteen, Dad. I’m past needing advice.” He climbed down.

Before Dan could avoid it, Walter pulled his son into his arms, held him as he would have long ago, when his boy needed comfort. “Look, Freya Dane might talk like she’s different, but she wants what they all want. A man strong enough to stand beside her through the hard times. She might not know that, but she does.” He smiled. “Get in the boat, Son. Not life and death, is it?”

Dan gazed at his father.

Walter thought the boy was coming to his senses. “Go on.” He gave Dan a bit of a push.

Dan stared at the workshop door as if expecting it to open. His eyes snapped back to Walter’s.
Life and death.
“And time.” He smiled.

“Time?” Walter was confused, but he hadn’t seen his son happy in a while. That was enough for him.

“You left out time.” Dan dropped the ear protectors on the bench. “See you later.”

It was two days since she’d taken Simon back to Portsolly, and nothing at all had happened. Of course. She’d even managed dreamless sleep two nights in a row—that was a first on Findnar.

Freya straightened her back. She was stiff from all the digging, and discouraged. Three more trenches in the center of the stones, and precisely zilch result, not even pottery shards.

“So? Tell me. Come on.” She stared at the stones severely. “Where should I dig?”

“Maybe I can help.”

Freya swung around. “Dan!” She hadn’t heard him approach. “What are you doing here? I mean, um, . . .”
That went well.

Dan laughed. “And lovely to see you, too, Freya.” He limped toward her.

“You’re smiling.” It was almost an accusation.
And that came out wrong too.
Freya leaned on her shovel in the trench. “Let’s start again.”

He was only a pace or two away. His eyes were brilliant; there were points of light deep in the gray. “Why not? It’s what we do.”

Freya choked back a laugh. “Hello, Daniel Boyne. How nice you dropped over.”

“Very good—almost a welcome. Hello, Freya Dane. Dad sent me.”

“Now, why would he do that?”

“He’s into advice at the moment—told me to get over here and help out.” Dan smiled disarmingly. “What was I to do?”

“He’s right. I do need you.” Freya’s eyes flew wide. “That is, oh . . . I just can’t get this right, can I?” She started to scramble out of the shallow trench.

“Like a hand?” Dan leaned down.

She hesitated. “Why not?”

“Up you come.”

Dan pulled, and Freya found herself on the edge of the trench. Only three days and she’d forgotten how strong he was. “Oops. Nearly trod on your foot.” Self-conscious, she brushed her jeans. “Blimey, I’m filthy.”

Dan grinned. “I’ve seen worse.

You’re frequently worse.” How different he seemed—open, almost carefree. And such a contrast from Simon. Was that good? A neat wriggle and she moved past him. “I’ve been thinking.” She strode toward the groundsheet covering the stone slab.

“A good start.” He limped after her.

“Very funny. Anyway, you found this almost as soon as you started looking—the stone slab. I’ve had nearly three stupid days, killing myself, and I’ve found precisely nothing. You’re a human dowsing rod, Dan. You are, really. That’s why I need you.” She tried to keep it light.

“If that’s a compliment, I accept.”

“What I mean is, I know—I just know—there’s something here.” Freya waved her arms around, a wide, jittery sweep. “But I can’t make it land—whatever it is. You, though . . .” She looked at him hopefully.

Dan went to say something and frowned. His eyes traveled from stone to stone, and then back to Freya.

“What is it?”

“Come here.” He held out a hand. His voice was low, and his eyes had changed. They were distant.

Freya hesitated, but she stepped closer, linked her fingers through his. Her palm tingled. “Do you see something?” She spoke very softly.

He looked away and lifted his head. He was listening.

Freya tried to match Dan breath for breath, tried to slow the lurch of her heart.

His eyes swung back to hers, the pupils huge and dark. He offered his other hand. “Yes. I see them.”

Freya linked her fingers through his, and then she saw what he saw.

A naked girl and a naked man. The girl was small, with wild, dark hair falling down her back. Eyes wide, she was laughing, teasing her lover, her red mouth stubbornly closed under the man’s insistence. But then she opened her lips and gasped, writhing against his body, one small hand caressing the nape of his neck, the other twisted deep into the mass of his hair.

The man was magnificent. The broad muscles of his back moved beneath the skin as he eased himself between the girl’s
knees. She opened her legs, helping him inside her body, and, almost growling, the man thrust his head back against the sky, his powerful throat exposed. One side of his face was perfect, but the other . . .

“No!” Freya broke Dan’s grip. She stumbled back a pace, her face hot.

“What did you see?” They were both embarrassed, but Dan still asked the question.

“A girl. And a man.” Freya swallowed. “They were here. Making love.”

Dan nodded. “She was dark. Smaller than him. His face was scarred.”

“Yes.” She didn’t have to say it. The man they had seen was the model for the Christ. “But the circle looked different.” Freya gestured. “There was an offering stone.” She pointed to two stones leaning against each other. “On top of the smaller ones, there. But it’s odd.”

“What is?”

It was hard to be clinical about the images that crowded behind her eyes—the erotic charge still lingered, and Freya’s breathing was slightly ragged. “Well, you saw them first this time.”

Perhaps it was safe. She turned to look at Dan and really saw him, his face. His eyes. And his mouth. She tingled as his eyes roamed her face.

He walked those few, final steps. He stopped. Very gently, he cupped Freya’s chin with one hand. He stared into her eyes, searching.

“I wanted to tell you, the other day. I saw something, here.”
Don’t point. Your hands will shake.

He shook his head. “I don’t care, Freya.”

Freya could not move; as if she had been turned to stone, she could not even speak. She watched her hands, first one, then the other, find their way to Dan’s shoulders. He was lean, but the muscles were whipcord tight.

“What are you doing, Freya Dane?” He seemed amused.

That broke the spell. “Don’t you dare!” She dropped her hands.

Dan’s eyes changed. “Dare what?” Without touching her, he bent and kissed the base of her throat. His lips brushed her skin so lightly, Freya shivered.

“Don’t mock me. I couldn’t bear that.” She closed her eyes as his lips traveled closer to her mouth. She was trembling. This was nothing,
nothing,
like kissing Simon.

“I would never mock you.” Dan spoke into her mouth, whispering, “Closer.” The word buzzed on her lips.

Something broke. Reserve. Self-protection. Freya molded her torso to his and kissed him back. Delirious, sweet dark engulfed her as they crumpled to the turf in something like slow motion, each moment, each movement heady and distinct. Then Freya remembered. Her eyes flew open. “But I have to tell you, Dan. I’m sure it’s important.”

“Later. Tell me later.”