Time to Love Again (5 page)

“I said lie down, lad.” Commanded by that
hoarse whisper, she stretched out her legs and sank back, never
taking her eyes from his. He bent over her, pulling one edge of the
cloak across her body.

“Do you sleep in your chain mail?” she
murmured.

“It is safer thus.”

She knew he meant not only safer from
possible attack by Saxons lurking in the woods around them, but
safer from her as well. A tiny glimmer of triumph pierced the gloom
of her growing concern over her situation. This tough, totally
masculine creature was afraid of her effect on him.

He lay beside her, pulling part of his cloak
up and over them both. Suddenly, before she could protest or fend
him off, he rose on his left elbow, his right arm still holding the
hem of his cloak. His face was so close. …

He tucked the cloak around her shoulder, then
touched her hair. His callused, blunt fingers moved slowly across
her cheek, one fingertip tracing the lower margin of her mouth, and
then the bow of her upper lip. She caught her breath and held it,
unable to move, unable to do anything but stare back into his
fathomless eyes. He spoke her name, translating it into his own
accent.

“Een-dee-ahh.” The sound was a whisper, a
promise, and an acknowledgment of the tension rising between them.
His eyes were on her mouth now, where his fingertip still lingered,
caressing the sensitive flesh there. She moaned, the faintest of
notes, while she ached for the kiss he had not offered.

Then his hand fell to her upper arm,
encircling it, fettering her to his side with flesh that was like a
manacle of strongest steel. He lowered his head, pillowing it on
his arm, and in the firelight she saw his eyes close.

“Good night, boy,” he said, and was
silent.

India lay stiffly, willing herself not to
tremble because she did not want him to know how strongly he had
affected her. She had never wanted any man but Robert, and their
lovemaking had ended more than a year before his death, because his
energy had been sapped by surgery and chemotherapy. She had put
aside desire as she had put aside so much else at that time,
refusing even to think about her sexual needs. And now, projected
out of her own century into a time and place she could not yet
locate exactly, she was panting with longing for a man she did not
know, just because he had a magnificently muscled body, a
commanding manner, and magical eyes that held her entranced every
time he looked directly at her.

Theuderic probably could not read or write;
he certainly knew nothing of the art, literature, music, or history
that had been so important in her own life; he was a bloodthirsty
warrior without gentleness or good manners, and – heaven help her!
– she wanted him. Having admitted it, she suffered through a
dreadful few minutes, fearing for her sanity, until she decided
that her inability to repress her unwanted emotions must be the
result of what had occurred in Hank’s office.

To keep her mind off Theuderic and his
disturbing nearness, she made herself think about the computer that
had caused her present predicament. She believed she knew what had
happened to her. When she had accidentally hit the switch on the
new component, a program Hank had left in the computer must have
mixed itself up with the material she had been working on. The idea
was fantastic, but her presence among a band of Frankish warriors
was proof that there was validity to Hank’s theory about space and
time, so there was no point in questioning that much.

Now that she thought about it, she could
remember exactly what part of Robert’s notes had been displayed on
the computer screen when the peach-colored light first appeared.
She had been studying the events leading up to the famous military
disaster at the mountain pass of Roncevaux in the Pyrenees on
August eighteenth of the year 778. That terrible day had been
celebrated in song and legend through all the centuries since the
entire rearguard of the Frankish army, the very flower of youth and
courage, had died during an ambush.

Marcion had mentioned Count Hrulund as if the
man were still alive, favorably comparing Theuderic’s bravery and
battle skills to those of the count. Hrulund was known to later
ages as Roland, the king’s invincible champion and heroic leader of
the rearguard at Roncevaux, and if he was still alive, then this
was indeed a time before that fateful day.

India concentrated, trying to recall every
bit of the information she had been reading. During the year 777,
Charles, king of the Franks – the man known to the twentieth
century as Charlemagne – had secured his eastern border against the
Saxons, though occasional flare-ups still occurred. That would
explain the skirmish she had intruded upon. She knew now, after
listening to Theuderic’s men talk, that it had been no real battle.
Real battles, Marcion had told her, were larger and much worse.

After a little more thought, she decided that
the year was probably 778, and from the weather and the unleafed
trees, the month must be early to mid-March. Theuderic had said
they were headed for Aachen, which in her own twentieth century was
on the border between Belgium and Germany.

Now that she had worked out the approximate
date and place, she did not feel quite so disoriented. She could do
nothing about the fact that she had been forced to move from the
spot where she had arrived in this time, but it was possible that
Hank could find her anyway. She would keep her eyes and ears open
for any indication that he was attempting to contact her. She told
herself that all she had to do was stay alert and wait for his
signal. And stay alive. That might be more difficult.

Beside her Theuderic stirred, moving closer.
She did not have to lift her hand far to touch the hard links of
his armor. So many circles of metal, hundreds of them, individually
forged and linked together. And, she had read, so expensive were
they during this period of history that only the richest nobles
could afford chain mail. Her captor was no ordinary warrior then,
but someone of importance. She touched the edge of his sleeve,
feeling the smooth hardness of circle upon circle. His simple
brunia
was a work of art. It was heavy, vet he bore its
weight easily. He could even sleep in it, a feat she could not
imagine achieving herself, though on second thought, she wasn’t
certain Theuderic really was asleep. If an alarm were given, he
would probably be on his feet, sword in hand, within a second or
two. If she tried to get away from his camp, he would stop her
escape before she had left the cover of his cloak, even if she were
able to remove or cut through the rope that bound them together.
The thought of what he might do then made her remove her hand from
his sleeve. The damp of the earth had seeped through the cloak,
chilling her. She trembled a bit in spite of her efforts to stop
her reaction to the cold.

With a deep sigh, Theuderic moved again,
stretching his arm across her waist. Was it for warmth, or just a
way of reminding her not to try anything foolish? Smothering the
tears she refused to shed, she turned toward him, seeking the heat
of his sturdy body. Both of his arms enfolded her with surprising
gentleness. Feeling oddly comforted, she snuggled her head into his
shoulder and slept at last.

Marcion offered to carry her on his horse the
next day, but Theuderic would not allow it.

“So long as I am your leader, this boy is my
responsibility,” he said.

When Marcion shrugged his shoulders and made
no argument, India thought about Theuderic’s leadership of his
band. Marcion and Hugo were obviously his closest friends, but they
all seemed to be on good terms, and no one showed the least shyness
about expressing his opinion on any subject. Theuderic listened to
each man, let them settle any personal disagreements among
themselves, and gave direct orders only when necessary. It was a
singularly democratic arrangement, yet when Theuderic barked out a
command, it was instantly obeyed. Clearly he had the respect and
trust of his men. Perhaps there was more to him than pure physical
strength and steely determination. While she considered this
possibility, Theuderic, mounted and with his shield slung across
his back, leaned out of the saddle, extending a hand toward
her.

“Put your foot on mine and give me your
hand,” he said. “I’ll lift you up.”

She was awkward about it, nearly falling
before he caught her and sat her in front of him in the way she had
ridden the day before.

“Stiff and sore, are you?” he asked, smiling
a little. “It happens to everyone in the beginning. It will wear
away as the day goes on, and as you grow more used to riding.”

Once she had found her balance, he released
her to take the reins in both hands, so that she was enclosed by
his mail-clad arms. The temptation to sink back against his chest
and rest her head on his shoulder was almost irresistible.
Recalling how she had awakened that morning wrapped in his arms and
his cloak, to find him watching her through eyes like silver water,
and how he had sat up without a word, pulling aside his garments to
unfasten the knot of the hide rope so he could rise and stride off
through the forest, still without speaking to her, she wondered how
she could survive another day so close to him.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if I rode
behind you?” she asked, thinking that arrangement would be
infinitely easier for her, too.

“I want you where I can see you,” he replied.
“If you vanish in an instant, in the same way you appeared, I want
to know it at once.”

“Is that how it seemed to you?” she
asked.

“You arrived out of the air,” he said. “One
moment you were not there, and the next moment, you were. The
others think you heard the sound of fighting and ran onto the field
in confusion, while they were looking elsewhere. Only I saw the
true manner of your coming.”

“No wonder you don’t trust me. I’m surprised
you didn’t kill me at once.”

“I would have,” he said, “but I saw the
medallion.”

“I am human,” she told him, fearing what he
might believe. “I am flesh and blood and bone, as you are. I should
not be here, I will return to my own home as soon as I can, but
while I am here, I mean no harm to you or your men, nor to anyone
else.”

“That may be true, but it is no explanation
for your appearance among us. Your mere presence may cause harm,
whether you mean it or not.” He fell silent for a bit, as if
considering something, then spoke again. “I have heard stories
about odd-looking men who come to Francia in vessels that fly
through the air. The stories say these men live in a land called
Magonia. Is that your home?”

“No.” She twisted around to look at him. “I
have never heard of such a place, nor have I read or heard of that
story.”

“Where is your home?”

“I live in Cheswick.” That was safe enough to
admit. It would mean nothing to him.

“Where is this
Chess-veeck
? Did I say
it properly?”

“You came very close.” She smiled when he
repeated the word. His hard face softened just a little, the corner
of his mouth quirked upward in a half-smile, and there was real
laughter in his eyes. She added, “Cheswick is far from here, a
journey of many long years.”

He studied her face, the laughter fading from
his own. She was sorry to see it go.

“Once again you tell me the truth,” he said,
“and once again you evade speaking all of it. Why?”

“Sometimes the truth can be dangerous.”

“To you or to me?”

“Not to you,” she said, wishing she had kept
her mouth shut.

“Can you be sure of that?” he asked. “Can I
be sure of it?”

“Please don’t ask me any more questions. I
have told you what I can.” She had been looking at him all this
time. Now, unwilling to meet his steady eyes any longer, she turned
her head forward again, and he fell silent without promising that
he would make no further inquiries of her, leaving her to believe
it was only a matter of time before his questions began once more.
She thought a man like Theuderic would not give up until he had the
information he sought.

They were traveling through a particularly
thick section of the forest that covered vast stretches of the
northeastern lands, and care was needed to be certain they did not
lose their way. But though Theuderic did not speak to her again,
she could not ignore him. With every step his horse took, his legs
brushed against hers, and his arms on either side of her were like
steel bars. If she moved so much as an inch, her back was pressed
to his chest. She heard every breath he took. As the hours passed,
she became more and more aware of him and more and more frightened
of what she was feeling. She was greatly relieved when, some time
after midday, Hugo created a diversion for her thoughts.

“A rabbit on a spit would taste good
tonight,” Hugo said. “I’m weary of bread and dried venison. If I
remember this part of our path correctly, the trees should thin out
in a little while. What do you say, Theu? Shall I lead a hunting
party?”

“Can you hunt and not get lost?” Marcion put
in, taking a thump of Hugo’s great fist on his arm for the
quip.

“Take Eudon and Osric with you,” Theuderic
agreed. “Marcion, you stay here with us.”

“Ha! He thinks you’d be the one to get lost,
my friend,” said Hugo to Marcion, laughing. He pulled his horse to
one side, waiting while the others rode on. India looked back as
the three Theuderic had designated moved into the trees at an angle
to the path they were following.

“It would be easy enough to get lost here,”
she remarked.

“Not Hugo,” Marcion told her. “I tease him,
but he’s a fine hunter. I can taste that rabbit already.” He
smacked his lips in a comical way.