He dared, very gently, to smooth it back, careful of the still-livid bruise at her temple.
She sighed, a tiny smile curving her cracked, dry lips. He felt the corners of his own mouth lifting in instinctive response.
He supposed he was willing to admit it now. His father had chosen well.
Chapter Three
It was much later when Brit woke again. The lamps were out, though night still ruled beyond the high-set windows. The fire had burned low. It cast a muted glow out the stove door window, spilling soft gold light across the table a few feet away. Where Brit lay, in the far corner, the shadows were thickest.
She sat up. Wow. Her head didn’t spin and her shoulder throbbed only dully.
There were three other wide, wall-mounted benches like the one where she slept. One of them—down the wall past another bed, sharp right, then halfway down the next wall—was occupied. And not by the kindly old woman who had brought her back from near death.
Eric lay with his furs to his waist, his eyes shut, face turned toward the center of the room, one arm to his side, the other across his chest.
So had he been sleeping there last night, and the night before? She really hadn’t noticed. She’d been far too busy sweating and hallucinating. Strange, to think of him, living here in Asta’s longhouse, sleeping in the same room with her and her not even knowing it.
Moonlight from the window across the room slanted down on him, making shadows and silver of the strong planes and angles of his face, defining more sharply the sculpted perfection of his lean, bare chest and hard arms.
The guy really was gorgeous.
And she really, really had to pee.
She figured by now she was strong enough to handle at least that problem on her own. Easing back the furs, she swung her feet over the edge. The clogs were right there, toes peeking out beneath the bench—bless you, Asta.
Brit slid her feet into them. Then, slowly, she stood. Ta-da! Upright and okay about it. So far, so good.
She grabbed one of the furs from her bed and wrapped herself up in it. And then, as quietly as she could, she started for the door.
Ever try to tiptoe in clogs?
She got about four steps when Eric spoke from behind her. “What are you doing out of bed?”
She sighed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you. I just have to make a quick trip outside.” She was pointed toward the door and she stayed that way. She had a feeling he was naked under the furs and she also knew that he was going to insist on getting up and helping her out to the lean-to. If the rest of him looked half as good as what she’d already seen…
Down, girl. Don’t go there.
“I’ll go with you,” he said.
Surprise, surprise. “Make it quick, okay? The situation is getting urgent.” She shuffled forward. He must have had his pants nearby, because she only got a few steps before he was taking her elbow. He wore fur-lined moccasin-style slippers over bare feet, the tan trousers he’d worn earlier and no shirt. She cast a meaningful glance at his hard, bare chest. “I’ll bet it’s nippy out there.”
He shrugged, pulled open the door and ushered her out into the starry, cold night. Ten steps and they were at the lean-to.
“Be right out.” She hustled in and shut the door.
Boy, was she grateful she wasn’t wearing any panties. It was a near thing, but she sat down in time. And after the initial relief, she worried about what women always worry about when they’re performing a private function and some guy is standing right outside.
She was sure he could hear everything.
Life in the Mystic village was a little too simple for her tastes. Give her insulated walls. And a real toilet that flushed, with a seat that didn’t leave slivers in inconvenient places. And a bedroom door to shut when she went to sleep at night, for crying out loud.
When she opened the door again, he was waiting right there, those lean, strong arms crossed over the goose bumps on his beautiful smooth chest. “Ready?” He held out an arm for her.
“I can make it on my own, I think.”
He shrugged and fell in behind her.
Inside, she turned for the sink. He followed. Her irritation level rose. Okay, she’d been seriously sick. But she was well enough now to walk to the sink unattended.
But then he said, “Here,” and manned the pump. She rinsed her hands and couldn’t resist splashing a little icy water on her face, sipping up a mouthful or two. When she was done, he handed her a towel. She wiped her face. He bent and picked up the fur that had dropped to the rough wooden floor while she reveled in the feel of the water against her cheeks. He gestured toward her sleeping bench. “Back to bed.”
It sounded like a great idea. She clomped over, left the heavy clogs where she’d found them and stretched out. He settled the fur over her. “Sleep now.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “Your aunt’s always saying that.”
“It’s good advice. You’ve been very ill.”
“Is she still at the neighbor’s?”
He nodded. “It doesn’t look good. A heart attack, we think. The man is young, too. Barely forty.”
“Shouldn’t he be in a hospital?”
“The man’s a true Mystic. No hospitals for him.”
“But if he dies—”
His eyes gleamed down at her through the shadows. “It’s a choice, to make a life here. With few conveniences. No phones, poor access to emergency care. Most who live here embrace the realities of this place.”
They were both whispering. It was nice—companionable. A quiet little chat in the midnight darkness. “Why?”
“They find peace here. And real meaning to their lives.”
She smiled, thinking again of what Asta had told her. A simple life, one that made for strong character and a clear mind. “I was surprised tonight, when I woke up and you were sleeping right over there.”
“I live here, in my aunt’s house, when I’m staying at the village.”
She let a second or two elapse before she asked, “And where does my brother live?”
He didn’t answer right away. She had a lovely, rising feeling. He would tell her the truth. And then she would keep after him until he agreed to take her to wherever Valbrand was staying.
But then he said softly, “Your brother lies forever sleeping—at the bottom of the sea.”
She bit her lower lip to stop its sudden trembling. “That was cruel.”
“The truth is often cruel.”
She
