My Lord Viking by Jo Ann Ferguson Page A

as uneasy with this turn of the conversation as he was.   “It is 1817.”
          “That term means nothing to me.”   Nils looked away from the abrupt compassion on her face.   He did not want to be pitied.   He was a warrior.   Draining the goblet, he set it on the windowsill beside him.
          “Ethelred was king of England around the year we would have called 990.”
          He clenched the fingers on his right hand into a fist.   Slamming them into the arm of the bench, he ignored the shock on Linnea’s face and how her servant whirled in her seat to stare at him, her eyes wide with terror.   How could he have been so foolish?   He had spoken of his need, hoping that Freya would heed his request to be left behind to finish his search when she had taken the other fallen warriors to Valhalla .   She had heard him, but, for some reason he had yet to discover, had sent his plea to Loki.   That wizard of mischief must have contrived this plan to keep him from both his reward in death and his hopes in life... and sent Kortsson with him into this time.
          Slowly he glanced at the window.   The very window where Loki had perched in his dream.   But had that been as real as what was around him now?   He resisted the taunting laugh that throbbed through his head.   His voice or Loki’s?   The dream may have been real, and this truly might be the nightmare he could not flee.   But he could not imagine that even a fevered dream brought on by the festering of his wounds would create such a journey to the future.
          “Mr. Bjornsson, I am so sorry,” Linnea whispered.   “I know it makes no sense to you.   It makes no sense to me, but I know what year it is.   It is 1817.   Search your mind.   You will see that you know that, too.”
          “I know Ethelred is king of England .”
          “But I told you—”
          He snarled a curse at her.   Heaving himself again to his feet, he hopped to where a window opened on the sea side of this building.   Ignoring the pain raging in his head, he fumbled as he tried to open the shutters on the window with a single hand.   Several of the slats hung broken.   When Linnea’s slender fingers reached to unhook the stubborn latch, he caught her wrist.  
          Her servant shouted a warning, but Linnea did not make a sound as he tugged her closer, keeping her from undoing the latch.   Had Olive’s warning been for Linnea or for him?   he wondered when the soft scent of whatever she used to clean her hair drifted toward him, as luscious as the first blossoms after a long winter.   Her curves pressed against him were as seductive as the allure of the sea.
          His lips were on hers before she had a chance to protest.   They tasted sweet, just as he had imagined.   A tempting invitation to further pleasure that they could find when—
          The sound of her hand slapping his cheek resonated through Nils’s aching head.   With a growl, he released her.   She motioned her servant away as Olive rushed to her side with a hushed cry.  
          “Mr. Bjornsson,” Linnea said in that cold tone she seemed delighted to assume whenever she found fault with him, “I realize you are distressed at the facts that must seem as outrageous and unbelievable to you as they are to me.”
          “Facts?” asked Olive.   “What do you speak of, my lady?”
          Nils tensed, waiting for her answer.   Among these English there was neither respect nor understanding of Norrfoolk beliefs.   He had heard during his previous forays here mocking of Odin and Loki and Freya.   Those who had dared to utter such words had no chance to repeat them, for his knife had put an end to their belittling of what he held dear.  
          Linnea continued to meet his gaze without flinching, but she said, “Olive, I wish to speak to Mr. Bjornsson alone.   Will you go and see what is keeping Jack from