Christine Rimmer - Dark, Devastating & Delicious! - The Marriage Medallion / Between Duty and Desire / Driven to Distraction

“So why didn’t he send a helicopter to take me out of here and get me to a hospital?”

He was silent for several seconds. The remains of a log popped in the grate, the sound jarring in the quiet room.

Getting impatient, she prompted, “Eric?”

“Is that what you would have wanted, to be airlifted out of here, had you been able to make the decision for yourself?”

She considered for a moment, then admitted, “No.”

“Then it was done as you would have wished.”

“But who decided that I would stay here, at your aunt’s village, instead of going to a hospital? My brother?”

Did he chuckle then, very low? She thought he might have. “That would have been difficult for him, as he is dead.”

She scowled at the ceiling. “This radio—where is it?”

“Here, in the village.”

“So. You brought me here, and then you contacted my father…”

“Yes.”

“And my father decided that I would stay?”

“Your father. And mine. Your father knows you—better than you might think.”

“And your father?”

“Some say he has a way of seeing the secrets that lie in the hearts and minds of others. He understood that you were set on a certain course, that if they took you away, you would only return.”

“But if I had died…”

“My father also felt certain you were meant to survive. And to grow strong again. There’s an old Norse saying…”

As if she hadn’t heard it a hundred times already. “‘The length of my life and the day of my death were fated long ago.”’ He did chuckle then, loud enough that there was no mistaking the sound. She couldn’t stop herself from asking, “And you—how did you feel about having to drag an almost-dead woman out of Drakveden Fjord and all the way to your aunt’s village?”

“It was a difficult journey over rough country. It took most of a day and into the night. I felt certain, for a time at least, that you wouldn’t survive.”

“And when my father and your father decided I would stay?”

“I had my doubts it was the right decision—but now, here you are. Alive. Growing stronger. I see that I was wrong to doubt.”

“You certainly were. And, Eric?”

“Yes?”

“Your father was right. My course is set. I’m not going away until I speak with my brother face-to face.”

There was silence.

Which was okay with Brit. Right then there was nothing more to say.

When Brit woke to daylight, Eric was gone. Asta lay beneath the furs on the bed just down the hall.

Quietly, wanting to let the old woman sleep, Brit got up and tiptoed to the sink. She washed her hands and took a long drink and then went back to bed. She was thinking that maybe she might sleep some more.

Not. Her stomach kept growling. And she wanted a bath. At the same time she didn’t really know how to go about getting food or getting clean without Asta’s help.

For fifteen minutes or so, Brit lay staring at the rafters, telling herself to ignore her growling stomach and go back to sleep. About then, quietly, the door opened. Eric. He entered on silent feet. His hair was wet, his face freshly shaven. He carried what looked like yesterday’s clothing and a small leather case: shaving supplies? He went to his bed and stashed everything beneath it.

She sat up. He glanced her way and she signaled him over. When he reached her and she smelled soap and water on him, she whispered, “I know you’ve had a bath. Who do I have to kill to get one myself?”

He crouched to drag her pack out from under her sleeping bench. “Get what you need,” he instructed low, pulling her jacket out, too. She saw that the arrow hole had been neatly mended and the blood stain treated. Blood is so stubborn, though. The stain was faint, but still here. “Come,” he said. “I’ll show you the way.”

The village bathhouse—divided in two; one side for the women, the other for the men—was several doors down from Asta’s. They had actual indoor plumbing and a huge, propane-burning water heater behind the building, Eric told her. And towels, stacks of them, on shelves along one wall. There were two other women inside, just finishing up. They greeted Brit politely and went on their way.

Brit took off her coat and her nightgown and debated over the large bandage that covered the wound on her shoulder. She decided to leave it, let it get wet, and then figure out what to do about changing it when she got back to the longhouse. She showered, washed her hair and brushed her teeth. Then she put on clean clothes and emerged to find Eric waiting outside for her.

She hadn’t expected him to do that. “You didn’t have to stay. I can manage the walk back on my own.”

“Here,” he said, taking her nightgown from over her arm. “That, too.” He indicated her vanity pack.

“No, it’s all right. Really. I can—”

He waved away her objections, his hand out, waiting for her to give him the pack. With a sigh, she did. He offered her his arm.

Oh, why not? She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and they started off.

She clomped along the hard-packed dirt street beside him, shivering a little, eager to get back to the longhouse, to dry her hair by the fire and do something about her uncomfortable soggy bandage—and most important, to find a way to get him to be straight with her.

What, exactly, was he up to here? He refused to stop lying and take her to her brother—a fact that she realized might very well be because Valbrand wanted it that way.

But it wasn’t only the big lie he kept telling.

It was also that he was just… such a hottie. And she kept getting the feeling that he was very subtly coming on to her—which was something she so didn’t need at this point in her life. It would only muck up her focus, add complications she wasn’t up to dealing with.

Plus, if he really was coming on to her—which, face it, could very well be nothing more than a sort of contrary wishful thinking on her part—why? Because their fathers wanted them to get married and settle down to rule the country? Doubtful. Because she was so incredibly sexy and alluring, with a hole in her shoulder and bruises on her bruises, no makeup and, until about fifteen minutes ago, very dirty hair and serious morning breath? Not.

The deal was, she couldn’t figure him out. And until she did, she was going to be wary of him. She didn’t trust him. And yet…

It had been nice of him to wait. And his arm was warm and strong and steady, his body heat comforting.

They passed a few people as they made their way to Asta’s house. A man carrying firewood. A woman with a baby in a papoose-like contraption on her back. Eric nodded, and the villagers nodded back, sparing smiles for Brit, along with murmured Your Highnesses and expressions of pleasure at her improving health.

In the longhouse Asta still slept—a lump beneath the furs, curled up and turned to the wall.

Brit whispered to Eric. “The man she was nursing?”

“It appears he’ll survive, after all.”

She smiled at the good news as she took off her coat—easing it carefully over her bad shoulder—and hung it on one of the wooden pegs near the door. The clogs made too much noise, so she slipped them off and set them with Asta’s pair, beneath the coatrack. In her heavy socks, she padded to her sleeping bench, where she stowed the rest of her things. When she turned back toward the center of the room, Eric was watching her, his gaze tracking to where the water from her soaked bandage was seeping through her shirt. She wondered what else he was looking at. She hadn’t taken a bra to the bathhouse. Right now, with her shoulder so stiff, it would have hurt like hell to get into one. And she’d only be taking it off again, anyway. Because as soon as she rebandaged her wound and ate something, her hair should be dry enough that she could climb back into bed.