Page 15

She sat on the edge of his bed with a sheepish look.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Wilham Monastery.”

Andor tried to raise himself on his elbows but his arms were too weak. The name sounded familiar.

“Someone needed to patch you up,” she said. “And there doesn’t seem to be proper hospitals. Or electricity.” She stood up and walked to the window, peering out of it. “Or cars. Or running water. They brought you here on a cart pulled by a donkey.”

“Why did you bring me into the midst of the enemy?” he spat. “You should have left me to die.”

Cathy cringed. “Oh no, my friend. Not on my watch. I’ve almost lost one version of you back home. I’m not losing this one.”

“Is this more talk about me being your betrothed? Because I am not him.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. “Maybe not, Andor. Or Brad. Or whoever you are. But I’m not letting you die.”

“Where are my weapons? My armor?”

She shrugged. “I had to hide your sword. I was afraid they’d recognize you as a Viking. You are a Viking, right?”

“Of course I am a Viking.” He glowered. “You insolent woman. If I had any strength left, I’d bend you over my knee and—”

Her jaw fell open, her face reddening. His gaze crawled down her body. Even under the man’s clothing he could see long, straight legs, the generous curves of her breasts and hips. Her lips must be soft and her arse must be a feast.

He turned away, angry and helpless.

“Bend me over your knee?” she said. “Excuse me, how about showing me a little appreciation for saving your life? I’m wearing a dead man’s clothes for you—and you want to punish me?”

He turned back to her. “I never asked you to save my life. And taking me weaponless into the midst of the enemy is just like killing me, only slower. So, no, I am not grateful. Tyr would be more grateful to Fenrir for biting off his hand.”

She pressed her lips tightly together. “For the record, you are not alone. You have me.”

“I do not have you. I do not want you. I am alone.”

She seemed to be hurt by his words, her eyes dampening, but she raised her chin.

“Oh yeah?” she said. “You are alone, huh? Do you speak Old English?”

“Old English?”

“Anglo-Saxon or whatever.”

He sighed. “No.”

“Then you need me, mister. I told the monks you were a mute English soldier so that they would treat you. So if they come in, not a word from you, do you hear me?”

Andor grimaced. The plan was both simple and bold. The woman had Loki’s mind. Maybe he’d sent her.

“Who are you, anyway?” Andor said.

She sighed and walked around the room, kicking the dust on the floor. “No one. I—I’m not sure what happened, to be honest. Okay, I’ll tell you what I think happened, and if you believe I’m crazy, well, join the club. Or maybe you can tell me what you think. And give me a tip about how to go back. Because I must go back.”

She sat on the bench across from his bed, leaning forward and pressing her elbows into her knees. She picked at her fingernails and chewed on her lower lip, making it a very agreeable dark-pink color.

Andor would have felt much better about the whole situation if he was fully dressed, but he appeared to be at her mercy, and he might as well find out exactly how crazy she was.

“Talk,” he said.