Page 10 of The Reluctant Viking

At first, Thork looked incredulous that she’d spout such an outrageous story; then a slow-burning rage flushed his cheeks.

Ruby rushed to complete her rambling explanation. “I was really upset when you left…to think our twenty-year marriage was over. I was crying and I wished that I was twenty years younger and could start all over again.” She raised her palms in a helpless shrug. “And…and I guess my wish came true, except—did I already tell you?—I’m twenty years younger. Anyhow, I made my wish, but I certainly didn’t expect to travel back in time more than a thousand years.

“The strange thing, though, is this seems so real; yet I know it must be a dream…or something.” She looked up at Thork hopefully when she finished.

“Twen…twenty years of wedlock!” Thork sputtered. Ruby could see his impatience growing to explosive proportions. “Only twenty-nine winters have I seen my entire life. You may dream, but, I assure you, I do not. I swear by Thor’s hammer Mjollnir that I am alive and standing here, not in a damned dream. Explain that. And what would make you think I would believe such a story? Do I strike you as simple?”

“Jack…Thork, it’s the truth. We’re married. We have two beautiful children. Can’t you feel the bond between us?”

“Bond? Hah! Not even a thread!”

He grabbed her by the upper arms and lifted her off the ground and toward him so that her face was level with his. “You dare much, woman, to try such lies on me,” he informed her through clenched teeth. “I told you an hour past and will repeat it one last time. No wife have I. Never have I seen you afore today, nor care aught if I ever see you again. Willingly, nay, joyfully, do I place your fate in another’s hands afore this day fades. Fair warning, though, wench: try this tale on Sigtrygg and ’tis certain few will be able to stomach the results.” The contempt in his harsh voice forbade further argument.

Thork laced the fingers of her left hand with his and pulled her along the still bustling streets, presumably toward the Norse castle. He practically smoked with anger. She knew she’d botched her story but wasn’t sure how she could have done better, considering her extraordinary circumstances. But still she had to try again.

“What if I can prove it?”

He ignored her and dragged her behind him with his wide strides.

“What if I can prove it?” Ruby repeated shrilly.

Thork stopped dead in his tracks and Ruby tripped. His right hand still held her left in a rigid clasp.

“Odin, forgive me,” Thork said, looking up to the sky, then back to Ruby. “I hate myself for asking, but what canst thou prove?”

“Well…well…,” Ruby stammered, not having thought that far. Then she brightened and offered, “…prove that you’re my husband.”

“Pray tell!” Thork exhaled disgustedly, then released her and put both hands on his hips.

She held her breath and asked hopefully, “Do you still have that mole on your upper thigh?” Thork lowered his eyes but not before she saw the surprise in their blue depths.

“Moles be not uncommon. Your statement proves naught.”

“No? Well, I think yours should be right about here,” she said, touching his inner thigh, almost at the groin.

He looked shaken at her bold gesture and glanced from his thigh to her face questioningly. His baffled expression bespoke the accuracy of her aim. The mole was exactly where she’d said.

She continued quickly, more sure of herself now, “And you grind your teeth in your sleep. And you like honey on your bread. And peaches, in season. You’re left-handed but can throw equally well with your right hand. And…and those long kisses I told you about earlier…well, you do like them. A lot.”

Ruby put both hands on her hips and glared up at Thork, daring him to contradict her.

His eyes widened in disbelief before he exclaimed, “A sorceress! I should have known. Wait till Sigtrygg hears this. There is nothing he likes better than a witch-burning. He blames the curse of a sorceress for his mutilated eye. Too bad I leave on the morrow for Ravenshire, my grandsire’s home in Northumbria. ’Tis likely Sigtrygg will declare a holiday to celebrate your slow demise. ’Twould be a pleasure, I am thinking, to throw a twig or two on the fire myself.”

“You’re scaring me. I’m not a sorceress,” Ruby moaned.

“What then?” Thork asked stonily. “A witch, or a spy? ’Tis one or the other, I wager. But, if you do spy, someone, most likely Ivar, has gone to much trouble to feed you information about me. For what purpose, I wonder?” He looked at her questioningly. “Either way—sorceress or spy—the deed be done. Your fate is sealed.”

She started to speak, but he shook his head with a finality that Ruby sensed wouldn’t be brooked this time.

“Enough! We go to Sigtrygg.”

Thork’s coldness quickly extinguished any spark of hope Ruby may have been entertaining. She soon developed a stitch in her side, trying to keep up with Thork’s rapid pace. She barely noticed her strange surroundings as they proceeded through the large Viking city.

Stone-cold fear chilled Ruby’s blood. A numbness crept through her veins to her fingertips, down to her toes and up to her brain, which could no longer register coherent thought. This dream-turned-nightmare frightened Ruby to death, but the most worrying thing of all, Ruby began to realize, was a nagging suspicion that it might not be a dream, after all.

What if she really had traveled back in time? What if she never returned to the future—to Jack, or her sons Eddie and David, to the custom lingerie business she’d painstakingly built from a sewing hobby to a thriving mail-order catalog business?

Worst of all, if she were lost in time for good, she would never have a second chance to make things right with Jack. Desolation overwhelmed Ruby.