His Lover from Long Ago: A Time Travel Romance Page 4

  God, yes. There was the woman he’d wanted to wrap in those furs. She was made for their luxury. The furs were lucky to keep her warm, and he would be a lucky man when he shared their warmth with her. The anticipation made his heart pound.

  The ship rolled. They both staggered away from the bed, and Griffin caught hold of himself and his reason. He needed to be master of his thoughts. Those furs were for a bridal bed, true, but for the Lady Vivien’s bridal bed.

  Vivien, about whom he’d completely forgotten since laying eyes on this new woman. This lady from the sea was a castaway, nothing more. It was impossible not to be aroused at the carnal sight of her, but she was under his protection on this ship. He would treat her with courtesy. He would ignore the hard arousal of his body.

  The ship lurched, forward this time, throwing the woman against him with a hard impact and a soft oof as breath was knocked out of them both.

  The lurch meant a sail had caught the wind. There would be more random lurches in the next few minutes. He couldn’t leave the lady staggering across the floor, in danger of being thrown into the hard edges of the furniture or the hot iron of the brazier, because—well, he didn’t want her to get hurt. He turned to lean his back against the cabin wall and kept her in his arms.

  She protested, pushing at his chest, but then the ship lurched again, pressing her hard against him. Her bare hipbone hit his erection. He inhaled sharply, grabbed her tightly.

  She looked up at him, frightened, quickly speaking words of apology or excuse.

  Don’t be scared of me, he wanted to tell her.

  But he had to slide her body so that his erection was cushioned against the softness of her stomach. To his surprise, she pressed a little closer to him, shivering. She must be more cold than she was frightened. The fur had slipped when she’d been thrown into his chest, so he used one hand to slide it back up her spine so it would warm her neck and shoulders. It made it all too easy to imagine being buried under the furs in bed with her.

  He needed to warm her, and since the way his body clamored to do so was out of the question, he waited until each lurch of the ship became less noticeable as more sails were pulled taut, and then moved with her toward the brazier.

  She glanced up at him as they passed the bed, but he shook his head. “Not the bed. The chair.”

  He moved the heavy desk chair so that it sat squarely in front of the brazier. The lady pulled the fur around herself before sinking into the chair.

  “The chair,” she repeated, as she patted its arm.

  Although it was not a cold night by a sailor’s standards, Griffin opened the metal door of the brazier and threw a few more chunks of coal into the stove. The brazier was the latest technology. Fire was a necessary danger aboard ship, but this new style of brazier reflected a great deal of heat from very few coals. It kept those coals securely within its iron belly, so even in turbulence like this, there was no danger of them skittering across a floor and catching the ship on fire.

  The lady watched his every move avidly, even as she shivered harder without the heat of his body next to hers. Griffin grabbed another fur from the bed and tucked it over her bare legs, then knelt to remove her wet boots. They were little more than a thin layer of leather that had been wrapped and tied into place, with no buckles or hard soles. He chafed each delicate foot between his hands to restore circulation, making sure her skin was dry before tucking the fur over her feet.

  “Muraz,” she murmured, in a husky voice so alluring, she might as well have been a siren.

  Muraz. A dusty memory stirred. It sounded like meur ras, the way his Cornish grandmother had said thank you.

  “Are you Cornish then, madam?”

  ’Twould be a shame for the ransom, as the people of Cornwall were a plentiful lot of fishermen and metal miners, with not much wealth to be had. Still, if a Cornish earl or viscount was missing a daughter at sea, she would surely be that daughter.

  He tried to remember how his grandmother said Cornwall. Ah, yes. He pointed at the lady. “Kernow?”

  She shook her head. “Kayna.”

  Close enough. The Redemption had fished from the sea a beautiful mermaid from Cornwall.

  He sighed. Now he had to decide what to do with her. Keep her safe, for one. His men had all gaped at her breasts. Lust never boded well. He was having a hard time forgetting the sight himself.

  She pointed at herself and repeated Kayna, then pointed at him, brows raised in question.

  “Not Cornwall, although I wish I knew more of my grandmother’s language at the moment.” He pointed at his chest and said, “England.”

  “England.”

  He needed to be on deck, to make sure the ship was underway properly, the compass reading accurate. She would be warm enough here, wrapped in furs by the fire, yet he was loathe to leave her unprotected on a ship of men who had too recently felt free to enter the captain’s quarters as pirates.

  She could lock herself in for safety, but that would require her to move from under the furs and away from the brazier to bolt herself in once he left. He studied her a moment, and rubbed his jaw. She was still clutching the fur up to her chin for warmth. He turned and adjusted the vent on the brazier.

  She blinked up at him, the terror she’d shown on the deck still hovering about her eyes. She’d been through quite an ordeal. Few people survived falling overboard. It was a miracle his ship had been there to pick her up when she’d fallen from hers, but her life wasn’t out of danger yet. She could so easily catch a fever from her dunking tonight. If she bolted herself in once he left and then fell ill, he would not be able to get back in the cabin to assist her.

  Like hell I wouldn’t. I’d tear the door down myself.

  He turned away from her. From her vulnerability. From the protective feelings that arose just from looking at her. He had to be on deck. With a decisive move, he opened the door and whistled for his cabin boy.

  “You will stand in front of this door until I return. Turn away any man who is not me.”

  “Yessir.”

  But Griffin was asking the impossible. The cabin boy was just a boy, after all. He placed his hand on the child’s shoulder. “If they defy you and enter my cabin, you will run, run, to fetch me. Understood?”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  He turned back to the lady of the sea, who had turned to watch him over her shoulder. He gestured from the cabin boy to the deck in front of the door to let her know the boy would remain on guard. Then, before the lost expression on her face could entice him to abandon his duties, he left, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Chapter Four

  So she was a prisoner, was she?

  Kayna was tempted to leave the cabin just to prove that a youth with no whiskers was not man enough to prevent her from going where she wished to go. Why, as a tiny child, she’d been famous for getting past Arthur’s knights as they slept before the door of the queen’s chamber. She would creep past everyone who shared the queen’s chamber, and outsmart all those who slept in the great hall on the other side of the door as well.

  Arthur spent most nights in Guinevere’s bed, of course. Beyond the curtain surrounding their bed, at least two knights slept within the room. The ladies-in-waiting had their beds, of course, and then Kayna and her fellow apprentices had their soft mats not far from the fire pit that warmed the queen’s personal room. Everyone undressed in the same room. Everyone took care of their evening ablutions and their evening prayers in the same room, and everyone bedded down for the night around the same time. Yet as a child, Kayna had frequently confounded everyone when she was found up on the thatched roof of the great hall come morning.

  And now this man thought a boy could keep her in his chamber against her will?

  Kayna scowled and buried herself deeper into the furs he’d tucked about her. She didn’t really want to leave this cozy chamber. That was just as well, since the only way she’d made it out of Arthur’s great hall had been through trickery. When ever
yone had fallen asleep, she’d crept sideways out the thin window and scaled the log walls to find privacy on the roof of the royal building. It had seemed quite reasonable as a child. As an adult, she knew how dangerous it was and did not dare it any longer. Privacy was hard to find in Camelot for an adult.

  She had privacy now. She looked around the ship cabin and wondered how many would sleep in it with her. At least eight of the king’s most honored men could enjoy this warm fire as they slept, plus the king himself. There must be a king on board, for this ship was the size of a great hall. It held perhaps one hundred men—an absolute army. And this king had wealth which exceeded Arthur’s a dozen times over.

  Parchment was expensive, yet there were three scrolls on the desk and more in a wonderfully carved wooden holder on the wall. But the costly scrolls paled in comparison to the books. Kayna’s gaze kept returning to the shelves on the opposite wall. She could scarcely comprehend so many books, all cleverly kept in place despite the rolling sea by extra slats of wood. At each of Arthur’s fortresses, there was at least one codex of the Gospels, the pages of either parchment or papyrus bound with leather and embossed with a cross. Merlin’s codex had traveled with Camelot each time the court changed locations. Each of the compounds at Isca and Ictis held an old Roman codex she had delighted in translating. In total, Arthur owned nine books across Briton. Here, before Kayna’s eyes, were two dozen in one room. On one shelf!

  Kayna had been awake for two days, but exhausted or not, she simply had to read those books. She shivered despite the heat on her face from the metal fire pit. Just as soon as she warmed up, she’d read those books.

  The metal fire pit, elevated above the floor on legs made of metal as well, was not just a show of wealth but a brilliant idea. There was so much metal in this room, it boggled the mind. At home, a knight possessed a metal sword, inherited from a relative or won from another knight, and it was a rare and wondrous thing, for soldiers used wooden pikes. A knight might have a helmet of leather stretched over a metal frame, and Arthur had an entire helmet of metal. But on this majestic ship, even the door had a handle of metal. Rounded hooks of metal, perhaps iron, held drinking tankards that were made entirely of metal—perhaps pewter? The furniture she sat upon contained metal, definitely brass, a hundred small circles which fastened padded leather into place on the arms. She might as well be sitting on Caesar’s throne of gold.

  “The chair.” She said it aloud, the first thing she did whenever she acquired a new language. Her first words in this one were “the chair” and “England.” She wished England would come back, so he could teach her more.

  England. The man with no fear in his voice. The man who’d stood between her and an angry mob. When he’d held her against his body to protect her from the lunging of the ship, she’d felt safe against the strength of him. He was built like the knights who wielded the heaviest swords and controlled the largest horses.

  She shifted in the chair and buried her chin in the furs, feeling physically restless despite her exhaustion. She actually wanted to see her captor again. Or was he her protector? He would make a fine protector. England was a man who could hold his own among the fifty rowdy Knights of the Round Table if they tested him. A man who could then make merry with Sir Kay, and expect approval from Arthur for his marriage.

  To me.

  Kayna’s cheeks heated at the idea. Had it been only two days since she’d been doomed to enter a nunnery in her unmarried state? Two days since she’d regretted with all her soul that she’d never met a man who’d caught her interest?

  England interested her. He was as confident and comfortable on this amazing ship as if he were the king of it, but he was too young to have amassed this much wealth. He still wore his hair long, tied back in a warrior’s queue, not shorn like an elder. And yet, the other men seemed to defer to him as the lead warrior.

  It was astounding, then, that this confident leader should have been struck mute at the sight of her undressing. She’d merely wanted to take off her wet clothes, for they were freezing. What could be unusual about that? The men and women who shared the queen’s chamber dressed and undressed every day. Baths were a weekly ritual in the mild weather. Did the women of England’s kingdom not assist the honored knights with their baths?

  They must. England must have seen unclothed women before, yet he’d been speechless at the sight of her tonight. Perhaps...

  Kayna bit her lip, remembering the summer she’d turned fifteen. She’d been undoing the queen’s complicated braids for her, getting her ready for bed. The evening had been stifling hot, so the queen had left the front of her robe undone. Arthur had walked into the chamber, calling out his usual greetings to everyone. He’d taken one look at Guinevere, at her body exposed by the open robe, and he’d stopped talking in mid-sentence. Mid-word. Kayna, seeing the expression on his face as she stood behind the queen, had felt that look all the way to her core. Guinevere had moved to kneel on the mattress and Arthur had joined her. The ladies in waiting had hastily snapped the curtains shut, but not before Kayna saw Arthur push Guinevere flat on her back as he tore off his own tunic to bare his chest.

  That was why Kayna hadn’t married yet. No man had ever looked at her the way Arthur had looked at Guinevere.

  Until now.

  The exhaustion from the past two days overtook her, but she drifted into sleep with a new hope.

  Perhaps she was not doomed to a nun’s life, after all.

  “For the love of God, woman, put on this robe.”

  Griffin held up the red silk, forming a barricade between himself and the mermaid. No—between himself and the woman. Just a regular, human woman.

  Lord above, she had as little modesty as a mermaid.

  She made no response, so he lowered the robe just enough to peek over the top. There she stood, bare as the day the Lord had made her, looking up at him with a frown of worry. Clearly, she did not know what he wanted from her.

  With a sigh, he lowered the robe to take her wrist and guide her hand into the sleeve. Then the other sleeve. He turned her to face him, and tied the red sash firmly into a bow at her waist.

  She seemed amazed at the fabric, sliding her fingers over the sleeve. She raised her arm to her face and practically purred as she rubbed her cheek against the red silk.

  He was never going to master the hard state of his body at this rate. He’d carried her to his bed last night and tucked her in among the furs—not a restful way to prepare for sleep—but then he’d lain on the hard plank flooring in front of the door. He’d meant to protect her from any would-be intruders, naturally, but the uncomfortable floor had also served to tame his response to the wild beauty of his mermaid—captive—whatever.

  In the morning, before answering the call of nature, he’d pulled out an Oriental folding screen they’d stolen from an Italian merchant and placed it in front of the chamber pot. He thought he’d relieved himself in privacy, but when he’d stepped from behind the screen, she’d been standing right there, with only a short fur tucked under her arms to cover herself from breast to thigh.

  She’d run her fingers wonderingly over the screen’s painted mountains and mist, and murmured a word of wonder: lowendah. He’d been blinded by her creamy white shoulders, arms, legs, feet. Lowendah sounded like a good word for it. He was doomed to a constant hardness that felt damned uncomfortable.

  Lady Vivien.

  Yes, thoughts of Lady Vivien should kill it.

  Wait—there was something wrong with that line of thought, but a knock sounded on the door.

  “Young Terrence said you wanted to see me, Cap’n?” The ship’s carpenter, who’d learned his trade upon fishing vessels in Cornwall, looked past Griffin to the lady. His gaze dropped to her bare ankles and feet, and he turned a shade of red to rival the silk robe.

  You should have been here when she got out of bed this morning, mate.

  Or not. As unselfconscious as she appeared to be about her state of undress in the privacy of the c
abin, she’d nevertheless felt threatened on the open deck when surrounded by leering men. If there’d been anyone in the cabin except Griffin, he doubted she would have stood and stretched in the sleepy, unconcerned way she had with him.

  With him. Only him. She trusted him.

  The foolish girl should not trust him. His dreams had been vivid, a night spent making love to her in a bed of soft furs.

  She is right to trust me; I would never harm her.

  The truth of that struck him.

  “Captain?”

  “Yes.” Griffin cleared his throat. “Yes, I have reason to believe the lady is from Cornwall. I need you to ask her some questions for me.”

  “Oh, is she now?” The carpenter turned and beamed at her, and spoke a cordial greeting in Cornish.

  She inclined her head in a regal acknowledgment.

  Silence. She looked to Griffin and back to the man, then said something equally cordial and formal.

  The carpenter bobbed his head. “That were right pretty sounding, what she said, but she ain’t speaking Cornish.”

  Griffin frowned. “Try again. Ask her if she’s from Cornwall.”

  As the carpenter said Kernow, the woman’s eyes narrowed and she glanced at Griffin again. “Kernow?” she asked, holding her hands up in question. Pointing to her chest, she clearly said, “Kayna.” She pointed to him. “England?”

  The carpenter couldn’t seem to keep his gaze from her delicate toes. Griffin rapped his knuckles sharply on the man’s shoulder. “Know you a town in Cornwall called Kayna?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A cliff? A lake?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Go find me a Welshman.”

  While they waited, Griffin sat the lady in the chair and threw a fur over her lap that covered her feet.

  Within minutes, the Welsh rigger knocked. He determined she did not speak Welsh. Then came an Irish deckhand who confirmed she was not from his land, nor was she a Scot.

  Word traveled quickly on the ship, and soon a veritable parade of nations waited outside the door, men eager to talk to the mermaid—and to feast their curious eyes upon her. Because she kept attempting to stand and reveal her legs every time another person walked into the room, Griffin stood behind the chair and kept his hand on her shoulder. If his stance thus also made it clear to his men that she was not only residing in his cabin but was also under his personal protection, so much the better.