Don’t wake him up.”
Avril glanced at the softly snoring Viking, who looked far less threatening in slumber. His scowl was gone. His muscles were lax. His mouth fell open like Kimbery’s when she was sleeping. With his broad shoulders, his strong jaw, and his breathtaking eyes, he was truly one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen. Indeed, she could almost imagine him, not as a treacherous Northman, but as a little girl’s father. Almost.
On her way to the beach, Avril grabbed the sharpened spade from the garden. It would serve to either bury the dead or defend her from the living.
It was midday by the time she returned to the cottage. She’d found no bodies or evidence of survivors, just a few splintered planks from his longship. A lot of driftwood, however, had washed ashore from the tempest, enough to keep their hearth burning all winter. It would take more than one trip to bring it all home.
To her surprise, when she dropped her first burden at the threshold and pushed open the door to check on Kimbery, the little girl was still sitting dutifully at her post, churning butter. But then Avril glanced over at the snoring Northman. Kimbery’s stuffed cloth doll was tucked into the crook of his arm.
“Kimbery,” she chided.
“He was lonely,” the little girl explained.
Avril shook her head. Kimbery was probably right. The man had lost his shipmates, his wife, and his children. She couldn’t imagine how awful that must be. If she lost Kimbery…
It was too awful to contemplate. Her daughter was all she had now.
She took the lid off the churn to show Kimbery how all her hard work had magically separated the cream. She poured the buttermilk off into a small cask and wrapped the lump of butter into a piece of dried kelp.
But then she needed to think up a new task to keep Kimbery occupied while she collected the rest of her scavenge. She plucked a small piece of cool charcoal from the fire and gave it to the little girl, along with the pale, flat slate they used for writing.
“Why don’t you practice your letters?” she suggested. Avril’s father had insisted Avril learn to read so she’d be better able to manage Rivenloch. Avril was determined to pass the skill on to her daughter.
Kimbery picked up the charcoal and, pressing her lips together in concentration, drew a straight vertical line.
“I’m going out again,” Avril told her. “I’ll see what you’ve written when I come back.”
It took three more treks to collect the store of driftwood. Satisfied with her haul, which she stacked beside the cottage, she dusted off her skirts and opened the door.
“Look, Mama!” Kimbery squealed, hopping down from her stool. “Look what I made!”
Avril studied the slate. Kimbery had printed the letters D and A, and beneath was a primitive sketch of their prisoner, bound with rope, with her doll nestled in one arm.
Avril wanted to be perturbed, but it was admittedly a decent drawing for a four-year-old. “That’s very good, Kimmie. Now why don’t you draw a picture of a starfish?”
“Nay!” she said, covering the slate with her arms to keep Avril from wiping it clean. “I want to show him.”
“But he’s sleeping.”
“He’ll wake up.”
Avril wondered. She hadn’t put that much powder in his drink—certainly not much more than she did on occasions when her monthly courses became unbearable—but opium could be risky.
His arm looked awful. It was still swollen, and the skin of his forearm had a bluish cast. If he’d been someone she cared about, she would have set it and made him a splint so it would heal straight. But it seemed like a waste of time and effort when she wasn’t even sure she was going to let him live, let alone recover from his injuries.
As it turned out, he slept through Kimbery’s afternoon nap and their abalone supper. When Kimbery crept into bed with a huge yawn, he was still
Avril glanced at the softly snoring Viking, who looked far less threatening in slumber. His scowl was gone. His muscles were lax. His mouth fell open like Kimbery’s when she was sleeping. With his broad shoulders, his strong jaw, and his breathtaking eyes, he was truly one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen. Indeed, she could almost imagine him, not as a treacherous Northman, but as a little girl’s father. Almost.
On her way to the beach, Avril grabbed the sharpened spade from the garden. It would serve to either bury the dead or defend her from the living.
It was midday by the time she returned to the cottage. She’d found no bodies or evidence of survivors, just a few splintered planks from his longship. A lot of driftwood, however, had washed ashore from the tempest, enough to keep their hearth burning all winter. It would take more than one trip to bring it all home.
To her surprise, when she dropped her first burden at the threshold and pushed open the door to check on Kimbery, the little girl was still sitting dutifully at her post, churning butter. But then Avril glanced over at the snoring Northman. Kimbery’s stuffed cloth doll was tucked into the crook of his arm.
“Kimbery,” she chided.
“He was lonely,” the little girl explained.
Avril shook her head. Kimbery was probably right. The man had lost his shipmates, his wife, and his children. She couldn’t imagine how awful that must be. If she lost Kimbery…
It was too awful to contemplate. Her daughter was all she had now.
She took the lid off the churn to show Kimbery how all her hard work had magically separated the cream. She poured the buttermilk off into a small cask and wrapped the lump of butter into a piece of dried kelp.
But then she needed to think up a new task to keep Kimbery occupied while she collected the rest of her scavenge. She plucked a small piece of cool charcoal from the fire and gave it to the little girl, along with the pale, flat slate they used for writing.
“Why don’t you practice your letters?” she suggested. Avril’s father had insisted Avril learn to read so she’d be better able to manage Rivenloch. Avril was determined to pass the skill on to her daughter.
Kimbery picked up the charcoal and, pressing her lips together in concentration, drew a straight vertical line.
“I’m going out again,” Avril told her. “I’ll see what you’ve written when I come back.”
It took three more treks to collect the store of driftwood. Satisfied with her haul, which she stacked beside the cottage, she dusted off her skirts and opened the door.
“Look, Mama!” Kimbery squealed, hopping down from her stool. “Look what I made!”
Avril studied the slate. Kimbery had printed the letters D and A, and beneath was a primitive sketch of their prisoner, bound with rope, with her doll nestled in one arm.
Avril wanted to be perturbed, but it was admittedly a decent drawing for a four-year-old. “That’s very good, Kimmie. Now why don’t you draw a picture of a starfish?”
“Nay!” she said, covering the slate with her arms to keep Avril from wiping it clean. “I want to show him.”
“But he’s sleeping.”
“He’ll wake up.”
Avril wondered. She hadn’t put that much powder in his drink—certainly not much more than she did on occasions when her monthly courses became unbearable—but opium could be risky.
His arm looked awful. It was still swollen, and the skin of his forearm had a bluish cast. If he’d been someone she cared about, she would have set it and made him a splint so it would heal straight. But it seemed like a waste of time and effort when she wasn’t even sure she was going to let him live, let alone recover from his injuries.
As it turned out, he slept through Kimbery’s afternoon nap and their abalone supper. When Kimbery crept into bed with a huge yawn, he was still
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