“No. I—” Camelee interrupted.

  But Genevra’s voice overrode hers and she kept her gaze on Camelee. “So, if anyone harms her, they die.”

  It was to keep her safe. Yes. She got it. This wasn’t her world. In this world, she needed the chief—or to belong to the chief, for safety.

  “And this is Akkar,” Genevra continued, “the chief’s guard, who has been commanded to guard her.”

  Akkar nodded to them and then sat at the table. Camelee sat next to him.

  “So,” she said to Genevra now that things had quieted a bit. “Your name is Italian, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, Italian and Welsh,” Genevra said with a smile. “In my case, Welsh.”

  The others swarmed Hild next. They knew her. They had known her mother. It was heartwarming and heartbreaking at the same time. This entire community offered to raise her. It was good to see, but there was also the fact that their friend was dead, mauled by a bear. She wondered how many of them didn’t believe that story.

  Camelee had grown up alone. Her parents traveled often on business. She was raised by nannies most of the time. It was in their care that she mastered the art of pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Someone well put together. But the truth was, she couldn’t escape the fact that even the parents who’d adopted her had abandoned her.

  Finally, Genevra guided Hild into a chair between Camelee’s and her own.

  They were served, a thoughtful gesture the captives offered to Genevra and Hild. Camelee didn’t feel worthy of their servitude and asked Genevra to bring her to the portable kitchen later that night after dinner to help clean up.

  It wasn’t something she would ever do at home, but she wasn’t home. Things were very different here. She must learn to either fit in or die.

  “All will be well,” Genevra said, smiling at her and reaching across the table to pat her hand.

  Camelee knew how to smile while the truth in her thoughts fluttered through her. “We will see.”

  They ate lukewarm mutton stew with stale bread. They were served a skin of water, cooled in the snow outside. There was also ale for the men. Camelee chose to have the ale.

  “Tell me about yourself, Genevra,” Camelee requested warmly. “Or tell me about your…uhm…lord if you would like. Some people like that.”

  Her smile was so inviting that, for a moment, Camelee wanted to fall into her arms.

  “I do not remember most of my life.”

  “What?” Camelee asked, her interest piqued.

  “I woke up one day, not knowing who I was. I was in my later twenties. In this world.” Her pause gave Camelee a thought about what she was saying.

  Tears filled Camelee’s eyes. She fought not to let them fall. But as waterfalls did, her tears fell.

  “Lord Alfred took me in as I was lost and terrified. He kept me under his wing the way he should, and I cared for him as my dearest friend.”

  Camelee nodded her head, understanding, and thinking about how blessed Lord Alfred and Genevra were to have each other all these years, at least for companionship.

  “And you never fell in love with him?”

  Genevra shook her head.

  “With anyone you knew?”

  “No,” Genevra told her, straightening her spine, and squaring her shoulders. “My heart belongs to another.”

  “Oh?” Camelee whispered, leaning in. “Who?”

  Her new friend’s large eyes widened, and her mouth pouted. “I do not know. I do not remember. But I know that I love him. I have loved him since the beginning of time. At first, I waited for him, but no one ever came. I do not remember who he is or where to find him but I feel his presence. I know he exists. I do not know how I know it, but I do. I wait for him still, even allowing my body to grow old, never having a man in my bed or in my body.”

  “Maybe the same thing happened to both of us, Genevra,” Camelee claimed with a smile. “Half my life, I was somewhere else. But I remember where I came from. And I remember compassion,” she added quickly and covered Genevra’s hand with her own. “I’m so sorry about your loss.”

  “It is the way of war,” Akkar defended what his kinsmen had done.

  “That does not make it okay…all right,” Camelee corrected, sitting up straighter.

  “What do you remember?” Genevra asked her. “Were you visiting an aunt or uncle in Bristolton?”

  “Yes. Aye. I was visiting,” Camelee said quickly. “My relatives were killed.”

  “Such an innocent,” Genevra cried. “Would that I could preserve it.”

  “Hild,” Camelee said in the hopes of distracting Genevra. “What is your favorite thing to eat?”

  “Scones, Dam,” the little girl offered.

  “Jam?”

  Hild nodded without looking at her. Camelee smiled when their gazes met. In all honesty, she’d never seen such a perfect-looking angel.

  Shamefully, she realized that she hadn’t even taken a moment to really look at Hild. She had pale blonde curls falling around her cherubic face like a golden halo. Her eyes were as green as the dreams of fairies in the forest.

  But the little girl didn’t smile back. Three times and nothing. In fact, Camelee was sure Hild slipped her a hateful look. It was because of what Camelee had said about her mother not returning. About the truth.

  She sighed. “I would make you some if I could.”

  Hild ignored her.

  No matter, Genevra kept her busy answering questions.

  “I haven’t had this much interest in me in well,” Camelee gave it a few moments of serious thought. “I never have.”

  Genevra swiped a dainty little hankie she produced from her sleeve across her nostrils. “I am not ashamed to say that I feel a closeness with you. It is as if I have met you before, or I should have.”

  Camelee felt it, too. She wished they were alone so she could tell Genevra everything about traveling from the future. She knew this woman would believe her. “We should speak more later.”

  Genevra smiled and nodded. “I agree. We should.”

  In the meantime, she spoke to Akkar and Genevra and everyone who served them. For the first time in her life, Camelee didn’t feel alone. She even laughed when Akkar dropped his drink in his lap and swore.

  But in a moment, everything changed. The sound of a commotion drew some of the others to the tent flap. They looked outside. The women screamed and hurried back inside. “Men are coming! They will kill us!”

  Akkar leaped to his feet and drew his sword. “Stay here!” he ordered Camelee and rushed for the opening. Was he going to leave them? When she saw him peer out and then hurry back to her, her relief was short-lived.

  “They are Saxons!” He yanked at the spikes securing the back wall and pulled them up. “Go! Run!”

  But the Saxons were there, too, waiting. They tore through the tent, as the screams of the women inside blended with those clearly heard now from outside.

  Everything happened so fast. Three of them broke through the barrier and stepped inside. They looked fierce with wide shoulders clad in animal skins.

  One of the men, the biggest of the three, sported a long beard and long, straggly blond hair. He shifted his soulless gaze to Camelee, and then to Hild.

  Camelee had the urge to block the girl from his gaze.

  “What is going on?” Genevra demanded with all the authority of a queen.

  Unfortunately, her countrymen didn’t recognize it. One of them came from behind her and struck her in the back of her head with the hilt of his sword.

  Hild began to cry.

  In an act of supreme bravery, Akkar swung at the three Saxons. One went down. It was the one who’d struck Genevra. But another, just as big as the one who’d spoken first, drove his giant broadsword into Akkar’s belly. Camelee watched it come out of Akkar’s back, the same way Fin’s spear had come from Genevra’s lord.

  She watched him go down with a horrified scream ripping through her heart.

  Fin! Where was Fin!

  “Leofric,” said the first brutish Saxon. “I wanted him to tell their leader who did this.”

  Leofric looked around. There was only Camelee and Hild left. “Leave her, Aethelwold.” He pointed to Camelee.

  They were going to have to kill her if they thought she would let them take Hild without her.

  “No,” said Aethelwold. “I want them both.”

  And then her heart went cold when he reached for Hild.

  “Don’t touch her!” Camelee commanded without thinking or hesitation.

  Aethelwold paused for a moment but took hold of the girl. Hild screamed, reaching for an unconscious Genevra.

  “Where is the chief?” Leofric, with red braids hanging from his temples, asked. “Is he hiding?”

  Camelee wished Wolf was here so he could put an end to this scum who killed Akkar. “He went to meet another marauding band of Danes and bring them here.”

  “Why are you three females sitting at a table and eating when every other Saxons is serving the Danes?” Aethelwold asked, holding his hand over Hild’s mouth. “Are you valuable to the chief?’

  “Take your filthy hand off her.” She couldn’t help herself. She wasn’t used to cowering to anyone. Besides, there had to be trillions of germs on his skin.

  “A spirited one,” Aethelwold remarked with a smirk while stepping out of the tent.

  “Aye,” said Leofric grabbing her wrists and shoving her out of the tent opening behind Hild. “The kind I like to break.”

  Where was Wolf? Had he taken Fin with him? Surely these Saxons were more civilized than the Vikings. But no. She thought of what one of them had done to Genevra, and to Akkar. She didn’t care if he was a Dane, she liked Akkar.

  She looked around and then wished she hadn’t. There were dead men everywhere. Women ran every which way, terrified and screaming, not sure where to go. Saxon soldiers were setting fire to everything. Smoke billowed upward, darkening the sky.

  Even though, historically, the Saxons were the ones who had been attacked. So, theirs was, of course, the side where her sympathies should lie. But something deep in her bones told her things had just gone from bad to worse. Much, much worse.

  Chapter Eight

  Fin yanked up his hide breeches and, leaving them untied, pulled on his boots.

  “What is it?” the woman asked, sitting up from her bed in her cottage a half a mile north of the camp.

  “You do not smell that?” he asked her, rushing to the window again. “Smoke.”

  This time, he could see it rising from the camp. His blood froze. He snatched his sword from where he’d set it down in his belt and bolted for the door.

  Without a word to the woman in whose bed he’d spent the night, he left the cottage. He ran through the forest bare-chested, but he didn’t feel the cold. She was there and Wolf expected him to keep her safe while he was away from camp. Fin had stepped away from his post. What would his brother do to him for it? The chief would need to show the other men what became of disobedient sluggards who left their posts.

  Fin’s chest burned as if someone set fire to it. He huffed and puffed and leaped over tree roots. The closer he got to the camp, the thicker the smell.

  He came bursting through the trees and stopped dead at the sight before him. Danes lay dead on the cold ground, their blood soaking into the grass. Twenty men. His heart sank and thundered until he felt ill. They’d been attacked! The men were dead. Who was responsible? He would not stop until he found and killed everyone. He remembered the woman and ran to his brother’s tent. She wasn’t inside, neither was the child. But his brother’s foolish young follower, Akkar was there, dead on the ground, a hole in his chest. Damn it!

  He left the tent, not allowing himself to mourn a young man he’d barely known, and searched among the fallen, hoping he didn’t find the woman. She caused him trouble when she was here. She might get him killed because she wasn’t.

  He would admit she was pleasing to the eyes, but she didn’t know her place. She was going to make his brother look the fool.

  Then again, it didn’t appear that she or the child were here. He could see that the women they had taken from the town were gone. Was she with them? He thought of Akkar. Had they been taken?

  He saw a woman’s silhouette emerging from the flames. Was it…his heart accelerated…Camelee?

  “Did you stop them?” her voice rang out when she saw him.

  “Who?” he demanded. It wasn’t her. “Who did this?”

  She paused for a moment, then told him, betraying her people. “The Saxons. They came and killed everyone.”

  Fin wasn’t moved by the tears streaming down her face. She was a Saxon. Why would she give up her countrymen so easily? He asked her.

  “We must find her. There is something about her that—”

  “You are correct,” he agreed. What did he care why the older woman did what she did? “Wolf will return soon. Where do we begin looking?”

  “I have been searching. I do not know what else to do, but you should know. You are the commander.”

  “You are a Saxon.”

  “You are the Danish sons of wh—”

  “Slave!” His voice overrode hers.

  “Barbarian!” she shouted just as loud. “They killed your young friend. Do you truly wish to stand here bickering with me when they might have them?”

  “Where did they take her?” he demanded.

  “I do not know. One of them struck me and I do not remember anything after that. But…”

  “But what?” He looked around. He needed to find Wolf’s woman. This woman was wasting his time.

  “One of them was staring at Camelee and the girl with dark intentions just before I demanded to know what was going on and was struck from behind.”

  The knots in his belly were growing tighter and tighter “We must find them.” He began to turn away to continue his search. They might have struck Camelee and left her here among the bodies. But it was getting harder and harder to see.

  “I have told you I have searched,” the woman told him. “They are not here. I fear they have been taken captive.”

  Fin closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Wolf wasn’t due back for another few hours. He couldn’t wait. This woman—what had Camelee called her? Genevra. This Genevra was no spring maiden. She could not keep up. He had to leave her here.

  “The chief will return to camp. Tell him what happened, and that I went to find her and bring her back.”

  “Dane—”

  “I must go,” he interrupted. “He will not forgive me this—and I do not want to see that in his eyes.” He said the last part in more of a mumble and more to himself than to her.

  “I just wanted you to wait while I—” She bent to the nearest fallen warrior and removed his jacket and cloak. She hurried to bring them to him. “Put these on before you freeze to death.” Her gaze shifted everywhere but to his bare chest.

  Her skin looked like the petals of a pale peach flower. Fin wondered if it smelled like a flow—no! She was old enough to be his mother—though he never knew his mother. He’d killed her being born. When he was told the tale by his father’s servants, he knew he was cursed. His life and his thirst for war and blood proved it.

  “It would be difficult to freeze to death in this heat.”

  “Heat?” She looked at him as if he’d just grown another head.

  “In comparison to Denmark’s winters,” he clarified and forgot the urgency of what he needed to do.

  “Is it desolate and uninviting?” she asked, looking worried. Wolf must have told her his plans.

  The thought of Wolf returning home pricked his soul. They would separate. Wolf was giving up. Fin had waited and trained all his life to fight with his brother, and he was already going back?

  “No. Its beauty is breathtaking, soul-stirring. It is mountainous, untamed, and uncharted. Winter there is freezing.” He set his cool green gaze on her. “Truly freezing. Now I must go.”

  “Well,” Genevra offered him a tender smile and a pat on his bare arm, “take the clothes anyway, please.”

  He received the offering and left, dressing as he went. He turned to look over his shoulder at her once after he slipped into the clothes. He would have smiled at her, for she was sharp and thoughtful, and oddly comforting. She looked like a slightly older version of Wolf’s woman, with the same hair color, and the same spark of life in her large silvery-blue eyes.

  He found his horse and searched for hoof prints in the light blanket of snow. It took him some time to find anything, for the snow had picked up and covered the ground and any tracks. His belly sank. They could have gone anywhere.

  He felt ill. Wolf left him in charge of the camp. Everyone was dead. The chief’s woman was gone. Taken…along with the child. He had left his post for a tumble in the bed of a woman whose name he didn’t even know. Wolf was going to be angry. Very angry.

  As children, the brothers had gotten along well. Wolf was the oldest by five years. He loved Fin immensely, having raised him alone with their father. Fin worshipped the dirt beneath his older brother’s boots. When their father wasn’t teaching Fin to farm, Wolf was teaching him how to fight. When Wolf left to fight for Cnut, Fin counted the days, the years until he was old enough to join the warriors.

  “Someday, you can be chief, too,” his brother used to tell him.

  “I do not want to be chief, or anyone in power,” he had replied. “Who wants all that on their shoulders?”

  Wolf didn’t like such talk. “It is not about you, Fin.”

  To which Fin would often reply with clever words and a playful smirk. But he had grown harder and more serious after twenty-one battles and killing hundreds of men. If a man didn’t go hard after living the life he had lived, he would go mad—or maybe he never had a heart to begin with. He lived with the guilt of his mother for as long as he could remember. He was no good. Evil.

  Wolf had tried to reassure him that he was not such things, but coming from his brother, whom many thought was a merciless monster, his reassurances held no weight. Still, Fin knew better. Wolf had been a monster only once and he was only merciless in battle with his enemies—and with men who took what belonged to him. When the Mercian army killed their father, Wolf went berserk and killed fifty men with just his sword.