this.” Kentar jerked the blade upward, slicing through the leather. The medallion fell to the stone below the altar.
Before the warriors could grab Gunnar, he dug deep and fast, grabbing hold of the earth with his will. Then he shook it so violently, the stones beneath his feet shifted.
Warriors slipped and tumbled backward down to the base of the altar.
Kentar’s arms rose to steady his footing.
As soon as the eagle warrior’s knife left Marisol’s throat, Gunnar dropped his shoulder and charged into the man, sending him flying backward, over the edge of the dais. The traitor bumped and tumbled down the stone steps into the crowd of onlookers.
Gunnar reached for the ropes that bound Marisol to the altar, tearing at the knots, until he had her hands and feet free.
She rolled off the altar, grabbed the medallion and pressed her hand to the bracelet on her wrist. “Do you trust me?” she cried out to Gunnar.
“Of course,” he answered.
“Then hold me. Hold me like we’ll never be parted again.”
Gunnar stared at her as though she’d grown horns.
Her unrelenting gaze captured his. “Trust me.” Marisol held her arms open to him.
Letting go of the control he valued most, he fell into her arms and hugged her to him. He braced himself for a knife or spear in his back and prayed to the sun god that Marisol would be spared.
Footsteps pounded up the steps behind him, shouts grew from the crowd, rising into a roaring crescendo. The light from a weak sun burst into a radiant glow so brilliant he closed his eyes to avoid blinding. The roaring in his ears grew louder, far stronger than the shouts of an enraged crowd.
He felt as if he were being hurtled through the universe, his body spinning out of control. But no matter what happened, he refused to let go of Marisol.
After what seemed an eternity, they landed with a thump on a cold hard floor. Gunnar took the brunt of the fall, cushioning Marisol with his body, his head banging sharply, making him dizzy.
He edged his eyes open, one at a time, the light more subdued, the noise gone, an ache spreading from the point of impact on his skull all the way around to his forehead.
All the pain could be ignored when he saw Marisol staring down into his eyes, her own awash with worry. “Are you all right?” She rolled to the side, her hands skimming over his body. “They didn’t stab you? You weren’t injured in the landing?”
“I am fine.” He blinked to keep the gray fog of darkness from creeping in around him, struggling to stay alert as he stared up at strange walls, the furnishings in the room nothing like he’d ever seen. “Where are we?”
An older woman with soft brown hair and emerald-green eyes similar to Marisol’s smiled down at him. “Welcome to the twenty-first century.”
The room spun in circles and Gunnar slid into the darkness.
Chapter Seven
After drawing the images she’d absorbed from Imac’s memories, Marisol dressed in comfortable jeans and a T-shirt and sat beside Gunnar where he lay on the leather couch in Athena’s office.
The medic had been in to check for a concussion and recommended a trip to the hospital if he didn’t come out of it soon. It had taken four men to lift and carry the big Norseman to the couch where he lay sleeping like a baby.
“Wake up, Gunnar,” Marisol whispered, rubbing his hand with hers. For a man she’d just met, she couldn’t deny how attracted she was to him. More than just a physical attraction. Just as with Imac and Pachacuti, Marisol knew this man was her mate.
Her heart alternated between skipping beats and racing every time Gunnar twitched. She hadn’t had time to ask him if he wanted to come with her on her time journey. Would he be angry? Would he insist on returning to the fifteenth century? If he did, would he want her to go with him?
Marisol twisted all the options around. When it came right down to it, she wanted to be with Gunnar. This century, the fifteenth, it
Before the warriors could grab Gunnar, he dug deep and fast, grabbing hold of the earth with his will. Then he shook it so violently, the stones beneath his feet shifted.
Warriors slipped and tumbled backward down to the base of the altar.
Kentar’s arms rose to steady his footing.
As soon as the eagle warrior’s knife left Marisol’s throat, Gunnar dropped his shoulder and charged into the man, sending him flying backward, over the edge of the dais. The traitor bumped and tumbled down the stone steps into the crowd of onlookers.
Gunnar reached for the ropes that bound Marisol to the altar, tearing at the knots, until he had her hands and feet free.
She rolled off the altar, grabbed the medallion and pressed her hand to the bracelet on her wrist. “Do you trust me?” she cried out to Gunnar.
“Of course,” he answered.
“Then hold me. Hold me like we’ll never be parted again.”
Gunnar stared at her as though she’d grown horns.
Her unrelenting gaze captured his. “Trust me.” Marisol held her arms open to him.
Letting go of the control he valued most, he fell into her arms and hugged her to him. He braced himself for a knife or spear in his back and prayed to the sun god that Marisol would be spared.
Footsteps pounded up the steps behind him, shouts grew from the crowd, rising into a roaring crescendo. The light from a weak sun burst into a radiant glow so brilliant he closed his eyes to avoid blinding. The roaring in his ears grew louder, far stronger than the shouts of an enraged crowd.
He felt as if he were being hurtled through the universe, his body spinning out of control. But no matter what happened, he refused to let go of Marisol.
After what seemed an eternity, they landed with a thump on a cold hard floor. Gunnar took the brunt of the fall, cushioning Marisol with his body, his head banging sharply, making him dizzy.
He edged his eyes open, one at a time, the light more subdued, the noise gone, an ache spreading from the point of impact on his skull all the way around to his forehead.
All the pain could be ignored when he saw Marisol staring down into his eyes, her own awash with worry. “Are you all right?” She rolled to the side, her hands skimming over his body. “They didn’t stab you? You weren’t injured in the landing?”
“I am fine.” He blinked to keep the gray fog of darkness from creeping in around him, struggling to stay alert as he stared up at strange walls, the furnishings in the room nothing like he’d ever seen. “Where are we?”
An older woman with soft brown hair and emerald-green eyes similar to Marisol’s smiled down at him. “Welcome to the twenty-first century.”
The room spun in circles and Gunnar slid into the darkness.
Chapter Seven
After drawing the images she’d absorbed from Imac’s memories, Marisol dressed in comfortable jeans and a T-shirt and sat beside Gunnar where he lay on the leather couch in Athena’s office.
The medic had been in to check for a concussion and recommended a trip to the hospital if he didn’t come out of it soon. It had taken four men to lift and carry the big Norseman to the couch where he lay sleeping like a baby.
“Wake up, Gunnar,” Marisol whispered, rubbing his hand with hers. For a man she’d just met, she couldn’t deny how attracted she was to him. More than just a physical attraction. Just as with Imac and Pachacuti, Marisol knew this man was her mate.
Her heart alternated between skipping beats and racing every time Gunnar twitched. She hadn’t had time to ask him if he wanted to come with her on her time journey. Would he be angry? Would he insist on returning to the fifteenth century? If he did, would he want her to go with him?
Marisol twisted all the options around. When it came right down to it, she wanted to be with Gunnar. This century, the fifteenth, it
Similar Books
