A Viking For the Viscountess by Michelle Willingham

Author:Michelle Willingham
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Time travel
Published: 2014-11-16T18:00:00+00:00

He was drowning. The water pulled him under so violently, he could taste the salt. His arms thrashed, and beneath the dark waves, he sensed the silent call of death.

I will not die.

He fought for every breath, and within his consciousness came the awareness that he was not alone. He struggled to move his body through the sea, while above him, the blood-red moon cast its rays upon the water.

There. A broken piece of his ship floated upon the water, and he swam as hard as he could to reach it. His fingers seized the wood, and he crawled upon it, his heart pounding.

All grew still, and ahead, he glimpsed the flare of a torch. The crushing weight of fear lifted, for it meant land was surely near. He closed his eyes with thankfulness, so grateful for the gift of life.

His clothing was drenched, and when his feet finally touched the ground, he lifted his face to the sky and prayed his thanks. He sank to his knees, digging his hands into the wet sand. He didn’t know where he was right now…likely Norway, as he’d spent the past year sailing along the coast of Prussia, Denmark, and Finland. He wanted to go home, to see his father again and apologize for all that he’d done. He’d never have left home, were it not for his frustration at his lack of freedom.

None of that mattered now. He was alive, and though he’d never wanted to be a duke, he would accept the responsibilities he’d fled. He’d been so angry at the legacy of his forebears closing in around him…at his requirement to sit in the House of Lords, debate laws, and, of course, marry an heiress from a good family.

Now, he didn’t care.

He would bind himself to the life he didn’t want, if it meant he could see his father sitting by the fire, reading his favorite book, Gulliver’s Travels. He could envision the older man seated in his wingback chair, a cup of cold tea on the table beside him.

The wind whipped at his skin, and he shivered. A dark vision came over him, of being struck in the back with an ax. A phantom pain ached, and strange words mingled within his mind. Tangled words in a language he’d not heard before…but somehow he could understand them.

Svala betrayed me.

Who was Svala? He blinked a moment, forcing himself to get up, trudging forward through the sand.

The crude houses that lay before him were not made of bricks with glass windows. These were far older, more primitive. Where was he? It was as if his life had been unseated, torn apart at the seams.

He was Eric Fielding, the Marquess of Thorgraham. And yet…he was not. Another name came into his consciousness, Arik Thorgrim. Flashes of memories intruded, memories that weren’t his.

Eric tried to force them back, wondering if the violent storm had caused him to see and hear things that weren’t there. God help him.

A woman emerged from the shadows. She wore a woolen gown with a long apron pinned at her shoulders by two golden brooches.

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