“You don’t love him… you can’t love him…” He pushed himself up slightly to look her better in the eye. He had one hand on her shoulder, his leg swung over hers, pinning her to the moist grass. His body was long, sinewy, the muscles heavy. The sun cast an orange-pink glow on her face. “Freya, listen to me. You love me… you’ve always loved me and only me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Please let me go.” She stared up into the dimming sky as she looked at him. “James… please…”
“My name isn’t James Brewster.” His eyes were hooded, and he looked so unhappy Freya could cry. “At least, it’s not my only name. Some of us are not as lucky as you, Freya, to be able to keep our name over the centuries.”
As James spoke, it was as if doors upon doors were opening in her mind, in her memories, her consciousness, her identity, trickling from behind a hidden and locked passage. She saw images that she did not understand, faces she did not recognize—an older, gracious woman with silver hair, formidable, with a softness around her eyes, and a younger one, blond and brittle looking until she smiled—and Freya felt an overwhelming sensation of love for them. They were part of her. “I am a witch,” she said. “I have always been a witch.”
“You are more than that,” he murmured. James’s lashes were wet with tears, and Freya put a hand on his face, to feel his pain and to try to understand what was happening here.
“Who are you, James? Who are you really? And who am I? What are we to each other?” She felt warm in his arms and no longer afraid.
He held her tighter and breathed into her ear. “You really don’t remember me, my dearest love?”
His voice and his touch sent a shiver through her body, and in her mind’s eye she saw a flicker of light, a memory, an image, of a beautiful dark-haired man, looming over her just like this, the two of them entangled in each other, his body hot against hers, and there was no wicked shame, no guilt, none of the Puritan restrictions, for they were not Puritans, they were in love, and in lust, and he was so strong, his hands above hers, holding her down, and her body alive, open, needing, and she was screaming his name, his name…
“Killian?” she asked.
“Freya,” he whispered. “It’s me.”
Then it came back to her, and suddenly it was as if all the doors had opened in a burst of light and understanding. The past, the future, the present. Killian at her engagement party, the two of them against the sink of the bathroom counter, without even a word to each other, overcome by desire, and the intense need to feel his lips on hers, her body on his. Their last night on board the Dragon, rocking against him, as if holding on for dear life, because she had sensed it was so close to the end… their end. The trident shadow on his back that had marked him as the thief who had stolen Freddie’s trident. And finally, the Valkyries, surrounding him, ripping him away from her arms.
“But the Valkyries—they took you…”
“Here.”
“Not Limbo?”
“No. I had no memory either, until I saw you in the meetinghouse, and then it all came back to me, but I did not want to frighten you. I thought you would remember on your own.”
She shook her head, ashamed. She had no idea how she had gotten here herself. It had to be some awful form of trickery. She had been swept back here through the passages of time, her memory lost, unable to remember who she was and why she was here. Was this yet another punishment of the gods? Or another of Loki’s tricks? Loki… was that why she had been inexplicably, irrefutably drawn to Nate Brooks? He must be Loki, there was no other explanation. Was this still part of the spell he had cast on her when he was Branford Gardiner and had first come to North Haven? When her dress had fallen, the strap broken, and he had touched her skin, had branded her as his. But it couldn’t be—she was not enchanted this time, she was sure of it. What was happening? Why had she felt that way? She did not love Loki, did not love Nate; she only loved Balder. Killian Gardiner. James Brewster. In any incarnation, under any other name, she always loved him.
“Killian, my darling,” she whispered, putting a hand on his cheek. Her love. Her true heart. Her dearest friend. She would put aside her worries over her conflicted emotions for the moment and try to understand them later. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You do remember…” He smiled, relieved. “But it is dangerous to use that name. I must remain James Brewster to you for now.”
She nodded. “But what are we doing here? How are we going to get away?”
“Don’t worry, my love,” he said, and kissed her. When their lips met it was as if they both realized at that same moment how near their bodies were to each other, and when he kissed her, she opened her mouth to him, and then his hand was struggling with her bodice, as she struggled to unlace his breeches.
She wanted him so much, wanted to take away the hurt she had caused, wanted to forget for a moment where they were—she was just so very glad to see him again, and that they were together—and he was kissing her neck and her br**sts, and she helped him out of his shirt, and he fell back on top of her, and he was pushing up her skirts, and they were laughing softly together, at how terribly difficult it was to remove their clothing—and then it was done, and they were lying in the grass, and he was holding down her hands above her head, and kissing her, biting her lips, ravenous, hungry, they had been separated for too long, and when he entered her she gritted her teeth at the pain and the pleasure of finding him again.
“What are you doing?” came a voice above them—a maid’s voice. A quiet, horrified voice as if the speaker could not quite believe what she was seeing.
James startled and rolled away, while Freya sat upright, frantically reaching for her clothes and covering herself as they separated from their embrace.
“And here I was making excuses for you to Mr. Putnam!” said Mercy, her voice hot with anger. “I thought you were my friend, my sister. You are nothing but a harlot, a temptress! A common whore! Look at you! Naked on the grass! With him! You are a witch! You have bewitched Mr. Brewster!”
Freya rose to her feet, her arm outstretched, the other holding her clothing against her body, red with shock and shame. What had they done? In the woods? In the open? “No, Mercy—please!”