Captain Bjorn (Tales from The Compass Book 1) (5 page)

Bjorn moved swiftly. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me behind a massive oak, pressing me protectively against it. The peeling bark scratched my neck and dug into my back as I shuddered. Bjorn lifted my chin with his finger and looked at me, as if to tell me it’s okay. He’s got me. I’ll be all right.

I waited for the attacker to reveal himself, but no one came. I turned my head toward Gus slumped to his knees, gurgling blood, and my fingers slipped on the hilt of my sword. As if sensing my loosening grip, Bjorn gently plucked the sword from me.

Gus blinked at me, mouth opening, and then toppled forward onto the wet leaves with a thunk.

Bjorn cursed again, breath combing my hair. He pushed his length off me, but kept one hand at my shoulder, pinning me in place. “I think we’re okay. But stay.”

He moved to the path and checked Gus. A fine piece of metal poked out of the dead man’s back. Bjorn ripped it out, inspected it, and threw it in the bracken. “I warned you, Gus,” he said with a sigh. “What goes around, comes around.”

Bjorn pushed up and hissed with pain, then glared out into the woods. “Serrin’s out there,” he said. “That was one of his weapons. He’s close, I know it. Jack . . .”

Out from the shadows, I slunk over. Blood seeped through Bjorn’s coat and a smattering of dark blood stained the collar of the shirt underneath. “Jack will have to wait,” I said, keeping my voice steady. I carefully touched his arm. “You’re hurt. C-come with me. I’ll fix you up.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I can make it to the ship. Know how to stitch wounds.”

“I’d like to see you stitch your own shoulder blade.” I urged him back from the pirate. “Come with me.”

With a shiver, I cut through the last of the wood, and Bjorn followed me. Home beckoned us into its warmth, and Marc and Mother looked up sharply as we barged in.

“Aaron,” Mother said. “You’re home.”

“Lost track of time. I’m fine, but my friend here had a run-in with a bandit.”

Marc took one look at the captain and calmly retrieved our medicine kit. Mother cleared her sewing stool of fabric and set it before the fire. “Take a seat, sir.”

I led Bjorn to the stool and faced him, nimble fingers working the buttons on his coat.

“I can do it,” he said, wincing as he lifted his arm.

I shook my head. “Don’t.”

My hands slid over his shoulders and drew the coat down his arms. It hit the stool and pooled at his feet. Bjorn’s gaze fell heavy on me. Watching.

“You were brave out there. You wield your sword with skill.”

I closed my eyes briefly on the image of my father teaching me how to attack and parry in the front yard. Round and round the rose bushes we’d practiced . . . “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry you had to witness what happened to Gus.”

I shivered as I worked the buttons of Bjorn’s vest, thumb skidding over the soft black shirt underneath, yielding to his firm stomach. My fingers snagged on the last button. “He—he could have killed you. He attacked from behind . . . I’m sorry for his fate, but”—I swallowed—“I’m glad it wasn’t you.”

Bjorn’s chest puffed out and he stopped my hand at the last button of his vest just above his belt; his gaze glistened with the reflection of the fire and his look burned deeply.

Heat flared in my cheeks. It was too hot by the fire. That and . . . and the rum, yes, the rum . . . it made my head spin.

“Here, let me,” Marc said, gently pushing me aside. He removed Bjorn’s shirt in simple strokes as he introduced himself. Mother picked up Bjorn’s bloodied clothing and retreated to the laundry.

Tingling from nape to knees, I paced the length of the fire, glancing at Marc as he finished cleaning the wound and stitching it. Water dribbled down the corded muscles of Bjorn’s back.

“You know what you’re doing,” Bjorn said to Marc.

“You could say I get a lot of practice.”

They both looked at me. “I bet you do,” Bjorn murmured.

I swallowed and strode across the room to the cool glare of night through the windows.

“Aaron?” Marc asked. “Are you okay?”

“Fire’s too hot,” I muttered and perched on the sill, resting my head against the glass.

Marc said something to Bjorn that I didn’t make out, and the captain laughed. A laugh that held surprising lightness.

Reflected in the window, Marc sat on the armchair across from Bjorn. They conversed with ease and humor. Mother came in to deliver a warm pot of tea, and then excused herself for the evening, leaving Bjorn with an invitation to bunk down for the night.

“If you don’t mind that Aaron and I share a room, you may take my bed.”

“
Your
bed?” I whirled away from the window, stalking back to the heat of the hearth.

“Yes,” my brother said, gesturing toward the rug. “I’ll sleep here, by the fire.”

“But—” I stopped and Bjorn clasped his gaze on me in a way that demanded I continue. “But I am better suited for sleeping on a hard floor.”

Bjorn pushed to his feet with a wince and gifted Marc a warm, hearty smile. “I should be grateful to take you up on your offer.”

“Let me just gather a few blankets.” Marc set off for our bedchamber, leaving the two of us alone.

Dark eyes met mine, and a shiver rolled right to my middle. “Guess that leaves you and me bunking together.”

“Won’t your crew be amiss without you?”

That damn twitch at his lips. “They’ll be just fine.”

* * *

Sleep was impossible. Under my breath, I swore, shifting onto my side.

“I unnerve you,” Bjorn said, draped at the edge of Marc’s bed.

“Unnerve me?” I laughed. “Hardly.”

Even in the dark, Bjorn’s stare touched me. Rolled toward the wall, to the shadow of a tree, I glared at its naked swaying branches. “Maybe if you closed the drapes tight, I wouldn’t toss so much.”

A soft movement, and the shadows disappeared. “Your house is charming, Aaron. Solid furniture. Warm, colorful. I like it.”

He really liked it? My voice cracked. “Father made most of it. He was a carpenter.”

“About your father, can I ask—?”

“Don’t.”

A quiet moment followed, and then Bjorn said, “Your mother is most welcoming.”

“Yes.”

“And your twin.”

I stiffened.

“Such a good heart. He’s a charming fellow.”

“Charming?”

“Pleasant, amiable . . . attractive.”

I curled back to the wall. “You couldn’t love anyone more.”

“That so?”

Loud and faked, I yawned. “Good night.”

A rustle of blankets, then drapes, and the shadows of the tree danced once more over the wall. I flipped over and glared at him. Moonlight made his twitching lips glow.

“I changed my mind—I rather like you tossing about.”

* * *

When I woke, a neatly made bed greeted me across the room. Bjorn was gone.
But of course.
I’d have to hurry and sneak after him.

Bathed and dressed, I breakfasted on leftover bread and jam. Marc seemed in a delightful mood for a night on the rug.

“What are you whistling about?” I asked.

“Tonight’s the ball.”

Mother swept into the kitchen, face glowing with a smile.

“Too many smiles around here,” I said between bites of bread.

Mother laughed. “Your friend joined us for breakfast this morning.”

Bread crumbled in my hand and I dropped it to the plate. “He did? Why’d no one rouse me?”

“Bjorn said you needed a few winks more.” Marc picked up the bread scrap and popped it into his mouth.

“We had an insightful chat,” Mother said.

I took my plate to the sink, stomach uneasy. Too much bread. “Insightful . . .?”

“Hello?” A female voice called, followed by a well-timed knock. Relief swamped me, and I darted to the front of the cottage.

“Laurie!”

Drenched cream skirts filled the doorway. Lauretta smiled, cheeks tinged red like the roses in the garden. I welcomed her in and shut out the rain, but her next words were winter cold.

“Quite the morning I’ve had. Got caught in a downpour, and then ran into a pirate, would you believe!”

“Wasn’t Captain Bjorn, was it?” Marc asked, beckoning her to take a seat by the fire and asking mother for a warm blanket.

“The very one! Said he’d heard much of my ball from you and wished me a lovely evening. Of course, I had to invite him.”

I groaned and slipped into a thin, dark green coat. Nothing to Father’s, but a good reminder of what I had to lose. The coat, the house, Mother . . .

Lauretta frowned, glancing between Marc and I. She removed her wet gloves and touched Marc’s sleeve. “Do you not like him?”

Marc smiled, wide and brilliant. “He’s a new acquaintance and makes a charismatic impression.”

I stared at him. Too long, perhaps. Snapping out of it, I spoke, “Forgive me, Laurie, I have somewhere to be.”

“Don’t you always.” She laughed with good humor as she fumbled with a silk pouch. “His invitation,” she said to Marc. “Sorry, it’s wet. Please make sure he comes.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said with a wink, and slipped out the door into light silver rain.

Twenty minutes later, I arrived at his ship. No sharp blades greeted me when I hit the deck this time; instead, arms came around my neck and jolly laughter hit me from all sides.

“Got plenty drunk this ‘un.”

“Hold ye drink mighty well for ye size.”

“Could play a round wi’ ya, right now.”

“Save it, Obi. Captain’s waiting for him.”

They shoved me toward the captain’s cabin. No sooner I rapped my knuckles on the rain-streaked blue door, the pirates scattered.

“Come in!” Bjorn barked.

Bjorn sat at his table, letters and books heaped before him. He looked up over the letter he held and then continued to read. I shut the door and slipped out of my wet coat, hanging it on the hook beside the one I’d taken off him last night. The one mother had stitched back up for him.

I strolled the length of the cabin, passing the neatly-straightened bed and drawn drapes. Through grilled windows, I saw pirates on deck singing as they climbed the masts and loosened the sails.

My stomach danced, much like it had up in the crow’s nest. “Are you leaving?”

Folding the letter, Bjorn stood and slunk to my side, peering out onto the deck. “Soon.”

“What about Serrin? Your brother?”

“Jack will have to hold tight a while. I’ve received some urgent news. Camps have been liberated in the North, but the freed are trapped with Northern soldiers cornering them. Their only way out is by the mercy of the sea.”

“You’ll . . . help save them?”

“As soon as this storm passes.”

He stepped to his drawers, and then a shirt came flying toward me. I caught it.

“Put that on. You’re soaked to the bone.”

“And your crew? What about them?”

“They have suitable attire and know to change as soon as they are below deck.”

I set the dry change of clothes on the windowsill, frowning as I fiddled with the buttons on the wet shirt. The storm would pass and then Captain Bjorn would set sail to save prisoners. My obligation to Serrin had been fulfilled. Relief choked a breath from me. Still, the guilt lingered.

The wet material clung to my skin, and I ripped it off. Then faced him. Supposed to sound hopeful, my words came out raw. “You’re really going?”

“What bothers you more?” Bjorn pushed off from his dresser and crouched in front of me and balled the soaked shirt in his hand. Then he looked up, brow raised. His breath soaked into my breeches. “That I defy your idea of a pirate? Or that I’m leaving?”

My breath hitched, and I stepped back, snatching the dry shirt and diving into it. “You accepted Lauretta’s invitation to the ball. Shall I pass on your regrets?”

“Stay. You only just got here. Be a shame to soak another shirt so soon.”

“I . . . I . . .” I reached for a carefree grin. “Fine. I can amuse myself with a game or three. However suits you.”

“Without the rum this time.”

Nothing to hide behind? “I’ll have to leave in a timely fashion,” I said.

“No doubt.”

I swallowed. “I’ll . . . pass on your regrets.”

“I know a thing or two about storms, and this one won’t blow over by tonight.” He swept his desk clear and grabbed the cards. “As much as you may wish to pass on my regrets, I shall attend the ball.”

My words broke as I spoke, low, soft. “Why do you want to?”

He opened my fingers, his touch skating over my palm; goosebumps prickled up my arm, followed by a shiver deep in my belly—

The deck landed in my hand. “Because Serrin will be there. One last chance to set my brother free before I leave. Deal.”

* * *