Leaving Norway: Book 1: Martin & Dagny (The Hansen Series - Martin & Dagny and Reidar & Kirsten) Read online

  Also By Kris Tualla:

  Medieval:

  Loving the Norseman

  Loving the Knight

  In the Norseman’s House

  Renaissance:

  A Nordic Knight in Henry’s Court

  A Nordic Knight of the Golden Fleece

  A Nordic Knight and his Spanish Wife

  18th Century:

  A Discreet Gentleman of Discovery

  A Discreet Gentleman of Matrimony

  A Discreet Gentleman of Consequence

  A Discreet Gentleman of Intrigue

  A Discreet Gentleman of Mystery

  and

  Leaving Norway

  Finding Sovereignty

  Kirsten’s Journal

  Regency:

  A Woman of Choice

  A Prince of Norway

  A Matter of Principle

  Contemporary:

  An Unexpected Viking

  A Restored Viking

  A Modern Viking

  *****

  For Aspiring Authors:

  A Primer for Beginning Authors

  Becoming an Authorpreneur

  Leaving Norway

  by

  Kris Tualla

  Leaving Norway is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  © 2012 by Kris Tualla

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.

  ISBN-13: 978-1480158610

  ISBN-10: 1480158615

  The more books I write, the more my dedications

  sound the same. The truth is, without the support of my

  loving husband, I would not be able to do what I do.

  I also thank my author cohorts who have caught the vision:

  Deena Remiel, Morgan Kearns, Tami Vinson

  And my faithful beta readers:

  Nannette, Julia, Lynda, Candace

  Enjoy.

  Chapter One

  June 2, 1749

  Christiania, Norway

  Martin Balder Gunnar Hansen had never seen such a beautiful woman in all his twenty-eight years. He watched her through the salt-hazed window of the pier’s tavern, where he was nursing what was probably the last glass of akevitt in his life.

  She sat on her trunk at the Christiania pier wearing a billowing white blouse tied at the neck and wrists. A turquoise over-bodice and brown skirt accentuated her narrow waist and pleasantly proportioned bosom. Embroidery on the over-bodice shimmered each time scudding clouds allowed a wash of sunshine to grace the docks. Draped across her lap was a forest green cloak.

  What drew Martin’s attention was the look of expectation that played over what were, in his estimation, perfect features. Her eyes darted, her neck craned, and her lower lip disappeared into her teeth. Obviously, she awaited someone.

  “What if it was me?” Martin mused. A slow smile grew as he thought about what he would do. He’d twist those thick blond braids around his hands and pull her face to his, teasing those full pink lips just a little before kissing them very well.

  “Skitt.” Martin took another sip of the gullet-stripping akevitt and followed it with a soothing swallow of cooled beer. The beginning of a long ocean journey was not the time to be thinking such things.

  The tumbling stomp of boots on stairs pulled Martin’s attention back inside the tavern. A dark-haired man descended with a woman close behind. He was fastening his flies and he had an aura of sensuality that was obvious, even to another man. At the bottom of the stairs he turned, circled the woman with one arm and pressed his hips against hers. The other hand clamped over her breast and his fingers tightened. His kiss was almost violent.

  The woman pulled away, her lips swollen and their color blurred. Red-faced but laughing, she buttoned the last button on his well-tailored trousers. She hurried to get him a mug of some indeterminate beverage, which he downed in one long pull. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, gave her the mug and slapped her arse. Only then did he reach inside his frock coat for coins.

  Martin felt for his pocket watch and flipped it open, idly wondering if he had time for a tumble himself before boarding the ship. He chuckled at the thought. This was not the day for him to begin frequenting whores. He should save some new experiences for America.

  He looked back out the window to the woman, still waiting, still searching. He guessed her to be a bit younger than he. She wasn’t wearing any obvious jewelry, though her clothes bespoke a level of wealth and her trunk was new. He wished he could see the color of her eyes.

  Martin sighed and finished the last bit of the akevitt. Closing his eyes he let it burn, savoring the sensation. There would be many things he expected to miss about Norway; akevitt was a memory he anticipated would become more pleasant with distance.

  From the edge of his eye, Martin saw the woman stand as he counted out coins to pay for his meals and drinks,. He turned and held his breath. First abject relief, then radiant joy suffused her countenance. Her cheeks flushed beautifully and her full pink lips spread in the sort of wide smile that he could only hope someone might give him one day. He stilled, curious to see the recipient of this woman’s affections.

  Martin’s gut twisted and shoved his breath out when the dark-haired man, fresh from whoring, took the woman’s hand chastely in his and pressed it to his lips. She lifted her face, and waited. He kissed her cheek, obviously disappointing her, but she smiled adoringly even so.

  “Why did it have to be him?” Martin muttered to no one.

  When she stood to face her companion, Martin realized she was quite tall. The dark-haired man cleared the tavern doorway easily while Martin had to duck to avoid braining himself upon entry; but then he topped out at nearly six and a half feet. He glanced down, curious about the woman’s shoes. Brocade slippers were all she wore. He thought that in heeled court shoes or winter sabots she might stand six feet.

  Martin watched the man point at an adolescent boy, flip him a coin, and gesture at the trunk. He lifted the woman’s satchel, wrapped her arm around his, and marched down the pier toward the ocean-going vessels preparing for their departures. The boy hoisted the trunk on his back and staggered after them.

  As he watched her leave, Martin felt as though he had just lost something incredibly important. Resigned to that reaction—he hadn’t even met her, much less knew anything about her—he finished his beer, paid his bill, left the tavern, and followed the same path down the long pier.

  ***

  Pausing on the pier, Martin tilted his head back to stare at the tall masts and lashed sails of the Seehorst. All morning he had watched loads of timber, iron ore and copper be loaded into her belly. Now casks of salted cod were being rolled up the plank. The ship had come from London and—after suitable goods were exchanged here—was on her way to America laden with treasures from far-flung lands.

  Again Martin felt the thickness in his chest that signaled a cherished idea. America! Land of the new. New property. New bridges. New cities. New buildings. His four years at Oxford studying engineering and architecture would open up a multitude of fresh opportunities, not ancient obligat
ions.

  He was running away from those obligations now, and he fully admitted it. That didn’t change his need to leave Norway again, and for good this time.

  Martin was the second son and the third child born to his mother and father, but he was the first to be born after his parents wed. His father, Jarl, made a deathbed promise to his own father to make the legitimate babe heir to Hansen Hall—and all that the esteemed position held.

  The problems with that promise were twofold. First, that meant Martin would displace his older brother, Gustav, whom he deeply loved. Throughout his years, Martin had spent enough time with his Onkel Brander to know how badly his ascension would wound Gustav and he had no intention of doing such a thing.

  The second problem was that Martin wanted to build things. And the few new structures in Norway followed traditional styles. Stoic styles which were meant to fend off the winters, not please the eye.

  America was young and growing. Martin had letters from several architectural firms offering the possibility of employment. All he needed to do was decide where on the massive continent he wanted to settle. For a man wishing to make his own destiny, America was the obvious answer.

  Of course, everyone he knew tried to convince him otherwise. Norsemen were a fiercely loyal lot, and the thought of leaving their ancestral home was akin to treason.

  But he rode out of Arendal before dawn on a foggy morning, with one groom beside him on the cart and all his mortal belongings piled in back, and together they made the four-day journey to Christiania. He sent the groom home to Hansen Hall, carrying a letter to Martin’s father that explained the reasons his second son had chosen to leave.

  And though Brander Hansen still had a home in Christiania, Martin decided not to visit with him as he passed through. He supposed he was half afraid Brander would try to talk him out of leaving. His uncle could be a persuasive man; in spite of being deaf, Brander’s words held considerable weight. Even so, Martin knew that of all his family, Brander would be the one to understand.

  He prayed his father would somehow understand as well. But if he didn’t, Martin would most likely never see him—or any of his family—again.

  Martin bowed his head and closed his eyes. He allowed himself to grieve, though only for a moment. He had wrestled long and hard about this decision before coming to the conclusion that the adventure which lay ahead of him was worth the loss. Through his shirt, he fingered the gold chain that held a simple cross. His older sister had given it to him when he sailed for England to learn their language and study at their university in Oxford. Now it would remind him that at least one of his siblings had faith in him. And in his dreams.

  God bless you, Liv.

  And thank you.

  Martin was jostled from his reverie by a heavy bag, which nearly knocked his feet from under him. A gentleman, whom Martin judged to be in his sixties by his slight stoop and long gray hair, strode past him and ignored the abuse caused by his overburdened porter.

  “Hurry up, man! I want to get my pick of the cabins before I get lodged in some rabbit’s hole!” the old man bellowed.

  He was trailed by a plump woman attired in the most outrageous shade of green satin that Martin had ever seen. Her dignity was somewhat saved by a huge, intricately crocheted white shawl which muted the virulent color where it draped the woman’s shoulders and abundant curves. She took rapid small steps to keep up with her—husband?

  “If I ever marry, my wife will never wear such a ridiculous color!” Martin vowed. Then he snorted at his own declamation. Marriage was highly undesirable at this point in his life. Finding his way on a new continent and in an English colony was enough of a challenge; he had no need for the demands of a woman.

  With an evaluative glance at the angle of the sun, he too began to make his way toward the ship.

  ***

  Dagny tried not to squeeze her fiancé’s arm too hard, and thereby betray her nervousness.

  She was quite lucky to have caught the eye of a man like Torvald Heimlich. Worldly, darkly handsome, a little bit too adventuresome to be safe but so thrilling in his danger. Living in the convent and attending school there offered no male companionship at all. So when he first approached her, as she shopped for shoes without a chaperone now that she was twenty-five, she couldn’t believe he meant to court her.

  He bought her a cup of hot chocolate. They talked for almost an hour. And he asked her to meet him again, week after week, in the same place at the same time. And now, eight weeks later, they would be married.

  Married. She smiled.

  Finally, she would be free of the convent’s restraints. Sent there at the age of nine, when her mother died birthing yet another daughter, Dagny had seen little of her four older sisters in the last twenty years. But she never, ever, considered joining the conclave of women who raised her and spent their lives in solemn ritual. All that held her was the inability to figure out how to get away.

  Dagny’s glance slid sideways, tracing Torvald’s aristocratic profile. She sent a silent prayer of thanksgiving because this man offered her a new life. And not just any new life, but one on another continent. America sounded so exotic. The ocean-crossing sounded so exotic. Being married by a ship’s captain was so… unconventional. Her adult life, long delayed, was finally beginning.

  Torvald unwrapped her arm from his. “After you, my love,” he said waving one hand toward the ship’s ramp and resting the other on the small of her back.

  With a quick dip of her chin, Dagny lifted her skirt and climbed the wooden plank. At the top, a sailor grabbed her elbow and steadied her as she stepped aboard the large vessel. Dagny tilted her head back and gazed upwards at the masts while Torvald exchanged a few English words with the deckhand.

  “This way,” he said, taking her arm.

  Torvald led her to a steep set of stairs and he descended them first. At the bottom, he turned around and held up his arms. He flashed a mischievous grin. “Come on, then. I’ll catch you if you fall.”

  Dagny responded to the awkward situation with a polite smile while deciding whether to climb down forward or backward. Reaching a decision, she backed down the precarious steps in spite of Torvald’s unmuffled laughter. His mirth was less humiliating than falling would have been—and less dangerous to boot.

  Still chuckling, he walked down the passage and stopped at one of the cabin doors as she followed. When she stood beside him he pushed it open. “Here we are.”

  The cabin was about seven feet wide and maybe nine or ten feet long. A built-in bank of deep drawers edged one wall, occupying half the width of the room and ending three feet from the door. A lumpy mattress covered it. Two feet or so above the shelf bed was another, narrower shelf. The two side walls were solid but the outer wall was pierced by a round of thick glass. The lintel, the top twelve inches of the wall above the door, was open to the hallway for ventilation, but barred with turned-wood spindles placed every four inches.

  Dagny turned to Torvald. “Is this my cabin or yours?”

  “It’s our cabin,” he said. He dropped her satchel on the floor and the hollow sound slammed with its finality. “Did you believe I would pay for two cabins? Even for part of the journey?”

  Dagny pressed down her misgivings, certain she had simply missed some part of their plan. “So the captain will marry us today?”

  “I doubt he’ll have time, my love. Setting sail on such a journey as ours will require his full attention.” Torvald leaned against the bed and smiled his sultry smile, the one that made her belly flutter. “But have no fear, Dagny. As soon as he’s able, he’ll perform the deed.”

  “And in the meantime?” Her voice sounded irritatingly thin, verging on shrill. Certainly he did not mean for them to share this cabin before they were husband and wife. She was not raised to do so even before she fell under the nuns’ unforgiving constitution. Her gaze swept the small space, evaluating its lack of private refuge.

  Torvald took her suddenly cold hands in his large
, balmy grip. He waited until her eyes met his before he spoke. His voice was warm and thick as soup, and it poured over her.

  “Sweetheart, we are betrothed. We are leaving Norway and will spend the next seven weeks together before we land in Boston. Does it truly matter at what point in that journey our vows are spoken?”

  “It does to me!” Dagny blurted. Her heart thumped painfully and she shrugged away his heat. This man was supposed to protect her, not place her in a deliberately compromising position. Suddenly her perfect plan revealed a ragged, ugly tear.

  Torvald pulled her forward and wrapped his arms around her. She tucked her face against his neck. He smelt of unfamiliar perfume and she felt his morning’s whiskers on her cheek.

  “Don’t you trust me Dagny?” he murmured.

  “Y-yes,” she whispered. “I did…”

  “And you still can.”

  “But, I mean, it’s just that—well—we cannot share a bed! Not yet!” The fug of her trapped breath warmed her already hot cheeks. She swallowed her tears, determined not to cry in his presence. She had always been such a weakling. Today, of all the days in her life, she needed to try to be strong.

  Torvald’s soft chuckle shook his chest in staccato breaths. “Are you afraid of me?”

  “No!” she huffed. Well, maybe a little.

  “Are you afraid of making love with me?” he pressed.

  “N-no…” Well, yes.

  “I love you, my darling.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “Of course I do! Would I be leaving Norway for any other reason?” she exclaimed. She leaned back and looked into his eyes, searching for assurances. Searching for truth.

  “Then stop worrying, darling girl. It’s not my intention to cause you harm.”

  His lips lowered to hers, soft and teasing, pulling away just enough that she chased them with her own. While the nuns had not told her anything about relations with men, Torvald had taught her to kiss. That pastime was so pleasant, she was eager to learn more despite her embarrassment and uncertainty. When he released her from the kiss, she gazed up at him, a tingle growing deep and low inside her and heating her thighs.