Thorstein pulled clothes out of a sheepskin-fur bag. He slid on linen breeches and covered them with tight-fitting woolen trousers tied with a drawstring. She watched the way he moved. He had the bearing of a person confident of who he was and his place in the world. She wondered why he seemed so familiar.
As he reached for his shirt, she looked closer at the dragon tattoo on his arm and a jolt of recognition shot through her. Her eyes flashed up to Thorstein’s face. Their eyes met and held. His movements stilled. He can’t be the same man, she thought in bewilderment. Her clean-shaven Druid friend wore a robe and spoke her tongue in her dreams. But this man’s eyes were the same.
Annoure studied the artistic beauty of the tattooed dragon. It looked as proud and dangerous as he did. She followed the lines of the dragon to his gold armband, thinking of her grandmother’s warning about the dragon.
Annoure met his gaze again. In his eyes she saw the same puzzlement she felt. He still hadn’t moved, as if caught in the same spell that captured her. Mystical energy charged the air between them. Who was he? A Norse barbarian—ruthless and wild—certainly, but something more, something deeper. She looked away and the moment vanished. He pulled on his shirt and tunic, covering the dragons that adorned both his arms.
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