by Sandra Hill
“Impossible!”
“Well, you topped us with that one, Max. Hoo-yah!”
Finally, after they all stopped laughing, Flash swiped at the tears of mirth rimming his eyes and asked, “Not that I believe you, but how would a guy be able to fake an orgasm?”
“Mais, oui,” Cage added. “Women have the ‘ooh-ooh-ooh-you-are-killing-me-baby’ routine down pat, but a guy can’t hide the visible facts. Either he wilts or he doesn’t.”
“Hah! You would be surprised how many women don’t bother to look. They are selfish creatures at heart. Furthermore, ’tis just as easy for a man to say, ‘Ooh-ooh-ooh-you-are-killing-me-sweetling.’ ”
“But why?” Pretty Boy wanted to know. “Why would a man want to fake it? What’s the fun in that?”
Ragnor shrugged. “Boredom. Once you’ve tupped two hundred women and more, the novelty wears off.”
“Two hundred?” all three of his comrades sputtered.
“Get out of here!” Pretty Boy snorted with disbelief.
“Are you pullin’ our legs?” Flash asked.
“Two hundred sounds about right for me, too,” Cage said, then burst out laughing. “Hot damn! Ain’t male exaggeration the greatest!”
“You do not believe me,” Ragnor concluded. “Well, ’tis naught to be proud of anyhow. I never actually counted, but, really, I have seen seven and twenty winters. I have been tupping since I was thirteen, and those first few years, my brother and I could not get enough. I have … had … a brother who was the same age as I, and we had this unspoken competition to see if all the maids in the Norselands could warm our bed furs.”
“A twin? You’re a twin?” Cage asked.
Ragnor shook his head. “Not twins. We were born of the same father, but different mothers from different countries only days apart. We were similar in appearance—almost twinlike, I suppose—except I am dark and he was light.”
“You said was,” Pretty Boy said with touching gentleness.
“Yea, my brother died, along with my entire family. All ten of them. Except for my sister Madrene.”
“Good God, man! All of them died? How?”
“Drowned, probably.” He shrugged. “I still miss them, especially my brother.”
Cage put a hand on Ragnor’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’ll be your brother.”
“All of us will,” Flash said, squeezing his other shoulder.
“You betcha,” Pretty Boy put in, too.
Ragnor couldn’t help himself. Tears misted his eyes. He could not speak over the lump in his throat, but he did nod his thanks to each of them.
He hadn’t realized till that moment just how lonely he had been feeling of late, and not just since coming to this new land. He missed his brother and the camaraderie they’d always shared. And he missed his best friend who’d died last year. No wonder he’d felt as if his life were unraveling, as he’d told Madrene.
But he had no more time to dwell on that misery because a group of musicians stepped up to a platform and broke into a rowdy song about boot-scooting boogers, of all things. The drinking hall erupted with cheers and laughter as patrons hooted out their appreciation for the song, some of them singing along, and some of them stepping onto the sawdust floor to dance. And what a dance they were doing! The women shook their arses in their tight braies and jiggled their breasts; that he liked. But some of the men looked downright silly, in his opinion, with their off-rhythm, flailing, unmasculine moves.
“Okay, losers, time to show you how the winners operate.” Pretty Boy stood, cracked his knuckles and flexed his fingers in an exaggerated manner, then sauntered over to the bar, where he leaned back on his elbows and waited. Within seconds, he was approached by a woman wearing extremely tight white braies and a wet tea-ing shirt which showed off her prominent breasts. She kept flipping her long blond hair over one shoulder with a saucy toss of her head.
Soon the band changed rhythm to a slower-paced song, something about friends in low places. Pretty Boy stepped out onto the dancing floor with his newfound woman friend, along with a dozen or so other couples. What they did then pretty much amounted to foresport.
“What is that?” Ragnor exclaimed
“Dancing,” Flash answered.
The couples stood face to face, arms wrapped around each other, moving foot to foot with an occasional swirl tossed in. In essence, body rubbing. And the women allowed it? In public? What a land!
“Are they going to fornicate in public, too?” he asked.
“Hell, no! It’s just dancing,” Flash said. “And actually, I’ve seen you out there a time or two before, buddy. So don’t knock it.”
“You have seen me dance? Knock what?” Why do people keep reminding me of events I cannot recall? I know I would remember doing something so wicked in public.
“Watch this,” Cage said. Making eye contact with a young lady with flowing black hair who was standing across the room with a long-necked bottle of mead in her hand, he crooked his forefinger, beckoning her to come over to him. To give the wench credit, she didn’t jump at his command, but she did throw her head back and laugh. Then she crooked her finger at him. “Whatever you want, chère,” he murmured, chuckling. With a grin, Cage stood, downed the rest of his beer, then danced his way over to her. In truth, Cage’s dancing was quite good, unlike the uncoordinated movements of the other flailing males out there. Within seconds, Cage and his female were dancing together, creating quite a spectacle of themselves.
“And what do you call that?” Ragnor asked Flash, the only one of his friends left behind.
“Dirty dancing.”
“For a certainty,” Ragnor agreed. Cage had been right about one thing he’d boasted of so often. Those Cage-huns did know how to dance.
Flash left him then, too, to find his own partner … a blond woman of medium height who reminded him a bit of Svein Forkbeard’s daughter Inga. He hoped Flash was being careful; if this wench was as designing as Inga had been, he’d find himself wed-locked afore he knew it, cone-domes or not.
After that, he just leaned back with his long legs crossed at the ankles and propped on the next chair, watching and listening. No need to make conversation. No need to get up and meet some woman. No need to make a fool of himself dancing. He was on his third bottle of mead, so it was not surprising that everything spun around him and the talking, laughter, and music came together into a pleasant buzz.
Suddenly, though, he saw something that caused his wandering gaze to halt, then look again. Walking through the water archway was a tall red-haired woman in leather boots, tight, tight black braies, and a sleeveless, neckless white shert which was now damp. It was Alison MacLean. Even from across the room, he could see the outline of her breasts. Now, that is a gift from the gods.
Ragnor gulped and set his bottle of beer on the table. He wanted nothing to cloud his vision now. Should he get up and go to her? Or should he wait for her to notice him?
As if reading his thoughts, Cage danced close to his table and warned him, “Don’t you dare, cowboy. That woman is off limits.”
Pretty Boy soon followed, noticing the direction of Ragnor’s stare. Alison was laughing at something her companion said … an older woman similarly attired, except that she wore a short-sleeved tea-ing shert with some words on it. “No freakin’ way, Max. Don’t even think it,” Pretty Boy said, his arms wrapped around the pretty blonde as they danced in place. “Remember what we told you about fraternization.”
It was no surprise that Flash showed up next. “Man, you are going to scorch the good doctor by looking at her like that. Cool down, Max. Go find yourself another woman. Or stand under the water archway to cool off.” Flash danced off then, his good deed done for the night.
They were right. Alison MacLean spelled trouble for him. He would be in this country for only a short time … he hoped. No sense landing himself in the military prison called a brig because he lusted after the wrong woman. Still, his heart raced and his blood warmed just watching
her walk across the dancing hall.
She headed toward a table where, to his surprise, Doctor Fine-gold was seated, and rose to greet Alison. No wonder Ragnor hadn’t recognized the brain healer before. He wore dark blue braies, like just about everyone in the hall, a multicolored, long-sleeved shert, and high-heeled boots which gave him some additional height. Alison appeared to be introducing the older woman to Doctor Fine-gold before they all sat down at the table. Alison’s back was to Ragnor, which gave him plenty of opportunity to observe, undetected.
He relaxed somewhat, with his legs still propped on the other chair, and indulged in another long swig of beer. He should take the recipe for this beer back home to Madrene, who prided herself on her skill in brewing mead. She always looked for new recipes. He made a mental note to himself of things to carry back with him: cone-domes, beer, running shoes, weapons known as guns, and toothpaste. Idly he wondered if his trip back to the Norselands would involve near-drowning again, and whether all those items could survive a water dousing. He smiled to himself at his mind meanderings.
The serving wench brought him another cold beer, which he sipped now, not wanting to become drukkin. Pretty Boy, Cage, and Flash stopped by periodically, checking on him, no doubt to make sure he didn’t “make a move” toward Alison. They even offered to introduce him to some wenches, an offer he declined.
He watched through slitted eyes as Alison talked animatedly to her woman companion and Doctor Fine-gold. Mostly, though, the conversation took place between the older woman and Doctor Fine-gold; the woman had to have a number of years on Fine-gold, but Ragnor could see the sexual interest between the two.
That was neither here nor there. His interest—sexual and otherwise—lay with Alison. He saw her only from the back and the side when she turned periodically. It was enough. From the back, he could see clearly the muscle definition of her shoulders and upper arms. This was not the kind of soft woman he was accustomed to, but a female as hard-bodied as some of his SEAL comrades. Oh, not in an unfeminine way. She had all the curves that marked her as a woman, but they were sharply defined. He found that he liked that about her. Hard and soft all in one package. In other words, irresistible.
She’d combed her wavy red hair off her face and behind her ears, from which dangled gold hoop ear ornaments. Her lips had been painted ruby red and her cheeks rouged slightly. Her lashes were long and golden red.
Just looking at her made him feel good.
What kind of children would they produce? Red-haired girlings with green eyes like her? Black-haired boylings with blue eyes like him? Or different combinations, like red-haired boylings with green eyes, or black-haired girlings with blue eyes, or red-haired boylings with blue eyes, or black-haired girlings with green eyes, or. …
Aaarrgh! I must be losing my mind. Thinking about children! Holy Thor, I’m turning into my father.
While his mind had been wandering, something had been happening at Alison’s table. Doctor Fine-gold and the other lady got up to dance, and some fellow in light brown pants and a short-sleeved shert came over to talk to Alison. She seemed to know him. They talked for several moments, with the fellow leaning over the table, one hand propped on the back of her chair, way too intimately for Ragnor’s tastes. Then Alison stood and walked out onto the dance floor with him.
Ragnor’s feet hit the floor with a clomp. But he didn’t rise immediately. Instead, he watched as the imprudent fellow swirled her about to a fast song … “Honky-Tonk Something or other.” The man with the death wish who dared to touch Alison looked like an idiot. Alison, on the other hand, took Ragnor’s breath away, and he had already been breathless. She raised her arms, which lifted her small breasts. Swayed her hips. Showed off her nicely rounded arse. Swung legs that were sinfully long. Through two songs he watched, knowing that his three SEAL comrades watched him just as closely, worried that he was going to do something that would land them all in the brig.
He did not mind quietly observing the exhibition that Alison and her male friend put on to the rowdy songs, but once the musicians moved into a slow rendition of “Crazy”—and wasn’t that appropriate for his mood of late?—Ragnor could not sit still and allow another man to embrace his woman in such a familiar way, all in the name of that fornicating exercise they called dancing.
And, yea, he thought of her as his woman. No question about that.
He cared naught if Alison smiled invitingly at the rogue. No one should be allowed to hold her except him.
Standing abruptly, Ragnor stomped out into the middle of the dance floor and tapped her shoulder. She turned to look over her shoulder, then jerked with surprise. “Max! What are you doing here?”
“Dance with me,” he said without any preamble. It was not a question.
“Get lost, bozo,” the guy said. He lowered his hands from the back of Alison’s waist and turned to confront him.
Ragnor ignored the man, not even caring if bow-sew was an insult. Instead, he repeated to Alison, “Dance with me.”
She stepped in between him and the other fellow. “John, this is Ensign Magnusson. Max, this is Detective John Phillips, a local police officer.”
“What need have you of a police officer?” Ragnor asked, having learned from his SEAL comrades that police, including detectives, enforced the law in this land. Was Alison in some danger, as he’d originally thought?
“Ensign? You’re an ensign? What the hell are you doing approaching a superior officer, boy?” the policing man asked, and not in a pleasant manner.
The bow-sew he had been willing to accept, but boy from a man only a few years older than himself? Hah! I do not think so! Ragnor drew himself to his full height, which was a half head taller than the policing man, who, incidentally, had a retreating hairline Ragnor was pleased to notice. “Go away afore I have to rearrange your nose. Or pull out what little remains of your hair.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“A Viking never threatens. We just do.”
The fellow had the nerve to roll his eyes. “A Viking, for chrissake. You Navy SEALs are something else!” He probably knew Ragnor was a SEAL or a SEAL trainee because his shert proclaimed him so. “Not only do you SEALs think you’re God’s gift to women, but now you claim to be a friggin’ Viking besides. Give me a break!”
“I would be more than pleased to oblige you,” Ragnor said. “Which body part would you like me to break first?”
Out of his side vision, he saw that Pretty Boy, Cage, and Flash had lined up behind him, probably outraged over the SEAL slur. Turned out there were a few other actual SEALs in the bar, aside from the trainees, and they had heard the remark, too, and were not happy, if their clenched fists were any indication. Still others of the nonmilitary ranks moved toward the policing man.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Alison said, putting a hand against both of their chests. “John, back off a bit. Ensign Magnusson is a … friend of mine.” Her face turned bright red at the word friend. “Go back and sit at the table. I’m going to dance with him. I’ll rejoin you shortly. Okay?”
John appeared reluctant to agree, but finally he nodded and averted a fight by walking back to the table and picking up a bottle of beer, which he emptied in one long, angry draft.
Alison turned her attention to Ragnor then. And she was nostrils-flaring, eyes-blazing angry. “You jerk!” she said, and took him by the hand, pulling him toward the far back region of the drinking hall.
“You are looking very comely tonight, Alison,” he said.
“Screw you!”
I’d rather screw you, he thought but even he knew better than to say that aloud. He was watching her arse as she marched in front of him. One cheek up, then down, the other cheek up, then down. Very nice rhythm she had going there. He smiled.
Just then she glanced over her shoulder and noticed the direction of his gaze. Uh-oh! It had been his experience that women had a particular sensitivity about their arses, unlike men, who rarely thought of their backsides, being much m
ore interested in their front sides.
She glared at him as if he were lower than a pile of dragon shit.
Reluctantly he lifted his gaze from her buttocks and inquired as sweetly as he could, “Where are we going?”
Not so sweetly, she replied, “Somewhere private … where we can’t be seen.”
Thank the gods, even if her voice is not dulcet-toned with welcome for me, she has something private in mind for us.
“Stop grinning.”
He pressed his lips together. “Whatever you say.” They’d arrived at their destination, which appeared to be a storage room. Boxes of beer, rows of toy-let parchment and nappy-kins filled both sides of the wide aisle.
She stopped, turned, and continued to glare at him.
“What now?” he asked when the silence went on and on.
“I’ll tell you what. You and I have got to come to an understanding. There is nothing between us, and never will be.”
He raised a hand to interrupt. “I must disagree. I am here in this land because of you. I sensed your danger … and your allure, truth be told.”
“Bull crap! I have no allure.”
“Oh, yea, you do. Just looking at you makes me breathless. Not just here tonight in your tempting attire. If I see you from across the grinder at the base, all straitlaced in your white uniform, my heart skips a beat; it truly does. When you run with the teams, I can barely stand for anyone to glance your way. I recognized you the minute I first saw you … not just from the near-death vision I had, either. I hate to say it—you are obviously not in a receptive mood—but I suspect you are my destiny.”
Her mouth dropped open. Speechless, she was.
But not he. He just blundered on. “My grandmother, Lady Asgar, may she rest in peace in her Christian heaven, always said that there is but one woman for each man in our family. She said we would recognize our destiny when we met her. I ne’er believed it before, but I do now. You should know, milady, that I lost my enthusiasm for the bedsport a good long time ago, but it is back with a vengeance now that I have met you. You are my destiny, to be sure.” I cannot believe I just said that. Where did it come from? I never thought that stuff about destiny before this moment. Is it true? Or is someone else speaking with my tongue, like mayhap the jester god Loki? I wonder if near-drowning affects the tongue? Or a man’s good sense?
