Sandra Hill - Viking II 03 - The Last Viking

by The Last Viking(lit)

  "Come on. I'll show you. But cover yourself, for God's sake. Where did Jared and Mike find you anyhow? Some jungle?"

  He halted suddenly. "I just realized something. I'm not wearing my belt."

  "No kidding!"

  "Your sarcasm ill-becomes you, my lady. I meant, I'm not wearing the belt, and I can understand your strange tongue."

  "You're right," she agreed, looking as baffled as he felt. Her eyes skimmed downward as she spoke, and then immediately jerked back up. Scarlet flames bloomed on her cheeks.

  "Do you blush, wench? Odin's breath, you do!" He liked it when she looked at him there. And there liked her scrutiny, too. In truth, her timidity was rather endearing for a woman of her advanced years. "You'll lose your shyness once you become accustomed to me," he assured her, being in a magnanimous mood.

  'No, no, no, that's where you're wrong. I'm not becoming accustomed to anything. You are going to play by my rules."

  "Hah!"

  Glaring at him ferociously, she failed to watch her step and tripped over Ingrid, letting loose a vile expletive. He was reasonably confident he knew what the exclamation meant, even without the talisman translator.

  "Tsk-tsk," he said sweetly, repeating a favorite sound of his mother's, which fit this occasion perfectly.

  "Do you have a creaking of the bones that causes you to be so clumsy?"

  She straightened in affront.

  "Or perchance it is your overlarge feet?"

  She gurgled with outrage.

  Good. 'Tis best to put a woman in her place from the start. "And where can we put Ingrid so she will remain safe from your stumbling ways till I attach her to the prow of my longship?"

  "What longship?" Merry-Death asked, rushing to keep up with his long strides. He waved a hand in the direction of the field next to her keep.

  Her green eyes shot up with surprise when she saw that he referred to the half-completed vessel. "You are not putting breasts on the prow of my ship. I already told Mike that. Apparently he didn't relay the message to you." She sniffed with indignation, and then his other words seemed to register. "Your longship? Are you serious? That boat belongs to the Trondheim Foundation and Oxley College."

  "And a poor specimen it is, too. But, I will right all the mistakes made thus far. I'll make it the finest ship to sail the seas."

  "You will? You can?" she asked with expectation. "Are you saying that you have the skill to build a Viking longship?"

  "For a certainty. I've done so many times. My ships are the most favored in the world. Kings from distant lands have come a-begging for my skill. In fact, just last year, King Aethelred of Britain requisitioned one of my knorrs... that's a larger trading longship."

  "King who?" She put a hand on his arm to halt his progress. When her eyes inadvertently dropped lower to his man parts, she snapped, "Can't you at least cover yourself while I talk to you?"

  "With what?"

  "I don't know. Your hand."

  " 'Tis too small." He grinned.

  "Your hand or your... your... ?"

  He raised-an eyebrow. "Which do you think?"

  "Aaar-rgh! You keep changing the subject. Who is this King Aethelred you mentioned?"

  "Aethelrrd the Unready is the king of Britain," he explained with measured patience. "Dost recall I mentioned his wife Aelfgifu to you earlier?"

  The woman put a hand to her forehead as if she suffered a megrim. "Queen Elizabeth is the queen of England. There is no king. Aethelred was king at the end of the tenth century."

  "I know naught of this Elizabeth, and, yea, you are correct, Aethelred was king at the end of the tenth century... which this is... and he still is." He started to walk into the keep.

  "Hold it. Are you telling me you think this is the tenth century?"

  Now it was his turn to be puzzled. What an odd question! But then, she'd been asking many odd questions. "Yea. This is the year 997. That would be the tenth century."

  Merry-Death burst out laughing. He saw no humor in his words. So, he could only conclude that she must be mad, as well as half-witted.

  When she finally wiped the tears from her face with the back of a hand, she informed him, "I've got news for you, buddy. This is the year 1997. Not only did your boat go off course, but it went through time. Ha, ha, ha! Lordy, wait till I get hold of Mike and Jared. They knew I was desperate, but did they have to send me a crackpot shipbuilder?"

  "Nineteen-ninety-seven? Ha, ha, ha!" He mimicked her forced laughter. "My lady, have you suffered a blow to the head of late?"

  "No, but I'd like to give you one."

  "Have a caution with your loose tongue, Merry-Death. I sorely resent your referring to me as a cracked pot. In my country, I am a chieftain-a jarl-and best you show respect for my high estate." He raised his head haughtily as he stalked past her. "And Ingrid will adorn the prow of that ship, or there will be no ship."

  Geirolf was having one of the most sensual, selfindulgent experiences of his life. A shower, Merry-Death had called it.

  Standing in a cubicle with square pottery tiles on three sides and a foggy glass door on the fourth side, he allowed endless streams of hot water to wash over his body while he soaped himself with a fragrant bar and lathered his hair with a thick liquid.

  Truly, the woman gave more and more evidence of being a sorceress. As she'd walked him down the corridor to her bathing chamber, she'd flicked one lever after another on the walls, which immediately set strange candles alight throughout the rooms and on the ceilings. Then she'd explained to him how the bathing room and the kitchen had running water coming into the house out of "spigots."

  Well, that wasn't so remarkable. The ancient Romans with their engineering marvels had done much the same centuries ago, except that Merry-Death's spigots also emitted hot water.

  And another thing passed all bounds of logic... a toilet. Blessed Thor! The people here had no garderobes, except in the country, Merry-Death had told him, where they called them privies, or outhouses. In this land, people relieved themselves in porcelain bowls filled with water that flushed away, miraculously, at the touch of a silver handle. It seemed a waste to him when bushes abounded outside.

  Yea, Geirolf concluded, Merry-Death was, indeed, a sorceress, but everyone knew there were good witches and bad witches. She must be a good witch, he decided, because thus far he'd seen no evidence that she used her arts for evil gain.

  Still, he would watch her carefully for signs. It would not do for her to cast a spell on him. Once a Black Witch had cursed his older brother for spurning her favors, and Magnum's male parts had turned purple and broke out in boils for a fortnight. His mother had claimed 'twas caused by Magnum's putting his parts where he should not have, but Magnus blamed the witch's curse.

  Geirolf was so clean now that he nigh squeaked, but he poured another handful of the golden liquid into his palm and lathered up again. Then he yelled to high Valhalla for the witch's help.

  Meredith was about to drop some pasta into a pot of boiling water when she heard Rolf's cry.

  "Merry-Death! Help!"

  Geez, the guy was loud. Lowering the heat, Meredith hurried down the hall. On the way, she cast a disdainful glance at Rolf's cooked rabbit, which lay on the kitchen table where he'd put it before going for a shower. No way was Meredith going to eat a little bunny.

  "Merry-Death!"

  "Hold your horses," she complained, opening the bathroom door a tiny crack, wanting to make sure he was decent before she entered. Not that the immodest brute had cared about being decent before.

  He was still in the shower, groaning like crazy. Oh, no! Maybe he'd scalded himself She rushed over and slid the glass doors open a little bit, making sure to keep her eyes averted. "What's the matter?"

  "I got drek in my eyes and I can't get rid of all these soap suds. Balder's balls! My eyes are burning. No matter how much rinsing I do, the white foam won't go away. I think I'm going blind. Did you put a curse on me?"

  Meredith tried to understand his lon
g-winded, panicky explanation. "First of all, it's Breck, not drek. That's shampoo. It belonged to my grandfather. I don't think they even make the stuff anymore. How much did you use?"

  He shrugged, his eyes still closed, his face raised under the showerhead. And, criminey, he was covered with an ungodly amount of lather.

  "Half a flask," he replied, spitting out a mouthful bf soap.

  "You fool, you're only supposed to use a capful. Breck is concentrated."

  "How was I supposed to know this?" he grunted, combing his fingertips through his long hair, trying to blink his eyes. "Am I blind?"

  "No, you're not blind. You're... oh, what do you think you're doing? You beast!"

  Rolf had grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her into the shower, clothes and all.

  "Stop blathering like a magpie and remove the poison from my body. Now! And best you make sure I can see again or I will wring your scrawny neck, witch or no witch. Especially if my cock turns purple."

  Witch? Purple? Shipbuilder or not, this guy is weird. With a harrumphing sound of disgust, Meredith soon helped him rinse off and, using a washcloth, cleaned his eyes, which were bloodshot, but not blind.

  Instead of being grateful, Rolf cursed her name under his breath. That was when she noticed his eyes were riveted on her wet blouse. The silky fabric had become plastered to her body, the pale beige color practically transparent. To her horror, she saw her pink aureoles and pointed nipples were clearly visible. He cursed again, and she realized that his expletive was one of male frustration, not anger.

  With a swift movement, Rolf placed his hands on her waist and braced her up against the far wall. As he molded his hips to hers with erotic insistence, his mouth lowered. "What else do men and women do in these magical showers?" he breathed against her lips.

  Meredith should have braced her hands against his hairy chest and shoved him away with indignation. She was a college professor. She had a doctorate degree in medieval studies. She was a principled woman of the nineties, not a brainless bimbo.

  The logical side of her brain said, Stop! The other side of her brain said, Hmmm! For once in her empty life, Meredith decided to take the illogical path. Raising her chin under the still-steaming shower, she met his lips and opened for his kiss. And Meredith was glad, glad, glad that she'd done so.

  The Viking-whoever he was-played her mouth with finesse. Back and forth he nibbed his firm lips against hers until she was pliant and whimpering. Only then did he deepen his kiss, devouring her with a wild hunger.

  "Three months has it been since I've had a woman," he murmured when he came up for air.

  "It's been three years since I've had a man," she countered, nipping at his bottom lip. Oh, my God! Is this really me, nipping at a man's lips?

  He grinned down at her. "Then our mating should prove spectacular."

  Before she had a chance to digest that remarkable pronouncement, or say something really stupid, like "Let the games begin," he plunged his tongue into her mouth and used both hands to palm her breasts.

  Her knees buckled.

  His hardened penis, pressed against the vee of her thighs, held her up.

  They both moaned... into each other's mouths.

  "What is that ringing noise?" he gritted out.

  Despite her passion-induced haze, Meredith recognized the telephone. For a second, she just stared blankly at the gorgeous man who stood before her, his kiss-swollen lips parted and panting. His Jack Daniels eyes were glowing with passion. His nude body ground against hers with intimate persuasion.

  A stranger. She was about to have hot sex with a stranger. Had she lost her mind?

  Meredith blinked at him, belatedly coming to her senses.

  He blinked back at her in confusion, and she used that opportunity to shove him away and jump out of the shower. She heard him shouting after her as she ran down the hall, leaving puddles of water, but she didn't wait to hear what he said. Grabbing the cordless phone in the living room, she gasped out, "Hello."

  "Mer, is that you?" her sister Jillian asked. "You sound funny."

  "I just came from the shower." Boy, did 'just come from the shower'! More like I almost came in the shower. Whew!

  "Oh, sorry. What's new?"

  Julian never phoned to chitchat. "What's wrong, Jillie?"

  "Does something have to be wrong for me to call you?" Her voice broke mid-sentence with a little catch.

  "Oh, Jillie, what now?" Meredith sank down to the sofa, and then immediately stood up again when she realized she was sopping wet. She walked a few steps and leaned against the wall, raking her fingers through her hair distractedly, hooking the wet strands behind her ears. She heard the faint sounds of Jillie's sobs.

  "Honey, what's wrong? Where are you?"

  "I'm in London, but I might have to be in Chicago tonight."

  "I thought you had to stay in London for another month, doing that museum exhibit on Jelling Age Jewelry."

  "Mer, I need a favor of you. A big favor."

  Jillie was thirty years old—five years younger than Meredith—and she was always looking for favors. Two failed marriages, a bankrupt boutique, a juvenile delinquent daughter, endless lovers. On and on Jillie's troubles went. When would they ever end?

  "George called me from Chicago," Jillie explained.

  George Huntley was Jillie's first estranged husband, a psychologist. They'd been married when they were both high school seniors, and Jillie was pregnant. "He said I have to come back immediately."

  "Why?" she asked, fearing the answer.

  "Gourd was arrested for shoplifting, and the police are threatening to put her in a detention home."

  "Gourd?"

  "That's Thea's name du jour. She's going through a Mother Earth phase this week."

  Meredith giggled. How like her niece! Always trying to find herself. Hating her own name, Theodosia, almost from birth, she took on a different nom de plume every other week.

  "It's her third arrest in the past five months," Jillie informed her in a rush.

  "Oh, Jillie." And poor Thea. The kid had been diagnosed with everything from ADD to hostile behavior syndrome in her twelve short years of living. Meredith would probably go off the deep end, too, if she had to live with her crazy sister. And it was no kind of life for a young girl to ping-pong back and forth between schizo Parents who weren't overjoyed to have her.

  "George said he's wiping his hands of the kid. Said I have to come back from London immediately and be a real mother to her. No more moving from city to city.

  "No."

  "I was wondering—"

  "No?"

  "No, you are not shoving your problems off on me again, Jillie. It's about time you took responsibility for yourself. "

  "But they're going to take Thea away from me.

  Jillie started to cry. Her racking sobs tore at Meredith's heart. She pressed her forehead against the wall, knowing she was going to be a sucker... once again.

  Geirolf was angry.

  No woman teased him to the point of aching hardness, then stopped mid-coupling, without an explanation. Games like those belonged to immature youthlings, experimenting with first thrills. He had long passed his majority, and Merry-Death was certainly well beyond her first bloom.

  He wanted answers, and he wanted them now.

  He applied the ointment shrugged into an old braies she'd left called a "T-shert" with the words "JUST DO IT" emblazoned across the chest. He'd like to "do it" all right, and he would, too, once he'd wrung the wench's reckless neck. In the end, he put the talisman belt on as well, since it seemed to help him understand Merry-Death's peculiar language.

  Finally, he stormed barefooted into the great room—something he would never do in his own keep where unmentionable items often hid in the rushes. Then, he stopped dead in his tracks. Merry-Death was talking into a little black box that she held up to her ear. A box? Well, why not? He'd heard of wizards who talked to trees, or animals, even the wind. Ah, hell, she really was a witch,
then. Did he want to chance rutting with a witch?

  Yea, he answered himself immediately, the evidence still lying like an anchor betwixt his thighs.

  "Give me that," he yelled and grabbed the box out of her hand, intending to throw it into the hearth. But it was making a peculiar noise, like a woman sobbing.

  Alarmed, he raised his eyes to Merry-Death, who was trying to retrieve the object. "What is that noise?" he demanded, holding the box above his head, out of her reach.

  "My sister."

  "Your sister is a box?"

  "No, my sister is not a box. Lord, maybe Jared really did find you in a jungle. That's a telephone, and I was talking to my sister in London."

  He snorted with disbelief but still, proceeding warily, he held the box up to his ear.

  "Who is this?" a feminine voice asked.

  His head jerked up with surprise. "Geirolf," he responded tentatively, though he felt rather foolish talking to a box. He rubbed the talisman clasp for aid.

  "Who are you?"

  "Jillian. Meredith's sister in England. What're you doing there?"

  The box actually talked, claiming to speak from the land of the bloody Saxons. Merry-Death must be a more powerful witch than he'd thought possible.

  "Well, I just took a shower, but—"

  Merry-Death groaned and put her head between her hands.

  "A shower?" the voice hooted. "Meredith just came from the shower, too. Were you in there together?"

  "Well, yea, we were both in the shower, but—"

  "Give me that phone," Merry-Death hissed, but he sidestepped her clawing hands.

  "What do you do for a living, Geirolf?" the box asked.

  "I'm a Viking."

  "A what?"

  "Viking. Have you ne'er heard of Nordmanni... a Norseman? is everyone addled in this godforsaken country?"

  "Oh, God, this is hilarious. My dear sister and a Viking!" She giggled. "And where are you staying, Mr.Viking?"

  Geirolf misliked the condescending tone of the woman's voice, and he refused to answer.

  "Are you and Meredith lovers?"

  "'Tis none of your concern who shares my bed furs." Geirolf had never been a man to boast outside the bedchamber, and he would not start now.