"I am so tired and weary of the struggle. Thaw the frost that threatens to freeze my soul, Merry-Death. Please. "
She nodded, unable to speak over the lump in her throat. Slowly she lowered her head, and, with her left hand still resting over his heart, she pressed her lips to his. Soft against firm. Warm against cold. He was so frozen and stiff, like death. But she would restore him, she vowed.
It was a decidedly unerotic kiss, meant to convey only caring. And, yet, it was extremely erotic, as evidenced by Rolf's quick indrawn hiss.
"Will you be my heart-friend?" he murmured. His breath was a sweet kiss in itself against her lips.
At his words, Meredith reeled as some need, long hidden and denied in her deepest soul, began to open, like the petals of a fragile flower. Heart-friend? Was that like a soulmate? Or just a friend?
He parted his lips, inviting more. At the same time, his arms remained immobile at his sides, palms upward, in supplication.
He didn't insist that she get naked with him. Or grab her with lusty intent. He didn't make false promises, or swear undying love. He merely waited, letting her set the pace of this loving... or halt it, if she chose.
Meredith found the prospect oddly empowering... and unique. No man had ever let her lead in quite this way, not even Jeffrey. To make all the decisions, or none. She wasn't sure what to do.
So, she deepened the kiss, testing, and he accommodated her with a slight shifting of his lips, which were no longer cool. From side to side, she moved her lips over his, exploring, till she found just the right position. Then she slipped her tongue inside his mouth, tentatively.
His heart jumped with excitement under her hand.
She smiled against his lips, and felt him smile back.
Encouraged, she pulled away and examined his face with her eyes and her fingertips: the angry bruise at his temple, which she kissed gently; the arch of his thick brows; his long, feathery, thick lashes; the sharp bones at his cheek and jaw lines; even his straight, arrogant nose.
She admired but didn't touch his wide shoulders. Nor the ridges of veins that outlined his muscled arms. Nor the many scars, old and new, that covered his skin. Not even the enticing sweep of shadow and light that marked the well-toned planes of his chest and abdomen. Instead, she savored the anticipation of touching him in all those places, eventually.
"You're beautiful," she whispered.
"Yea," he agreed, and crossed his eyes at her. For some reason, the gesture touched her deeply. Perhaps because the small sign of humor showed she was succeeding in her efforts to pull him from his despair.
"You're not chilled anymore," she remarked, running a palm up his chest to his neck, sweeping back down as far as his waist. Then stopping.
He inhaled sharply, and sucked in his stomach.
In resistance? Perhaps he'd expected her to go farther. Or perhaps he didn't want her to go so far.
"Nay, I'm not cold anymore, sweetling, thanks to you. But I am bone weary and heart sick."
Sweetling? What a lovely endearment!
Lifting his hands from their invisible bonds at his sides, he drew her into his arms and settled her against his chest. One hand wrapped around her shoulder, the other burrowed into her hair, drawing her head against him.
In seconds, with her face pressed against his warm chest, Meredith felt the slowing of Rolf's heartbeat.
Then the steady rise and fall of his chest. Just like that, he'd fallen into a deep sleep.
She wasn't offended. In fact, she felt rewarded for her efforts to bring him peace.
But Meredith didn't sleep. Nor did she feel much peace that night as slumber evaded her and troubling questions niggled at her brain. Toward dawn, she slipped out of bed and drew the quilt up to Rolf's chest.
One arm was thrown over his head, and a thick patch of oddly attractive masculine hair showed in his vulnerable armpit. The other arm lay across the pillow where he had been holding her only moments before.
Tears burned in her eyes as she gazed at him. Then she forced herself to turn away and went downstairs to her computer, where she intended to find some answers.
It was eight o'clock before Meredith heard Rolf awaken. Soon after, she heard the sound of the shower running. She'd left a pile of Jared's old clothing for him, along with a pair of battered running shoes. They would probably be too tight.
Getting up from the computer, she went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. She would have to go to the supermarket soon. There wasn't much in the fridge.
Deciding on French toast, she broke an egg into a bowl with milk, hesitated, then added two more eggs, figuring Rolf's appetite would probably be huge after his meager meal the night before.
When she'd prepared ten slices of French toast, she placed them in the warming cycle of her microwave, set the table, and laid out butter and maple syrup. Then she prepared a pitcher of orange juice from concentrate and turned on the coffee maker.
She could still hear the shower running, so she returned to her computer and her distressing Norse jouneys on the Internet. Thus far, way too much of what she'd learned confirmed Rolf's preposterous stories. There had been a powerful Jarl Eric Tryggvason in the Vestfold region of Norway in 997, and one of his sons had been a shipbuilder and noted warrior. Eric's brother, Olaf Tryggvason, had reigned as high king of Norway at that time. Aelfgifu, queen of Britain and wife of Aethelred the Unready, had been weak and plain, just as Rolf had said. She'd died of childlied fever, possibly in 997.
How did Rolf know all this historical trivia?
Punching in her password now, she waited for her computer program to log on her access. Tapping her fingertips nervously while the computer processed her data, she made plans.
She intended to fax her brother Jared in Norway the minute she got to her office. She didn't have a home fax system yet.
And she had some questions for Mike, as well, still not convinced that he and Jared didn't have something to do with Rolf's arrival. But she'd tried Mike earlier and learned that he was visiting some Army buddies in Bangor for the weekend.
"What are you doing, Merry-Death?"
Meredith jumped, not having realized that Rolf had come up behind her. Placing a palm over her thudding heart, she glanced back over her shoulder and had to stifle a groan. Lord, the man was gorgeous.
Wearing the same black sweatpants she'd given him the night before, he'd donned a gray Adidas T-shirt, tucked in at the waist where his talisman belt was clasped—an incongruous combination, but somehow it fit his Viking image. He'd pulled back his damp hair with a rubber band, and he'd shaved, revealing even more dramatic good looks. Lines of grief bracketed his eyes and grim mouth, but he appeared well rested.
Never breaking eye contact, he placed his left hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "Thank you," he said huskily, and Meredith knew he referred to the comfort she'd offered the night before.
She nodded her acknowledgment and he stepped away. Then she noticed what he carried in his other hand.
"What are these?" he asked, sitting in a straight-backed chair near hers.
She smiled. "Those are jockey shorts. Underwear."
He held the white briefs up in front of him and scoffed. "Nay, they are too small to a hold a man's parts."
She scoffed back. "They stretch... even for the biggest man parts." But then she concluded, with embarrassment, that he must not be wearing anything under his sweats. Lordy!
"And these?" he asked.
"Athletic socks. You know," she searched for words he would understand—"ummm... hose, that's the word. You put them on your feet before you put on your shoes."
He nodded his understanding, and did just that, after some clumsy efforts to figure just how it was done.
Then he lifted an eyebrow and held up the last of the items he'd brought with him, Jared's decrepit sneakers.
"Those are Jared's old running shoes," she informed him, dropping down to her knees in front of him to help put them on.
"Really? M
en in your country have shoes just for running?"
"Yes," she said with a laugh. It did sound funny now that he mentioned it.
"And do they have special braies for sitting?"
"No," she grunted out as she tried to force one of the shoes onto his foot. The shoes were, indeed, at least two sizes too small. "You must wear a size-thirteen shoe. You know what they say about Vikings with big feet, don't you?" She'd blurted out that last observation, and instantly regretted it.
Rolf looked down at her with a puzzled frown.
"Nay, what do they say about Vikings with big feet? And why is your face so red?" Then a grin tugged at the edges of his lips. "Could it be the same thing they say about Saxons with big noses?"
She decided to change the subject. "Do you think you can stand to wear them? Your toes must be cramped."
He shrugged. " 'Tis no worse than wet leather boots in the midst of a battle." Then he stood, did a couple of deep knee bends and ran in place for a few seconds.
"Yea, I warrant a man could run like the wind in these cloth boots," he said, flashing her a dazzling, bone-melting smile. "Now show me this box you were staring at when I walked in. Blessed Thor, I ne'er saw a land with so many magic boxes."
A short time later, Geirolf sat blinking with amazement, trying desperately to process all the information Merry-Death and her come-pewter flashed out. " 'Tis sorcery, pure and simple, of that I have no doubt, but sorcery of the most wonderful nature. Letters and pictures and all the wisdom in the world are contained in this little box... in the... what did you call it? Oh, yes, the seedy-rome."
She laughed.
He'd no doubt mispronounced one of the hellish words in this new language. "You are a mean-spirited wench to gamer pleasure from my discomfit."
"It's just that you sound so cute."
"Cute? Me? Do you treat me like a lackwit pup?" He shook his head. Cute? "Leastways, I intend to master the magic in this come-pewter box," he snapped.
"From birth, my father and mother encouraged learning about all things, in nature and in the world. 'From knowledge comes strength,' my father often said. 'Even for fighting men, the brain is as powerful a weapon as the sword arm.' "
"Your father sounds like a very wise man." Her raised brow belied her compliment. "You are loath to believe we heathen barbarians relish wisdom? Nay, do not deny what shows clearly on your dubious face. I told you afore that my mother is Christian, but my father follows the old ways. At birth, he dedicated each of his living sons to the Norse gods."
"So?"
By all the saints! I'd like to wipe that smirk from her pursed lips. Mayhap a dunking in her moat would accomplish the deed. Nay, I must control my temper. For now. Until I master the secrets of all these magic boxes. "If you would bridle your wagging tongue, a man could perchance finish his tale," he told her instead. Truly, the woman could use a lesson or two—or fifty—in being biddable. "As I was relating before your interruption, my brother Magnum's birth-patron is Frey, the god of fertility and prosperity. Magnus has ten living children with his three wives, and he is the best farmer in all-Norway."
"Three wives!" Merry-Death commented, as if that were the most important of all the facts he'd imparted. "Three wives!"
He waved a hand airily. "Then there is my brother Jorund, whose patron is Thor, the god of war. Jorund is the fiercest warrior in all lands."
He inhaled deeply at the sudden unhappy thought of possibly never seeing them again. Then he went on brusquely, "And my father dedicated me to Odin, the god of learning. Mayhap you have heard that the all-father sacrificed his one eye to drink wisdom from the well of Mimir?"
"A myth!" Merry-Death sneered. "Besides, you're a shipbuilder, not a scholar. So much for your father dedicating You to wisdom!"
"Ah, but I was not always a shipbuilder. From the time I reached ten winters, I fostered in the Saxon court of King Edgar, my mother's cousin. For five years, I suffered there in that snakepit of conniving noblemen, but I soaked up all that the monk teachers could provide in their monastery schools."
"Really?"
So, the wench was impressed by his learning. And she looked down her nose at his woodworking skills.
"Attend me well, my stiff-necked lady. I cherish the calluses on my palms that mark my trade. I get more pride from building a good ship than translating a Latin text. "
Her face flushed at being caught in her condescension. "Oh, I never meant to imply—"
He raised a halting hand. " 'Tis of no importance what you think of me. I am my own man."
"How did we get on this conversation anyhow?"
"You were no doubt rebuking me for one thing or another, as all women do."
"What was that noise?" Merry-Death said.
"I was speaking."
"Not that, you dolt." She peered at him over the top of an unusual piece of silver-and-glass jewelry she wore on the bridge of her nose and latched over the tops of her ears. Women wore diadems, or circlets, over their foreheads in his world, to hold their head rails in place. The nose was a very strange place to put an ornament, in his opinion. Ah, well, women were always finding funny means to adorn themselves. Next they would be putting rings in their noses.
His stomach let out a growl, and he realized that it must have been grumbling for some time. That was the noise she referred to. "I do not suppose you have food to offer a starving man, other than worms?"
She smiled at the brute and led him into her kitchen.
Men! Mention food and even the fiercest of them tamed down. "No, we're having French toast."
"French toast!" Rolf jeered, at first. "Many a time have I journeyed to Frankland, and ne'er have I seen such." But he scarfed down eight of the ten slices drowning in butter and syrup, drank one glass of orange juice and three cups of coffee, which he asserted must be the beverage of the gods.
Afterward, they went outside to examine the longboat.
"Do women in your country always wear men's braies?" he asked. "Not that I am complaining."
Meredith glanced up to see the rogue's sparkling eyes riveted on the back end of her too-tight Levis—Jillie's castoffs, which she'd put on this morning, along with a short-waisted, white angora sweater. "No, women don't wear braies all the time. And we call them pants or slacks in this country, not braies. These particular kinds of pants are known as blue jeans. I have to buy a few pairs for yourself, if you don't already have them."
He looked skeptical but said nothing more, as they'd arrived at the project site. Turning immediately serious, Rolf surveyed the two open-sided, roofed shelters in the clearing. One protected the vast amount of timber needed for the seventy-foot longship, which sat uncompleted under the other shelter.
Rolf first went to the wood shed, which housed already cut, wedge-shaped planks, as well as enormous trees. Gramps had told her one time that it would take eleven oak trees, at least sixteen feet tall, not to mention a fifty- or sixty-foot tree for the keel, to make just one longship of this size.
Rolf frowned and made tsking sounds of disgust as he knelt before some of the wood, rubbing it with his fingertips, testing its weight, even smelling it.
Meredith walked up to his side. "What's wrong?"
"Who was the fool who left this wood to dry out? Every good shipbuilder knows green timber is best for the planking. Once seasoned, it becomes too brittle to work. He stood and glared at her as if she was to blame for the gross incompetence.
"'There was no fool, you fool—My grandfather died suddenly last October—" Her voice broke and she couldn't immediately go on. Finally, she cleared her throat and continued. "There was no one to take over the project."
He tried to put a comforing hand on her shoulder, but she shifted away. She didn't want his pity. "All of Gramps's notes were available, and his assistant, Mike Johnson, was here, but no one really had the expertise to supervise such a project. Ever since I got here in January, we've been trying to hire someone to take over my grandfather's position, and this project."
Meredith's eyes shot up at his perception. How did he know she'd felt that way? That leaving her grandfather's dream incomplete was somehow a disgrace to his memory? That finishing the longship would be a gesture of love and respect? Fighting back the emotion that choked her, she asked, "Can we do anything to salvage the wood?"
"Some of it," he said, "and the discarded pieces will not be wasted. They can be put to good use as rudders, blocks, clamps, and skids."
"Look at those peculiar tree limbs," she called out to him. Rolf was already on the other side, examining each of the trees and cut planks. Among all the straight trees and precisely cut wedge planks, there were some curved limbs, even forked jointures of tree limbs.
Rolf shook his head sadly. "Those are useless now. The curved timbers are needed for the ribs and knees of the ship, and the forks for tholes and keelsons, but they should have been stored underwater to keep the wood flexible."
As they moved over to the longship, Rolf gave it equally professional scrutiny. Meredith was more and more impressed with his knowledge. Wherever he'd come from, the guy was the answer to her prayers... well, her prayers for a shipbuilder, anyway.
Yeah, right. Like I'm not noticing all that suntanned skin and the muscles bulging under those upper-arm bracelets. Like my heart doesn't skip a beat when he smiles. Like I'm not gawking when he bends over and stretches the material of those black sweatpants.
"What did you say?" Rolf said, straightening.
"Nothing," she said, hating the blush that heated her face. The little grin that twitched at his lips told her he knew exactly where she'd been staring. "Let's go back inside and start on your English lesson. You'll never be able to read Gramps's notes or understand his blueprints unless you have a rudimentary ability to read English."
"I told you, I can read English," he protested.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah! We're back to the Viking prince stuff again," she grumbled as they walked back toward the house.
He swatted her on the behind and cautioned, "Best you curb your tongue, wench, or I will show you what else a Viking can do, besides build longships."
Sandra Hill - Viking II 03 - The Last Viking Page 6
